AN: Apparently this has decided to be a series. A series with painfully obvious titles. Whatever, it was the Porn Battle anyway.
Spoilers: The Hobbit, but we are still firmly "everybody lives".
Disclaimer: Tolkien wrote THE HOBBIT, the Jacksons made the movies. I just love them dearly.
Characters: Fili, Sigrid; Fili/Sigrid
Summary: The marriage is going pretty well.
On The Table
They have not done this before.
They have done a few things that are like it, she thinks, though thinking is rapidly becoming a lesser drive to the feel of his hand between her thighs. There was that time in the bath, and a few experiments involving the headboard. They are still new enough at this that she has a catalogue of discrete memories to choose from. This is new.
It's harvest, or at least it's harvest down in Dale, and that means bread and beer and dancing. The dwarves have hosted the evening's feast, cramming as many of their neighbours inside the Great Hall as they could. It's the first real festival since Sigrid's arrival Under the Mountain, and the first party since their wedding.
It's the first time they've danced.
She leans forward to grip the table harder. She hadn't had time to get out of her dress, but she can feel his heat through their clothes. Usually Fili leaves her dressing room to her privacy, but tonight, well, tonight is a special occasion after all.
They'd gone through several of the more staid dances favoured by the elders of Dale, and then her father's generation had retired to the tables while the youths of the city set to more spritely numbers. Sigrid still counted herself among their numbers, married though she was, and Fili did not complain when she'd pulled him back out to the floor after only the briefest of refreshment.
Her husband, she has learned, loves to have his hands on her, and being given permission to do so in public has more or less the effect on him she'd been hoping. By the time the feast has come to a close, more because they've exhausted the musicians than anything else, his expression is perhaps less than politely speculative. They make their excuses rather quickly.
She is grateful that she is a tidy soul and has not left anything on the surface of her vanity table, because when she leans forward, he follows her. The beads in his mustache are cold on her neck, the only chilled part of him pressing down. His fingers are busy, where they stroke her, and soon she burns hotly enough to no longer feel any cold at all.
She had not expected him to follow her into her dressing room. She had thought only to leave off her jewelry, and let him strip her of the rest at his leisure, but instead he'd crowded her against the vanity, kicking the stool out of his way as he pressed heated kisses against her neck. She had felt his arousal and the rising tide of her own to match it, and decided that perhaps tonight she would be more adventurous than she'd anticipated.
The hand gripping her hip retreats, though the hand between her thighs continues to work, to devastating effect. She hears him fumble with his own belt and trousers one handed, and stifles a giggle. If he hears her, he might get it into his head to tease and she wants none of that at the moment.
When he steps close again, his skin is hot against hers. She cannot help the whimper that escapes her when he leans back over to kiss her on the neck and his cock pushes close to, but not quiet where she wants it. She feels his mouth curl into a smile.
"Pretty Sigrid," he says. "Did you like the dance?"
"Yes," she says. And then because she cannot help it: "Fili, please."
It's not so much like that time in the tub after that. With her skirts rucked up she cannot feel him until just before he touches her, and she can't see him either. She can tell he is enjoying that particularly aspect, because he keeps whispering it in her ear. Her knees buckle as she draws close to her peak, but between her husband and the table, she's in no danger of falling. He stops just shy of her climax, and she nearly screams in frustration.
"Look," he says, pulling gently on her hair with his teeth.
The lamps are lit, so when she raises her head she sees not darkness, but rather their reflections in her mirror. She's seen him like this before, of course, aroused and unkempt with desire, but this is the first time she's ever seen herself. Her hair is a ruin, of course, carefully arranged curls and neatly woven braids completely awry. Her face is a dark pink, her eyes are wide, her mouth open as she regains her breath.
This is what he sees, she realizes. This is what he wants, what he tries to provoke in her. She looks up at his reflection. He looks hungry for her. Hungry for her like this.
"Keep looking," he says, and then finally, finally, he puts himself to use where she truly wants him.
She does her best to acquiesce, but it's hard to keep her eyes open as he drives into her. His hands are over hers, curled around the table's edge, and his breath is harsh in her ear. She is getting close again, and knows he is long past teasing, so she begs and begs him for more because she knows it will only egg him on.
She crests, crying out underneath him and losing her battle of wills with the mirror as she rests her forehead on the table top. She pushes back against him, desperate even as she comes, and by the time his thrusts become erratic she is well through it. He spends, and breathes hard against her neck, his own determination to watch them quelled as satisfyingly as her had been.
"You know," Fili says at length, when he has the breath to speak but not to move, "The Midwinter Festival has a dance as well."
Sigrid laughs, breathless and rather embarrassingly in love with her husband.
"In that case," she tells him, "we ought to practice."
They almost make it to the bed.
To be continued...