I wrote this one-shot quite a while ago, while pondering this version of Thorin and Wren; but then I realized it doesn't quite fit into the structure of the story. Read it if you want to get a better idea of their characters and their relationship in this version of my pairing.
They left the noise of the wedding feast behind them, and slowly walked to the chamber that was to become their bedroom from now on. They held hands, their fingers intertwined, and he rubbed the inside of her wrist with his thumb. She leaned onto his shoulder, with a soft smile on her lips, while he was opening the door.
The fireplace was alight, and there were candles on the table. The window was half open, letting the crisp air of the Autumn dusk in. She walked in first, and he followed closing the door behind him softly.
The bed was unmade, covers taken off, and folded on a stool near it, and he sat in the foot of the bed, while she was busy with drawing the curtains on the window.
"So, here we are..." he slowly pronounced, and heard her snort, her back turned to him. He smiled from how familiar this sound was. She then walked up to the bed and sat near him.
"Indeed. Here we are. Do you like it? Mother helped me to choose the linens." He leaned in and pressed his nose to hers. She squinted like a cat.
"I haven't noticed the linens." She giggled, and rubbed the tip of the nose to his.
"You will soon." The slanted amber coloured eyes opened, and he leaned in and caught her mouth.
This part was familiar. She would heat up quickly in his arms, lose all her inhibitions. Kisses on the neck made her gasp and drop her head back. She leaned into his palm when he would cup her face, and she often kissed the inside of his wrist. She was kindred, and simple to understand, and so very exciting. They both twisted, now facing each other, and he felt her fingers impatiently pull at the buttons of his doublet. And then she dove in, and he felt her teeth graze his jaw, scraping the beard. That was new, and he drew a breath in.
She cupped his jaw, her lips moved on the neck, and then leaped up, to his ear. She was suddenly demanding, and confident, and he liked this Wren too. He felt her warm mouth on the helix, and then the lobe. His hands had already wandered to her breasts, over the embroidered bodice of her wedding dress, and he squeezed, enjoying the softness.
"I do not want to do it in the tunic..." she suddenly hotly whispered in his ear, and he moved away and looked into her eyes. They were burning, hungry.
"They gave me a wedding night tunic. It's long and lacy. To the floor. So you can't see anything." There were red spots burning on her cheeks. "I want you to see me."
"I do want to see you," he agreed, and pressed his lips to her cheek. "I want to see everything..."
"Have you done it before?" There was a bit less nettle to her voice in this question, and he kissed the cheek again, moving to the cheekbones he enjoyed so much. He could feel the blush under his lips.
"Nay, I've never done it before."
"That is a joyless life you've had there, Master Dwarf." It took him almost a second to understand that she had just mocked him, and he look into her face. She was smiling widely, and then she tilted her head and gave him an impish look.
"Aye," he agreed lightly. "I can't argue with that." They both laughed, and she wrapped her arms around his neck.
"Well, then… How much do you know about it?"
He burst into another bout of laughter from her business like tone.
"I doubt it is that hard to fathom, my little bird. People have been doing it since the dawn of time."
She made a small mocking noise, puffing her cheeks and exhaling through rounded lips.
"Anything can be botched up." She sat up straighter now and pulled at the buttons of his doublet again, her eyes on her fingers. "And from what Mother told me, it's only called 'carnal pleasures.' Nothing she hinted on sounded promising." She was done with the buttons and pushed the doublet off his shoulders. He moved his arms helping her. She folded it and carefully placed it on the stool with the covers.
"Well, not the first time probably, but there is a reason why people return to it," he tentatively offered, and she sighed.
"I truly wish you have done it before. It would be less unnerving now." He couldn't hold back a surprised chuckle. For him, as a Dwarf, this idea was endlessly foreign. He always wanted everything he possessed to be only his, untouched. Like she was - fresh and pure, like a spring water running, unmarred, and crisp.
"I'm sure I will do just fine without practicing in advance," he jested, and she gave him some unreadable look, sighed again, and turned on the bed, her back to him. He saw the lacing of the bodice, and started carefully undoing the dark blue ribbon pulled through the eyelets.
To help him, she lifted the heavy mane of her copper curls, and he saw the gentle curve of the neck, round little bones, and the small curls falling on the nape. He halted, and leaned in, and placed a small gentle kiss underneath the hairline. And then another one. She didn't move but he could see goosebumps run her pale skin.
