Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The cigarette burned down to the filter —Bill Baggins hadn’t taken a single drag. The tobacco no longer helped, or maybe that particular pack Mr. Gray had "thoughtfully" brought him was just disgusting. At least it was tasteless.

Twenty-six-year-old William Bruno Baggins had become a star three years ago. That day, some fashion designer from a faggy magazine (Bill preferred not to remember the names of his old work places) had noticed him for the first time, dragged him into a basement, and made him pose almost naked.

That was when Bilbo — oh, how long had it been since he’d heard that version of his name? — found out what it sexualization and who are that wealthy old men, willing to shell out a fortune for a night with a charming young man. "There are only to things that can make you haply when you turn 50: fishing and little boys," Bill remembered every time when he declined another request to be a companion for fatty businessman.

At this moments, the line between modeling designer clothes and sleeping with some sweaty fatass had started to blur, but time and again, Baggins shook his head and repeated:

I’m not a slut.

Of course.

Bill rolls onto his left side, and the couch creaks. He’s back in Gray’s apartment again, smoking again, and on the floor —another half-empty box of chocolates with a cute note from his teenage fan.

"Bill, thank you for everything! You inspire me to be myself! From the bottom of my heart, Mia XXX" and a phone number. Bill snorts and picks up another piece of candy with his fingers.

He’ll throw up later.

But that’s later.

He doesn’t react when the door opens. In walks Gray — good old Gandalf Gray, reeking of cologne and weed just as much as Bill. Almost family, after all. He settles into an armchair nearby, adjusts the cuffs of his velvet jacket, and gazes thoughtfully toward the fireplace.

Bill lazily rolls the chocolate between his fingers, hesitating to take a bite. He sighs and puts it back, awkwardly sliding it toward his godfather. The old man smiles into his graying beard.

"How much?" Gandalf’s deep voice cuts through the silence. He’s almost — almost — concerned and polite. Bill barely smiles.

"Money. Everyone wants my money. A thousand pounds, give or take." Baggins stares into space, his gaze distant. Right now, nothing interests him. He just wants to sleep.

Gray sees it and, with exaggerated cheer, pats his protégé’s calf before leaving. He knows Bill isn’t in any state to go home tonight. Knows that runway shoots for fashion houses drain him more than any ad campaign.

Because you have to be sharper. Brighter. Faster. All the things Bill does better than anyone else.

Bill Baggins flicks the last of the ash onto the chocolates, spits out his gum, crumples it into the perfumed note, and closes his eyes.

The fire crackles beside him, rain falls outside, and Bill couldn’t give less of a fuck.

***

To be honest, Bill was completely satisfied with his life. He loved existing in a state of perpetual euphoria and anxiety at the same time. He loved catching people’s stares and listening to odes to his looks. Bill loved money, loved weed, and loved his famous friends.

Today was Monday, which meant an interview. Lillian Durinson never failed to spark genuine excitement in Bill whenever he read anything about her.

"Zero to hero: How a soldier’s daughter conquered fashion."

"Genius or upstart? Three controversial statements by Lillian Morgan."

"Lillian Durinson throws tantrum at her father-in-law in restaurant..." Blah, blah, blah.

Bill hopped into a cab, grinning uncontrollably, and immediately shoved his second earbud in. He didn’t gave a fuck about the driver, so he turned on the music and leaned his head against the window.

Buildings and skyscrapers flew by, people came and went. Bill watched them without much interest, just picking up random little details.

That guy’s hat is ridiculous, that old lady’s bag has a flag on it, and that girl’s thong is practically up to her ears. He’s pretty sure he wore something similar in some "incredibly conceptual" project.

The cab smelled like menthol and leather, which made Baggins slightly nauseous. He found in his bag an unopened pack of gum and popped a piece in his mouth just as the car stopped in front of a tall building.

Tossing the driver a ten-pound note, Bill headed inside. Fifteenth floor, down the hall, turn at the window — and there he was, standing in front of a door with a shiny "L. V. Durinson" plaque.

Just as he raised his fist to knock, a woman with dangerously bright eyes stepped out to meet him.

"Bill? So glad to see you! Oh my God, is that a Vivienne Westwood shirt?.."

***

The dressing room smelled of powder and flowers. Lillian had decorated her entire studio in a "living" style—potted plants everywhere, vines and branches dangling from the ceiling. Bill liked it. He sat in a chair while three sweet makeup artists buzzed around him with curling irons, palettes, and sprays.

Aside from Bill and the staff, there was a man in the room. He stood in the far corner, talking on the phone, occasionally scanning the space with his gaze. Bill caught his eyes a few times and smiled.

