Work Text:
It often starts before they’ve even picked a place to camp. Thorin will falter back, giving his pony a break after the harsh pace he’s driven it at all day, always trying to stay ahead. He’ll linger beside Bombur, and he’ll try to make eye contact, but his gaze will inevitably fall to the bounce of Bombur’ tits. He doesn’t have any tunics tailored well enough to keep his body in check when they ride like this, but his king never seems to mind.
Then Thorin’s eyes will reach his, and Thorin will give a subtle, barely-there nod of his regal head, and Bombur will know: tonight, when they stop, wherever they can.
And after they’ve eaten and set up their sleeping bags, before the last of the light’s disappeared through the trees, they beeline through to find their own clearing. Bombur settles down amidst the grass and rocks and creeping roots, not particularly minding the roughness—he grew up in the Blue Mountains, where sex often started on stones. He peels his tunic off but doesn’t bother with his fingerless gloves and trousers—it’s cold, even in the late spring as it is, all out in the open, almost at night. His thick braid tumbles down his chest to drape over his throat like a necklace, and he looks up at Thorin in awe.
Thorin, like he so often does, straddles Bombur without a word. His legs have to stretch wide around Bofur’s girth, his hands deftly plucking at the lace of his crotch, loosing his trousers enough to pull out a long, pink-brown cock, already hard from the anticipation. Bombur doesn’t blame his king; his own trousers are tented. Then Thorin falls to his knees, placing his ass on Bombur’s chest.
He lets his dick fall between Bombur’s breasts, and Bombur lifts his hands to push them together, forcing the fat to envelop Thorin’s shaft. Bombur’s tits almost swallow it up. He doesn’t strain enough to cover it all the way, because he likes the look of it, ripe and veined and smooth like muscle, the moist head peaking through the foreskin to face Bombur’s chin. Bombur bends enough to kiss it once, tasting the start of precum, but then he settles back, squirming to get comfortable.
Thorin shivers once. Thorin looks powerful, beautiful, still almost fully clothed, with thighs tight against Bombur’s stomach and his hands joining Bombur’s, helping to keep his warm flesh in place. Thorin licks his lips, looking like he might growl.
Instead, he pushes his hips forward, rolls back, and does it again, thrusting his dry cock between Bombur’s tits, already slightly sweaty from the day’s ride. It helps ease the way. Thorin, for all the kindness that lives below his shell, always fucks hard, taking Bombur in fast, sharp thrusts that make Bombur’s body jiggle with the movement. If he weren’t so heavy, he’d probably be sliding along the forest floor. Because of the uneven surface, he’s glad he isn’t. He can only hope they’ll still keep this up in Erebor when they have nice, soft beds to fuck on.
They probably will. Bombur’s nothing special compared to a king, but his girth is impressive, even for a dwarf, and Thorin would be hard pressed to find another man with such a fuckable chest. Besides that, they already have a dialogue, a connection. All Thorin has to do is nod his handsome head, and Bombur will lay back and strip himself bare, presenting whatever part of him Thorin wants to thrust against.
Bombur’s reward is this: the delicious weight of Thorin Oakenshield bearing down on him, the press of taut thighs tight around his sides, the feel of a stiff cock between his pecs and the look of Thorin wrecked, face flushing and head slumping forward, mouth open as he pants. His eyes are hazy, pupils blow wide. His hair swings along with each roll of his hips, braids bouncing off his shoulders. There’s a grace to the way he rides Bombur, a steady curve to his body and beauty to his rhythm. He’s all beautiful. And in this moment, he’s Bombur’s. Thorin stares right down at him, switching between his chest and face. Sometimes, Bombur closes his eyes and just marinates in the feeling of it: there’s nothing in the world like a hard cock squeezed between his hefty breasts.
Bombur always knows when Thorin’s near the end, because he has to make it personal. He bends down, trying to keep his crotch in the same place, his hands straying up to stroke the round curve of Bombur’s chin. He presses his lips to Bombur’s, his stubble scratching along the bare skin between the parted waves of Bombur’s beard. The kiss is gentle, chaste. It’s where he pours his emotion into the sex: with one, soft touch, he betrays how much he cares for Bombur, and Bombur, unable to resist drawing it out, licks Thorin’s lips as he pulls away.
As soon as Thorin straightens out, he bursts, gritting his teeth to stifle the roar. His seed splatters out across Bombur’s collarbone, along his beard and chin. Thorin fucks Bombur right through it, tossing his head back and looking more magnificent than ever, Bombur’s eyes never leaving his face. It’s an almost magical moment that Bombur always hopes won’t end.
But it inevitably does, and Thorin grinds to a stop, shuddering and panting. Bombur’s grip on his chest loosens, and Thorin, following suit, slips off him.
Thorin sits heavily in the grass, his cock hanging out of his trousers. His face moves to lick the cum off Bombur’s chin, and his hand runs down Bombur’s fat stomach to nestle between his legs. It only takes a few strokes of Thorin’s hand through his trousers for Bombur to finish off, spilling inside his confines. Thorin kisses him to swallow his moans. It leaves them both spent and languid, staring at one another. They all love Thorin, every one of them. But Bombur’s goes beyond that, and sometimes, he doesn’t want to leave after they’ve finished.
They have to. There’s still a kingdom out there to save and a treasure to be had.
Thorin tucks himself back in and passes Bombur his tunic. Before he puts it on, Bombur tugs a rag out of his pocket and cleans up his beard.
Then Thorin’s holding out a hand, and Bombur takes it, helped to his feet. They walk back together, satisfied and whole.