Your first spring with Thorin Oakenshield comes seemingly instantaneously, bursting in birds' songs and white and pink blossoms, branches of trees suddenly heavy, air sweet and heady. The snow disappears as it seems over one day, sky strikingly blue, every breath you take crispy and intoxicating. Meltwater is running on the sides of passages, children happily shouting in high pitch voices. Halls and streets are suddenly busy, chambers are being cleaned, everyone and everything stirring and awakening, You are running down the stone steps to the Front Gate, jumping over puddles like a child, swinging a basket in your hand. You are almost out of the city when the voice of your King stops you in your tracks. "Where are you rushing to, my haban?" the tender yet condescending moniker that he will abandon later makes you turn around on your heels. The King is standing leaning to a wall, mirth bubbling in cold blue eyes. He takes your breath away, his wide frame imposing, sunlight playing in the silver strands in the raven hair, his regal composure unwavered and commanding. "I have some herbs I need to find. I think I saw them outside the wall," you smile softly, sensibly avoiding the question of the King following you and overseeing your movements. Before he makes a comment, you smile again and pleasantly offer, "Would my King like to accompany me? I would feel much safer." He is silent for a second and then nods his dignified askew nod you are so familiar with, while keeping his eyes on you, pinning you with his icy gaze.
You two walk slowly towards the gate, the King seemingly lost in his thoughts and you finally enjoying sunshine and wind caressing your hair. You certainly do not share Dwarves' inclination to dwell underground, but that is a small price to pay for the company. When you step out of the city, you walk off the road and into the side bushes. You step carefully, looking under your feet. Thorin follows you without sparing a glance to the ground. You have to place your palm on his shoulder to stop him from stepping on a few first snowdrops peeking between boulders. Picking up your skirts, you bend in front of the gentle flowers. You touch a tender petal with a tip of your finger. "Galanthus," you whisper, lost in memories of your childhood, spent in the woods surrounding you grandmother's village. You lift your face and see your King intently looking at you with an unreadable expression. You smile into his piercing eyes and stroll ahead. "What are these?" his low voice rumbles behind you. You turn around and look at the plants he is pointing at. Slightly deeper in the bushes you see the white flowers of Anemone. You smirk, "I bet you will love these, my Lord. They are called White Splendour." "Quite a pompous name for such an assuming little thing," he is looking down at the small white blossoms. "And yet it is irreplaceable for treating some diseases." He seems sincerely interested and bends to pick up a white flower. "Which one?" "Monthly pains," you feign innocence to see if he drops the flower in terror and disgust. He screws his eyes to see if you are teasing him but your face is schooled in the most earnest expression. He stares at the tiny white floret between his thick calloused finger and then, to your deepest astonishment, he gently places it into your hair. He smiles with the corners of his mouth into you wide open eyes and continues to walk through bushes.
You have spent the previous three months in his home and in his bed, but you understand quite clearly that you two are just at the beginning of your path. And it is clear that if you were not to tread carefully, the journey could end before its time. You follow his steps staring at the wide back of your lover, clad in a soft blue shirt and a light chainmail. A single short sword is strapped to his belt. Judging by the modicum of weapons that is indeed just a walk in the woods, but you cannot shake off a feeling that there is some other hidden goal for your King to follow you into the woods. Previously you made it clear that treating any less respectfully than any Dwarf would be a mistake, caging you or enforcing his will on you would only result in your leaving. You were given your chambers where you are rarely disturbed, at the same you are graciously invited to join your King at every meal that he partakes at home as well as any trip that does not pose danger to your life. You politely decline any hunts but have accompanied him to negotiations and family visits. You share bed every night when your melhekh is not away, even if not for lovemaking. There were a few nights when he would knock at the door of your room, many hours after sunset, after a lengthy errand and being invited he would silently slip under covers. You would feel his large warm body envelop you and having buried his nose in your hair he would repose, with you physically feeling tension leaving his shoulders and arms, his breathing slowing down, heart beating evenly. Some nights you would stay in his chambers, especially when feeling too exhausted and sated after lovemaking.
