A/N: THIS HAS A 0.00001% CHANCE OF BEING CONTINUED SO READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.

I found this little nugget in my folders, dated about six months back. So, I cleaned up a bit and decided to upload it because IT MIGHT INSPIRE SOMEONE ELSE TO WRITE SOMETHING LIKE THIS. I WOULD REALLY LIKE IT IF SOMEONE ADOPT THIS AND/OR WRITE SOMETHING LIKE THIS. I've seen this trope in a lot of fandoms but I haven't seen anything of the like here in The Hobbit.

EDIT: This chapter has been rewritten but it's really nothing major. I just fixed some grammatical error and added some depth to the characters.

DISCLAIMER: I no own The Hobbit. But someday, I will own a hobbit.

Enjoy~

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As long as Thorin could remember, he had been rigorously trained on how to be a prince and then, eventually, how to be a king.

When Thorin was in college, he had decided to get a part-time job as a barista in the local coffee shop. The media had a field day with that and said coffee shop's business bloomed like flowers in spring the whole four years he was working there. His parents had humored him but still had at least three bodyguards stay with him through his shifts.

The point was this: being a king was like having any other job – like being a barista, in fact. Except, of course, for the endless mountain of paperwork, much greater salary, servants who actually brewed the coffee for you, usual assassination attempts, tight security watching and monitoring every move you make, counselors and advisors who created headaches instead of lessening them, enormous mansion to live in, and, let's not forget, the constant attention of media and the public.

On second thought, being a king was nothing like being barista.

A barista also probably be wouldn't be forced to marry someone who didn't share their soul-mark.

The Council was already highly encouraging (read: nagging) him to find someone to marry – not to go out with, not to invite to dinner, just straight-up marry. They reasoned that seeing their king being 'happy' with his chosen consort would lift the morale of his people.

"There will be nothing happy about me and the consort I chose out of duty," Thorin had bit back and the councilors stayed silent at that. He managed to them off his back but Thorin was under no delusion that they would stay silent for long.

Thorin was just thankful the councilors cannot deny him his soul-mate, whoever they were. His people valued soul-marks and marriage far too much to let gender, social status, duty or anything else hinder such fate. He had heard that in some countries, same-sex people were forbidden to even marry; Thorin grimaced when he contemplated on such law.

Would the morale of the people truly be lifted if Thorin marry someone that didn't share the same soul-mark as his? He wasn't a child anymore; he knew that not everyone finds their soul-mate in their lifetime and he might be one of them. His soul-mate could have died already, could already be married to someone they truly loved, could be a priest or nun . . .

His hand unconsciously came up to his chest. He didn't know why he was still hoping, still looking. He was thirty-four years old. He was far too old for fairytales and cliched romantic dinners.

Perhaps it was time. It was time to look at the list of potential candidates the Council had drawn up and seriously consider each one of them.

"The plane's landed." Dwalin, head of Royal Security and one of his closest friends, elbowed Thorin none-too-gently as he got to his feet.

The prodding startled Thorin out of his musings. On the plane's window, he saw the airport and the flashes of cameras made even more prominent by the darkness of the sky. He sighed and stood up.

He followed Dwalin to the aisle and gruffly elbowed his friend back. The bodyguard merely grunted in reply.

"What time is it?" Thorin asked, realizing just how exhausted he was. It had been a busy week.

"I ain't a watch," Dwalin grumbled. He ordered his men over the radio about line formations and human barriers for a few minutes. "I reckon it's past midnight," he eventually answered.

Balin, the King's First Advisor and Dwalin's older brother, lifted an unamused brow at their antics. The three of them gathered at the entrance of the plane, two more bodyguards hovering behind them.

To Thorin, Balin said, "I trust you know what to do, Your Highness."

The king arranged the collar of his coat and combed down his cropped hair. Dwalin contributed by flicking out imaginary lint on his suit. They've done this procession literally a thousand times; of course, Thorin knew what to do.

"Stand tall, walk quickly, no comment on any question, don't stop to sign anything or take photos with anyone, give a wave and a winning smile." He pulled his lips in a demonstration of said smile.

Balin and Dwalin didn't exactly take a step back but they were certainly tempted to.

"Uh . . . drop the smile, laddie. Never your strong suit, anyway," Balin advised with a reassuring smile.

Thorin rolled his eyes. He never did learn to properly fake a smile, even though his occupation practically necessitate it. Well, according to the papers Balin told him not to read, his intimidating and almost scowling resting face was his trademark so he would not rob the paps of it.

"All clear," Dwalin's radio crackled.

"A'right. We're comin' out," Dwalin replied to it before placing it back to its strap around his hip. "After you, Your Highness," he said cheekily as he went to open the door.

