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He always sits next to her when she feeds them. Thorin is the leader of the company, and it’s his responsibility to make sure that everyone, including Bilbo Baggins, is well taken care of. It was never his idea to bring a hobbit along, either as a burglar or a milkmaid. That was the wizard’s suggestion, which Thorin’s thoroughly warmed up to.
It’s still a strange thing to have an exotic, over-fertile woman with them, her ripe breasts always full of milk, whether or not they’ve put any seed in her. Hobbit milk is renowned, even amongst dwarves, for its nutrition and healing properties. They never plan to run out of food, but now that Mirkwood’s thinned all their supplies, it’s very handy to have Bilbo’s chest to feed them all with. She sits on folded knees amongst gnarled roots and trampled ferns while Fíli and Kíli latch onto her nipples, suckling away at her breasts. Having already fed Balin, Dwalin, Glóin, and Óin, it would stand to reason that she would be running out. But she isn’t. It’s obvious from the constant throb of Fíli and Kíli’s adam’s apples that they’re getting their fill, the stream still thick in their mouths. Every so often, one of them won’t swallow fast enough, and the creamy white liquid will dribble out their lips to catch in their beards. Bilbo always mewls at these times. But she’s been a flurry of noises since they started, arching forward with her hands held behind her back as though tied, trying not to touch herself. She’s full of heady gasps and sensual whines, her eyes half lidded and her cheeks pink, erotic from the tips of her pointed ears to her bare feet. Sometimes, it’s hard for Thorin to watch.
This is the only problem with her feeding them. Of all the prim and proper hobbits in the Shire, they picked the one that can’t open her shirt without flushing from lust. She does her best to hide it from them, but by now, Thorin knows her too well. He sees the effect every one of Fíli and Kíli’s eager sucks have on her, made worse when they lift their thick fingers to squeeze her soft flesh. The poor thing is nearly trembling. Her shirt is unbuttoned and pooled around her waist, still trapping her arms, but Thorin suspects that if her skirt were also open, he would see a slick river down her thighs.
When Fíli and Kíli finally finish, Bilbo bites her bottom lip, barely stifling her moan. Thorin’s nephews open their mouths at almost the same time, throwing several last licks over her abused nipples, red and very wet from use. Their tongues lave thin trails of milk over her skin, leaving her breasts a messy wreck, heaving with each laboured breath.
Fíli and Kíli grin as they leave, wiping their mouths on their sleeves and chirping satisfied, “Thank you”s. Bilbo only nods. She looks up at the treetops, the light scattered through them, like she needs help from a higher power. She continues to pant, her chest thrust wantonly forward. They’re an ample size for it, far larger than any Dwarven breasts Thorin’s seen, though of course, he isn’t used to hobbit women with the ability to feed whole litters at a time. They swell and fall with every shudder, drawing thirteen pairs of Dwarven eyes.
Thorin is the one to take her next. He can see his friends eagerly licking their lips, but it’s obvious that Bilbo needs a break. It isn’t fair, having to satisfy thirteen men with nothing for herself. He reaches for her wrist and tugs her towards him. Her eyes open blearily at him, and then her head falls, like she’s bowing: bowing to her king. A shiver of want runs through him, but he tames it: not now, not here. He ushers her over, and she obediently crawls on hands and knees right into his lap. He grabs her plush thighs and drags her up, her legs spread over his—he can feel where her juices are leaking through his trousers, with her skirt stretched over him and her panties not enough to conceal her need. She looks up at him, now fully trembling, and then she gathers her breasts in her hands, hiking them up to hold out for him in offering.
He kisses her forehead. Soft, tender. Her honey hair smells as sweet as it did back in Bag End, even if the rest of her is sweat-slicked from walking and arousal. He wasn’t going to take her offering, but he’s hungry and she looks delicious, and she asks quietly, “Thorin, please.”
So he obliges, ducking his head and grabbing one of her tits, pulling it up to his mouth. He squeezes too hard by accident, and a white liquid bubbles out of nipple, almost squirting into his beard. He laps it away instantly, his broad, flat tongue cleaning the mess his nephews made.
His other hand he presses against her stomach. She shudders, leaning into him, pressing her round belly into his palm. He gets a flash of want to put a child in her, feel it growing there. But for now, her movements tell him what he needs to know. He runs his hand down her skirt, and she’s willing, bucking up into him and trying to hold back, clearly trying not to hump him. He wouldn’t mind. He dips below the cotton of her skirt and presses the heel of his hand against her folds, fingers cupping around her wet panties. She gasps instantly, her entire body arching. He can feel everything—her thin panties are clinging to her flesh, soaked through. He pauses only to suck, getting a flow of warm, scrumptious milk for a reward.