"Who’s that?" he asked casually, nodding toward the man as one of the makeup artists — a girl with a nose piercing — dabbed shimmer onto his eyelids. She glanced over and raised an eyebrow.

"Thorin Durinson. Lillian’s husband."

Bill nodded. "Do you have his phone number?"

All three makeup artists fell silent. Another one, an asian, spoke hesitantly:

"Well, he’s Mrs. Durinson’s husband..." she emphasized. Bill waved her off.

"Yeah, got that. So?"

The silence that followed made it clear none of them would help him that easily. Whatever. He wasn’t helpless.

The door slammed open as Lillian strode in, her ample chest bouncing with each step. She exchanged an awkward peck with her husband before turning her attention to Baggins.

“Ah, Billy! You’re as gorgeous as always. Alright, girls, let him go."

They removed Bill’s cape, and he approached Lillian. He was a couple of centimetres shorter, which clearly made her feel more authoritative. Bill gave a faint smile.

Lillian abruptly grabbed his arm and led him to the set.

"Welcome."

***

Three hours flew by. Bill had heard all these questions before and was tired of answering them. Couldn’t they come up with anything new?

"What’s your relationship with businessman Xi Mao Gu?"

“Purely friendly. Mao’s my close friend."

"Why London?"

"Because it’s my place of power."

"What’s happened with your parents?"

"That’s a difficult topic for me, Lili. I’d rather not answer.”

And a dozen more identical questions about his childhood, sexuality, and underwear color. Boring. In the end, Bill even turned down coffee with Lillian, citing "very important business" and pressing his lips together in an "earnest" pout.

On his way back to the dressing room, he was pleased to find only the enigmatic Durinson inside, typing away on his laptop.

Bill lightly knocked on the doorframe to announce his presence. Thorin looked up and frowned.

"Hello. Forget something?"

"No. Just wanted to thank you for the opportunity.” He silently laughed, cutting off whatever the man was about to say. "Don’t make that face. Everyone knows this studio wouldn’t exist without you."

Bill smoothly handed a folded piece of paper to the still-frowning Durinson.

"I’m sure we’ll find something to talk about. Have a good day!"

And with that, he left, trailing perfume and unspoken words behind him.

Only in the cab did he remember Mia’s note and chuckle. Well, at least he had a chance.

Chapter Text

"Hi."

"It's Thorin."

"You gave me your number."

Three messages in a row, annoyingly buzzing on the phone right next to Bill’s head, made him curse under his breath and grope blindly for the source of the sound. But as soon as the guy saw who was texting him, Bill’s lips twitched into a smile.

"and good night to you :)"

"glad to hear from you"

"what, is Lillian asleep?"

Bill knew for sure he wouldn’t fall back asleep, so he crawled out of bed, threw on a robe, and shuffled barefoot to the kitchen, greeted by the soft glow of the window and the lamp.

"Sorry if I woke you."

“Yeah, Lili’s asleep.”

Bill leaned his hip against the table and quickly typed a reply.

"don’t worry, it’s fine"

"how are you?"

Thorin started typing and then stopped—probably because Lily had woken up. Suddenly, Baggins felt awful… After all, in a way, he was laying the foundation for the destruction of a happy family.

"But, really," he caught himself, fishing out a hidden pack of hand-rolled cigarettes from the utensil drawer, "would he even be texting me if he loved Lily?"

"I’m fine, working now."

Thorin attached a photo of his desk from below. Bill smirked — everything was way too neat, not a single crumpled sheet or carelessly tossed pen in sight. The guy turned toward his own bedroom. His was the complete opposite.

Some might call it "organized chaos," while others (Auntie Lobelia, for example) would sniff disdainfully and theatrically poke a finger at the desk with exaggerated disgust.

Bill often hired cleaners, and once a month, his workspace would take on a somewhat presentable appearance. But within a couple of days, it would all descend back into echoes of hell on earth. Bill liked it that way.

A freezing draft blew in through the open window as Baggins typed another message, tapping the screen of his brand-new iPhone with his barely grown nails.

"wow, how cute"

"a hard worker, huh? well then, I guess I’m the one distracting you"

Bill put the phone away and absently stared into the distance. Something felt off right now. Really off.

He slowly lit the joint, took a measured drag, and closed his eyes. Only two options now — either he’d feel good, or he’d have a panic attack.

Bill climbed onto the chair, sitting cross-legged with the joint clenched between his teeth. His robe fluttered in the cold gusts, and his fingers absentmindedly tapped out some rhythm on the table. Bill felt strange.

After finishing the joint, sleepiness crept in. Bill had noticed this "side effect" a while ago — weed didn’t just help him relax. It knocked him out for a long time — about  seven hours.

