Disclaimer: I do not own these characters.

Warnings: Slash and incest.

With four hours 'til dawn, Thorin had been shaken awake by an overly cheerful Gandalf in time for his watch. Three hours later, with the sky greying, and the stars beginning to fade, the child of Kings was forced to admit to himself that he had spent perhaps more time than he ought gazing inwards at his slumbering companions than at the woods that no doubt teemed with unpleasantries. Silently, he chastised his own mind for his inattentiveness. It was that manner of distraction that led to funeral pyres all to swiftly. He knew his mind had wandered far too regularly of late, and the resulting internalised frustration made his temper simmer closer to the top, than even its usual over-ready state. The hobbit had been on the receiving end of more than his fair share of tongue-lashings, as a result – though oft deservedly so, Thorin was aware of Balin's frequent reproving glances that told him he had overstepped an arbitrary line that polite society deemed acceptable for a scolding.

Thorin stifled a grumble and allowed his eyes to wander over to the smallest member of their group. He slept like a dwarfling – twitching and mumbling in his dreams, rustling the covers as he repositioned himself every so often. Nothing like the twelve adult dwarves, resting on their thick cloaks, furred mouths hanging open with snore after deafening snore. Subtle they were not – but prepared for potential consequences of their throaty symphony they were. Each dwarf kept their weapon close at hand. They would be at Thorin's side in an instant should he call for them. The hobbit, on the other hand, would no doubt lay still aslumber, dreaming of warm fires – behind a grate, not in a pit – and a pantry filled with more than dried game meat and summer fruits. Though, perhaps Thorin could not fault him there.

The only other who contorted himself into strange angles and muttered nonsense about talking birds and swimming in honey was young Kíli. Very young Kíli. Young Kíli who had begged to be permitted to accompany his Uncle on an 'adventure'. Young Kíli who was so reckless, so foolish, the last to retreat to the hidden entrance – because he would not pause in his defence of his kin.

Thorin had been so angry at him. So close to whacking him in the jaw in the hope that he would realise what an idiot he had been, jolt some sense into that thick skull... Then those dark eyes had looked up at him, ashamed and pleading, the young dwarf protesting that he had only been trying to help... and the anger seeped away. And with the anger gone, they were no longer abrasive and threateningly close. They were just... close. And alone. And those eyes...

A flush boiled in Thorin's cheeks, and a pulse of warmth spread between his legs... Quickly followed by shame. He was his nephew! It was wrong, so wrong... but despite his ample practice at it, Thorin was not remarkably skilled at remaining patient, not for something he desired. He knew well it would only take a minute to wake Kíli, leave the others dozing, bend him over out of earshot and take, take, take what he wanted. How he'd imagined it: Kíli's cry; the way that young, flexible body would arch and twist, more fluid than Thorin's usual lays; how he would look, flushed and ravished on the forest floor.

But it was wrong.

He couldn't. He mustn't.

It was wrong.

But he was heated and aching, heaviness between his thighs. The others would wake at any minute – the birds had begun to sing their greetings to the rising sun during his reverie.

He got to his feet and crept as softly as one might to Balin's bed. Youth, unattainable, might taunt him, but a familiar practised hand would sate him fast, before the others rose.

Balin would never deny his King, even if his King denied himself.