It’s always better than he remembers it, and he remembers it like paradise. Fresh, creamy, rich; there’s nothing in Middle Earth like hobbit milk, and Thorin’s sure that Bilbo is the best the Shire has to offer. With his teeth carefully latched around her nipple, he slips his free hand to cup her other breast, kneading it to keep the attention even. Bilbo wriggles her arms out of her shirt, leaving it to fall further down and pool uselessly around her waist. She puts her hands on his broad shoulders, her hips fervently grinding into his hand.
He slips his fingers easily below the hem of her panties, snaking inside to cover all of her, feeling her hot, moist flesh against his skin, the little, curly hairs around her opening slick and matted from her juices. Bilbo goes wild for him, crying out and shivering so that her breasts jiggle in his hand and against his mouth. He keeps suckling while he touches her. He presses one finger into her slit, down between her crinkled folds, and he rubs her for a time, enjoying the feeling of it almost as much as her reaction and the wealth of milk on his tongue. The attentions of his followers fade into the background, though most are polite enough to look away. For a moment, Bilbo looks like she’s going to break.
Then she leans over to his ear, hips slamming wildly against his hand, while she moans in a whisper, “Thorin, please, take me—I can’t stand it—make love to me right here...”
He doesn’t, of course. She’s only saying that because she’s so turned on—she wouldn’t really want to be fully taken, opened up with her panties down, amongst so many watchful eyes. What’s more, he can’t afford to get her pregnant, not while they still have so far too march and no way to take care of a child. Perhaps when they’re in Erebor, things will be different. For now, he can only give her his fingers. He obliges where he can, curling the middle one up to press inside her, searching for the right hole. He finds it dilating for him. He presses, and it greedily sucks him right inside.
Bilbo tries to twist forward and bury her face in his hair, but with him still latched onto her breast, there’s no room. He isn’t willing to let go, not yet; they’ve been too long in the forest and he’s famished, and she tastes so good. But he rewards her for every drop he takes with a twist of his finger, pushing into her only to slide out again. He fucks her steadily on one thick digit, while she does the rest, writhing atop him and humping herself silly. If his mouth wasn’t full, he’d try to soothe her, promise that someday, he will take her. He looks forward to it almost as much as reclaiming his home.
But for now, all he can give her is his finger, large and full inside her, even more so when he adds a second, scissoring her open with her juices streaming all around him. She’s loose and easy but stiflingly hot, and he rubs at her outer lips with the fingers that aren’t stuffed inside her. Bilbo settles against his forehead, her neck arched so her head can toss back, trying to rub against him any way she can. Her needy cries are desperate, and he gives her all he can. When her channel starts to clench and unwind more rapidly than ever, Thorin lets go of her breast with a gasp, taking in air and watching the bounce of her beautiful chest. He isn’t quite full, not yet, and thinks he’ll give the other one a try, but then Bilbo lets out a shriek that likely has every last dwarf in their camp stiff in their trousers. She arches off him and comes all around his fingers, squelching to flood his hand and her ruined panties. Her fingers tighten to fists in the fur of his coat, body rutting into him harder than ever.
He fingers her through it, kissing her neck and shoulders and the top of her breasts. She moans herself hoarse, until it’s a pathetic rasp tumbling out of her raw throat. Finally, she stills, and Thorin withdraws his hand from her, wiping the mess on his own trousers. Bilbo’s panting for air, crumpling down into a tiny ball.
She leans against him, and he pulls her closer, her sweaty, half-naked body welcome in his big arms. He pets softly through her hair, holds her bangs back from her forehead, and kisses it. He tells her quietly, “Thank you, Bilbo.”
She mumbles something unintelligible and nuzzles against his chest. She doesn’t bother to cover herself, and so long as she’s pressed against him, she doesn’t have to. Thorin draws his legs up protectively, cocooning her in.
Several seconds pass, the two of them just unwinding and catching up on air. Then Nori creeps closer, asking reverently, “My turn yet?”
Thorin shakes his head and bids, “Let her rest.”
Indeed, she’s already fallen asleep against him. He holds her until she wakes, thinking of the days to come.