A/N: In anticipation of cooperating with the glorious RagdollPrincess on a sequel to her story "What the Future Brings" (check out the story before her and I venture into writing it, but remember this story can be read INDEPENDENTLY, since it is just pure, honest SMUT:D) and with the gratitude to her for bequeathing me with her HOT, LECHEROUS, EXPERIENCED THORIN, I present you with little something I drafted on a ride on the posh express train from Moscow to my native St. Petersburg. Note that it is 7,389 words in four hours. I miss Thorin that much :)

Note that it is a different Thorin (darker, sexier, oh poop!), slightly different Wren (from Bree, not Dale, but the character is more or less the same), and their backstory is slightly different (I'll be posting a prequel to our sequel soon:), but this piece is just happy smut! Enjoy :)

To say that Thorin is irritated is to say nothing. He is so irked that he is grinding his teeth and has already broken two quills. The cursed letter to the cursed Elvenking just would not take form. Formidable pointy eared bastard! Thorin just wants to throw the damn quill in the furthest corner of his study, push the paper into a drawer, and go to bed. And he curses himself. Why did he even think about the bed? The soft sheets, a faint smell of some flowers, everything in his life now smells so fresh and sweet, pillows of just the right firmness, and the small warm body... He clenches his fist and groans. No, he will finish the letter, and only then... He imagines shedding the layers of velvet and silk and sliding under the sheets in the buff. And the delectable small buttocks that he will find there. Curse the letter! Curse the Elf!

There is a polite knock at the door, and he does not need to lift his eyes to know who it is. Light steps in the leather night shoes, familiar fragrance, gentle smell of those bushes with bunches of white and purple flowers, coming from her skin, and this funny tender feeling in his chest he gets every time she enters the room.

"My lord? Are you still working?" The tone is gentle, concerned, and if he is not wrong, and he rarely is with her, she is so kindred and warm, slightly playful. He hums in agreement.

Do not look at her, not even a glimpse. One look at her, and no work will be done tonight. She is probably in a nightgown, one of those flimsy lacy dresses that are driving him mad. He suspects that such is their purpose since they hardly provide any warmth. Then again, who knows, she rarely ends up wearing them long enough to find out. She does not seem to mind, claiming that his body provides enough heat. She often falls asleep sprawled on him and wakes up curled into his side. He likes the feeling of tightly holding her small body and the pleasure that floods him even before he opens his eyes. Her skin feels cool to him, and right now he wants nothing more than to press every inch of his body to the smooth, pale, glorious... No, Thorin Oakenshield has some willpower, he is not lifting his eyes. And although there is probably a demure robe on her, he knows what is underneath. Oh Mahal, how much he enjoys what is underneath!

If the hair is loose, he might not even manage this paragraph. Soft, glowing like gold, like fire, long waves running between his fingers, playful little curls on her temples... He suddenly clearly recollects them wet, sticking to her skin after especially rampant release, her eyes closed in ecstasy, a blue vein beating under pale skin on her temple.

He gives up. Curse the Elvenking, curse the negotiations. He looks up and freezes. The hair is indeed loose, luscious curls on her shoulders, and as he knows covering her back, a few long locks soft on her chest. But there is no robe. And the night dress is strange. Although the more he looks, the less adequate he deems the word "strange".

At the front it only reaches her knees, but it is longer at the back, the colour is one of those that women give elaborate names to, slightly green, or perhaps blue. Her skin is glowing, soft and even, and he gulps. There are no sleeves, just straps of lace on her slender shoulders, and the bodice is lacy. He can see the pink peaks of her breasts, already pebbled, and he thinks it might the most provocative attire he has ever seen on a woman.

All her curves are open to his eyes, but the gentle tinge of colour from the gown somehow makes them even more enticing, somehow new, although by now he feels he has studied every inch of her. He has made it a conscious effort, sliding his calloused palms over her even skin. Sometimes she is reposing on his chest, and he is stroking her hip and lower back, his eyes closed.

He smirks. The dress is useless, it does not hide anything, does not provide any warmth, so the only goal is to lure him. That is ridiculous, he can hardly keep his hands off her when she is bundled in heavy velvet attires. His study is adjoint to their bedchambers, but the thought of her walking around in this gauzy scrap of material makes his member swell, and he shifts in his chair uncomfortably.