The lacing was open, and he carefully pushed it to the sides and ahead. She shimmied her shoulders, and then she rose off the bed, still without facing him, and pushed the dress down on the floor. There was another skirt underneath, and it followed, heaping on the floor. His eyes ran her slender figure under the lace in a cloud around it.
When she turned, her saw how widened her eyes were. The cheeks were flaming.
"I am supposed to go the bathchamber to change in the tunic now."
"Please, don't." He stretched a hand to her, and she placed her fingers in his. "Come, my heart."
He pulled her close, and she was on his lap. The undergarments were of tender light blue, just like the dress, but thin and gauzy. Some sort of a tunic, down to her hips, and bloomers, reaching mid thigh. When she sat, he saw the lace edge up, baring more of her milky skin. There were no stockings, and he rubbed the nearest knee. The skin was cold.
"Besides what Mother told me, and what girls whisper, I don't know anything about it either… which you, of course, know from the parchment..." Her fingers danced on the collar of his tunic.
"What parchment?" he asked distractedly. There was so little fabric between them that he suddenly felt in rush to shed his waistcoat and trousers that felt restricting and heavy.
"The one from the midwife. Didn't you see it, with other papers you sighed?"
He tore his eyes off the pale skin of her knees and looked at her in confusion. He, of course, had looked through all the papers her Father had given him. Thorin was of the Khazad and took contracts and terms and conditions seriously. The papers were, predictably, different from what a Dwarven family would issue. He felt some vague unease of how much what he sighed reminded him of the agreement one would expect when buying a horse, or a boat. He had sighed plenty of these for now, but didn't expect to see similar words under her name.
"I saw one about your health," he felt almost irked when mentioning it - he hadn't read it, respecting her privacy - to rid himself from the unpleasant feeling, he stuck his nose into her neck, under the copper curls. They smelled of some sweet flowers. "We should undress..."
She nodded, a soft wave of orange brushed at his cheek, and he felt her shift and start on the clasps on his waistcoat.
"It wasn't about my health. The midwife came in the morning to witness my purity. You have not read it, clearly."
He once again moved back and looked into her face. He couldn't understand why she insisted on talking about it. He knew she was a maiden. He would take her either way, but one would need to be a madman to doubt her innocence.
She sighed and opened his waistcoat. He was still sitting, without moving, feeling somewhat lost, when she muttered, "It hurt..."
"When she… She had to make sure, and she wasn't gentle." Her words were almost inaudible, and he finally understood what this talk was all about.
"I will be gentle," he promised earnestly, and she lifted her eyes at him.
"Thank you." He smiled to her, and she crawled off him and to the center of the bed.
He shook the waistcoat off, and after a moment of consideration he unbuckled his belt. His fingers lay on the strings of his trousers, but he hesitated.
"Do you want me to do it?" she asked, and he suddenly saw her eyes intently following his movements. That was surely unnerving.
"Have you even see a bare man?" he asked, struggling through the rasp of his suddenly scratchy voice.
"Aye. My younger brothers. I give them baths at night," she answered, still staring at his crotch. He wondered if she'd get offended if he asked her to stop.
"That wouldn't be the same."
"I imagine not." She suddenly giggled and met his eyes. "I do possess imagination and estimation skills, and I have sat on your lap before."
He chuckled and decided it was time to get onto the business. He hastily took off the trousers - since she was still staring, making him uncomfortable - only thin breeches now left on him.
"You should take the shirt off as well." Her tone was nonchalant, and he threw her a surprised look. That wouldn't be a common proceeding, would it? There was no undertunic on him. The day was warm, and he did know how his day was to end.
He felt suddenly merry. "As my lady wishes," he muttered, and saw her square her shoulders.
"The lady wishes to see," she answered in an haughty tone, and then her face broke into a wide grin.
He shook his head in amusement, and pulled the shirt off. She was still unabashedly staring, her gaze now roaming his chest. He moved higher to the head of the bed as well, and realised she was now staring at the sheet they were sitting on.
"Are we to lie under it?" she asked, and traced a flower embroidered on it with her finger.
"If you wish." She pulled at a corner and stuck her legs under it.
"It would probably be less scary that way." She was sliding under the sheet, when he quickly moved and snatched the hem of her undertunic. She looked down at his hand.
"I thought you didn't want to stay dressed," he aimed for a light tone, and with pleasure saw blush spill first on the cheek, then colour the long neck, and the cleavage, her pale skin gaining rosy tone.
The turn up nose twitched, and she chewed at her bottom lip. And then she wiggled, slid lower, only her head sticking out from under it. There was more rummaging, and suddenly he was presented with the view of her bloomers dangling on her finger.
