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Sam couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Every time he closed his eyes to touch himself, the scene was there again: Mr. Bilbo on his back against his desk, eyebrows drawn up and mouth agape. Mr. Thorin driving his cock into him hard and fast, the dwarf’s large hands squeezing Mr. Bilbo’s sides.
Sam tried to think of something else—anything else. Frodo’s pretty eyes shining with mirth behind the broad rim of a tankard. Rosie Cotton’s soft lips as she laughed with flowers in her hair.
Mr. Thorin’s wide waist.
Frodo’s shapely backside as he stood outside Bag End sifting through the mail in the warm, summer sun. Rosie Cotton’s breasts as she leaned over the bar counter to share news in the Green Dragon.
Mr. Thorin growling something in his dwarvish tongue.
Sam pressed his hands to his eyes and turned over in his bed. The glow of the moon cast a soft, silver light across the floor like an elf maiden making a midnight visit to judge meddling hobbits for their thoughts. Crickets chirped outside in the heat, and Hamson snored quietly in the bunk beneath him, completely unaware of his brother's plight.
Sam brought his bedcovers to his chin and sighed, wriggling his hand down his pants. He thought of Mr. Bilbo again, and all at once Sam imagined Frodo on his back, his nimble legs bent up toward his chest on the map-covered desk, his pretty mouth slack as he moaned. But it was Sam atop him, fucking him, his mouth to Mr. Frodo's ear.
“Sam,” he’d say. “Oh, Sam.”
His imagination took it further. Sam thought of wide hands gripping his waist from behind, stopping him from fucking into Frodo like he wanted to—like Frodo wanted him to.
It was Mr. Thorin behind him, beard tickling his neck.
“So,” Mr. Thorin said in his deep baritone voice, “you think you’ve earned the right to fuck my son, do you? Maybe you ought to think again, halfling.”
It was embarrassing, really, how quickly Sam came, biting the bedsheets to keep himself quiet.
Perhaps even more embarrassing was his inability to meet Frodo’s eyes for three days afterward.
He couldn’t tell Mr. Frodo about what he saw—Frodo’s own parents going at it like rabbits in Mr. Bilbo’s study (good on you, Mr. Bilbo, to have knees like that at nearly 70)—and he certainly wasn’t going to tell Pippin. He could tell Merry, but Merry was really just an extension of Pippin, so he wouldn’t be a safe choice either.
It felt like Yavanna had cursed him for seeing something he shouldn’t, but it wasn’t his fault Mr. Thorin had to go and look like that. (Not that that was an excuse for peering in through Mr. Bilbo’s window, of course.)
But the way Mr. Bilbo had sounded… The way he’d looked.
Could it really have been that good?
Sam was determined to find out for himself, one way or another, or he'd go mad wondering.
Fortunately, he wouldn't have to wait long to know.
**
Midsummer at Bag End often meant two things: dinner parties and dwarves.
While the same dwarves didn't come every year, it wasn't uncommon for there to be as many as five visiting the Shire at one time during the season.
Many hobbits assumed the dwarves were family and friends of Mr. Thorin—he was Mr. Bilbo’s husband, of course—but Hamfast Gamgee, who knew more about Mr. Bilbo than most hobbits, knew the dwarves of Erebor were just as much family to the old hobbit as they were to the dwarven king.
It certainly explained Mr. Bilbo's behavior anyway.
The Gaffer had told him once that Mr. Bilbo used to be more closed off—a quiet, proper hobbit—before his grand adventure some 20 years before. And while he still kept to himself quite often, it always seemed like a flip would switch in midsummer.
Sam had never seen anything like it.
Around his dwarves that evening in Bag End, Mr. Bilbo gave as good as he got. Throughout the night, he had laughed loudly with a dwarf named Bofur, butted heads none-too-gently with a dwarf with ginger hair, and at one point chugged beer with a pair of younger dwarves until Mr. Thorin gently suggested he put the mug down, his own eyes shining with mirth despite himself.