"sorry, falling asleep"

"text me tomorrow, okay?"

"or I’ll text you"

"idk"

"good night"

***

It’s already Tuesday, which means a day off. Bill Baggins had chosen this day of the week as his "unplugged" day purely by chance, but damn, was it great—twenty-four hours without answering a single message from Mr. Gray. A dream come true.

Around ten in the morning, the sound of the doorbell woke him. The insistent ringing and dull knocking made Baggins curse under his breath and drag himself out of his den with immense reluctance.

The sky was once again covered in gray clouds, and Bill, gritting his teeth, closed all the windows.

The windows in the house with the green roof in the private neighborhood called "The Shire" were rarely shut. Before her death, Bill’s mother had developed some inexplicable paranoia and forbade cutting off airflow. Doors, windows, drawers—everything was always left open. Belladonna Took complained about unbearable stuffiness, condemning the rest of the family to freezing nights.

Baggins yanked the door open without even checking who was on the other side. The groceries he’d ordered last night had arrived.

Well, not exactly groceries. A six-pack of overpriced American iced tea, three boxes of frozen pizza, and a bag of apples once again adorned the half-empty fridge shelves. Bill sighed.

Today could have been peacefully dedicated to himself — go for a walk, do some yoga, finally tackle the long-overdue skincare routine… But then his phone buzzed.

"Good morning."

"Did you sleep well?"

Bill snorted, tucking a stray curl behind his ear.

"morning to you too"

"50/50. and you? did you sleep at all?"

"or do you just work nonstop?"

"I fell asleep about half an hour after you."

This was so amusing. Baggins had been through this dozens of times before: he’d give his number to some well-off man, they’d text late at night, hidden from his wife, Bill would lead him into sexting, and then he’d ghost.

None of those disposable flings had ever sparked even the slightest interest in Bill. Thorin felt different. Maybe it was his looks. Because Thorin was gorgeous.

Devilishly so. Sharp features, a neatly trimmed beard, and a very expressive nose. Long hair with a bluish tint, streaked with silver. And his eyes. God, those eyes…

Bill liked him. Purely visually — no romance. Spending a couple of nights with him would’ve been nice — even just talking.

About the silver.

"sorry for asking"

"how old are you?"

"40."

"Why?"

Bill didn’t even blink. He often found himself drawn to "older" men, and forty wasn’t even the highest number he’d seen.

The thought made him feel dirty again, and he irritably scratched his elbow.

"no, it’s fine"

"i’m 26"

"I know."

"you google me?"

"Lili mentioned it."

“ok. i’m gonna shower, i’ll text you after."

"don’t miss me too much"

";)"

***

Over a couple of weeks, their innocent chats turned into an open exchange of nudes. Well, not exactly. Thorin was the one sending explicit photos, while Bill fed him "spicy" and teasing shots along with flirty voice messages.

Thorin was aching for him, practically begging for a chance to meet. The idea of actual sex was starting to scare Bill, so he’d dodge those conversations. It was… heavy.

Evening. A cold apartment.

"Well, don’t you wanna shoot for Yves Saint Laurent?"

Then work.

Just the memory sent shivers down his spine. Bill liked teasing, liked hearing Thorin whimper during their rare late-night calls, liked making him whisper his name between ragged moans.

It was almost arousing.

One such night, Durinson stared absently at his computer monitor, occasionally glancing at his phone screen, where Bill was carefully painting his nails with glossy polish during the call.

“I want to meet you.” — Thorin started again, interlacing his fingers and resting his chin on them. Bill snorted, trying to dry the polish.

“Me too.” — he drawled lazily, smiling.

“I’m serious, Bill. I’ll come over right now, want me to?”

Bill frowned for a second, looking up. But he immediately slipped back into his relaxed demeanor and playful smirk. Thorin’s heart skipped a beat. God, Bill was beautiful.

“Your wife’s asleep next to you, dumbass.” — Bill giggled, tilting his head. He was high, but Thorin didn’t need to know that.

Lately, Bill had been using way more than usual. Whether it was due to lighter workloads or too-frequent memories of the past — unclear. But Bill, of course, would rather ignore it and keep smoking, smoking, smoking.

“She’s gone. She’s on a business trip for an interview. Let me call you a taxi, and you come over. Or I’ll come to you.” — Thorin looked so pitifully lovestruck that Bill almost felt bad for him.

“Can’t. Not tonight. I’m working.”

“Got it. Good luck.”

“Are you mad?”

Bill laughed. Thorin stayed silent.

“I think I love you.”

Baggins sighed.

“Don’t push it. Go to sleep.”

