AN: What the fuck, this was supposed to be a one-shot. Stop being so awkwardly adorable, Thorin, you prick. Thank you and good morning.
"I intend to venture in." His voice, mercifully, was steadier than his current constitution. The low, breathy sound Billa made in return was encouraging, as was the sight of her fidgeting eagerly beneath him, all mussed hair and flushed cheeks.
"I'll make certain you find your way," she said, favouring him with such an adoring smile, and Thorin shored up his nerve. His dear Billa was not some beast to be feared, though she could be such a fierce little thing.
Taking a deep breath was more distracting than it was helpful. Thorin had never smelled anything quite like the scent between Billa's legs: salty, faintly musky, and uniquely hospitable in some strange way he could not place. It was oddly pleasant, and he leaned closer, sniffing in a way he hoped was more subtle than it felt.
His fingers were drying, going sticky, but Thorin could see the thatch of brown hair was damp with more, curling dark and wet around the pinkness hidden beneath. It looked... it looked like a wound, open and vulnerable as though she had been sliced wide and left to bleed. The wetness, though clear, still called to mind images of dripping red and injury, of Billa suffering beneath the sting of steel, and dread welled up in his gut at the thought of causing her pain.
He was not completely ignorant, even without the benefit of practical knowledge; he knew her private parts were not a true wound, but that did not quell his concerns. Billa was impossibly tiny, though her courage was big enough to fill the vaulted halls of Erebor. How was he meant to... enter? He had heard tales of sheets spotted crimson and weeping maids, of pain even when great care was taken, and he was beginning to understand why.
He stopped, agonizingly unsure, and was wise enough to look up to her for guidance.
"You can touch," she assured him, her own clever fingers petting gently through his hair, and Thorin shook his head, careful not to dislodge her.
"Does it..." Uncurling his fingers from where they had retreated against his palm, Thorin reached out and stroked the soft, pale flesh of Billa's thigh, edging slightly closer to the small mound of hair. "It looks so soft... so raw. Delicate. Are you certain— my hands are rough, large, and you, this—"
"I'm entirely certain." Billa tugged at his hair, coaxing him away. Despite her smile, her brave words, he must have frightened her; Thorin winced, wholly gutted at the thought, but it was better to know now, before he could harm her—
"That's an awful scowl for such a handsome dwarf," Billa said, and Thorin allowed himself to be drawn up, until his head pillowed upon her freckled shoulder while the rest of his bulk lay safely beside her on the expansive mattress. Her small hands were cool against his face, sliding across his brow and over his cheeks, and her eyes were sober, steely blue beneath the sweep of her lashes.
"Your hands," she said, leaning close to press a kiss between his brows before resting her own forehead there. "Are callused, and strong, and entirely you, Thorin Oakenshield. And if it's not been made clear yet, I am more than a little fond of you. All of you." Her hands grasped his own, pulling, and Thorin could not stifle his flinch when she pressed his palm against her hip.
"I am unbearably fond of every single inch," she continued, shifting her grip to his wrist, then moving upward, scraping short nails over his forearm. "And I promise it's not nearly as fragile as you think it looks. I know I'm soft all over compared to you, but I'm hardly made of petals and dandelion fluff, am I?"
He grunted, permitting his hand to lightly squeeze her hip, as he might test the ripeness of a peach. "Of course not."
"Hm, of course not." She kissed him then, sucking briefly at his upper lip, and Thorin revelled in the familiar pleasure, chasing her mouth as she murmured at him. "I love your hands," she said, between mingled breaths. "I am not afraid, Thorin; I won't be hurt. Trust me."
"But you are so tiny." He struggled to find the proper words; he did trust her, with his body and his heart, with all that he was. Whether he could trust himself was the question that plagued him. "And I... How am I meant to fit?"
"Snugly." Before Thorin could protest her flippancy— Durin's beard, he would rather feed himself to the dragon than cause her tears— his thoughts were suddenly overturned by the squeeze of her hand around his faltering cock. "And perfectly. Every part."