And yet, Thorin, son of Thrain, son Thror preserved a great distance between your spirits, and that is no less than a deviancy for you. Sharing your body, your nights and days, your magic, your heart with a man and not being able to openly speak your mind or clearly see his is troublesome. Nonetheless, your heart would not let you even ponder separating from him. He possesses it, like no man before him, all of him dear and fascinating. The temper, the stubbornness, the unreasonable pride, the sometimes childish peevishness, the battle scars adorning his body, the nightmares that wake him up, his teeth and fists clenched in silent attempts to suppress the shivers, cold sweat glistening on his brow, the surprisingly tender caresses and kisses he bestows all over your body, hot and raspy murmuring in Khuzdul while his hands roam your body, and low moans and cries you can elicit out of him.
You silently tread deeper in the forest and soon your are surrounded with trees and tall bushes. You absent-mindedly pick up herbs and flowers, thoughtlessly filling your basket, until you step out in a small clearing and your King sits down on a fallen tree. You look at him with a question in your eyes and he pats his knee with a large palm. That is a first time your King has encouraged such an informal arrangement, and it thrills you beyond measure. The only delinquencies you have enjoyed so far were a few kisses stolen in the halls and shadowed corridors and several nights spent in a tent. Your devious nature has been rebelling against such tame intimacy for a while, but you knew that pressuring him would be unwise. His inhibitions seemed to disappear rather quickly on their own. You slip on his lap and wrap your arms around his neck. He nuzzles your neck and pressing his lips behind your ear he asks, "Are you contented, my haban?" You sigh but cannot hinder it any longer. "I am. But I have a favour to ask, my Lord," you feel him tense. You look into his eyes. They are cold and distant. His face, so beautiful and expressive in the dim light of your bedchambers, bears no emotion, but only if one does not know where to look. And it has been two long years since you started looking. The light crease between his brows, guarded firm line of lips, his magnificent neck tense, you are looking at a Dwarf whose heart bears a shield just as his name. "My melhekh," your Khuzdul is exceptional, you have always had a talent for languages, "I would really enjoy a different appellation," you caress his nape, treading your fingers into the thick raven mane, a move you know to be rather efficacious with your King. "I do not particularly enjoy being compared to material goods." "It only signifies how precious you are to me, kurdu," he stubbornly insists. Well, "heart" is better than "gem", even though you sometimes doubt you are allowed access to his. "And you are to me, my King," you mollifyingly place a restrained kiss on his lips.
As a sparkle on dry wood, it spurs him and he presses you into his body. His lips are greedy and possessive. He shifts one knee, and lifting you as if you weigh nothing he turns you to face him. Your skirts bunching around your waist, you wrap your legs around his waist. He suddenly slows down, his kisses less thirsty, more languished. You sneak a peek from under your lashes and you see that his eyes are half open. You cannot believe it, he is keeping his guard while you are straddling him, pressing your sex into his quite obvious erection. Your ambitious side flaring up, you press your breasts into him and pulling his hair aggressively you suck at his bottom lip. You see his eyes close and a low rumble reverberates through him. You double your efforts, adding small rotating movements of hips. His hands are grabbing your buttocks, your back, slide into your hair. You hear him moan and proceed to move your hands to his belt. "Kurdu," he tears his lips from yours, "is it wise?" "Thorin," your voice is commanding and, to be honest, breathy, you did not realize that this little game is effecting you that much, "damn with wise!" You tug at the buckle and the belt is flying into the grass. And at this moment for the first time you are subjected to the wonder that is the cocked brow of an aroused Thorin Oakenshield. And what a wonder it is! The glorious, mouth-watering, panties-dropping, black and smooth, paired with a lopsided smug smirk, the brow curves up. Fire and hunger swirl up low in your body, all sense going down in flames. With a irritated scoffing noise, you grab the bottom