The call ended. Bill rubbed his face with his hands and looked out the window. A good night for a party.

***

As Alex Turner once said: "the nights were mainly made for saying things that you can't say tomorrow day" That was the motto of all of Bill Baggins’ parties.

The club “Wasteland" greeted the model with blaring music and screams. Bill could navigate this place blindfolded—the bar was thirty steps straight ahead and to the right, the bathrooms another fifteen. Weaving through the crowd, Baggins dodged sweaty hands and cameras shoved in his face.

Soon, he was sitting across from a charming bartender, twirling a glass of some chemical-laden drink in his hand. There was more alcohol in it than mentions of Jesus in the Bible, but Bill wasn’t picky. He giggled at the bartender’s crude jokes, tilting his head and rubbing his shoulder.

Someone else sat down next to him — someone tall, bald, with horrible scars on his face. How’d he even get past the bouncers with that things?

But Bill wasn’t interested anymore because someone was buying him cocktails and giving him compliments. Gross, sleazy ones, with weird smacking sounds.

He suddenly felt uneasy. Even though pop music thumped around him, all Bill heard was white noise. He didn’t want to be here anymore.

He didn’t want this bald creep’s hand on his thigh, didn’t want to breathe in stinking cigarette smoke. He wanted to call someone. Who?

Not Gray. He was in Amsterdam.

Not Mao. He and Mao had a huge fight after Bill refused to try "something more interesting than weed."

And there was no one else.

Wait. Thorin.

Bill pulled away from the loosening grip and bolted for the bathroom. It reeked even worse, but at least it was quieter — if you ignored the very unambiguous sounds from the only locked stall.

Baggins fumbled with his phone, fingers trembling, and quickly dialed. Ringing. Not for long. Had Thorin been waiting for his call?

“Bill?” — a sleepy voice answered. The model smiled.

“Hey.” — His voice was hoarse and deliberately casual. — “I’m at Wasteland. Wanna join?”

Thorin paused briefly and sighed.

“I’ll be right there. Are you okay?”

“Of course! We did wanna meet. Did I wake you?..”

***

Bill slipped out of the stuffy bar by the time his phone battery was down to 20%. Thorin had a long drive ahead, so Bill spent the last half-hour chatting with the bouncer. Safest option.

The street behind the back entrance greeted him with wind slapping against his flushed cheeks. It felt weirdly good, so he leaned back against the wall.

The bricks dug uncomfortably into his thin back through his semi-transparent shirt — something Bill rarely wore, only when he couldn’t be bothered to pick anything else.

He pulled out the last two joints and a lighter from his shorts pocket, clamped the roll between his teeth, and lit it.

The suffocating smell of weed filled the air as Bill exhaled, resting his head against the wall. He stared up at the moon. The night was surprisingly clear.

He rubbed his eye and took another drag—his smudged mascara and eyeliner gave him a disheveled charm, like he’d been crying uncontrollably for the past two hours. He snorted and turned his head.

A Rolls-Royce pulled up a couple of meters away, and Bill lazily waved. Thorin — of course it was Thorin — stepped out of the car and quickly approached.

“You call this “work?”

“Hey.” — Bill grinned. — “So we finally meet.”

Thorin’s gaze flicked to the joint in the younger man’s hand. His brows furrowed for a split second. Then again, what had he expected?

“Let’s go. I’m starving.”

The car door slammed shut behind Bill’s slender frame. Thorin stood there for a moment before following.

“First," a thought flashed through his head. "He looks even hotter with smudged lipstick."

Chapter Text

That night, Thorin Durinson knew he was in trouble.

He wouldn't let himself get up at three in the morning and drive across town to pick up a man he'd only seen in person once.

He wouldn't let himself nervously drum on the steering wheel and run through anxious thoughts in his head about what had happened to a someone he barely knew.

But it wasn't just someone.

It was Bill.

And that was the whole point.

You see, Thorin was... out of his mind. He was in love like a boy, he saw something amazing in Bill, he considered him his one and only love and muse.

God, Dis would give him a hard time for this. But Dis doesn't know, so Thorin pressed the gas pedal harder and sped towards the Wasteland Club.

It was late April, and the night was cool, even cold. Getting out of the hot car, Durinson frowned as he looked at the half-naked boy.

No, Bill certainly suited this translucent shirt and shorts, from under which the burgundy straps of a thong peeked out seductively... And Thorin definitely liked this image, especially with the smudged wine lipstick and black shiny eyeshadow.

Thorin frowned. No matter how handsome Bill was now, he had lied to him.

"You call this work?"

Bill grunted something unintelligible in response and unceremoniously jumped into the car. Thorin clenched his fists, cursed his fucking libido and sat down in the driver's seat.