The old hobbit was even friendly with a large, menacing-looking dwarf who had made himself at home in a corner of the room with Mr. Thorin most of the night. Like Mr. Thorin, he had a dark and graying beard and mustache that grew long toward his broad chest. Tattoos decorated his hands and arms and even his bald head, and fluffy sideburns framed his cheeks high enough to shadow his ears.
When Mr. Bilbo waddled past, the dwarf smirked around a tankard of beer and bumped him with his hip, taking great amusement in the way the hobbit swore in a mix of Westron and slurred, shoddy Khuzdul. The dwarf mimicked the Khuzdul back to him, making fun of his accent, and Mr. Bilbo laughed and shoved him.
Sam couldn’t take his eyes off of him.
The dwarf noticed.
Periodically, he would meet Sam’s eyes and raise a bushy eyebrow, and Sam would flush and look away, hiding behind his drink until Mr. Frodo found him and pulled him away for a game.
But Sam always found his way back to the dwarf.
When he found him in Mr. Bilbo’s pantry, refilling his tankard with fresh ale, Sam watched him from the doorway with heated eyes, pinching his lower lip in thought.
He was as wide as Mr. Thorin, if not more so, made wider by the furs that covered his enormous shoulders. A thick dwarven belt held several layers of clothing together at his waist, though his sleeves were rolled up to reveal impressive forearms.
It wasn’t until the dwarf cleared his throat and smirked at him that he realized he’d been staring for so long. Another hobbit may have turned scarlet and skittered away, embarrassed to be caught, but Sam was determined. So he had seen him looking—good. It only made his motives clearer.
Be confident, Sam, he told himself. Dwarves like confident.
“I like your tattoos,” Sam said, “Mr…?”
“Dwalin,” said the dwarf in a low, deep voice. He did a little bow with his head and—his eyes lowered and lifted back up. “At your service.”
Sam repressed the urge to yell with victory and run at the same time. “Did they hurt?” he asked coyly. “I can only imagine the ones on your fingers…” Buried inside me.
Oop.
Dwalin looked down at his arms casually. Was he flexing? “Oh, aye,” he said, “but the pain is only temporary.”
“Do they mean anything?”
“Some do. Others don't.” This time he did flex and Sam watched a dwarvish design grow even larger. He wasn’t sure what face he made but whatever it was made Dwalin grin.
The two of them went on like that throughout the night. Sam would find Mr. Dwalin when he was alone, smoking a pipe or nursing his beer, and ask him very intentional questions.
“How do you keep your beard so well?”
“Are your axes heavy? You make them seem so light.”
“Are you scared at all, when you’re fighting orcs?”
“You certainly can hold your beer, Master Dwarf.”
All said while peering up through his long lashes. Sam had all but taken a page out of his sister Daisy's book and asked Mr. Dwalin if he could feel the muscles in his arms. The ale certainly helped, warming his skin and making him less self-conscious of his bad flirting.
And it had its intended effect.
As Sam was coming back to the pantry to refill his mug, he was pulled into a little alcove by none other than Mr. Dwalin. A small, round window in the alcove looked out into the summer night, and the moon shined on the dwarf’s scarred, handsome face as he placed a hand on the wall beside Sam's head, peering over him.
“Alright, halfling,” he said gruffly. “What is it ye want from me?”
Sam looked up at him with wide eyes, his mug held to his chest. Dwalin was tall for a dwarf—at least 5’3,” perhaps an inch more. Even this close, Sam had to tilt his head up to meet his eyes. “Want from you?” he stammered. “I don’t know what it is you mean.”
Dwalin looked suddenly uncomfortable, like he couldn’t tell if Sam was serious or not. “I’ve seen the way you've been looking at me. The way you've been following me. I could be wrong—but it seems you've got something on your mind, lad.”
Sam blushed and looked down at his feet. Swallowing, he gathered his courage. “I hope you don’t find it rude or strange," he said, "what with Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Thorin being how they are… Hobbits and—and dwarves, that is. Well, I-I thought I would give it a go, with all due respect, of course. You’re really very handsome, and I thought—Well, I… I’m sorry if I’ve upset you at all, Mr. Dwalin. But the only thing I want from you is… well, you.”
