The door to your chambers opens with a bang into the other wall, and the picture beyond imagination is presented to your eyes. Your King, Thorin Oakenshield, the son of Thráin II and the grandson of King Thrór, the proudest and most honourable warrior in the Kingdom under the Mountain, is standing on your threshold covered in bright yellow slime. Head to toe. It is oozing down, large glops falling on the floor, his hair and face covered. His blazing blue eyes are glaring, the mire obviously hastily wiped of the top half of his face. He is incontestably furious. The jaws are clenched, his hands in fists, the chest under the armour heaving. That is as much as you can assume that he is wearing the armour, he is covered rather uniformly.
You are his Queen, his counselor and wise enough to suppress your hysterics, but he is a side-splitting picture. You school your face into concern, "My Lord, whatever happened?" He grits his teeth and after swallowing his initial answer he speaks in an enraged muted tone, "Bog troll". He stomps into the bedchambers, leaving richly coloured footprints behind him. You let him pass and stay behind for a few seconds not trusting your composure to survive a huffing and puffing Heir of Durin.
The goo dripping from him is thick and vivid in colour, green and yellow leaves peeking through, swamp debris adorning his head. "Do not presume I do not see your merriment, my Lady", you hear the venomous, mockingly polite snarl and bite your lower lip harder, "I am only glad I can provide some amusement to my Queen". You hear pieces of armour being rudely discarded on the floor. You contain your snickering and enter the bedchamber.
You King has taken off his boots, mail and protective legwear, and is angrily struggling with the vest. You come closer and wrinkle your nose. The smell is puissant. It is not the worst of stenches, just stale swamp water and rotten leaves, but your floors are already stained and clammy, and you do not desire to soil your hands. You gingerly move your foot away from one of the gobs on the floor. This morning you took a long indulgent bath, after cordially bidding your King goodbye when he was leaving for patrol. Three times. You were sated, spent the rest of the morning with a book and were considering a long walk to the forest to gather herbs. Handling an enraged Dwarf thoroughly submerged into mucilaginous swamp, and judging by the rage probably caused by humiliation, none other way but headfirst, means you have to shake off the languidness and navigate the tricky waters that are the pride and the temper of Thorin, son of Thráin. He jerks his vest off and pulls at the strings at his shirt. You are still standing by the wall, cowardly avoiding any meddling.
Once when you were just a child your Mother told you her secret to thriving in a union with a man. And she knew what she was talking about. She managed to build a life with the most prideful and mercurial man you have ever met in your life. "Admire, console and dote," she was jesting but her eyes were momentarily melancholic, "and expect nothing less in return". She was a prideful woman herself, handling your Father's trade after his departure with an iron will. She was respected and admired but she never let anyone console and dote over her when he was gone, still sleeping in his robe ten years after his passing. Thinking of your parents' destiny you suddenly feel like a deserter. You step ahead and take the strings from your King's hands. He lifts his eyes at you and the crease between his brows softens out. You pull the shirt over his head and throw it behind you without looking. You then throw a cover over his shoulders, the bog slime is revoltingly cold, and smile to him.
"I'll draw you a bath, my Lord". You walk into the adjoin chamber and pull the lever. Installed according to your own designs, the hot water chute starts filling the immense tub. You add herbs and essences into the scalding water and return into the bedchamber. It is empty. You see your King's armour, picked up and neatly put on a table. The storm has been averted.
He steps back in the room rubbing his hair with the cover, trying to remove the slime. "I sent for my armour and clothes to be cleaned and the floors mopped," he still sounds peevish but the gesture attests to his irritation subsiding and also his desire to please you. He knows how much you detest untidiness in your chambers. He drops any attempts to clean himself and walks by you to the bath chambers.
You notice that all your King is wearing is the cover wrapped around his lower part with one corner, which he used to cleanse his hair, now dragging behind him like a train. You choke on a giggle but straighten your face under a suspicious sideglare from your King. You follow and just cannot hold it any more, you step on the long sad end of the cover. Your King is stark naked and slowly turning to face you. You lift your brows, feigning innocence, "You do not need clothes in a bath, my melhekh." Suddenly it dawns on you that there stands the proud Heir of Durin in front of you in all his naked glory, broad delectable shoulders and chest, stormy black brows and large calloused hands. Your mind plummets down into your gutter. "I would not play with me right now, zundush," his choice of words is only spurring your awakening lust, "I have had a rather unpleasant day."