She is so demure and decorous in everyday life, but he met his match in the bedchambers. Once she whispered into his ear during an official dinner with Dain Ironfoot that she was not wearing any drawers. He tried to get this thought out of his head during several hours of feasting, but it was too much for him. He dragged her into a passage and proceeded to investigate. She did not lie, and he turned her to face the wall and bunched up her skirts. He had just a few minutes, but her sucking and biting on his fingers, arching her back and pushing her delectable small bum into him in return did the trick.

It takes a lot of effort to tear his gaze from her body so clearly seen through the transparent fabrique, but he manages to look into her eyes. They are shining, the everchanging colour is dark and brilliant tonight, and he recognised the expression. He is going to be shamelessly ravished. He cannot wait.

"The bed is cold, my King," certain parts of his anatomy jerk in anticipation.

"Come closer, kurdu," he stretches his hand to her. With all honesty he cannot even remember what he is doing at this table. He just needs to eliminate the distance between their bodies. She tut-tuts and turns around. Oh Mahal, the buttocks. Small, round, made especially for his palms...

"I am going back to bed, my King," the voice is tilting, and colourful plans form in his head. One time this way, then to flip her over, lift her leg on his shoulder... "You are joining me soon, are you not?" She throws him a look over her shoulder, and he dashes towards her from his chair. The ink bottle topples, and the unfinished letter is ruined. He honestly could not care less.

She is very swift, shapely legs and tiny feet, and she manages to escape his grasp with a throaty chuckle. The tail of the dress, and Mahal, there are definitely no drawers underneath it, swooshes in the air, she turns a corner and disappears in the bedchamber. He abruptly halts and starts walking slower, stretching the sweet anticipation.

That is the best part of his new life. She is. And the knowledge that she is not going anywhere. And any time he needs her, she is exactly where she should be, always with the right word for him, calm and confident, her small hand to caress if he craves warmth, reassuring when he is doubtful. She is attentive, considerate and gentle. She is strong too, stubborn and willful. There is just the right amount of challenge and riddle in her to keep him interested, to keep him on his toes.

And then he feels like a fool. There is a half naked woman waiting for him in that room, and he is standing in the middle of a passage, mauldin like a foolish youngling. He enters and locks the door behind him.

She is sitting on the bed, pose relaxed, one of the straps slipped off her shoulder, and he can almost taste the smooth skin. He comes closer to the bed and smiles to her.

"We have a matter to discuss, my lord," her tone is business like, but it hardly matches the impish expression. And she is playing with a ribbon that is laced between the two halves of her bodice. He presses one knee into the bed.

"And what is the matter, my Queen?" He likes calling her that, he likes the thought.

"Before we proceed," she is pulling on the ribbon now, and he is very uncomfortable in his trousers, "Today is a fertile night, my lord." The meaning does not register right away, and then he tears his eyes from her fingers on the lace and looks in her eyes. Mahal, he is so in love with her. "But since we decided to wait for me to finish my course of herbs, and I cannot take the ones that prevent conception, we might want to avoid certain activities." He blinks. She is wearing the most provocative attire and is currently drawing swirls on her hip with tips of her fingers. Surely she does not suggest they chastely go to sleep!

And then he laughs at the thought. He remembers how shocked and, let us be honest, pleased he was to find out that his blushing bride, practically a virgin on their wedding night, is endlessly lustful, indecent and insatiable.

"That certainly limits our choices, ghivashel," he unbuckles his belt, quickly takes off his doublet and pulls off his tunic for good measure. She is so obviously ogling his chest every time she has a chance that he decides to use it as an incentive.

She hikes her brows and murmurs, "Or we can use this opportunity to widen our horizons, try new approaches, explore new locations..."

His hands are on the strings of his breeches, and he freezes. They have been married for four months, and they have been very, very busy. On top of his head he can think only of one thing they have not tried. Surely she does not suggest?..

She is obviously aware of the physiological side of it, she is a former healer after all, but he suddenly wonders whether she understands how such actions are viewed by other women. And how such pleasures most often are available for men only in exchange for a monetary fee. And then he assumes she does, again having little practical experience herself she is highly knowledgeable and worldly.

