thorin likes to play a game sometimes: where haven’t i kissed bilbo baggins?
in the beginning, this is an easy game. his mouth, his cheeks, his forehead, his chin, his temple, the tip of his very nose. thorin kisses them all, and bilbo laughs, and laughs, and kisses him back.
and eventually, there are more places to kiss: bilbo’s shoulders, his breastbone, his belly button. his arms, his wrists, his palms. and bilbo breathes, and clutches, and kisses thorin back.
there are secret places to kiss: the insides of elbows, the backs of knees, the insides of thighs. in between places. eager places. and bilbo gasps, and closes his eyes, and shudders, and kisses thorin back.
each of his toes. each of his fingertips. the nape of his neck. the curls of his crown. the curve of his ribs. the dip of his hips. the thing, thorin thinks, about kissing bilbo everywhere, is that one may be able to kiss the same place twice, but one can never kiss it the same way twice. a soft, chaste kiss to the top of a shoulder is not kissed the same as a hot, open-mouthed kiss there. and sometimes bilbo laughs, and sometimes bilbo groans, and sometimes bilbo writhes, and sometimes bilbo kisses back with desperation and need and sometimes he kisses back with a grin so wide he can hardly manage the act and sometimes he kisses back with an annoyed affection, as though he might wish he could deny thorin but he can’t bring himself to actually do it.
the thing about the game, the thing about the question, where haven’t i kissed bilbo baggins, is that thorin can kiss bilbo baggins everywhere, and still have more to find. it’s unexpected. it’s exhilarating.
you’re an impossible old dwarf, bilbo says, when thorin tells him this. thorin goes back to tasting bilbo’s neck, hotter now under the beard burn when it was when thorin started. bilbo’s laughing again.
honor demands that i not stop until i have all the answers, thorin says, his false haughtiness muffled into fondness against bilbo’s skin. he wonders if bilbo can feel the smile on his mouth, even though he can’t see it. not until i have uncovered every secret in you.
bilbo cards a hand through thorin’s hair and sighs, giggling and lazy and relaxed under thorin’s touch. suppose you’ll just have to keep at it then, he says. i find i don’t have any objections, and no where to be this afternoon anyway. besides– and at this, the hand in thorin’s hair begins to tug, to guide, raising thorin’s head so bilbo can see his eyes, can see his smile - i have my own explorations to pursue.
and he kisses thorin, and kisses thorin, and thorin kisses back.