"May I undress under the sheet?" she asked, but he couldn't be sure he heard right. He was busy staring at the blue piece of lace.
He coughed and nodded jerkily.
The bloomers were unceremoniously dropped on the sheet near him - he poked them with his finger, mesmerised - and she twisted her body some more, like a weasel in a sack, and soon pulled the undershirt out. She was pressing the sheet to her breasts. He took the tunic out of her hand, and threw it on the floor.
"Come," she said softly, and he lifted the sheet, catching a glimpse of the marble white hip; and as soon as he lay down, she moved into him, pressing her body flush into his. She pressed her face in the pillow near his ear, and whispered, "It's less scary in one go."
He shifted his weight, rolling her on her back, without pressing on her, and kissed her. He wasn't sure which one of them two needed it more. She embraced him, one arm around his neck, and he felt the fingers of the second one graze his ribs. He jerked, and she chuckled into his lips. He decided he was entitled to return the favour, and slid his left hand down her body, and cupped the breast.
He didn't expect the reaction that followed. She raspily groaned, and arched, pressing into his palm. He felt her lips twist under his, her breath trembling. That was certainly a favourable reaction. He squeezed gently, rubbing the peak with his thumb, and another moan followed.
She whispered something, and he moved down, kissing her neck now.
"What?" he asked, without thinking, but she didn't answer. He felt her writhe, the long legs shifted under the sheet.
His hands wandered, lips followed, and he sort of lost the understanding of what he was doing and how she was reacting. All that was left was the silky skin under his palms and his mouth, and the smell of her skin, and the taste. He shifted, diving under the sheet with his head, and tasted between the breasts, and then the stomach. And she gasped loudly, and muscles moved under his lips.
He had seen bare women before, but it mattered not now. Each inch of his journey was new and exciting, and then his lips hovered over the curls between her legs, and he saw the soft, dark auburn coils, and pressed his mouth over them. The flavour filled his mouth, and his mind fogged.
She was breathing heavily, and he tentatively stuck his tongue and tasted some more. And then he realised that she was quiet, and rigid. He lifted his head, the sheet tenting on it, and looked at her.
She lay, her eyes squeezed tightly, teeth sunk into the bottom lip, and hands fisted around bunches of the sheet under her.
"Wren," he called, and for some reason she shook her head violently. The curls had escaped the do by now, and thrashed around her face. "Nay? What nay?"
The slanted eyes flew open, giant and tense, pupils immense and bottomless.
"Nay what?" she asked, her voice just as scratchy as his.
He crawled up, and lay near her, his head on the same pillow. She didn't move closer as he expected. He cupped her jaw and gently turned her face towards him.
"Wren, what is it?"
She blinked purposefully, and worried the bottom lip again.
"Mother said not to interrupt… and not to complain. She said once a man starts..." She twitched her nose in clear emotional discomfort. "She said a man would know what to do after that. And she said… She was crying too, as if it surely would be horrible."
"Was it horrible?" He doubted it was, but her tense face was alarming him. "Did you not like what I was doing?"
"I don't know..." she answered in a small voice. "It wasn't… supposed to be like this, was it? That is not… That is not what they mean when they say about a man taking a woman's body." She looked embarrassed and confused, and he tenderly brushed his thumb to the corner of her lips.
"Nay, I suppose not. But I just did what I wanted." He didn't like how defensive he sounded. "If you didn't like it, we can try something else." He expected her to rush to reassure him, but she frowned, in actuality pondering it!
"It is just… hard to think when you touch me so much. And I am… worried about what happens next, and what you will… do. I hated when the midwife touched me. It felt… cruel." Her brows twitched, and lips pressed tightly.
He didn't know what to say. He wanted to touch her, and he wanted to touch her so that she enjoyed it. It was a simple and piercing feeling. Expressing it eloquently as she apparently required was quite a different matter.
"I liked it… at the beginning," she stammered. "It's just… I keep thinking how it will hurt later, and I want for it to already... pass..." she trailed away, and blushed even more brightly.
And then she rushed ahead, and tightly hugged him around his neck, and even her leg went around his. He returned the embrace, pressing her into him. Her soft hair tickled his nose, and he breathed in the fragrance.
She found his lips, somewhat shyly, and they bussed for some time. He was again noticing less and less, intoxicated by the taste, and the caresses of her lips, already familiar, quickly growing confident, and increasingly more greedy, and then she splayed her hands on his chest, and caught his bottom lip between her teeth. He unconsciously tightened the grip on the delicate shoulder he'd been stroking, his body shuddering.