Thorin took a deep calming breath. It might be the last fresh air he'd taste for a short while.

The plane door opened and almost immediately, camera flashes assaulted his eyes. He stepped forward, an aura of aloofness and confidence draping over his shoulders like a cape.

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For his Master's thesis, Bilbo Baggins had traced the origins of soul-mates and soul-marks through Westron literature and discussed their effects in certain societies, which, in turn, affected their literature. He earned the highest remarks possible for it.

Suffice to say, Bilbo found the idea of soul-mates more than interesting. Combined that with the fact that he really loved reading books, and you got yourself a job he was well-suited to – a professor of Westron literature at Mithrandir University. Said university was one of the very few in the Shire that actually had a research department about soul-mates. They had rare books and documents that had Bilbo teary-eyed when he first saw them.

However, as Bilbo would find out, being a professor of Westron literature is not for the faint of heart.

There were advantages, of course. He was being paid to read and discuss classic literary works. He got to hear and facilitate brilliant debates about the interpretation of stories and essays. He had a lot of time to work on side-hobbies, say, writing novels and researching more about soul-marks.

Then, there are the disadvantages. He had to read stupid essays that were mostly nonsense. And, seeing as he required no less than five thousand words per work, he'd be checking the ghastly papers throughout the night.

Bilbo Baggins removed his thick-framed glasses with one hand and furiously rubbed his eyes with the other. A headache had started at the back of his head hours ago, and now, it had become truly unbearable.

Bilbo had been in college once, had been in the shoes of those poor overworked students. He knew they had other deadlines to meet and other commitments to see through, which was why he always gave them three full weeks to work on any paper he assigned them. Three weeks! And still, half of the submission had obviously been crammed and/or copy-pasted from SparkNotes.

Bilbo can be a bit behind the times, especially since all those Twitter, Instagram, and whatnot came out, but he did know how to use a computer.

While SparkNotes and Wikipedia did indeed have some useful insights when it comes to certain readings, he wished his students come to these conclusions themselves.

There were some magnificent ones, to be sure. But some papers just made him want to gouge his eyes out.

Okay, just one more paper then he would turn in.

He shuffled the documents, neatly arranging them into checked and unchecked piles. The checked pile wasn't even half of the total papers. Sometimes, he contemplated just skimming through it all and guessing their grades. But no, he couldn't be heartless. Some of his students diligently wrote their thoughts and put a lot of effort into their papers. He sighed and picked up the first essay on the other bigger pile.

The paper contained a name, and three lines of text.

Sherlock Holmes: My New Insights

I have no new insights about Sherlock Holmes. Conan Doyle sucks. Holmes and Watson are fucking gay for each other. Fucking Homos.

Dear Eru, have mercy.

He closed his eyes and groaned, "You could have tried, Bolg. I'll even accept a bit of bullshitting from you." There was always at least one troubled student in each class and Bolg Azogson was probably the most troublesome of them all.

That was it. He was going to sleep and deal with all of them tomorrow.

He gathered the papers and shoved them into his satchel. After that, he went through his nightly routine of brushing his teeth, cleaning up, and changing into a pair of cotton pajamas.

He flopped down on his bed and sluggishly got under the covers, physically and mentally exhausted. But as soon as he laid down on the bed, sleep inexplicably eluded him. He twisted and turned. Sighing, he laid on his back and, as he frequently did whenever he couldn't sleep, he ran his fingertips over the imprints along the inside of his left wrist.

The thought of his soul-mark always soothed him in ways only his mother's embrace ever could.

He couldn't pinpoint exactly why. After all, of the thirty-one years he had been alive, the soul-mark was a constant reminder of a soulmate he never met—might never meet, in fact. But the mark was always a source of comfort nevertheless.

Bilbo lifted his left arm, opening his eyes to look at his mark. From the dim light spilling from the city life outside, he could see the curving and distinguishable shape of a tree. The branches traced the veins in his wrist, and the the leaves were jerky and indistinguishable contours around his skin. Some soul-marks actually had vibrant colors, not unlike that of tattoos but his mark was just plain black ink. The trunk of the tree—oak, Bilbo found out after extensive research—ended with swirling roots at the base. Then, at the bottom right, just past the crook of his elbow, as if an afterthought, a single discernible acorn lay on its side. It was the size of his thumb.

The mark took up most of his forearm, and Bilbo did nothing to cover it whenever he went outside. He never wore shirts with sleeves that went beyond the elbow. Bilbo admitted that part of the reason was because he was still hoping someone would see it, grab Bilbo by his shoulders, show their own mark, and declare him the soul-mate they had always been looking for.

