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It was the wee hours of the night, and as per usual, Thorin was awake and alert. Lying on his bedroll, he glanced at the rest of his company, their sleeping forms snoring loudly, but their sleep was peaceful. In many ways, he envied them. Most of them had never seen true battle, and even on this journey so far, they hadn’t experienced anything like the true horrors of war.
They weren’t yet so jumpy at the slightest sound, or haunted by nightmares of battles past.
So the king lay awake, listening to them snore, and let his gaze fall on the halfling. The smallest and most delicate of their party, he slept silently as he did everything else, and still for the moment. He was sprawled under his blanket, as if he had fallen after dinner and drifted off instantly. That was most likely the case, the hobbit having never traveled this hard and long before in all his life. It appeared the hobbit at least had had the presence of mind to remove his waist coat before falling into his slumber.
The halfling shifted in his sleep, pushing the blanket down so his chest and arms were free of its warmth. This particular midsummer night was warm enough that blankets weren’t particularly needed. The dwarven king continued his scrutiny of the soft, little creature, noticing that Bilbo’s shirt was unbuttoned slightly, exposing a collarbone and part of his smooth, hairless chest.
Thorin was struck by the sight of the pale expanse of delicate flesh, the perfect swoop of his shoulder into the juncture of his throat. Heat gathered low in the dwarf’s belly as Bilbo turned his face away and exposed more of his throat to Thorin’s hungry eyes. The king would swear he could see the halfling’s steady, relaxed pulse jumping just beneath his skin, even from his relative distance across the campfire, and the thought of it going faster, more erratic while the soft little man panted…
Thorin’s nostrils flared as he fought to keep his breathing even, though arousal was pounding through him with alarming intensity. For a moment, he allowed himself to be confused, but then resigned himself to his body’s reaction. Mister Baggins was small, fair, and so incredibly delicate. It was a small wonder it took this long for Thorin to react in any way other than the usual annoyance with which he regarded the hobbit.
And of course this was the most inappropriate time and place to indulge in even more inappropriate fantasies about their burglar, but there wasn’t much of a chance of him getting to sleep any time soon in his current condition unless he did something about it. Willing it away would take just as long, and be far less satisfying. His cock jumped at the thought, and he let his eyes shut in what was supposed to be resignation. Instead his mind supplied images of the young hobbit writhing against him, little gasps leaving his small mouth, his tiny hands grabbing at Thorin’s shoulders in desperation.
Sucking a sharp breath in through his nose, he made quick work on the fastenings of his trousers, shoving them and his smallclothes down just enough to expose his weeping erection. When he wrapped his fingers around it, he huffed out a sigh and began to move.
He imagined he was thrusting into a tighter, hotter ring, that his large hands were wrapped around a slender waist, that he was holding a small little body in place while he took it with all the force and power of a dwarven king and warrior. He imagined the way Bilbo would shiver and whimper, keening as he was ravaged and utterly taken. Thorin could imagine the bruises and teeth marks across the hobbits shoulder blades that he put there, the ones Thorin would then sooth with the flat of his tongue while his thrusts grew ever more rough and brutal.
He could see the way his hair would fall against Bilbo’s back, the darkness of it stark against the hobbit’s pale skin. The way sweat would slick the hobbit’s blond hair, and how it would curl even more. Thorin could almost feel those soft locks between his fingers as he imagined grabbing a handful of it and pulling. He wouldn’t be surprised if Bilbo would cry out at the pull of it, whether in pleasure or indignation, but Thorin didn’t particularly care. In this fantasy, Bilbo craved the forcefulness and the possessive touches. He willingly followed the tug on his hair so that his back was pressed flush to Thorin’s broad chest.
He would take the halfling in a way that he’d never been had before, and leave no doubt in the creature’s mind of who he belonged to. Thorin would fuck his seed so deep, mark him up so thoroughly, no one would ever dare touch the hobbit again.
Thorin shuddered at the mere thought, the idea of it and turned his face to the rolled-up blanket serving as a pillow. He bit it savagely, as he imagined he would do to the perfect curve of Bilbo’s inner-thigh after licking his entrance clean of his essence that leaked out of the ruined entrance. As he imagined the little, fucked-red hole shuddering at the contact, and Bilbo’s near-scream at the too-much sensation, Thorin came over his fingers with nothing more than a drawn out huff into the fabric between his teeth, followed by even quieter gasps of breath as he stroked himself furiously through the rest of his orgasm.
For a moment, he just laid there, basking in what little an afterglow came with an orgasm brought on by one’s own hand until he felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle. His eyes snapped open.
Across the fire, Bilbo stared at him, eyes wide and cheeks red, and they just locked gazes for several moments, possibly even minutes. Finally, Bilbo sucked in a sharp gasp as if just now realizing he had been caught watching a dwarven king pleasure himself. To Thorin’s hidden delight, the hobbit did not appear to be repulsed by his actions; there was a naked hunger in the young man’s eyes.
With that realization in mind, though with little plan to act on it—they were on a perilous, and deadly journey and it was best not to get sidetracked, no matter how appealing the distraction may be—Thorin lifted his soiled hand to his mouth, never breaking eye contact with the halfling.
Before he could finish licking even one finger, Bilbo was squeaking quietly and turning his face to stare determinedly up at the sky, his blush shooting right to the tips of his pointed ears. Now, Thorin allowed himself to smirk before wiping his hand on his bedroll and retying his trousers.
As he settled back in to attempt sleep again, he could hear the laboured breathing of the hobbit. Letting a brief smile spread across his face, he drifted off to sleep for the few short hours their desperate journey afforded them.
FIN