Now, the dwarf really did look uncomfortable. Rejection roiled in Sam's stomach and made his jaw ache. He braced himself.
“Lad,” Dwalin sighed, “I don’t think I have what it is ye want. What the burg—What Bilbo and Thorin have… I’m not looking to stay in the Shire as Thorin does. I can’t offer ye romance. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not… My One won’t be gardening, if ye take my meaning.”
Sam turned several shades of red. “If you’re not interested, Mr. Dwalin, I understand, but I think there may have been a bit of a misunderstanding. I’m not trying to court you.”
Dwalin’s eyebrows did something complicated. “Could’ve fooled me. What is it you were doing then?”
Sam spluttered. “Well, I thought… Well.”
The alcove grew unbearably quiet. At last, Dwalin chuffed a laugh as if he couldn’t believe it. “Are ye telling me you’ve been spending your night trying to rut with me?”
Sam puffed up a little, indignant. “Is that so hard to believe?”
“Lad," Dwalin said, amused, "I’m well over a hundred years your senior. You’re friends with wee Frodo.”
Sam looked down at his feet, hands tightening on his mug. “I understand.”
“I didn’t say no.”
Sam’s eyes shot back up.
Dwalin took a heavy step toward him and Sam's heartbeat kicked up. The dwarf sighed. “You’re damn pretty, lad, that’s for sure. But if you’re looking to do this, mind that I’m no wean and I’m sure as Mahal no hobbit.”
Sam’s lips quirked a little. “Round like one,” he quipped.
Dwalin laughed, shocked. Then he crowded Sam against the wall.
Heat flooded Sam’s veins. He was already getting hard, and the promise of one of his fantasies actually happening was making him dizzy with want.
“Damn fucking pretty,” Dwalin growled again, and then they were kissing.
It was a thorough, hungry kiss, so unlike any of the gentle pecks Sam had been given before. He only had a moment to wonder if his own kissing was poor in comparison, inexperienced as he was, when Dwalin shoved a hand down his slacks between them and then kissing was the last thing on Sam’s mind.
He gasped against Dwalin’s mouth, shuddering hard. The dwarf smelled like ale and beard oil and a little like sweat. It only made him harder. He ground his hips against Dwalin’s grip, his whines muffled by a quiet, “Shh.”
“Can’t be doing a quickie here,” Dwalin said, breaking the kiss with a wicked grin. “We’d best be getting to my room. I can only imagine what the burglar would do if he caught me with one of his wean’s friends.”
“I’m a grown hobbit,” Sam spluttered, fixing his pants.
“Doesn't mean he'd be happy. Come. If it’s fucked ye want, little hobbit, it’s fucked you’ll get.”
**
Not that it was any of Mr. Dwalin’s business (or anyone else’s for that matter), but Samwise Gamgee had never done anything like this before, and he didn’t mean picking up a stranger.
Sure, he’d shared a kiss here and there, had held hands with a hobbit or two, but he hadn’t so much as gathered the courage to hand Rosie or Mr. Frodo a flower, let alone suggest anything further.
And so he was a little overwhelmed to be so crowded upon against Dwalin's bedroom door. To have hands on his backside, down his pants, to be kissed on his mouth, his neck, his ears—and so thoroughly, too. No hesitation. No rejection. Just desire.
He felt… He felt…
Wanted.
Lusted after.
Dwalin’s hands were hungry on his thighs, his sides, his belly. Damn pretty, the dwarf had said and meant every word of it. It certainly helped that, when Dwalin bent to pick him up and carry him to the guest bed, he didn’t so much as struggle.
“Ye alright, lad?” Dwalin asked when he'd placed him on the blanket.
“Never better,” Sam said honestly. He was finally getting what he’d wanted and it more than measured up to what he’d imagined. “Would you kiss me again?”