"Then let me mend it," your voice is low and inviting. You point at the tub and he sinks into the fragrant water. You dote. You start with your favourite part. You unbraid his hair, take out the heavy beads and put them into a bowl specifically placed on the side table for it. With the essence of soapbark, Silverleaf and Grass-of-Parnassus you wash the ebony and sterling strands of your King. They are sliding through your fingers, thick and heavy. Washing them is the most intimate pleasure. You weave your hands into the mass of black ink, tenderly untangle and caress, thoroughly tending to the luscious length and then proceed to massage his scalp. A low raspy moan you elicit out of your King revertebrates through you and you have to shift on the short stool you are sitting on.
Oh, the raven mane of Thorin Oakenshield! It turns you into a malleable, feeble-minded, mumbling nimwit. A libidinous nimwit that is. He relaxes under your ministrations and drops his head back at the edge of the tub. You carefully lift his head and put another rolled up cloth under it. Doting, check!
You wash his upper body with soaped cloth. Moving to the sides of the tub you massage the shoulders and lifting the heavy arms, you meticulously knead the biceps, forearms and wrists and intertwine your fingers with his, pressing at the pulse point and attend the joints. You slide back on your stool behind where he is leaning on the tub and smooth your hands over the shoulders and the hard muscles of his chest. Leaning ahead you tread your fingers through the thick black chest hair and slightly bite on his right earlobe. His throaty chuckle vibrates through your breasts pressed into his shoulders. "You seem rather distracted from your initial pursuit, my azyungel," his velvety voice is lazy and leisurely. "How can I not be, my Lord?" you catch his earlobe between your lips again and sensually caress it with the tip of your tongue. The ear reddens, with colour rapidly spreading down the neck. "I have a majestic King under my hands." The low rumble in his chest sounds suspiciously reminiscent of purring. Admiring, check!
You get up and walk around the tub. He is lying back, his eyes closed, shoulders relaxed, hands resting on the edge of the tub. You pour some wine in a goblet and place it in his hand. He slightly opens his eyes, smiles at you and takes a long sip. As most of his race he prefers ale and occasional cordials, he only picked up the habit of drinking wine with you. It also intoxicates him quicker, makes him more talkative, and together with hot bath and massage, his usual restrained facade wavers. Lazy smile is playing in his face, cheeks flushed, eyes half-lidded.
"I am only relieved you are uninjured, my King," you settle on the edge of the tub. He sighs and takes another long drink. You slide one hand in the tub and under the suds you slowly rub his right knee occasionally slipping your palm higher and higher up his thigh. He hums in appreciation. The knee bears an old injury and you know that the slow circular motions soothe the dull pain that undoubtedly awoke from running knee deep in cold swamp water. You stop for a second to refill his empty goblet and go back to your attentions.
"Are all your scouts unharmed?" You alternate between tight circles around the knee and increasingly bolder movements along the thigh. "The witless beast was sluggish and slow, it just shook us off and fled," the muscles under your hand twitch as you scrape your nails on the inside of his upper leg. You smirk and pull the once again empty goblet out of his hand. You lean and continuing your actions with the left hand you lower your face to him and place a soft kiss on his lips. His eyes fly open and a big warm hand grabs the side of your face. Strong fingers gently wrap around the corner of your jaw, the palm so large that while the thumb is caressing your cheeks, his other fingers shoot a jolt of electricity in the nape of your neck. You moan into the kiss and the second hand grabs your middle. You realize what comes next but have no time to protest and just brace yourself.
He pulls you into the tub and encircles you into the tight embrace, his mouth hot and demanding, the beard scratching deliciously, every inch of him exquisitely firm and scorching under your palms. You are lying on him, your dress and hair rapidly soaking, bursts of careless laughter erupting from your chest. You push up on one arm, almost unintentionally pressing your pelvis down into his swelling erection. "I am very relieved you are unscathed, my Lord," the shift of the hips is deliberate though. "And I am thankful that you let the beast go, as repulsive as they are, they are hardly maleficent," you are stroking his ego while the tips of your fingers stroke the side of his face. The King gives you a courteous nod and then pulls you back down. Consoling, check!
After a few scrumptious minutes of kissing, groping, nibbling and splashing, your King climbs out of a bath, supporting your weight on one of his arms, your legs wrapped around his waist, hands buried into the wet onyx mane. Striding into the bedchamber in a few long steps, he throws you on the bed and with a predatory gleam in his eyes he slides his hands up your legs and pulls on your undergarments. And you know that you can expect all the admiration, doting and consoling in the world in return!