Unexpectedly he feels bashful. She is his wife, his Queen, and this image just seems too... obscene. There is regal air about her, has always been, even when he saw her in a simple robe of a healer in Bree, her hair in a plain braid around her head. She is dignified, noble, and suddenly performing such act with her makes him feel unworthy. He is fond of it, obviously, and like most men when lying in such way with a woman he mostly enjoys exactly the forbidden lecherous nature of it. He realizes that he has been frozen in front of her since she spoke last, and that her eyes are intensely scrutinizing his face. He swallows. She is waiting.

He knows he wants it. Mahal, now that he has thought of it, his mind races. He is intimately familiar with her quim, hours and hours have been spent looking, touching, licking, sucking... He adores how her folds warm up, welcoming his caresses, and how the colour changes from pale pink to almost red. Never under the most horrible of tortures would he confess it, but every time when his fingers and lips slide between her spread legs he thinks that it is like a flower, blooming and fragrant, opening up just for him. But no, he is not some mawkish dimwit to come up with poetic comparisons for his wife's quim!

He has studied her sex so well, every inch of her skin dear and beautiful for him, and of course his thoughts have strayed a bit... back as well. He might have gotten carried away a few times and slid his finger to her other hole. She would yelp, and her whole body would jerk. And still he thought it was more a reaction of surprise than pleasure. And here she is sitting in front of him, her body covered by a thin gauzy gown, nothing hidden, let us be honest, and seems to be suggesting... what?

And he is worried. Are the two of them speaking of the same thing? He frantically starts recollecting but it seems that the rest has been already explored. What if they are not? He might insult her, and he feels even more of a fool. How can you ask your wife if she has just offered you...? And then he realizes he does not know a proper expression for it. And shortly wonders if there is a proper expression for it. Offensive ways to ask for it, that he knows. Making sure you are not going to shock your wife by suddenly proceeding in a wrong direction is quite a different matter altogether.

He sits on the edge of the bed and picks up her hand. Mahal, this is awkward. He lifts his eyes at her and suddenly feels so much better. What is he so apprehensive of? She is his wife, it is her, his Zundushinh, his beloved. Surely they can converse openly.

And then he notices blush spreading all over her small body. And he feels even better. She is as embarrassed as he is. And he shortly feels surprised but it is true, he is embarrassed. She probably knows nothing about it, he knows way too much. He gently squeezes her small hand in his and then pushes her into the sheets with his weight. The green, or are they brown, eyes widen, lips slightly open. The slender arms wrap around his neck, and he smiles into her lips.

"Have you ever tried what you are offering, my heart?" The lashes flutter, and she bites her bottom lip.

"No, and I am aware of how it is perceived... But I thought we could..." She stutters, and the cheeks are burning, "I thought we could try... It is after all just another way to enjoy each other..."

"Oh Mahal, I am a very lucky Dwarf..." He blurts out and then bites his tongue. Thinking it is one thing, he does every day, but he just confessed his sentimentality. He hides his embarrassment by kissing her jaw.

She laughs, "Because I suggested such act?" His lips slide down her neck.

"No, because this is how you see it... You and I... Enjoying each other..." Mahal, he is going to do everything possible to ensure she is enjoying it!

He is caressing her neck with his lips, intertwining his fingers with hers, sliding the tip of his nose up and down her throat. She is tilting her head, her breathing speeding up, her slanted eyes closing in pleasure.

"How much do you know, zundush?" She tenses, though only an instant ago her small body was soft and pliable under his lips and roaming hands.

"Men like it, most women do not. Many have never tried it. And it hurts, at least the first time. And later as well, if a man is not careful. And I am certain you do not want to know the medical side of it, my lord," she speaks quickly and curtly, and his lips halt on the collar of her gown. He lifts his upper body slightly and cups her face.

"It only hurts if a man is forceful, some women love it, and I do not wish to know the medical side for certain," he smiles to her, and her lips twitch. "Do you trust me, my heart?" That finally brings a smile to her lips.

"Completely," she kisses him shortly, and then giggles. She always giggles when she is aroused. It drives him into sensual frenzy. Once he managed to pleasure her into laughing during her release. He endeavours to repeat such success many times in the nearest future.

She is worrying her bottom lip, and he understand there is bit more talking required before they start. He is slowly unlacing the front of her gown, slightly caressing her skin with the tips of his fingers.

Never before had he wanted to be tender with a woman or a man. Passionate, inventive, even considerate of their release, yes, but overwhelmed with some piercing, almost painful tenderness, that came with her. Sometimes he runs his fingers through her hair, lulling her to sleep, attentively watching the small changes in her face, lashes fluttering, eyes moving under delicate lids, lips relaxing. Thorin is madly in love with his wife.

