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The first time Bilbo had glimpsed it, in the baths of Rivendell, he'd dismissed it as imagination. It had been a long, hard journey, and he still wasn't quite sure why he was on it. The spirit of adventure that had seized him that spring morning (Had it really only been a month ago? It seemed a lifetime), propelling him out his door without so much as a pocket handkerchief, now seemed like a kind of madness. It was entirely possible he was going mad—mad with terror and exhaustion—so it was no real surprise if he was starting to see improbable things out of the corner of his eye. He hurriedly gathered up his things and thought no more of it.
The second time he'd seen it, however, he knew he wasn't imagining things. In the aftermath of their escape from the orcs and the wolves, as they rested atop the Carrock and those who had wounds tended to them, Bilbo's eye was drawn, inexorably, to Thorin—Thorin, who was alive! Thank goodness for Gandalf and the eagles! The dwarf king had removed the many layers of clothing that usually covered his upper body—cloak, armor, shirt, and gauntlets were all lying in a heap beside him—and was slowly bandaging those injuries that Gandalf's magic hadn't healed. Bilbo knew he was staring, but he couldn't tear his eyes away. There, peeking out from amid the thick dark hair that covered the dwarf's chest, was a glint of silver—it was a ring hanging from Thorin's nipple, lying heavy and shining against the right side of his chest.
As if sensing the eyes on him, Thorin raised his head and met Bilbo's gaze with his own. Bilbo blushed to be caught gaping like a fool. Scrambling for a distraction, he stammered, "Do—do you need some help?"
Thorin hesitated, and at first Bilbo thought he would refuse, probably out of his sense of (damnable, foolish, wonderful) Dwarven pride, but at the last he inclined his head slowly, moving over on the ridge of stone that served as a bench to make room for Bilbo.
"Wind the bandage around the ribs," Thorin instructed, handing Bilbo a long strip of cloth. Bilbo thought the bandage looked like it had seen better days, perhaps at the bottom of a rubbish heap, but he politely refrained from saying anything. If what Gandalf told them about this friend of his was true, they would soon see better lodgings and, hopefully, fresh supplies.
"Tightly now," said Thorin. "The ribs are cracked, and will not heal if not held firmly in place."
Bilbo did his best, feeling a bit silly as he nearly had to scramble around Thorin bodily in order to circle the dwarf's broad torso. Still, it was surely better than Thorin doing it himself. He was close enough that he could feel the warmth of Thorin's skin, and smell the scents that still clung to him: smoke, sweat, blood.
As he worked, he tried surreptitiously to catch another glance at the ring that glinted and teased at the edge of his vision. He must not have been sly enough, however, for Thorin's deep voice rumbled, startlingly close: "Is there something about my chest that fascinates you, Master Baggins? Surely you have realized by now that the hair of dwarves is not confined to their heads and chins."
Bilbo felt his face heat. "Oh no, it's not that. It's just—" he made a short, jerky movement of his head—"I've never seen anything like that before."
"Ah." From Thorin's voice it was clear he knew what it was that had caught the hobbit's attention.
Another silent moment passed between them as Bilbo wound the bandage around Thorin's ribs, pulling it tight as he went along. Finally, in a soft voice, he asked, "Does it hurt?"
Thorin shook his head slightly. "No. It did at first, of course, but it has long since healed."
"But—why?" Bilbo couldn't help but ask.
He rather feared that Thorin would be annoyed at his incessant questions, but the dwarf only smiled faintly at Bilbo's bemusement. "It is nothing mysterious. You know, of course, that we dwarves prize the beauty of gems and precious metals above all things, and you have seen how many of our company adorn themselves with them. This is merely another type of adornment."
Indeed, Bilbo had noticed the finely-wrought ornaments that some of the dwarves braided into their hair and beards, and the rings that glinted in the ears of others. He had simply never considered that there might be more jewelry hidden away beneath cloak and mail—after all, wasn't the point of jewelry that others could see it?
"Do hobbits have nothing similar?" Thorin asked, breaking into Bilbo's wandering thoughts.
"Oh—well, yes, I suppose. Hobbits wear jewelry, certainly, mostly the women. But not usually anything so—so—" He groped for the right word. "Permanent."
"I see." Thorin was still smiling faintly at him, and Bilbo realized he was staring again, only this time at the dwarf king's face, and that his hands had halted mid-movement. He quickly ducked his head and finished wrapping the bandage around Thorin's torso, tying the end in a secure knot.
"How's that?" he asked, scrambling back from the rock he'd been seated on and willing his voice not to squeak.
Thorin moved experimentally, and Bilbo had to look away from the shift and flex of muscles in his chest. "That is very well done, Master Baggins," Thorin said. "I thank you."
Bilbo hastily made his excuses—It was nothing, glad to be of service, good night—and escaped to the other side of the camp and the safety of the rest of their company before he could embarrass himself further.
---
That night, tired as he was, Bilbo couldn't get to sleep. He twisted and turned in his bedroll, images flashing behind his closed eyes. The sight of that ring on Thorin's chest—the cold, hard metal piercing that soft, vulnerable part of him—rose up again and again in his mind. He lifted a hand to his own chest, brushing against one small, pink nipple that stiffened at the touch. He wondered what it would feel like to be pierced there, what it would feel like to touch that ring, how the metal might taste on his tongue—he squirmed and palmed himself through his breeches, pressing his face into the bedroll to keep from making any noise.