And then one of her small hands slid down, onto his stomach, and even lower, and cupped his member, already erect. And then she squeezed! He jerked, and some odd noise rolled in his throat. His head swam, and his hips jumped, pressing into her hand. She stroked, the little strong fingers ran the length, and he groaned demandingly, pleading for more.
And then the hand abandoned him - he mumbled something, not being able to remember a single word - but then he felt both her hands on the waist of his breeches. The short nails scraped at his skin, and then she tugged.
"Wait, let me..." he rasped, and lifted his hips off the bed. She pulled, the fabric snatched at his member, and he groaned. He battered her hands off the breeches, and pulled them off. For that he had to half rise, and the sheet slid, and she grabbed the end, and pulled towards her frantically, trying to cover her breasts.
They both were disheveled, pulling at two ends of the sheet, his breeches and her bloomers suddenly between them, and he grabbed them, crumpled the offensive garments, and hurled them somewhere to the wall.
When he turned back to her, she had the sheet up to her nose, and the eyes were squinted, and he didn't understand it right away, but she was snorting, shaking with laughter, and he flopped on the bed near her, and started grabbing her under the sheets, sloppily on purpose, making her wriggle and squeal.
And while she seemed distracted, he rolled her under him. And before she could sober up and say something - because her verbosity could discourage the most aroused of men - he kissed her firmly and deeply, and pressed his hips into hers.
Contrary to his expectations, she didn't jerk, and didn't freeze. She shifted her legs under him, freeing the right one caught under his weight, and her knees spread, accommodating him. He felt the tender skin of inside of her thighs brush at his hips.
How to proceed was clear. How to do it the right way - was not.
A narrow cool palm lay at the back of his neck, and their eyes meet. She smiled to him, and nodded, giving the permission he didn't know he was asking for, and he shifted his hips, clumsily, and pressed the tip of his organ to her folds. They were hot, and silky, and slick - and he pushed in. She sank her nails into his shoulders, he halted, but then went on, spreading her tightness, his head spinning from the pressure, and the heat, and the feeling of her small body underneath him.
His tip pressed into an obstacle, and he remembered it would hurt, and he wanted to protect her from the pain, but there was nothing to be done, and he caught her mouth, and thrust, breaking through in one sharp movement.
She cried out shriekily, and then sobbed, twisting her face from under his. He was breathing in loud sharp exhales, and he tried to focus on her face, and saw tears, filling the widened eyes, running down the temples, into the small fiery curls.
The red lips were trembling, twisting, and he saw muscles dance on her narrow jaw, as she was trying to take her crying under control. He kissed the lips, and then the cheeks, and the lids of the eyes she closed making tears spill.
He was muddled, hardly keeping his body in check, but he needed to take care of her. He wouldn't be able to move his arms, his elbows were pressed into the sheet, and felt unmovable. And he couldn't think of anything else but to nuzzle her ear in some strange gesture. He needed her to talk to him - and maybe to reassure him.
"It hurts..." she whispered, and then exhaled deeply through rounded lips, blinking purposefully, shaking tears off her lashes. "What an unfair arrangement..."
"I'm sorry, my heart..." he whispered, and kissed her wet cheek. "Is it better now?"
He wanted to move, he craved it. His body was demanding to rid it of the tension, and the hunger, and her quim pulsated, squeezing him, and it was maddening! But he gritted his teeth, holding himself back.
"I don't know… Aye..." She smiled a shaky smile, and then lifted her head, and caught his mouth in a clumsy kiss. From the shift of her hips, some sort of a battle horn loudly hollered in his mind.
And then she petted his back, with a tense palm, in a somewhat childish gesture.
"It is better," she spoke softly, and cupped his face. "Please… You may move..."
He leaned in and kissed her, with a relief and gratitude, and then tentatively rolled his hips. He had been right, the mechanics weren't difficult to fathom - and then he stopped noting and worrying, and his body took the reins, and he let it.
He couldn't remember anything after, and then the pleasure exploded in his mind. Like fire, spreading from the loins, through the whole body, through muscles, and veins, in a trickle of molten iron through his spine, and his head filled with cymbals and drums and some hissing and clanking, and he fell on her, his head heavy, and his neck flaccid. His hands were shaking, and the air was escaping his lungs with a sound like from leaking forge bellows. He tried to close his mouth to stop panting so loudly, but it helped little, since instead there was now some whistling coming out of his nose, and he realised it was squished to the side.