Dwalin chuffed and bent to claim his mouth again. Sam thought he might get addicted to it—the way the dwarf’s teeth tugged at his lower lip, the way his tongue bumped into his, the way his hands were snapping off his suspenders—oh.
“How’d you want to do this?” Dwalin asked. He mouthed at the tender spot beneath Sam’s ear, making him squirm as he unbuttoned the hobbit’s trousers. “Do you want to fuck my hand? My mouth?”
Those would certainly be easier. Quicker. Softer.
But Sam’s mind went back to Mr. Bilbo in his office.
Mr. Thorin’s rolling hips.
In a quiet voice, Sam asked, “Would you fuck me?”
Dwalin paused. Just for a moment. And then he groaned something in Khuzdul that made Sam's cock twitch. With his beard tickling the sensitive tip of Sam's ear, he said, "I'll get the oil."
The dwarf sat back on his haunches and reached for the upper drawer of the nightstand where he retrieved a small, glass container. It had a cork at the top, which Dwalin removed hastily with his teeth.
This, at the very least, wasn't new to Sam. He'd had his moments alone in his room—his older brother away with his father in Bree—where he had the chance to get clever with his hands without the worry of anyone stumbling in on him.
Of course, it was a little different to have someone else press their fingers inside him. Dwalin could reach further than he could, and his fingers were thicker.
Still, Sam didn't flinch until the second one, at which point Dwalin said in a low voice, "Breathe, lad. Good. Aye, there ye go."
Sam swallowed and closed his eyes, focusing on relaxing. That is until Dwalin coaxed his fingers in an upward motion that made him jerk.
"There it is," Dwalin said, all smiles.
"There what is?" Sam said, looking down. His cock, hard as you please, was dribbling pre-cum onto his belly and making his stomach hairs stick up in the mess.
"Your pussy button," said Dwalin crudely, which wasn't really an answer. He coaxed his fingers again and Sam let out an embarrassing sound as he tensed around him. "Now, don't go doing that," he said. "Relax, lad, or else I'll be finishing between your thighs. Not that I'd mind, round as ye are—gorgeous. Hobbits and dwarves can agree on that, at least. But I reckon you'd be disappointed."
"It's your own fault," Sam panted. He bared down again, opening his legs a little more, and gasped softly as Dwalin pushed in a third finger. The dwarf didn't curl them again, giving Sam time to get used to the girth as he gently pushed them deeper.
If Sam had been alone, he may have pushed past the discomfort in his haste to get a toy inside him. He'd take himself in hand and jerk himself roughly, wincing and groaning quietly into his pillow.
With Dwalin, there was no haste. The dwarf took his time, patiently twisting his fingers and petting Sam's walls until the hobbit relaxed around him and he felt confident enough to to push his fingers up into that spot again without consequence.
"Ah," Sam gasped, jerking into the touch. “Ah—ah!”
“Mahal, what a face," Dwalin groaned. "That good, is it? Ye keep that up, I might have to stay in the Shire after all.”
Sam laughed breathlessly, but his face quickly went lax again, his body lighting up at every movement of the dwarf's fingers. Each mean press against that spot was like a punch to his nerves, cock jolting.
Dwalin leaned down and captured his lips in a kiss again, surprisingly sweet. "Yavanna outdid herself with you," he said, and in spite of himself, Sam felt his heart give a little swoop.
But then the dwarf gave a savage push of his fingers that made Sam spit, “Fuck," and it was Dwalin's turn to laugh.
"Think you're ready, laddie?" he asked.
"More than ready," Sam gasped. He shuddered at the sensation of Dwalin's hand leaving him—at what it meant.
But any anxiety left him the moment Dwalin brushed the tip of his nose with Sam's.
“Tell me to stop if ye need me to stop,” Dwalin said, holding his eyes.
Sam swallowed. He nodded.
“Relax, lad.”
Sam nodded again and took a breath. Then another. In, two, three, four, five. Out, two, three, four—
Dwalin pressed his cock against his rim. And slowly, slowly, he pushed in.