***

The oddities in Bill Baggins' behavior were noticeable even during the car trip. He was silent almost all the time and caressed Thorin's shoulder with his cheek, and when the elder was led by these games and tried to touch his thin thigh, Bill hit him hard on the wrist and pulled his hand to the side.

Thorin wrote it all off to alcohol, but that should in no way justify these habits. But looking at the red-cheeked, drunk and disheveled guy, Thorin was ready to close his eyes to everything.

He breathed noisily when Bill's fingers circled his legs dangerously close to the groin, he drank in the road when Bill kissed Durinson's neck with his lips with unclear passion. Thorin almost gave in when the younger's palm furiously grabbed his hair and pulled with force.

Then it was like in a dream: the parking lot, the gate, the door to the house. Then Bill Baggins stood on his tiptoes, when Thorin's hands were already wandering all over his body, whispering things in his ear that were embarrassing to even think about.

Then Thorin's palm covered Baggins's ass and he jumped back as if scalded. Thorin raised an uncomprehending look at the guy who had suddenly pulled away and froze.

For some reason, everything disappeared from Bill's eyes for a few moments. And the traces of weed and alcohol, and the haze of desire, and there was not even pain there.

For a few moments, Bill turned into nothing.

"Everything okay?" Thorin asked worriedly, ignoring his aching cock in his trousers. At the same time, Bill's emotions returned to his eyes.

He shrugged and pressed his cheek to Durinsson's chest.

"Why are you asking?" as if nothing had happened. "Fuck me already, stupid.”

They found themselves in the bedroom by strange movements. Bill suddenly demanded another drink, and Thorin, of course, brought wine from the cellar. Baggins drank straight from the bottle, wiping his chin in a very unsightly manner. Thorin Durinson had never seen anything hotter in his life.

He sat the younger man on his lap and began to lick his neck furiously, where a moment ago streams of wine had been flowing. Bill whined something, tugged at his hair and squirmed on his lap.

“Back off,” Baggins said convulsively. In such a voice as if he was being drowned here, and not kissed from head to toe. “Back the fuck off!”

Thorin reluctantly pulled away, almost discontentedly returning his eyes to the model’s face. Tears were running down his cheeks and his shoulders were shaking.

“Bill, what’s going on? Are you hurt? Did I hurt you?”

There was no answer, only a sob and a sharp, burning pain. Thorin swore loudly and grabbed his cheek. This man had just hit him.

Stunned, Durinson grabbed Bill by the shoulders.

"What's going on, William?" he asked forcefully and immediately received a second blow, on the other cheek.

"Don't call me that. Don't you dare."

This is just insane. Thorin jumped up, dropping the younger one on the bed and walked to the other end of the room. Bill was lying there too pornographically - his shirt was pulled up, mascara was smeared across his face, and there was not a drop of regret in his eyes.

" You're crazy."

"And it turns you on." Bill waved his hand in Thorin's direction. "I can tell you liked it when I hit you. Ha, hot-hit."

Thorin was not laughing. He covered the distance in two steps and stared with his blue eyes at the two deep green valleys in front of him and noisily took a deep breath.

"You're crazy, drunk and high," he said on an exhale, and quickly closed his eyes. Bill covered his erection pulsating through his trousers with his palm.

"And all three of these things excite you. Come on, Thorin. I'm all yours."

He completely lost his mind, and only a strange rag remained of Bill's shirt.

"Hey, this is Gucci, by the way!..!"

***

The whole process Bill sobbed uncontrollably, hit Thorin and pulled his hair furiously. Begged him to stop, to hug him, to leave. Clinging to the sheets, to the man's shoulders, to the headboard of the bed.

In the end, he covered his face with a pillow and cried stifledly for an hour and a half, holding Thorin’s hand tightly.

That night Thorin realized two things: that he should never have gotten involved with Bill Baggins, and that this was the best sex he had ever had.

He would never have that with Lillian. Thorin knew that. And who gave a shit. He had Bill now.

They both stayed up the rest of the night. Bill, tearful and tired, muttered incoherently about the god Jah, about the Bible, about some Mr. Hoffman and a cauldron prepared for him in the fire, and Thorin, oblivious, stroked his soft golden hair and nodded. He remembered everything — every word, every sob and sigh. Everything connected with Bill Baggins.

"You're not real, are you?" he asked hoarsely, kissing his wrist.

"Everyone is not real," Bill answered spatially, looking at the ceiling.

“Why can't I call you William?”

“Hoffman called me that.”

“Who is that?”

“It doesn't matter.”

“As you say.”

