A/N: Being a neat freak I decided that I need to finish "Thorin's Return to Shire" so everything is tidy :) Since he is in the Shire already, there is nowhere the plot can go now. So let's wrap it up and remember, if you are confused how this story fits into the overall Wren and Thorin story arc, check "Thorin's Timeline" on my page.

The King pulls you closer, soft caresses of his lips heating you up, warmth of his body enveloping you, your hand sliding under the tunic on the hard planes of his stomach. He inhales sharply, and bites your bottom lip gently but playfully. You both are smiling, garments are slowly taken off, hands gliding on skin, exploring as if anew. His black lashes flutter, tenderness in his features, he slightly lifts his torso, supports himself on an elbow. Another hand cups your face, gentle, loving, you wrap your arms around his neck. The incessant fire between you two is there but it is rumbling deep beneath sweetness, affection and reverence slowing you two down.

He is kissing down your body, his tongue delicately circling the peaks of your breasts, and you sigh. His warm palm covers your stomach, and he rubs it with his thumb. You chuckle. He smiles into your skin. The hand slides lower, and he gently dips one finger between your folds. You moan and reach for his length. He slightly moves away. "You tend to be too ardent, my heart. Tonight is to be unhurried," his tone is sensual and slightly teasing. You hum in agreement and place your arms back around his neck. He moves closer again, his lips on your clavicles, beard scratching deliciously.

He is stroking your entrance, and his tongue is drawing soft swirls on your neck. You arch your back and push your head back into the pillows. The first release is slow and sweet. You halt his hand and turn to him. You pull him by his shoulders, and he lowers his weight on you. His length slides into you, and you whisper his name.

The lovemaking is leisurely but measured. Each stroke is a declaration of love, each sign is his name, each moan is yours. You wrap your legs around his waist, his lips are on yours. Bodies intertwined, spirits in perfect harmony, you are moving together, breathing each other, lips and tongues caressing. Climaxes join, blend, soft cries echo in each other. You fall asleep entwined, three hearts beating in peace and unison.

Morning comes, soft sunlight crawls through the curtains, little patches of light moving on the bedding. You open your eyes to see an especially flirtatious sunbeam to settle on the King's long nose. He scrunches it in his sleep and then sneezes. Blue eyes fly open, noble face peevish and utterly offended. You laugh and hide under the comforter. Two large hands catch you and pull you out. The morning lovemaking is more vigorous, with more grabbing and merry guffaws, your deft hands tickling, his white teeth nipping.

"I have a grievance to settle with you, my Lord," you are curled into his side, his upper arm serving you as a pillow. "Indeed?" His eyes are gleaming with mirth. "Have you not told Master Balin that we are leaving today?" "I have, and we are," his tone is soft but determined. You tread carefully. "I understand your consideration, my King, but that was not your initial intention. Were we not to stay for a few days at the Bag End and let Master Baggins prepare for the long journey to Erebor?" "The circumstances changed." The King is becoming tense, you feel argument rising in him.

You sit up and look at him tenderly. "Thorin, I have to ask you to reconsider," you see his jaw clench, "I would like a few days of rest. I would not wish to go back into the saddle just yet." He closes his mouth that he obviously opened to object. You stroke his chest. "Peace and quiet, and the plentiful food of the Shire will be good for the babe."

You see him doubt. The innate Dwarven possessiveness and the dogmatic upbringing push him to hide you deep in the Lower Halls of Erebor, far away from imagined dangers and other's eyes. Nonetheless, the road to the Kingdom Under the Mountain is long, and he is torn. To an even greater extent, you understand that his desire to rush to Erebor is fighting in him with his chivalry and his understanding of a duty of a guest. He cannot push Master Baggins to leave his home before the assigned date. He lowers his head, and you understand that you are staying.

After breakfast that stretches again, food consumed in frightening quantities, conversations loud and laughter abundant, you excuse yourself to go for another walk. This time your host accompanies you. The weather is rainless and only a few merry white clouds are lazily moving in the sky.

You take off the two upper cloaks that the King insisted you put on, his brows stern and eyes blazing. You are folding them to fit into your basket that you borrowed from the gracious hobbit. He is smirking. "That is quite a burdensome endeavour you are partaking, my lady." "You can hardly imagine, Master Baggins." You are grumbling, "Overbearing, despotic, cantankerous..." The hobbit chuckles. "One would assume you should be used to that by now, my lady."

You lift your eyes at him and return his mischievous smile. "How did you survive the authoritativeness of this particular Dwarf during your adventures, Master Baggins? I can so easily imagine," you mimic the King's booming voice, "walk faster, sit there, we are spending the night here, no fire, no, you don't get to decide, no, no supper and you are going inside to talk to a fire breathing dragon!" Bilbo start chuckling and by the end of your drollery he is laughing openly.

