The treacherous organ just wouldn't yield. Thorin is staring at the ceiling, clenching teeth and futilely attempting to ignore the raging erection. The tent of his covers is hard to disregard though, the malevolent appendage even dares to slightly twitch demanding attention.

The first one woke him up just before dawn. Half asleep, with the licentious images from him dream still floating in his mind, he slowly and lavishly brought himself to release. Sleep came readily afterwards, with her soft and warm body easy to image curled up into his side.

The second one woke him up an hour later, the first noises of the morning bursting outside. He squeezed his eyes, evoked his favourite fantasy of plunging into her from behind and with quick jerky strokes he satisfied his hunger. Drowsiness heavily pressed on him after that, and he allowed himself some more half-sleep, half peevish grouching.

What is he supposed to do with the third one? He has no desire to give in every time his body decided to succumb to lewd cravings. He is not a mindless youngling to roll over and spend hours exercising his imagination and playing with himself. He growls. Even naming it in his head feels humiliating.

It had never before been a problem, urges appeared, the problem was dealt with. He is a grown-up Dwarf and it is natural. As older dwarves say, wait for a wife and practice your swording. After one night with her his body is railing, the salacious memories and even more colourful fantasies leaving him hardly functional.

The first moon of the three she imposed on him was easy. Mahal help him, he even thought her wise! Preparation were to be made, thoughts to be organized, pleasant memories to go back to. Occasionally, within the borders of sanity. He felt proud and maybe just a little smug thinking of their night together. He performed well, if her soft cries and grateful looks were any indication.

After a moon and a half the pleasant memories have become a haunting nightmare. His body and mind in a conspiracy against him, everything arounds him reminds of her. The fabrics of his clothes, the texture of food, the pillow, the covers, she is everywhere, her body, her skin, her breasts, her folds… Mahal, help him!

Thorin grabs his already oversensitive shaft and hisses. Is it possible to be in pain and aroused at the same time? Apparently, yes. He closes his eyes and wills the memories. Let us just get it over with. But his mind plays an even dirtier trick. Instead of an almost impersonal set of curves and folds, the traitorous memory shows him the healer, fully dressed, laughing, her head dropped back in unrestrained merriment. That day he was visiting his warriors in the infirmary and found her sitting at the end of a bed. She is laughing at an unknown joke, her curls bouncing, hazel eyes sparkly, and she is pressing her palm to her perky little breasts.

Right, good, concentrate on the breasts. Stop pining and deal with the problem at hand. Thorin cringes. He hates puns. The healer loves puns. Once he overheard her saying she was short of necessary skills to reach a high shelf. She gave a sweet little giggle after that and blushed.

Thorin rolls on his stomach and moans into the pillow. Stop it, how old are you? You are turning two hundred next year, and the next thing you are going to do is writing songs about her smiles. Breasts and buttocks, think of those, release the tension and get up! The forges reconstruction is falling behind the schedule, the trade treaty with Dale needs revision, Balin wanted to have a discussion of some new maps of Khazad-dum found in the library.

Thorin starts going through the errands of the day, his arousal and the healer forgotten. He notices a parchment of the floor, it rolled off the table last night and gets up to look it over again. Mindlessly getting dressed, he is busy planning ahead but then halts and allows himself one little weakness. The calendar is on the table and he indulges himself. One glance. There are twenty seven days left till the autumnal equinox.