And he continued kissing the thin hands, inhaling the most dizzying aroma in his life. Bill smelled of powder, wine and marijuana.

Holy shit, Thorin was so in love.

Chapter Text

Thursday morning greeted Shaftesbury with rain. Nothing new — typical London. Thorin liked it.

Perhaps that was why he had moved from Washington to the capital of Foggy Albion. He liked the pace of life here, liked the people. And, well, he also liked the near-total absence of his father in his life — but that wasn’t the main reason.

Thorin had always had a strange relationship with his family. He was the youngest child — eight years younger than his sister and barely a year younger than his brother. Dís basked in their parents' love like cheese in butter, Frerin was generally the most long-awaited and adored child, and Thorin…

Until he was twelve, Thorin didn’t understand what was wrong with him. He always thought that in all his fights with his father, clashes with his grandfather, and harsh punishments, he was the one to blame. Because he was too chubby, then too scrawny; because his teeth stuck out in all directions; because he was terrifyingly tall and awkward.

Then it turned out that the only "culprit" was his father. Thorin had never liked him, even as a child. Mostly feared him. Whether the late-night talks with rebellious Dís had made any difference, the younger Durinsson never figured out. But since his sister had shaped his worldview, that was that.

At twelve, Thorin saw his mother for the last time. He remembered Frílih Durinsson like this: proud, with a burgundy silk scarf on her head and a huge suitcase of belongings. His parents divorced, Dís had already left for that William guy’s place, and Frerin had vanished from the family’s life two years prior.

That left Thorin and Dad.

Dad with a capital D — not because he was a good parent, but because he was an unspoken role model. Thorin, whose father was far from being named Thráin, had molded himself to be far too much like this man who had suddenly become a stranger.

And on Thorin’s thirteenth birthday, Thráin shoved his son into a car and drove him to a wasteland. There, he made it clear — coldly and silently — exactly what needed to be done with his future wife’s lover, how to break knees and puncture a lung with a fist.

That was the first time Thorin saw a half-dead body. He’d seen corpses before — at his grandmother’s funeral and in the backyard when a sobbing Frerin dragged in a dead bird. But this was different.

He could see and hear clearly that the man — his damn biological father — was still breathing. Thorin watched as his chest jerked spasmodically, as something vile gurgled in the man’s throat, as thick blood streamed from his nose.

But Thorin knew August Köllar wouldn’t survive. Dad explained it to him clearly afterward. That man was already a goner. He was dead. Practically.

That night, thirteen-year-old Thorin sobbed and vomited.

The memory made forty-year-old Thorin flinch. Gripping the coffee mug in his hands tightly, the man barely noticed the all-too-familiar car parked outside. A burgundy Škoda stood uncomfortably close to the house — too close.

Thorin froze. Lily wasn’t supposed to be back until tomorrow. A frantic glance at the wall clock told him: he and Bill had about five minutes.

"Bill! Bill, get up now!" Thorin practically roared, bursting into the bedroom.

Bill was sitting on the neatly made bed, calmly applying light powder to his face. The hickeys on his neck were gone, and the shirt — yesterday so carelessly tossed aside — now draped elegantly over his frame.

"Good morning," Bill greeted flatly, not even turning his head, then added calmly, "Lily’s on her way home."

"I know, damn it! But how did you—"

"I read her Twitter."

"Of course. Should’ve guessed."

Bill smirked and stood up. That weirdly sweet cologne scent clung to him again.

"God save us from Estée Lauder’s tonalics."

Thorin took a deep breath. Bill Baggins, what kind of man are you…

***

Returning to London after a week in Brighton felt like inhaling a lungful of cigarette smoke.

Lilian had almost grown used to the fresh sea air, and London’s smog was a harsh wake-up call. Not that she disliked the city — she loved Britain.

Almost as much as her native California. Lily sighed, thinking of her mother and the dear old house from her memories… The journalist missed it terribly.

But now was not the time for nostalgia. Lilian fought through endless Broadway traffic and finally pulled up to her tidy little house. She’d surprise Thorin, they’d cook dinner, and have a cozy family evening.

The thought of her beloved husband warmed her heart. She hauled her suitcase out of the trunk and briskly climbed the porch steps.

Swinging the door open, Lily called out cheerfully:

"Honey, I’m home!"

A minute later, Thorin emerged from the kitchen — same as always, broad-shouldered and weary-eyed. Lily kissed her husband tenderly on the cheek. He smelled strange — and so did the house. Like some kind of sweet perfume. The kind Lilian would never wear.

"What’s that smell?" she asked, her smile faltering slightly as she peered deeper into the house. On the kitchen, she spotted an odd silhouette and frowned. "Thorin?"

"Lily, hello."