Thorin didn't dare breathe, and pointedly ignored the thunderous drumming of his heart; he pressed fractionally deeper and watched with fascination and alarm as his middle finger slipped into Billa's angrily pink flesh, disappearing to the second knuckle. The glide was too easy, too slick to keep adequate control, and his finger was too large for such a small—
The lavish sigh she exhaled was startling, both in its enthusiasm and its familiarity. He had heard her make such a delighted sound before, and quite recently— she'd sighed just as blissfully over the rich, sugar-glazed spice cakes the men of Lake Town had served during their great welcoming feast, before polishing off three thick slices all by herself.
"Don't stop," she murmured, with the slightest roll of her hips, and Thorin swallowed as a sudden tightness seized his throat. He did not retreat, but neither did he move any farther inside, frozen.
After a few moments, Billa seemed to understand his need, reaching down to guide his way beyond this strange stumbling block. Thorin sagged with relief, allowing her to turn his hand and extend his thumb.
"Here, gently," she said, and steered his thumb to burrow higher than his finger, parting hair and finding a small, firm bump beneath. At his first touch, a smooth glide directed entirely by her hold upon his hand, Billa let out a quiet, reedy whine.
The noise shivered through him, not with fear but with heat, tempering his nerves.
Cautiously, he slid his thumb over the nub again, mimicking the same pressure and speed, and earned another pleased sound. The wet, velvety grip around his finger tightened for a moment, and he was struck quite unexpectedly the thought of how remarkable such softness might feel enfolding his cock.
"Good, so good, my dear Thorin." She smiled down at him, bright as sunrise, and he felt an answering expression lift the corners of his mouth. "Just like that."
"My mouth?" He had already tasted her fluids from his fingers, strange and faintly tart. The thought of more... was intriguing.
"Your mouth," she repeated, her pink tongue darting out to wet her own lips. "Would make me very happy."
Even without that compelling encouragement, Thorin found himself eager to comply. So eager, in fact, that Billa did eventually shove him away, with her heel planted against his shoulder.
Her chest was heaving in great, shuddering breaths, her creamy skin flushed with blotches of deep pink and her hair tufted riotously from thrashing against the pillows. Thorin was panting as well, his beard soaked and fragrant; his jaw and tongue were sore from following her instructions so enthusiastically, keeping pace and repeating his lessons even after he drove her to wordless keening, but it was better than the satisfaction of aching muscles after a glorious fight.
"Come here, you brilliant dwarf—" Billa clutched at his hair, yanking him up, until he blanketed her with his body, resting in the warm cradle of her arms. She kissed him fiercely, deep and sloppy and flavoured by her own sweet musk, and Thorin could not help his desperate rutting against her thigh. By Mahal's hammer, the sounds she'd made while his tongue wriggled and pressed against her had scorched through him, setting his blood ablaze.
When she urged him onto his back, Thorin rolled over easily; she had yet to lead him astray in this new adventure, soothing his misgivings with patience and bringing him such astonishing joy. She had him reeling, drunk on her taste, her scent, and the bounty of her flesh.
"I love you," he said suddenly, gathering her close as she clambered onto him, her still quivering thighs parting to straddle his stomach. With a hand wiped clean on the bedspread, he reached up, carding through her hair to push the wild curls away from her sweat-damp neck. "You astonishing little lass. My bold Shire beauty; my beloved queen."
"My sweetheart," she said quietly, her voice gone thick with sentiment, and leaned down to press a kiss against the centre of his chest. Such a simple endearment, but Thorin felt the word burrow deep within him, filling some cold, dark place with bright sunlight and her laughter. Another kiss against the base of his throat followed, then one against his mouth, tender and slow. Her lips were softer than the flowers he had woven into her courting wreath, and plumped to deeper ruddiness by their lovemaking.
When she slid her body down, just so, the brush of sodden curls and plush flesh against his straining erection was almost more than he could bear. His spine arched, his hips snapping, and he gasped a broken, punched-out noise when she canted back against his impulsive movements, letting the head of his cock slip between her folds.