He couldn't help but laugh. It was wishful thinking of a middle-aged man. Many books and movies depicted the finding of one's soul-mate as easy and romantic. The real world was quite different. Statistically, only 56% of the population actually meet their soulmate, though that number supposedly increased with the invention of social media websites. Others, not often but not uncommon either, actually fall in love with people with different soul-marks, and decided to settle down with them. Furthermore, being with your soul-mate didn't exactly guarantee a happy ending, just a greater chance at one.

Bilbo closed his eyes, shaking off the unbidden thoughts of soul-mates and soul-marks. Well, soul-mate or not, as long as he found someone to fall in love with and who would fall in love with him in return, he would be a happy man. Really, he could ask for no more.

Unfortunately for him, it seemed fate was determined to give him more.

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Apparently, the king of Erebor's arrival leaked not only to the media. Many civilians shouted at him from behind the barriers, looking rumpled and sweaty. They had probably been waiting for hours just to see glimpse of him.

Some of them were holding up and enthusiastically shaking signboards with a lot of glitter and exclaiming ridiculous things. 'YU GOT DA BOOTY', 'MAKE ME UR QUEEN XXX', and 'LET ME KISS UR FEET, UR HIGHNESS' were some of the milder ones.

Thankfully, Thorin learned to ignore them by now. Still, he had hoped every time that their screams would get less deafening.

The guards were doing a fine job of holding back the crowd of fans and journalists. A few hands grabbed at the king's suit, rumpling them further, while the constant flashes of cameras blinded him. Several microphones were shoved to his face, and nonsensical questions followed soon after, all of which Thorin ignored in favor of just march forward.

Aye, he wasn't exactly the most congenial and photogenic of kings. Unlike Thranduil, he didn't feed on attention.

The limousine was in his sights, parked only a few short meters away. Thorin could already feel the relief building in his chest.

Of course, that was when an eager fangirl caught him in her desperate grasp. He jerked to the side and lost the breath in his lungs as he smacked right into the brunette. The girl screamed like a banshee and hugged the living daylights out of him. The king gave her a brief pat on the back before trying to pull back. It was like attempting to detach eagle claws around his neck.

Fortunately, Dwalin approached them before any limbs could be severed.

"That's enough, lass," Dwalin hissed, Khuzdul making his tone growly. He attempted to pry off her hand on Thorin's shirt. One hand was relinquished while the other held on for dear life.

"No!" the girl growled back and then, with her grip on the king's front collar, she pulled pulled roughly.

POP

POP-POP

The girl made a sound of surprise as her hand abruptly slipped away from the cloth. The three of them glanced down at the sound. Thorin watched as the top three buttons of his shirt popped out at the rough treatment. The red dress shirt opened like curtains in a theater.

He witnessed with wide shocked eyes as his soul-mark was revealed for all to see.

He heard the cameras clicking away in earnest, the shouts of the people increasing tenfold. He snapped out of his daze, and hastily pulled his shirt shut. Dwalin placed a hand on his back and pushed him ahead.

"Go, go, go," the bodyguard growled, face tight with restrained anger.

Thorin complied, heart rabbiting in his chest. In less than ten seconds, he was in the limousine.

As soon as Balin closed the door behind them, the car drove away from the madness in the airport.

A heavy silence settled over them. Thorin's throat constricted, cutting of any of the words he wished to say. There was a tight rope coiling around his chest where his hand still held his shirt in a vice. He squeezed his eyes shut, unable to believe what just happened; he had never felt so violated in his entire life.

Thorin swallowed. "Did they get a clear shot?"

Dwalin's wince was all he needed to confirm his worst nightmare. "There were three civilians with their cell phones out and two cameras rolling right behind that girl."

"I see," Thorin replied with a steadiness he didn't feel. "The pictures will be all over the news by tomorrow."

"I'll call your publicist." Balin said, trying to reassure him. "There might be a way to turn this around."

A bark of laughter escaped Thorin's throat, humorless and painful in sound. "Turn this around? There is no possible way we could turn this around. My soul-mark's been revealed, Balin."

His soul-mark –- something so precious to him, something he had been keeping hidden since he was a child, something only he and his soulmate should have shared – it's out there now for the unmerciful eyes to critic, to study, to gossip about. Thorin felt sick and furious and helpless.

Sometimes, he truly despised being in the public eye.

"Yes, it has." Balin placed a hand on his shoulder. He gave a comforting squeeze. "That doesn't have to be a bad thing, Thorin."

The king glanced at his advisor and saw nothing but an encouraging look. He gazed out of the window and said nothing.

He had a feeling Balin was about to eat his words.

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"~ Far over the Misty Mountains cold ~"

Bilbo groaned, blindly grappling for his phone. When he grasp the cold rectangular device, he peered into the ID caller and saw that it was the principal of the university. He also saw that it was six blasted o'clock in the morning.