The familiar voice eased her tension slightly. It was Bill Baggins — the same one she’d interviewed barely a month ago. The same one who always carried that cinnamon-floral scent.

"I’m so glad to see you!" Bill approached carefully and gave her a friendly peck on both cheeks. "You see, I wanted to discuss that second interview — remember, you offered? I saw on Twitter you’d be home today, so I came a bit early. And your husband—" Baggins shot Thorin a quick glance. "—was kind enough to let me in and serve coffee. So, shall we chat?"

The flood of information and Bill’s rapid pace made Lilian’s head throb. She nodded and set her suitcase against the wall.

"Yes, Bill, I don’t mind, but… later? I just got back, I’m exhausted."

Naturally, the man obliged gracefully. He declined Thorin’s offer of a ride and strode out, his shirt fluttering in the wind.

Something wasn’t right. Lilian felt it in her gut, eyeing Thorin warily during their brief exchange. He remained impassive and direct, and she knew this man loved her, but…

"Thorin, what the fuck is going on?" the journalist snapped, staring at her husband expectantly. “What he was doing in our house?"

"He explained it pretty clearly," Thorin shrugged. "Or don’t you believe him?"

"Bill Baggins? Oh, please! You can’t trust a word he says, Thorin! This man lies to everyone!"

"Then I’ll tell you. This morning, I woke up to the doorbell — Bill was standing there, insisting on knowing if you were home." Thorin’s tone was growing irritated. Lilian noticed and frowned harder. "You can trust me, can’t you? We’ve been married almost twenty years, known each other for twenty-five. Why would I lie?"

Lilian hated that tone of his — too soothing, too deep. Too beloved. She sighed, clenched her hands, and nodded.

"Right. Sorry. I’m gonna shower, then I’ll tell you about the trip."

Thorin nodded and retreated to the kitchen. How could she even think of accusing her beloved of infidelity? Her heart warmed again.

She was so lucky with her family.

***

"How did you even come up with that?"

"don’t ask. i thought she wouldn’t believe me. i’m a terrible liar."

"No. You lie too well."

":)) whatever"

"i’m home"

“text me when you’re free"

"Will you tell me about Hoffman?"

"maybe"

"if you behave like a good boy”

Bill smirked and lit a cigarette. Didn’t take a single drag. Just ash and smoke.

Chapter Text

Fridays held a special weight for Bill Baggins.

Take, for instance, his first runway walk in a Dior suit — that was on a Friday. The day he bought his car? Also a Friday. And Fridays were when Bill had every right to drag himself to the club by evening.

Each such day followed its own sacred ritual. He’d spend a good two hours in the shower, washing away the sweat of a grueling workweek. Then, curls wrapped in a cotton towel, he’d slather himself in sweet creams and massage his skin, staving off unwanted aging and puffiness.

Staring at his wrinkles, Bill would think of his mother — eternally sorrowful, hunched, her brow forever furrowed. His father used to tell ten-year-old Billy that she’d left because of her artistic melancholy. By fifteen, William knew what lung cancer was and why cigarettes were evil.

Either way, once the massage was done, Bill would light a joint and gaze at himself in the mirror for long, silent minutes. He’d study his eyes, lips, brows. He’d stare and think. About what? Who knows.

Then he’d briskly dry his hair, line his eyes, paint his lips, slip into his best shorts and shirt, and stride confidently past the threshold. A taxi — his bright-yellow savior from the madness of Groundhog Day — would already be waiting.

***

For the past ten years, Thorin Durinson’s Fridays had been… similar. Quiet. Warm.

And for the last five, they’d been tinged with ugly thoughts. Five years ago, Thorin had, for the first time, lingered a second too long staring at his secretary’s ass, shook hands a little too firmly with charming male colleagues, and rushed to bed suspiciously fast.

Five years ago, Thorin Durinson realized he no longer loved his wife.

At first, he did what was expected — shoved the thoughts away, kissed Lily, hugged Lily, fucked Lily. Did everything he’d done for the past fifteen years.

Then he realized the kisses felt sticky, the hugs suffocating, the sex obligatory. Thorin didn’t want any of it.

He didn’t want to see her full breasts, didn’t want to touch her shoulders or breathe in the scent of her cherry shampoo. Lily didn’t interest him.

He needed air.

And then came Bill.

Like an angel, he descended from the heavens and took Thorin into his soft hands. He showed him the life he’d been missing. He showed him freedom.

Took him to clubs, let Thorin kiss him roughly —  something Lily would never allow. Bill fucked good, no, not just good — excellent! Thorin craved him every second, wanted to cover him in kisses and bite marks.