"Would you like to," she whispered against his chin, and he managed to groan a strangled yes, even as his hands scrambled to grip her waist, and his heels dug hard into the mattress.
His explorations had not prepared him for this, to be engulfed in the hot, wet clench of her— decades of spilling into his own fist had not prepared him for this fulsome warmth and softness, drawing him inside like a hand into a glove.
Nothing had prepared him for the sight of Billa's fair face going lax with such pleasure as she lowered herself upon him, for the cooing sounds she made as he stretched her wide, and oh, there was not a single flash of pain or hint of tears to sour this moment. It was as though she had been made for him, or him for her— as if Mahal himself had fashioned them as two halves, and fortune had brought them here, whole again. That notion, this moment, Billa—
In that one bright instant, Thorin broke, pulling her down against him, flush and firm. Coiling pleasure released, pouring through his muscles like molten steel, a great wave overtaking his mind and body.
It was only a moment, the span of a few ragged breaths, that thoughtless surge, and then Thorin was coming back into himself, shuddering and gasping for air like the bellows of a forge. Perched above him, Billa was running her hands over his chest and up his neck, as though she were gentling a pony.
He, Thorin son of Thrain, had lost control of himself like a callow lad. If the ground chose that moment to split open beneath their bed, Thorin would sink into it willingly, burying both himself and his shame.
"No, wait, Thorin, no—" Billa wiggled, making Thorin's cock twitch pitifully where he softened inside her, and took hold of his jaw, turning him away from suffocating himself in a pillow. "Listen to me, you stubborn sod."
There was nothing to say, but Thorin grumbled in Khuzdul, berating his own weakness and selfish failings, until Billa silenced him with a sharp tweak to his nose.
"Listen, I said." She bent, butting their foreheads together in a gesture of affection he had taught her, and disgrace sat cold in Thorin's gut. "None of that, whatever it was. And stop looking so gloomy, as though you've disappointed me. You haven't— not one bit."
"Did I not," he muttered crossly, bristling under her pity.
"No, you didn't. Smarten up." Her hand slapped lightly against his cheek, hardly a tap, and Thorin took hold of her wrist, glaring. The arch look she levelled back at him was not even slightly cowed. "Thorin, love, you'll make me doubt your dwarven stamina if you keep carrying on like this. You were so worked up just tending to me— which you did marvellously, by the way, bringing me over my peak five times, for goodness sake— I was surprised when you didn't just finish all over my belly."
Billa's wrist twisted free of his loosened grip, and her fingers tangled with his own, their clasped hands coming to rest upon his chest.
"You haven't left me unsatisfied in the slightest," she said, pecking him once more on the lips before tucking her head into the crook of his neck. "Now hush, and hold me close a while. I fully expect you to be ready to go again before dawn."
The lamps were still burning low, as they had been when he and Billa had tumbled into his room, and Thorin stared up at the shadowy rafters. Eventually, before Billa's snuffling against his neck could grow too sleepy, he spoke.
"Did I... It was good?"
Slung over his chest, Billa's arm tightened, and she hummed into his skin without lifting her head.
"Five times, Thorin." Five times; there, in the privacy of their shared bed, Thorin found himself sporting a small, foolish sort of grin. "Silly old dwarf," she tacked on, a mumbled afterthought that was unmistakably fond. His grin grew, and he pressed it against her hair.
As tension bled away, so did his keen attention, giving way for a comfortable weariness. Catching a fortuitous edge of the rumpled quilts, Thorin rolled them both gently over and under enough covers to ward off the chill. Keeping her held safely in his arms, they slotted side-by-side like spoons in a drawer.
END (really and truly)
AN: Just so we're all on the same page, Thorin's fears about blood and weeping maidens were completely unfounded with Billa— hobbits relish the pleasures of life, and she's quite a bit more experienced with sex than Thorin. He won't be bothered by it, when he finds out, and she isn't keeping it secret on purpose.