"Gandalf," he greeted as he answered the call. He rubbed his eyes and stifled a yawn. "There better be someone dying. My first class doesn't start until noon."

"Bilbo, my dear," Gandalf chirped, far too cheery in the morning. "I sent you an e-mail."

"That's great," Bilbo deadpanned. "Old man, one. Technology, zero. You've done it, Gandalf. You've won against a most heinous of villains."

"My boy! Aren't you curious?" Gandalf exclaimed, clearly offended by Bilbo's last remark.

Bilbo released a sigh, sitting up and kicking off the covers. "Is it urgent?"

"Very urgent, indeed." Bilbo could almost see the old man's eyes twinkling with amusement. "I think you'll find it very important."

"Alright." He padded to his desk and turned on his laptop. "What is it about?" He rummaged around the table, looking for his glasses.

"I don't want to ruin the surprise for you, Bilbo."

Bilbo paused, glasses halfway to his face. His heart skipped a beat. "You're not firing me, are you?"

Gandalf chuckled. "Fire you? You're one of my finest professors!"

"Good." Relief loosened Bilbo's chest. For a moment, he had been worried.

He signed in and checked his inbox. "You sent me a link . . . to an article in Erebor Times?" What business do they have with country so far away? Gandalf said nothing in reply so Bilbo just clicked it.

"It's all in Khuzdul," Bilbo complained, squinting at the runes and blocky letters.

"There's a translation below," Gandalf replied helpfully.

"Oh." Bilbo's face brightened. "I see it."

KING THORIN'S SOUL-MARK EXPOSED; SEE THE EXCLUSIVE PICTURES!

The first thought that went through his mind was 'Poor sod'. Soul-marks were private things. Some people, like Bilbo, voluntarily showed them to the world. However, most people prefer to cover them up, wanting to find their soulmates without being dependent on the marks. Celebrities and politicians especially took extreme precaution not to reveal even parts of their mark since people would surely take advantage of that, which unfortunately appeared to be happening with King Thorin.

"Did you want me to record the people's response to this exposure?" Bilbo asked hesitantly.

It would be a good case to include for further studies, to record how people react when someone as famous and as influential as King Thorin had his soul-mark revealed. How many people would claim to be his? How would people view King Thorin now?

But Bilbo didn't want to one of those people who took advantage of another's misfortune. King Thorin must be going through something similar to hell right now, with his privacy being breached at this extent, and Bilbo didn't want to add to that.

Gandalf let out a sigh of fond exasperation. "Just read the article, Bilbo."

Bilbo frowned in bewilderment but pushed his glasses up and complied.

"At 12:28 AM last night, King Thorin arrived at the Ered Luin Airport. As usual, he walked past several journalists with his trademark scowling face.

But in an unexpected twist, a fan had caught him off guard and managed to grab ahold of him. Attempts to extricate himself from the fan's grasp led to the exposure of King Thorin's soul-mark! Watch the video below to see the event."

Bilbo skipped it, grimacing.

"As for the soul-mark itself, several close-up pictures of it exist. Below are the ones that show most details of the mark"

Several images followed after, some a bit blurred while other were in high resolution. They were taken in different angles but all photos had one target in mind. Bilbo took a quick glance at them and hurriedly scrolled down. The less he knew about the issue, the less he would be enraged about the violation of privacy. If it happened to someone he knew, like his nephews or cousins, he would give those journalists a piece of his mind.

The article continued, narrating an interview with a fan who –

Wait a minute.

Bilbo slowly scrolled up again to the photos, a hysterical notion niggling his mind. No, it couldn't be. That was impossible.

He froze, unable to take his eyes off the two images.

It was his soul-mark—from the branches and leaves of oak, down to the swirling roots. He would recognize it anywhere. The difference was, it was not the one on his wrist. In fact, the photos seemed to be taken from someone's chest.

Bilbo gawped. What the . . .?

"Did you see it?" Bilbo startled, forgetting he was still on the phone with Gandalf.

"What is this?" he breathed out. "G-Gandalf . . . what?"

Bilbo's whole body turned numb and his mind blanked with shock.

"Why, dear Bilbo. I believe congratulations are in order." The old man had the gall to chuckle.

"You're the soul-mate of the King of Erebor."

And so, Professor Bilbo Baggins' Tuesday started with him fainting on his desk.

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A/N: Unbeta'ed so all mistakes are because I'm a lazy bum (and also because Westron ay hindi ang wikang kinagisnan ko ;)).

Constructive criticisms are welcomed! Kindly point out any glaring errors!

Have a love-filled day!

~ Vividpast