Sam exhaled shakily, baring down. Despite their preparation, it still hurt. But Dwalin was much larger than a sealed, wooden toy.
“Almost there, lad,” Dwalin said, voice uncharacteristically soft. “Keep at it. Good. There ye go.”
Sam’s breath came in hitches and nearly stopped altogether when that familiar burning turned into a deep pressure that made his mouth drop open. He let out a little, “Oh,” at the same time Dwalin’s crotch pressed flush against his ass.
The dwarf sighed, content, his eyes closed against his own pleasure. At last, he groaned, “Even with all those fingers, you’re still fuckin’ tight."
Sam covered his face. He felt too hot, too on edge. It didn’t help that Dwalin began petting his belly in soft strokes—up, up toward his sternum and back down.
“Ye alright?” he asked.
“I’m trying not to cum,” Sam admitted.
Dwalin laughed. “That one’s for the books. Don't think I've ever had a lad cum from just my cock before.”
"Please stop talking," Sam groaned. His thighs were trembling. If he wanted to, he was sure all it would take to roll over the edge was an intentional tensing of his legs and a fist on his cock. But he didn't want it to be over so quickly.
Bindweed, Sam thought. Chickweed. Couch grass. Nettles. Dock. Dandelion. Bittercress. Horsetail. Cleavers. Trefoil.
When he finally felt settled again and his orgasm was no longer clawing at the door, Sam pulled his hands away from his face and looked up at Dwalin.
The dwarf gazed back down at him, more fond than Sam had expected. “There’s the pretty bastard," he said. "Alright if I move now? I wager the sounds you make will be as pretty as you look.”
Sam's cheeks went pink. He bit his lip. "Go slow at first, please. Not the whole time, but—"
“Aye, lad, I’ve got it.”
Dwalin may have had it, but Sam certainly didn’t. When the dwarf drew his hips back, Sam gripped the sheets under him, barely breathing. Any remaining air in his lungs punched out of him when Dwalin thrust forward again, slowly as he’d asked but no less intense.
As their movements became smoother, faster, he tried to give as good as he got—running his nails down Dwalin's forearms and over his tattoos, lightly pinching one of the dwarf's nipples between his fingers—but to Sam’s embarrassment, each time Dwalin pushed in, he let out an involuntary “uhn” and it only grew as Dwalin picked up the pace until Sam found that he couldn’t stop moaning.
Dwalin came down onto his elbows and laid partially on top of him, smirking as he briefly captured the hobbit’s mouth in a kiss. His broad belly trapped Sam’s cock between them, pulling his foreskin back with delicious friction.
“As much as I love hearing you sing, little hobbit," Dwalin purred, "I don’t want Bilbo busting in and causing an uproar.”
Then he covered Sam’s mouth with his ring-covered hand—Sam’s cock jerked happily at this shift—and fucked into him.
Hard.
“Mmn!” Sam gasped in surprise, reaching up and holding onto Dwalin’s arm for purchase. “Mm! Mm!” His orgasm was barreling toward the edge again, pressure growing in his groin, skin flushing hot.
“Yeah? That what ye need?” Dwalin said. “Bet I could make ye spill without so much as touching your pretty cock. Moaning like it’s the best damn thing you’ve ever had. Makes me nearly jealous. Hobbits out here moaning like they have cunts where their holes should be.”
Sam’s confusion must’ve shown on his face because Dwalin grinned down at him. “Do you think Thorin’s the only one of us who’s fucked your Mr. Bilbo?”
Sam’s face went red with the scandal of it.
Which was when Dwalin slowed his thrusts and pulled his hand off his mouth, much to Sam’s dismay. But it was only to coax the hobbit over onto his stomach.
“Much as I want to see your face when I make your pussy squirt,” he said, making Sam flush hot as he pulled a pillow down to rest his head and chest on, “this’ll give me the best angle to fuck ye the way ye want.”