"Let me go, please..." He heard her small squeaky voice, and he rolled off, hissing and groaning, when his member slid out of her. He flopped on his back, feeling every muscle quiver in his body, and stared at the ceiling.
She moved, the bed shook, and then he heard the sound of bare feet pattering on the floor. He screwed his eyes, since the neck still wasn't working, and saw her disappear in the bath chamber, the sheet wrapped around her. He looked down his body; and indeed he was bare, spread on the bed, and uncovered.
And there was blood on his member. There were streaks of it on the inside of the thighs as well, not too much. He remembered that she was probably still in pain, and he groaned and sat up.
"Wren?" he called after her, and she stuck the head out of the door. She was most endearing, with the orange curls sticking around her head. She smiled to him - he exhaled in relief, she didn't look pained or displeased - and suddenly he didn't know what to say and just grinned back to her. She disappeared in the bath chamber again. There was the sound of water being poured, and she showed up with a basin.
She settled it on the bed, and he saw water and a cloth slosh in it. She busily picked the cloth up and squeezed water out of it.
"Do you want me to..?" she pointed at his member with her eyes, and he saw her tear her gaze off it with difficulty. "Or you will..."
He stretched the hand to her and she gave him the cloth. While he was cleaning, she walked around the bed, the sheet dragging behind her. She climbed up, tangled in it, and finally sat leaning on the headboard, the sheet and covers arranged around her. He moved the basin off the bed and joined her. His hip pressed to hers, and she smiled to him.
"May I touch your hair now?" she asked, and he tilted his head, pushing it to her, like a pony would. She snorted and threaded her fingers in it. She was gentle, but purposeful, running fingers through it. It was very calming, and his head was growing heavy, and he yawned.
"This is new," she muttered, and he hummed questioningly. His eyes had apparently closed, and he didn't notice. "This braid..." He felt her pick up the thick one, behind his right ear, and twirl it in her fingers.
If he weren't that sleepy, he'd feel embarrassed. Mostly, because he knew that if she tried, she'd cajole the explanation out of him. So, he shifted, and slid down in the bed, and settled his head on her lap, wrapping his arm around her. The warm pale thigh was in front of his face, and he rubbed his nose to it. She continued playing with his hair, occasionally running the tips of her fingers to the helix of his ear.
The braid was a wedding one. It was to be weaved at his wedding feast, and decorated with the bead with the bride's runes. He had braided it in the morning, when getting dressed for the ceremony, and clasped it with a simple clay bead he'd bought on a whim in one of the travels. The gesture was sentimental, and carried no real significance now. The wedding wasn't by Dwarven customs, and his bride had no family runes. He felt almost foolish, and maudlin, and hid even from himself how his fingers would stray to it during the feast.
Some lazy thoughts wormed into his mind, of the weddings he had attended in the Blue Mountains, of how he now would never pronounce the words of the Dwarven marriage oath, and how it was ludicrous of him to place mawkish importance on this gesture known only to him, and not even executed properly.
Feeling irked and suddenly fully awake, he rolled on his back, and the locks she was stroking slid out of her fingers. She looked down at him and smiled.
He lifted his hand and stroked her soft cheek with the tips of his fingers. She leaned into his hand, just like she always did, and he suddenly remembered that she was his wife now. And braids, and beads, and words didn't matter. And everything was very simple, and good, and right.
"How are you faring, wife?" He couldn't think of anything better than this laughable, half-baked line, but she didn't seem to mind and smiled to him widely.
"Quite well." She sounded merry, her cheeks were rosy, and she was all warm, and glowing, and all his, and he forgot what it was he had been feeling distressed about just a moment ago. "There is just… This one thing Mother said as well." It couldn't possibly be anything bad, since her eyes were shining impishly. He smirked and lifted a brow questioningly. "She said I might have to... endure your attentions more than once." He snortled, and she grinned wider. "Up to three times, she threatened me… What a nightmare..."
She was interrupted by him deftly rolling on the bed and jerking her down and under him. She emitted a happy squeal, and he growled and loudly and sloppily kissed her shoulder. Her jolly giggling was most rewarding.
"I have to warn you, my little bird. Your mother might have underestimated the torture ahead of you." He wiggled his eyebrows, feeling happy and young, and pressed his already erect member into her.
"Maiar help me, how will I cope?" she sing-songed and licked her lips, with some predatory glimmer in her eyes. He guffawed and caught her mouth.