of the chainmail and in a swift smooth move you pull it off his body. The shirt follows and the delectable shoulders and chest are at your disposal. And disposing is exactly what you proceed to do! At some moment he slightly pushes your upper body from his and yanks your dress off you. Your undertunic and the undergarment are thin and see-through, the day is warm and you wanted to enjoy not being bundled after so many months of cold. His rough palms are already on your naked breasts and you hear tearing of fabric. You tut-tut and push his hands away. You take off the tunic but are not quick enough with the bottoms. While you are struggling with the strings on his breeches he pulls the delicate material to the opposite sides with both of his large hands, mindful not to hurt you though, and destroyed undergarments fall on the ground. You are holding his jerking cock in your hand and do not care at all. With a half cry, half sob you sink on his shaft, your clouded mind noticing the throaty snarl from your King. You set forceful rhythm, grounding your pelvis in him, forgetting any restraints, loud cries and libidinous moans bursting out of you. His face buried in your neck, he is crushing your hips in his strong hands, panting and groaning, biting the delicate skin on the side of your throat. When his teeth sink especially deep, you jerk your neck from him and catch his lips in a bruising kiss. You bite his bottom lip and them his ear, nails scraping his shoulders, your inner muscles clenching around him. You push his forehead with yours forcing him to look into your eyes.
"Mine," you do not know where the possessiveness comes from but the long repressed desire to get through the walls he built around his heart calls forth the honest and undisguised feverish talk. "My melhekh, my kurdu, mine, only mine," you puncture each word with a thrust of your hips, you mind fiercely searching for an adequate moniker. Your head falls back, and you open your eyes to see the blue sky above you and the glorious spring sun. You straighten up and look into the eyes of the man you love. "My urzud," you breath out and with a violent cry he shatters, his climax convulsing his body, his left hand painfully pulling your hair, the right one bruising you waist, his hips jerking up, pushing you over the edge, waves of searing pleasure flooding your body. And then your body slumps in his hands and you hang on his shoulders.
You both are shaking, intertwined and exhausted. He is the first to move. He stretches his long arm down, and trying not to shift anything else he picks up his shirt from the ground. He wraps your shoulders and softly kisses you. You notice blood on his bottom lip where you bit especially hard and smiling remorsefully you wipe it with your thumb, "Forgive me, my Lord." Suddenly, he guffaws, "If you could see your neck, kurdu, you would not apologise." You touch the tender spot on the neck. ""What have you done, brute?" you are too content to feign any indignation, "I will have to come up with some elaborate hairdo to cover it up." He is gently kissing around the bite. "Pity I do not have a beard to cover the bruise." He nuzzles your throat and says quietly, "I rather like you the way you are." "That is quite a compliment coming from a Dwarf." He pushes your chin up with his long nose and gently kisses your smooth neck. "I like your skin here," he gently rubs his nose into the hollow under your jaw, then cups your face and looks in your eyes. Something is different in his eyes. You smile and shudder. "Cold, zundush?" "Zundush?" you now cock your eyebrow. He smiles and pushes his fingers into your hair, studying the red strands between his fingers. "Your hair is the colour of robin's chest'', he smirks, "And you are so small, I can easily crush your bones, but you can always fly away. Zundush, a bird," he nods as if confirming it to himself. And then it dawns on you. "I cannot fly away from you, my heart," you press your palms on his thick beard and make his lift his face and meet your eyes, "My heart belongs to you. I am tied to you forever," you put your hand on his hot chest, his heart frantically beating under your fingers. And the moment stretches, spring sun shining above you, filling the world with warmth, quiet rustling of the awakening forest around you two, in a perfect harmony and unison, your bodies and spirits joining. You smile into his suddenly open, vulnerable eyes and speak, "You are my sun, Thorin Oakenshield."
haban = gem
kurdu = heart
melhekh = king
urzud = sun