Dwalin stroked the wet underside of Sam’s cock, trapped between his legs and the mattress, taking pleasure in the way the hobbit squirmed before lifting his hips up for a better angle. There was a long pause at which point Sam wondered if the dwarf had changed his mind about the whole affair, but then rough hands massaged into the backs of his thighs, pressing up, up, until Sam's generous ass was in two fistfuls and it became clear Dwalin was admiring his work.
Spluttering, Sam said, "Could you get a move on?"
Dwalin swatted him, not enough to hurt but certainly enough to make Sam jolt in surprise. "Aye, I'm gettin' to it. Eager bunny."
At last, the dwarf adjusted himself and leaned forward again, his hips hot on Sam's haunches. There was the familiar feeling of the tip of his cock pressing, pressing, and he was inside again. Any burn was gone immediately, replaced by that deep ache that had Sam's thighs shaking and his teeth biting into the pillow beneath him.
With almost no time at all, Dwalin began fucking Sam in earnest—hard, mean thrusts that had the hobbit warbling. With his legs spread wide, with big hands on his hips, it was everything Sam had wanted.
Mr. Bilbo’s face had been right when he was taking Mr. Thorin—it really was that good.
Dwalin wasn't any quieter than Sam's muffled wails, grunting unmistakably as he fucked him and unable (or unwilling) to stop. Anyone who walked past the round guest room door would know something was happening, even if they didn't know what.
At one point, Dwalin adjusted himself for greater leverage, leaning down so his left hand was anchored by Sam's head and the other wrapped around the hobbit to take ahold of his cock.
"Oh," Sam gasped, gripping the pillow. "Fuck."
By hobbit standards, he wasn't small by any means, but Dwalin's hand entirely covered him, his calloused fingers sliding roughly in a grip Sam would never have thought he would like. Surrounded by Dwalin with every nerve ending on edge, he keened.
“I’m gonna cum,” he said pitifully.
Dwalin snarled something in Khuzdul. He pressed his nose between Sam's shoulder blades, teeth gently grazing the skin while he kept his pace steady, unwavering. "Go on, halwulzunsh," he groaned. "Milk me with that tight fucking cunt."
"Oh, oh, fnngh," Sam whined, and he could only pray the dinner party was loud enough to cover the sounds of his cry as he fucked into Dwalin's hand, thighs spasming. It was shamefully loud, enough so that even Dwalin puffed a laugh with startled surprise.
"Oh, goodness," Sam sighed, shuddering as he deflated bonelessly onto the bed. "Yavannah."
Dwalin snorted and nipped his shoulder again. "Glad to hear it," he said. "Am I good to finish, lad?"
Sam turned his head to look up at him, lips parted as he caught his breath. For a moment, when Dwalin caught his eye, the dwarf looked a little taken aback. "Yeah," Sam said, panting, "fuck me. I want to see you cum."
Dwalin swallowed. But before Sam could unpack what that meant, the dwarf pulled back so his hands were on either side of Sam's middle, holding himself up as he fucked into him. His thrusts were faster, but not as hard, pistoning forward as he chased his orgasm with heavy breaths. Sam watched over his shoulder, urging Dwalin on with a chorus of quiet, "ah, ahh, ahh"s.
At last, Dwalin's face screwed up and he groaned, smacking his hips hard into Sam's ass and burying himself there with a final thrust.
They stayed like that for a long moment, filling the room with the sounds of heavy breathing. There was distant laughter from the dining room where the others were still gathered.
When Dwalin slowly pulled out, he gave a satisfied swat to Sam's twitching hole, earning himself another unexpected but not unwelcome swear from the hobbit.
“That enough to satisfy ye, lad?” Dwalin asked, throwing himself down on the bed beside him. His bald head was shiny with sweat.
Sam gazed up at him from the pillow he had all but torn. His skin felt like it was singing, and his ass—the phantom sensation of the dwarf’s cock lingered behind, making him bite his lip. "How long would you need before you can go again?" he asked.
Dwalin stared at him. Then laughed. Loud. “Mahal," he said at last, covering his eyes. "Hobbits will be the death of me."