This was surely a kind of madness. Knowing that he would get no sleep without relief, he rolled to the side, quietly slipping a hand beneath his breeches and smallclothes. In his mind he relived the scene from that evening, remembered the heat and scent of Thorin's body, imagined letting his hands stray from their task. His hands followed his eyes as he stroked the ring, then lifted it, feeling its weight, and above him Thorin— Thorin—
With a stifled gasp, he stiffened and spent himself. Wearily, he wiped his hand on the ground beside him, then rolled onto his back. His clothes were sticky and he knew they would feel even less comfortable come morning, but already his eyes were drifting shut. Soon, beneath the black sky pierced with glittering stars, he fell into a deep sleep.
---
The next morning, before breakfast, Bilbo ventured to the foot of the Carrock where the great river flowed swiftly past. In the lee of the stairs, he found a small, sheltered inlet where the water was shallow. Crouching down on the shore, he washed himself as best as he could, dabbing at his stained breeches with a handkerchief thankfully borrowed from the house of Elrond. Having damp clothes was only a slight improvement over having damp and sticky clothes, but fortunately it was summer and the morning sun was warm. He splashed some water over his face and neck and ran a hand through his curls for good measure, then stood and stretched. Absently, he brushed a thumb against his chest, remembering the fantasy of the night before.
"I take it you like my jewelry, Master Burglar."
Bilbo whirled around, dropping his hand as if it burned. He stared at Thorin, mouth open and throat dry. He must truly have been distracted to let a dwarf sneak up on him!
"I hope you are not thinking of stealing it," Thorin said, amusement plain in his voice and eyes.
Bilbo struggled to match his light tone. "I think I'd have a hard time stealing it without your noticing," he said, willing his face not to give away the wild pounding of his heart.
Thorin stepped closer and Bilbo noticed with a sudden nervous thrill that his back was nearly touching the cool rock behind him. "You never know unless you try," Thorin said, voice dropping low.
Bilbo blinked and stared. He must be dreaming still. That was the only explanation. Slowly, as if under a spell, his hands reached out to grasp the hem of Thorin's shirt. He lifted his gaze to the dwarf's face; their eyes met and held.
I'll wake up at any moment now, Bilbo thought. I'll wake up in my wonderful soft bed in Bag End and find this whole mad adventure has been a dream. But the hard rock against his back felt real, as did the worn cloth in his hands, as did the burning weight of Thorin's eyes on him. Gently, he pushed the shirt up, exposing Thorin's chest. Everything was just as he had remembered—the stained bandages around his ribs, the shining silver ring.
With a shrug, Thorin lifted the shirt the rest of the way over his head and let it drop to the side. They stood in silence, the rushing of the river matched only by the roaring of Bilbo's blood in his ears.
"Well, Burglar?" said Thorin, challenging.
Not really a burglar, Bilbo thought, as he reached out with one hand and very lightly ran a finger around the edge of the ring. Thorin gave no outward reaction, but the flat brown nipple under his fingers stiffened and rose. Feeling bolder, he grasped the ring in his fingers, just as he had in the dream, then gave it a slight tug. This time, he heard and felt the sharp intake of breath that accompanied his action.
"I'd say you're definitely noticing that," Bilbo breathed, looking down to where the outline of Thorin's hardening cock was visible against his breeches.
"Indeed," Thorin said, his voice little more than a low rumble. He placed his hands against the rock face on either side of Bilbo's head, caging the hobbit in with his body. "And now that I've caught you, what shall I do with you?"
Bilbo's heart fluttered and his mouth went dry. "You could kiss me," he ventured, barely a whisper.
Thorin's eyes crinkled in a smile, and he leaned down, brushing his lips against Bilbo's. Bilbo was about to complain that such a chaste kiss was hardly sufficient punishment for attempted theft, but Thorin's mouth was on his again before he could get the words out. After that, Bilbo found he could do little more than hold on and gasp for air.
He barely noticed as Thorin maneuvered them so they were sitting on a ledge of rock, Thorin's back to the wall and Bilbo straddling his lap. Thorin kissed him deeply, strong hands gripping his waist, and Bilbo closed his eyes and let his hands roam over the dwarf's chest, fingers curling in the coarse hair.
He moaned as he felt Thorin's fingers tugging at the laces of his breeches, brushing against his stiffened cock as he did so. Bilbo reached a hand down to help, and they quickly had both his and Thorin's breeches undone. Bilbo sucked in a breath as their erections brushed together, and then Thorin was holding them both in a firm grip, and Bilbo nearly wept at how perfect it felt.
Thorin stroked them like that, his sword-callused touch rough yet careful. His other hand came up to brush Bilbo's nipple through his shirt, and Bilbo gasped, seeing stars. Seized by a sudden impulse, he leaned forward and put the flat of his tongue against the ring on Thorin's chest, then took it into his mouth and gently sucked. Thorin's grip tightened and sped, and with a rough groan he spent himself. The feeling of Thorin's release and the taste of metal and skin together was enough to push Bilbo over the edge, and with a last thrust upward he came, whimpering.
They sat there for a long moment, their harsh breathing echoing in the stony enclosure. At last they stood and cleaned themselves, setting their clothes to rights. As they prepared to climb to the top of the Carrock and rejoin the rest of their company, Thorin spoke.
"That won't do, I'm afraid."
Bilbo looked up, his heart leaping into his throat. "What do you mean?"
But Thorin was smiling at him. He had smiled at Bilbo more in the last twenty-four hours than in all the previous months of their journey, and Bilbo was in a fair way to have his head turned by it.
"That was a wretched attempt at burglary," Thorin said. "Clearly, you will need much more practice before we reach Erebor."
"Oh," said Bilbo. Then, eyes widening, "Oh."
"Well, Burglar?" Thorin said, glancing behind him as he started up the stairs, and Bilbo scrambled to follow, grinning so wide he felt as if his cheeks might burst.
There was something to be said for madness, after all.