"What is it, azyungel?" She is gives him a shy look.

"I... I liked it, when you would touch... I just did not know how to ask for more..." A wrinkle appears between her brows, "Is there even a proper way to ask for such... attentions?" Thorin guffaws. He laughs a lot with her, she makes him laugh more than he can remember laughing in his whole life.

"Would you like to come with a poetic name for it, my lady?" He already pulled the ribbon out and lowers his lips on her breasts, "If we ever decide to repeat such act." Her answer once again reminds him why he fell for her. She is endlessly practical and sober.

"Well, that is just foolish. If people partake such activity, they might as well call it as it is." She sounds disdainful, and he guffaws again. He has moved lower and is bunching up her skirt. She lifts her hips to assist him.

"And what would that be exactly, my oh so not romantic Queen?"

"The proper term for it would be sodomy, my lord." Her tone is stern, and he lifts her upper body with one hand, sliding his palm under her shoulder blades, and deftly pulls off her night gown with another.

His mouth is pressed to her soft stomach, and he hums into her skin. She arches into him, she likes the beard. She apparently likes all of him, which she also likes to tell him, mixing kisses and bites with feverish words. He never gave it a lot of thought before, but the fact that she actually enjoys how he looks is very gratifying. Especially considering the way she chooses to express her appreciation. He had not cared for bedroom talk previously, and especially for this sort. With her he sometimes even asks for clarification, although he never had expected to care for compliments to his physique. Perhaps the fact that they are accompanied by enthusiastic caresses of small strong hands and mixed with licks and bites made him crave them so often. She says she cannot help it and blushes furiously. He also knows openness takes effort, and he tries to reciprocate. Perhaps, tonight he should try harder.

She is bare, spread in front of him, and just as always in the last few months he is overwhelmed with desire to throw all caution aside and bed her and spill his seed into her without restraint. But they have decided to wait, and he knows the decision was right. No one knows what would such parturiency do to a body of a woman of Men, especially so small as her. They have to be careful. They have to be prepared. But the idea of planting life inside her is driving him mad. His child growing inside her... He gently bites into her stomach, and she moans.

She is very vocal, and after the first few times he thought that perhaps someone had told her that it was a compliment for a man and she should endeavour to show her appreciation. To his shock not only was she not putting up a show, she was not aware of the noises she makes altogether. She got endlessly embarrassed when he made a comment. And it took a lot of convicting and a few interesting efforts for her to stop being conscious and trying to suppress her moans and screams of pleasure. She did indeed try to restrain herself for a while afterwards, but three of his fingers buried in her to his knuckles were too much even for her iron will.

Her will is one of many things he admires about her. She is indeed the perfect wife for him. He loves watching her during councils. Her slow, as if delicate bending the elder Dwarves to her will, her cautious but decisive words, polite smile and cold eyes, and imminent getting what she deems necessary. After the councils he beds her especially fervently.

He slides his palms under her buttocks and lifts her to his lips, opening her up, her shoulder blades on the sheets, her back arched. He covers her sex with his open mouth, and a raspy half-scream falls from her lips. He slowly caresses her with his tongue, encircling her entrance, spreading the folds, and then he shifts her pelvis, supports it on one of his large palms, while he pushes the index finger of the second one inside her. She is chanting something incoherent, he is dipping the finger deeply into her. He pays special attention to the back wall of her quim, in the anticipation of what to come.

"Move it there… I want it there..." Her voice is raspy and to his immense pleasure rather commanding. He slowly pulls the finger out of her and presses it into the other entrance. It is pink and tight, and he rubs it, spreading her juices. She is moaning, and there is a note of impatience in her voice. And then he splays his free palm on her stomach, and a fluid movement he flips her. She arches her back, pushing her buttocks up, and he is kissing and nipping on the round flesh.

"What is this fragrance, my lady?" He pushes two fingers into her, once again rubbing her walls, while his thumb presses into the other hole.

"It is… Different herbs..." She is panting, "I took a bath, um… Oh more!.. More , Thorin! A special bath in anticipation… Oh Mahal, Thorin..." He bites into her bum harder, and she is quite obviously rubbing her clit to the sheets.

"I appreciate the smell of those flowers on your folds as well, my lady..."