You join him and soon you are clinging to each other weak from your frolics. You sit on a boulder by the road, and he is wiping tears from his eyes. "How about," it is his turn to draw his brows together in a replica of the King's scowl and drawl in a raspy voice, "I will let you string along but I will doubt your worth and motives til the very end?" You are clapping in delight. You both guffaw again. "Or," you tense your jaw muscles and give the hobbit an exaggerated heavy look, "I will just sit here very solemn and will be looking at the horizon and will not tell you what troubles me, but you should know it is your fault." The hobbit almost falls of the boulder roaring from laughter. He growls in a surprisingly accurate parody of the King's voice, "The ponies are gone, it is your fault, Bilbo, you believe there are Orcs around, it is your fault, Bilbo, you got lost, it is your fault, Bilbo…" You finish his speech, "You found your way back, it is your fault, Bilbo!" Both of you are in hysterics, tears in your eyes, cheeks hurting. "And the peevishness!" "And the grumpiness!" "And the prejudice!" "And the temper!"

It takes you a few minutes to calm down. He is still chuckling but then gives you a side glance. "It is nice to see the changes, though." He picks up your hand and gently presses it. "Indeed, my lady, it is so wonderful to see the changes." You smile and pat his hand. "Let's go to the market, Bilbo, you have a horde of Dwarves to feed."

The horde, indeed, consumes an inconceivable amount of food, and the next day it takes two Dwarves and a hobbit to carry all the supplies that are purchase again. The day after, three of them accompany Master Baggins to the market. The Shire is buzzing with agitation and, to be honest, indignation from such Dwarf invasion. The Dwarves seem to enjoy the vacation though, Bombur and Bofur cook, music is played abundantly, a game of bowls is set up on the grass.

It is a pleasure to see the King carefree, with rare but sincere smile on his lips, his brigandine forgotten on a chair in the bedroom after three days. Five days after your arrival to the Shire you find yourself taking a walk with him, Spring air warm and fragrant, weather so soft and balmy that even the King does not insist on your being bundled up like a fragile glass vase in a street vendor's cart.

You follow a narrow path swirling between the hills, dipping into valleys, through a small green grove. Your arm is looped through his, and the serenity and cordiality of your companionship warms your heart. His palm is covering your hand on his forearm, fingers gently rubbing your knuckles.

You chuckle. "What is it, my heart?" You love the King's voice, low and velvet, especially when it is coloured with fondness and amusement. "I grew up among the green fields like these, my Lord. Endless green rangelands, once one would step out of the back door of my grandmother's house, they would just stretch for miles. I was used to the grass under my feet, to the rustle of leaves above my head, immense blue sky..." He is listening attentively. You give him a look from a corner of your eye and wonder how a girl from a small village in Enedwaith ended up in the arms of the Dwarven King. "I was always surrounded by herbs drying on a sill, raspberry wine brewing in the cellar, crates of root vegetables," you chuckle again, "something always growing and wilting, leaves, stems, roots, blooms… I have lived so many years on the road, sleeping on the ground, lulled to sleep by forest sounds..."

You place your hand on your stomach. "I do not know why I started this palaver..." The King gives you a soft look. "Because you do not wish to return to the stone cage of Erebor." "No!" You stop in front of him and place your hand on his chest. "No, my King, that is not what I was saying." You lift your eyes at him shyly. "Erebor is my home now, and as cold and unyielding as it seems sometimes, I love it with all my heart and know that it is where I belong." He lowers his lips on yours in a gentle kiss. "Are we still talking about my Kingdom, kurdu?" His eyes are smiling, and you return the expression, "For the most part."

He embraces you, your arms wrapping around his middle. His cheek is pressed to your temple, warm and familiar. And he starts to speak, his voice quiet and unusually hesitant, "Erebor is cold, my heart, and hard lined. And it is tenacious and unforgiving sometimes… But it is staunch and loyal... and will be a good home for our son." You stroke his back with your hand. "I know it will be, my King."

"I have seen the world outside Erebor, the green fields, woods and valleys, sunlit and free, my heart, and I know how the darkness and seclusion of Erebor can seem cruel. The halls were all I have seen as a child, only fireflies on the roofs enlivening the Kingdom Under the Mountain. I do know your sacrifice, kurdu."

You push him away and look into his face, open and vulnerable. "There is no sacrifice, Thorin!" "Would you not prefer to live in a place like the Shire? Merry and simple?" He is not resentful, just melancholy and wistfulness in his tone. "If it were in my nature to seek such life, would I have chosen a prideful Dwarf as my match?" Your hands are caressing his face. "Perhaps you have not preconsidered all the entitlement that accompanies such match." "What of the entitlement of becoming your wife? Have I not agreed to become the Queen of Erebor? I have my duty now. Among others, my responsibility now is to bring the heir to the throne into this world." He presses his forehead to yours.

And then he whispers, "Sometimes I wish I could stay here with you… Give you the life you are more disposed to lead..." "I want to share your life and build my own there, Thorin," you are both silent for a few instants, "And besides, my Lord, would it not be endlessly tedious to stay here and look at the same humdrum green fields and boring round doors till the day we are so spiritless from them that we wither before our term?" He chuckles. "Neither of us is a hobbit, my Lord. To fight, to heal, to rule is our density, and it is in Erebor."

He looks into your eyes. "My wise Queen," you smile and quickly kiss his beloved lips, "time to return to Erebor then."