As sad as it was, Thorin was slipping further from his wife, forgetting her entirely. What a disgrace! And what would the neighbors say?

They wouldn’t say a thing — not yet, at least. And Thorin would make sure they never found out.

***

The Friday night was impossibly beautiful. The moon shone bright through the Durinsons’ bedroom window, keeping Lily awake. This wasn’t the first time she’d lain in bed till morning. Thorin knew she needed him, but there was nothing he could do.

Work!

Eyes fixed on his computer screen, phone wisely flipped face-down, Thorin heard the soft slap of bare feet and the whisper of a silk robe.

His back tensed as Lily’s delicate fingers settled on his shoulders, followed by her chin resting atop his head.

"I can’t sleep. Come to bed."

"Working," Thorin muttered, scrolling to the bottom of a spreadsheet. "Can’t trust Bofur with anything."

"Bofur? That bum in the stinky hat?" Lily frowned. "Do it tomorrow.”

"No, deadline."

"Thorin..."

"Lily, for God’s sake, just go to sleep." Exhaustion bled into irritation. "Take a sleeping pill, put on one of those calming soundtracks of yours."

Lily clicked her tongue and stepped back, freeing his shoulders.

"Fine. Sweet dreams."

"You too."

The study door closed, and Thorin slowly lifted his phone.

Arctic Monkeys – I Wanna Be Yours

23:47 "thinking of u"

23:47 "when can we meet?"

23:49 "miss u"

23:49 "u there?"

23:50 "Lily came in"

23:50 "Sorry"

23:50 "Tomorrow afternoon, I’ll get you coffee"

23:51 "XXX"

***

There was a certain thrill to it all. Sneaking kisses in dark corners, then shaking his wife’s hand with a smile, only to steal more kisses later — this was the adrenaline both Thorin and Bill craved.

Gray hated it. To him, Bill had lost all seriousness toward work, strutting down runways just to show off for his new lover. It was disappointing.

"Billy, darling," Gray began, standing before Bill as two assistants took his measurements. "You should think about your career. Tomorrow’s your meeting with Anna Wintour’s team. You could land the cover of Vogue!"

"For the fifth time," Bill smirked, stretching his arm out comically. "Gandalf, relax, I’m fine. Look, I’ve even lost weight."

That’s what pissed Gray off. He knew the extreme measures his godson took to stay thin — hours on the scale, hunched over the toilet, wild-eyed as he ordered every diet pill under the sun.

"Enough. See a therapist. Even Saruman, if you must."

Bill laughed nervously.

"Oh hell no, not Saruman. He practically drove Mum to—"

"Saruman isn’t to blame for Belladonna’s issues, Bill."

"Sure, but after their sessions, she OD’d on pills."

Gray sighed irritably. Sober Bill was always so… impossible. Next, he’d start spitting.

"I’ll cut you off from Radagast."

Bill’s eyes widened. Radagast was their shared connection — and their weed dealer. Gandalf knew about Bill’s growing dependency, so the threat was brutal.

"You wouldn’t. I’m not sixteen, you can’t control me."

"I can. I’m your agent."

Bill scoffed.

"Fine. I’ll toss the pills, happy?"

"And stop sprinting to the bathroom. I’m not blind. And see a therapist."

"Not Saruman."

"Whatever. About Anna Wintour..."

***

Trusting Bill Baggins was a fool’s errand — Gray knew that well. So he wasn’t surprised when Bill canceled his appointment with Mr. Elrond and conspicuously drew his curtains.

Gray didn’t step inside. He lingered for a moment, smirked, and walked away, his own secrets tucked safely behind his lips. In that way, Gandalf was just like his godson — no one would ever truly know what went on in their heads.

"Though," Gray mused, "someone might just get the chance to dig around in Bill’s."

***

"Hypothetically," Thorin slurred, shirtless on his lover’s bedroom floor, swirling whiskey in his glass. Bill sat on the bed, painting his toenails purple and exhaling smoke. "Who’d you wanna work with? In the whole ‘beauty’ biz."

"Miranda Priestly," Bill mumbled without hesitation, squinting through the haze.

"Never heard of her."

"From The Devil Wears Prada. Never seen it?"

Thorin frowned for a second.

"Think so. With Lily. Ages ago. 2006, maybe?"

Bill hummed in agreement, snapping the nail polish shut. Suddenly, Thorin felt like a teenager again — drunk and high, sprawled on some guy’s floor, talking about nothing. He laughed.

Not how he’d imagined his forties, that’s for sure. But he wasn’t complaining.

"What?"

"Love you," Thorin muttered hoarsely. "Enough to cry."

Bill snorted.

Seemed Thorin could get used to this.