"It is lilacs… Oh Maiar..." With the thumb and the fingers of his other hand he spreads her buttocks and presses a kiss on the pink hole. He sees her hands grasping bunches of sheets.

"Do not rush, my Queen, we cannot have you satisfied just yet. You need to be willing, hungry, craving…" She whimpers. He smirks, he needs her as aroused as possible. His voice is gruff, "Wet, quivering, yearning…" He licks her hole and then slightly pushes the tip of his tongue in. She squeals and pushes her bum up to his mouth.

"Tell me, my reasonable Queen, how else did you prepare for such lecherous acts with your husband?" He is rubbing her orifice, more and more forcefully, with the pulp of his index finger. "You took a bath, chose an absolutely indecent attire, have you tried touching yourself there?" She is moaning in her full voice now. "Have you pushed your adorable little finger into yourself, my Queen?" The noises she is making could be understood either way, affirmation or negation, and he gently pushes his finger inside, just the very tip.

"The balm..." Her voice is choked, and he leans ahead, sliding his open mouth along her spine. She shudders and moans his name.

"What was it, my lady?" He whispers into her ear. She is battering her hand on the sheets, and he realizes she is pointing at a table near the bed. There is a jar on it.

"Oh Mahal, you have prepared," he chuckles darkly and releases her. Her pelvis falls into the sheets, and she is whimpering from relief and disappointment at the same time. And then she deftly starts rubbing herself to the sheets, and he presses his large hand on her lower back halting her. "No, none of that. I need you starved, my Queen." She tries to shake him off, but he has already reached for the jar. He dunks his finger in the viscid balm and then deftly slides it from her tailbone down to her perineum.

She groans and spreads her legs wide. In decisive circular movement he warms her up, and then slowly and gradually he pushes his finger into her, only a half, his lips and tongue caressing her buttocks.

"More..." Her tone is assertive. He chuckles and slowly turns the finger.

"Patience, my heart, you need to get accustomed to the intrusion." His finger moves in and out, each time a bit deeper, and he is thoroughly enjoying the tightness around his digit.

At the same time, he is worried. His member stretches her to the limit, and that would be her quim, which is actually made for it. She is just so small. He will hurt her. He momentarily cowardly considers suggesting pleasuring each other with their mouths. Their heads in the opposite directions, her graceful narrow feet with pink little toes dangling in the air, his hands supporting her pelvis above his mouth, they spent a lot of very enjoyable hours this way…

And suddenly, while he is momentarily distracted by his fainthearted doubts, she slowly but decisively pushes her hips towards him, and his finger slips into her fully.

"Oh, Maiar, that is so sweet… Why have we not done that before, Thorin?.." She is sobbing on the sheets, and he is staring at the elegant back of his wife in complete shock.

He slides on the sheets near her and kisses her shoulder blades. They are delicate, one of his obsessions, and he licks the smooth fragrant skin. His heart suddenly clenches with a feeling that has nothing to do with carnal hunger, and to his own astoundment he feels his eyes sting. The acts they are involved at that moment are favoured by men for the feeling of dominance, but he feels humbled and vulnerable and presses his cheek to her cool skin.

He slowly pulls out his finger and continues caressing her back with his mouth. As always she is so attuned to his moods that she relaxes on the sheets, abandoning the sensual frenzy of just an instant ago. She lowers her head and sighs softly. Cursed tears would not retreat, and Thorin presses his forehead to her lower back. His palm is stroking her hip, and her slender arm snakes back, and she intertwines her fingers with his other hand. He murmurs the words of love in Khuzdul, and he knows she is smiling into the sheets. He wills himself to quit this sentimentality, but then he remembers that he is safe with her.

He flips her over and looks into her eyes. They are smiling, loving and unguarded. He rolls over her, and she opens her legs, accommodating him. Their lips meet, and he pushes his forearms under her shoulder blades. She sighs into his lips, their lips caress each other, and he feels the hunger rising again. She is his, completely his, but he again craves more, more possession over her, more abandon, more submission to her… She arches into him, rubs her center to him, and then sliding her mouth on his jaw she bites into his beard.

"You are overdressed, my lord." One of her hands slips on his buttock, and she squeezes. He chuckles.

