Chapter Text
It started in the Trollshaws. As Gandalf stalked into the undergrowth in search of his own company, Thorin Oakenshield simmered in impotent rage. His blood simmered in his veins, and sang for violence.
Sweeping his eyes over his company, all of them avoiding his eyes (and his ire), Thorin spotted the Halfling Baggins. He made a gesture to Dwalin, who nodded and set his sister-sons to watching the ponies.
Cocking his head with a predator’s eyes, he took in the burglar’s soft curves and short, slim form. Thorin’s mouth curled in a smirk, as he stalked forward confidently. The light was leaving, but Thorin didn’t much mind what his partner looked like. His curvy form and soft skin would be enough. A hole for Thorin to rut into was all he needed.
He grabbed the burglar without breaking stride, ignoring his spluttering. They walked past the tree line to the whistling of the company, and into the dark woods. Master Baggins tripped a bit, and Thorin strung an arm around his waist and hoisted him up like a sack of flour.
The squeak he made was gratifying.
Thorin couldn’t go far, for security reasons. He didn’t want to be caught with his pants literally down.
He stopped not far in, having found an obliging fallen tree that looked well enough. He made to slip the Halfling down onto the log, but found him stuck.
Mister Baggins was clinging to the back of his jacket.
“What are you Doing?” Baggins muttered in confusion.
“Taking my pleasure, Master Baggins.” He answered exasperated, “If you would let go of my jacket.”
“Oh!” exclaimed the tiny creature, releasing his jacket, “Why didn’t you say so? And You could have asked!”
“A King does not ask for such things, Burglar.” He rumbled, positioning his bed partner on the fallen tree with efficient pushes here and there to get him positioned just right-
“Well Hobbits don’t have kings, you understand, though it is hardly an imposition-- Oh! A little warning!” said the Hobbit, as Thorin pulled Bilbo’s pants down just enough to expose the hobbit’s arse so he could wiggle one oiled finger into the furl of his darkest mine.
“Hold still, would you?” he muttered, dribbling more oil over his fingers as he added another. It was more care than he usually afforded, but the arse in front of him was smaller than he normally had, and given that the company was either family or the Ur’s, he didn’t want to ruin his burglar too early in the quest.
He jackknifed his fingers in a steady rhythm, feeling the hobbit clench around them, and added another. The hobbit squealed a little like a stuck pig, and the sound went straight to Thorin’s cock. Back in camp, a wave of laughter signaled that the company were well within hearing distance.
The hobbit leaned into the thrusts now, and went from his hands to his elbows. His arse was finally starting to loosen, as Thorin continued to stretch him.
Thorin squinted into the darkness. The line of Durin was of a line that was accustomed to starlight and ruling, not bred with the eyes of miners. He could barely see Master Baggins from what little of the sun was left.
Pumping testingly again, he decided to add more oil. The Burglar moaned, inciting more laughter from camp, and tenting Thorin’s trousers to an almost painful degree.
There was no reason to restrict the family jewels-- he let himself free, slicking his cock with the leftover oil, and guided himself to the burglar’s arse.
The blunt head found his new hobbit hole unerringly, but met some resistance. Thoroughly done with being accommodating, Thorin grasped the hips of his new fuck toy and pistoned forward by inches. And moaned. Dear Aulë, that was some tight slick heat.
His moan brought the camp into titters. Thorin rolled his eyes and pulled back and bit his lips, only to slam forward again, building back the rhythm of before.
In his mind he pulled forward his favorite fantasies- cobbled from half-remembered memories of the last female he’d had pleasure in a century ago, when he was not an exiled prince without a Kingdom but the Heir apparent to Erebor, the mightiest of dwarf kingdoms.
Oh Aulë, if he actually lived through this fool quest, he might actually get some pussy again.
Thorin growled, tracing his hands around to the hobbit’s stomach, round and redolent, soft like a woman, and slightly paunched with the excess of a life of plenty. So would be the women of his kingdom when they came to him. And he would make them round with his children, his daughters. Aulë, would bless him with several daughters, Thorin was sure for the trouble of taking back a mountain from a Valar-forsaken dragon.
He was careful not to let his hand wander lower as it was want-- he did not want to kill his own fantasy by accidently fondling the burglar’s hammer.
Reminded of the fact his partner was not, in fact a woman, despite himself, Thorin grew more aggressive, pulsing forward to seek his pleasure in friction, as the Halfling twisted and moaned below him.
Grabbing the curly hair in front of him, his fingers brushed against a pointed ear, causing the Halfling to shudder.
Thorin smirked, leaning forward and taking the ear between his teeth, battering into the now convulsing hobbit as he imagined taking that pointy-eared bastard Thranduil in the arse. And wasn’t that an image?
The Hobbit's arse was milking him now, and Thorin let himself to his pleasure-- the satisfaction of overpowering That Bastard, the joy of a baker’s dozen daughters, and the tight convulsing friction around his cock had his balls drawing almost up into his torso as he let his pleasure into the body below him. It was so plentiful that it started to leak out around Thorin’s cock.
Rather than risk getting it on his clothes, he pulled out as the Burglar whimpered. He used the Halfling’s shirt to wipe himself off, and tucked himself leisurely back into his pants.
Relaxed finally, and feeling proud of himself, he slapped the arse in front of him- earning another squeak, and a little to the left of where he meant to since he could barely see it- and roughly pulled the Hobbit’s pants up.
He strutted back into to camp towing the thoroughly fucked out Halfling to the hooting and carousing of the company with a smirk affixed firmly on his face.
He pushed Master Baggins forward towards the pot, where Bombur stacked him with bowls and pushed him further off to feed Thorin’s sister-sons, no doubt.
He reclined back with his pipe, supplied by Dori, as his cousins gathered around for particulars of what they’d overheard.