Pushing off the bed, he rises on his knees and then quickly divests himself of his trousers. She is lying on the bed, her eyes narrowed, salacious smirk on her lips. He momentarily wonders, as hundreds of times before, how can his demure and noble Queen be at the same times so wanton and lewd? Her eyes scrutinize his member, erect and twitching, and she licks her lips. Oh these lips… Never in his life has he had such flagrant releases as with her. Even at the beginning, when she was lacking in experience. Before him she had never performed oral acts on any man, but the first time her pink lips locked around him he had to push her off himself in just a few moments. When his first release hit the back of her throat, he thought he almost lost consciousness. She also turned out to be a quick and enthusiastic learner, and he would laugh that the feral smirk skimming her lips before she would take him into her mouth was truly terrifying. If she endeavoured for such acts to become her establishing her power over him, she succeeded. He would be sobbing and shaking under her small strong hands caressing his testes, her swift pink tongue licking off his seed from his member, and she would purr…

"How shall we proceed, my lord?" He grabs her ankles and pulls her to himself, spreading her legs at the same time.

"You need to be prepared, my lady, stretched..."

"Mmm, that sounds delicious. How are we going to achieve this, my lord?" The corners of her lips curl up, and he is worried they might not have time. If she continues giving his these looks, he is going to lose control and fuck her into the sheets. He places one of his hands near her shoulder, lowers his mouth on hers, and his other hands slides between her legs. It is the same hand he has used on her orifice before, and he knows it cannot come into contact with her sex. He gently bites her bottom lip and then tears off his mouth from her.

"I need you to spread some of your juices, Zundushinh."

She was supporting her upper body on her elbows, to meet his mouth half way, and she falls back into sheets. She gives him a lazy sensual smile and lifts her hand. It does not lie on her folds though, she starts with her breasts. She catches her nipple between her thumb and index finger and gently twirls it. Then she cups her breast, in an obvious offering, and he lowers his open mouth on it. They are so small, that he sucks it into his mouth almost fully. He used to be fond of generous bosom, but Mahal he has never loved any part of female anatomy more that the perky, graceful, tender teats of his wife. Oh wait, her backside though, or her sex, or her legs, or her lips, or her strong little fingers, or… What is the point to muse? All of these are his to enjoy, and he has all the time in the world to pay homage to all of them.

Her hand slides down her stomach, she mimics walking with her fingers, and he chuckles, and then her tiny index finger reaches her curls. With the pulps of her index and middle fingers she gives her clit a decisive but gentle swirl and then pushes them inside. He is sucking on her other breast, and she moans raspily.

"What are you thinking about when your fingers are inside you, kurdu?" She chuckles, and he looks up at her. Her eyes are closed, her fingers slowly moving, and one corner of her curved lips is lifted.

"Herbal medicine, obviously." He is staring at her. She opens her eyes and then gives him a wink.

He laughs. She makes him so happy! He moves a bit lowers and watches her fingers. She is very gentle with herself, and then she slides her fingers to her other hole. The digits are moving in the circular movements, and then she pushes her middle finger in.

He kisses her ribs and mumbles into her skin, "Add another, azyungel..." She complies and moans.

"How many will I need?"

"I will replace your hand after two," he is kissing her hip, "Now move them like scissors, stretch yourself..." She complies again, and then she makes a frustrated noise.

"I want you… I want your fingers, Thorin..."

"They are much thicker, haban..." She pulls hers out sharply and flips on her stomach.

"Do it already," she is so irked that he guffaws. He takes some more of the balm she has prepared and slowly pushes two of his fingers in. She tenses, and he rubs the tip of his nose to her back.

"Relax, my heart, you need to relax… You are so tight, so innocent, untouched there..." She raspily exhales. He is peppering kisses on her lower back. Bedroom talk is not his forte, but, Mahal, for her he will do his best. "I love it that I am the first in there, I love exploring you, my heart… You are driving me mad with desire, azyungel, ghivashel, haban, kurdu..." He switches to Khuzdul, his head spinning, and he moves his fingers, his erection painful, and she raspily cries out. "You are so beautiful, my Queen, all of you, your glowing skin, your small fingers and toes, your delicate teats, your curves, this curve..." He draws a swirl on her hip with his tongue and gently bites into her flesh.

"More, Thorin, you can add more..." He scissors his digits in her, and she tenses again.

"See, your little hole is not ready yet… But it will be, I will prepare it for me, and then you will spread your legs for me, my Queen..." She moans and suddenly her whole body jolts and shudders in a release. She screams into the sheets, grabbing handfuls of them, her back bending, and she is sobbing, chanting his name, and as he realizes something in Khuzdul.

"Malal… Ursel..." She rasps.

He hums into her hip. Her body sags, and she is taking short shallow breaths. He puts his head on her buttock and closes his eyes. To his own surprise he feels almost satisfied. If she wishes to go to sleep now, he will probably agree and…

But then she slightly shifts her hips and in a low voice murmurs, "You are not moving, my lord." He chuckles and continues his ministrations, carefully watching her reactions. She seems to be immediately recovered and starts arching her back anew. Insatiable woman! He shakes his head in disbelief and adds another finger.

"Oh yes, Thorin. So much better…" He spreads her walls, paying attention to what seems to bring most pleasure, and then he slows down.

"Are you ready for me, my heart?" She lifts her head, props herself on her elbows and looks at him over her shoulder.

"I cannot wait."

He pulls his hand out and shifts his weight. He adds more balm, generously smearing it on his member and her entrance. Then he aligns their hips, his erection brushing her delectable buttocks, and she spreads her legs. He supports his weight on one straight arms, and holding his member in his hand he pushes the tip into her orifice. She gasps.

"Relax, my heart, you need to take deep breaths..." He pushes a bit deeper, moving slowly, but she whines and he can see her shoulder blades are tense. He is very large, Dwarves are. The width of their build is reflected in their phalli, and he is also long. He halts and lets her take a few breaths. And then he proceeds, but with each half inch he is more and more doubtful.

Suddenly she growls, "Would you stop worrying already?" Her tone is grouchy, and she looks at him over her shoulder. Her pupils are so large that he cannot see the amber irises. "I appreciate your gentleness, but I have to say I am rather impatient." He cocks a brow, and she licks her lips. He pushes in, almost all his length disappearing in her, and she screams. He freezes, but her breathy "Maiar, so good..." is rather reassuring. He starts rocking his hips, and she is mewling appreciatively.

He finds the rhythm and after a few gentle gradual movements he is fully buried on her hole. He is stroking her back, feeling goosebumps under his palm, and she exhales loudly.

"You can move..." He chuckles.

"And what would you call what I did before?"

"Snail pace?" Her voice is mocking, and he guffaws. And thrusts in her, though the swing of his hips is moderate. She gasps and tenses. He hisses, she is choking him.

"Relax, zundush, you are cutting my blood circulation..." She answers in an intricate swearing in Khuzdul. He did not know she was even aware of such words. Somehow it spurs his desire, and he thrusts again.

"More..." He doubts he heard right, but then she repeats, her tone insistent, "More, Thorin..." He places the second hand near her body stretched on the bed and slightly lifts his hips.

"Put your legs together, azyungel..." She mewls, he realizes she is hardly conscious enough to understand him, but then her legs move, and she squeezes him even more, her small firm buttocks locking on the base of his member. He groans, and suddenly understands he is close to his release. He needs to prolong it, make it worthwhile for her.

He shifts his knees, moves them ahead, almost straddling her, and supporting his weight on straight arms he pulls almost fully out and then thrusts into her forcefully. She screams, and small fists are battering on the sheets.

He repeats the maneuver, and then he leans down to her ear and asks, "Would you like more of that or should we go back to more shallow movements? I need you to enjoy this, my Queen." She is whining, shaking her head. "Choose your pleasure, my Queen."

"More of the deep..." Her voice is raspy, and he moves his knees wider, aiming for more swing. His first thrust makes her emit a shrieky scream. And then again, and again, each next one no less volatile, choked sobs falling from her lips, until he can see her sagging, her fingers uncurling, and he slows down.

"Perhaps I even need you to climax like that, my heart. I might have to ask you to slide your fingers under your sweet little quim." She moans. "I know you are tired, my heart, but you need to try..." He lowers his lips to her shoulder and swirls his tongue on her skin. She shudders, and he can see her hand slide underneath her pelvis. "Curl up your fingers inside yourself, zundush. You know the spot… That little patch of skin… I want you to rub it gently, imagine it is my finger..."

Suddenly he feels the tips of her fingers brush the base of his cock, and he jerks. She repeats the actions, this time much less feathery, her short nails gently scrape his skin. And then she arches her back to get more access, and her fingers slide inside her sex. She starts rubbing his member through her wall. He growls.

"Slow down, zundush. I am close..." He sees the corner of her lips curl up in an impish grin, and suddenly she squeezes him inside, both her holes constrict, and her fingers press into her wall into his cock. "Stop it!" She looks at him over her shoulder and bites into her bottom lip. She is obviously enjoying his facial expression. He adjusts his arms for more stability and pounds into her. She screams but does not lessen the pressure. He lifts his hips higher and thrusts into her. They both slightly bob on the mattress, and he speeds up, using the momentum of the bed. She is mewling, and he feels her fingers curling in her sex.

"Come for me, zundush, please..." He does not notice when he started asking, instead of ordering, "Please, my heart, please..." She suddenly jerks her hand out, pushes her palms into the sheets and he understand she tries to rise on all four. His bloods boils up, and he shifts.

He suddenly finds himself kneeling behind his wife, on all four, his cock in her sweet pink hole, and it unhinges his mind. He grabs the buttocks, most likely bruising and hurting her, and he pushes into her, his testes slapping her with a loud obscene sound. She moans but it is an obvious encouragement, and he starts pumping into her. The copper curls swing in the air, and he is growling. He is far too gone for any coherent words. And then she shatters, screaming his name, the name of all deities and the dirtiest of swears. She is keeling, and he releases with a gruff scream. Her quivering hole is milking him, and he is groaning, new and new waves of pleasure flooding him, blind and deaf to anything but the hot white rapture and the feeling of the woman he loves.

They fall into the sheets on their side, he pulls her to his chest, crushing her, his forehead pressed to the back of her head, half choked sobs erupting out of him, and he is mumbling the words of love, gratitude, and devotion. He never confesses his love in Common Speech, such words too mundane for him, only in Khuzdul, always "Men lananubukhs menu", addressing her "azyungel", "haban", "yasith", "kurdu", my love, my gem, my wife, my heart, but he realizes he is repeating again and again, "My love, my love, oh my love..." She is panting, and her slender arm flies back and lies around his waist. Somehow this additional contact with her skin makes him choke on his words, strange knot in his throat. And then she returns it up front and covers his hand on her middle. She picks it up and presses the inner side of his wrist to her lips, his arm limp and heavy. He exhales into her hair, the caress so familiar, so her. He presses his face into her locks, closes his eyes, piercing happiness and completeness flooding him.

For a few moments they are silent, busking in the afterglow, little swirls of pleasure tickling his whole body, and he nuzzles her nape. And then he reaches for covers and pulls them over both of them. He notices she is nodding off, and he kisses her ear.

"Zundush, we should take a bath..." She moans and shakes her head.

"I am perfectly content here..." Her voice is sleepy, and he chuckles. She is always immediately drowsy after her release, and he finds it endearing. Her warm body near him is relaxed, and his own lids are heavy. He shakes his head.

"You will regret all this untidiness tomorrow yourself, my heart."

"Nothing untidy… Just our love..."

Thorin is lying in his marital bed, his wife sleeping in his arms, his softened member still inside her, and he sends every possible prayer to Mahal, the Maker, the Smith of Powers. He fervently thanks him for his wife and asks for forgiveness for ever having doubted the wisdom of the Maker, assigning the small girl from Men to him, making her his One, intertwining their destinies. When there was no hope for them, when he left her in Bree, the immense, unimaginable pain tearing at his heart, wrecking his body, tormenting his mind, he would ask what crime he had committed to be tortured thusly.

He opens his eyes now and gazes at the peaceful face of his yasith. The lashes lie under her eyes, freckles peppering her nose and cheekbones, and he clenches his jaw. Even in his mind he has no words, not even well formed thoughts to express his love and his happiness. She makes him complete, light, careless, she has taken any pain he has ever felt in his life, he cannot remember the darkness and the despair in him, the angry, brutal savage he was before her. Nothing matters anymore, and everything does. The food has taste, the wine is only for joy, the sleep is free of nightmares… Noble Dwarven warriors do not cry, and Thorin pretends he does not notice his own tears… He closes his eyes and pulls the former healer from Bree to his chest even tighter, though it is hardly possible. Sleep envelops him, and he dreams of two blue eyed and dark haired boys, a small girl bobbing on his lap, and another boy, red haired, with her eyes and mischievous smile. Thorin sleeps, and his world is tranquil and harmonious.