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lathalea · 4 years ago

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I posted 3629 times in 2021

346 posts created (10%)

3283 posts reblogged (90%)

For every post I created, I reblogged 9.5 posts.

I added 7632 tags in 2021

#the hobbit - 1817 posts

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#thorin oakenshield - 1218 posts

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Longest Tag: 79 characters

#try creating some original stuff on your own and you’ll see how much fun it is!

My Top Posts in 2021

It's spring, and it's a Thorin Thursday, so I thought we deserve some floral crowns and majestic vibes :) Happy Thorin Thursday! 💙💙💙 Tagging @fizzyxcustard @gwen-ever @sherala007 @anjhope1 @tacosockos @thewarriorandtheking and everyone else who's celebrating this day! Also, If you know the name of the artist, please let me know, I'd love to credit them.

231 notes • Posted 2021-05-06 13:06:24 GMT

All Is Fair in Love and Trade – Part 9/10

Relationships: Thorin x Reader Rating: E Warnings: despair, anger, angst, smut, long chapter again, Mahal help me

For @gwen-ever 💙 Thank you for your help, support, inspo and everything else, this story wouldn't be the same without you 💙

💙 The amazing @jentaculargums created something special - a sketch of Ragna (and Thorin) at the feast. Thank you so much! 💙 If you haven't seen it yet, check it out, do you recognize the gown?

💙 Special thanks to @joyfullynervouscreator for coining in the phrase "Dain's apple" (I'm not sure the dwarves know who Adam is). If you have a moment, check out her fics, they are a great read with a ton of masterful Tolkienesque worldbuilding. 💙 Last but not least, extra special thanks to the wonderfully cheeky @guardianofrivendell who bravely cheered on me every week. Thank you so much! 💙 (P.S. I learned my lesson, I know, I can't count chapters! 🤣🤣🤣) Please check out Guardian's masterlist if you feel like reading more fics from Middle Earth (especially if you like handsome dwarves from the line of Durin like we do).

Here I want to thank you all for following this story since day one, commenting, liking and reblogging it, writing all those lovely messages of support and being super patient with me. It has been a wonderful adventure and your feedback means a lot to me. I'm sending you a big virtual (and socially distanced) hug! 💙 Thank you again for participating with my little poll - I hope this chapter (along with the previous one) is what you wished for when you voted. I really enjoyed being able to incorporate your wishes into the fic! :) And now, I give you the final* chapter of Thorin and Ragna's story (aka idiots in love). Enjoy! 💙 * - I'm really sorry, but there will be an epilogue, too. Bear with me ;)

Khuzdul phrases/names: Zunshanushê - my tiny songbird Melhekhel - King of (all) kings Kaminzabdûna - Yavanna Kheled-zâram - (Mirrormere) the lake in the valley of Azanulbizar visited by Durin himself

* * * All Is Fair in Love and Trade, part 9/10

Thorin Oakenshield broke your heart. Scratch that. You let him break it. But this is where you draw the line. You have enough of the memories that constantly haunt you by day, enough of the vivid dreams that descend upon you by night. And enough of the overbearing King who thinks that he is so entitled that he can tell you what you are allowed and not allowed to do, and with whom. Enough. This is where it ends.

Not wanting to waste time, you quickly leave the Main Hall of Erebor behind you, along with all the guests and their astonished glances. A three-pronged corridor stretches out in front of you and to the sides, its meticulously carved green marble floors glistening in the warm light of the lamps that illuminate them, yet another example of dwarven ingenuity. But now, you have no time to admire the skill of Ereborean master builders and engineers. You have to find that self-important King Under the Mountain.

“Thorin!” you exclaim, but only echo responds. There is no trace of him anywhere.

Is there…? You notice a movement in the corner of your eye and turn to the right. Something dark disappears around the corner. Without thinking, you follow it as fast as you can, ignoring the pressure you feel in your temples. You will worry about your headache later. You turn to the right, to the right again, and then to the left - and there he is, his black cloak flowing after him as he storms ahead, his heavy steps echoing against the stone of his Mountain.

“You! Don’t you dare to walk away like this!” you shout after him, but he continues to put distance between you, not even slowing down. “Do you hear me?!”

It takes the King a few strides to reach the top of a small staircase. Quickly you follow him, your eyes rest on his broad back, observing his every move, exactly like his eyes did when you were dancing with Captain Dwalin.

“We are done, Lady Ragna. Leave. Now.” his words are like daggers aimed straight at your heart.

“Not before you answer me! Why did you invite me here? To torment me more?” “You are asking why I invited you?! Do you not know?!” he snarls. Pompous goat.

“I was forced to come here! Was what happened in the Iron Hills not enough? And now you think you can dictate my every move?! You have no right, you cold-hearted selfish bastard!” you lash out, your gaze boring into the back of his head, your voice trembling.

He suddenly stops in his tracks, and you can see how his shoulders stiffen under the fur lining of his cloak. But then you realize that your words were not the reason why he stopped walking.

Ahead of the infuriating dwarf there is a large, impressively carved stone column encrusted with gold, along with the legendary seat of the Kings of Erebor. You are in the throne room, and behind you there is the suspended green marble walkway leading up to the throne you are facing. Thorin Oakenshield’s throne.

He is standing in front of it, and you see how he fists his hands and raises his gaze above the throne. A jewel of unsurpassable beauty glitters there, surrounded by golden ornaments that emphasize its otherworldly glow. You are looking at the Arkenstone. The King’s jewel.

The King Under the Mountain lowers his gaze, the pale cool light of the Arkenstone dancing along the sharp lines of his crown. The dwarf who once held you in his arms every night now doesn’t even wish to look at you. Instead, he rests his hands firmly on the sides of the throne, his wide back slightly arched. From where you are standing, you can see how white his knuckles are.

“Leave! Get out of my Mountain!” he growls in a low voice as if he were a feral animal.

You swallow hard, feeling a lump growing in your throat.

Blinking away the tears that start pooling in your eyes, you say, “So first you make me come to Erebor and now you want me to get out of your sight?!”

“You heard me well enough!” he roars. “You were kind enough to inform Dwalin that I could die with a frown on my face! That settles the matter! I want you gone from this place! ” Your heart skips a beat and once again you curse yourself for your emotional outburst. Damn. So these words reached his ears. Was that all he heard? You press your hand to your aching temple. “I said that because you were acting like a spoiled child! I dared to dance with someone else at the feast you invited me to, your majesty,” you make sure to say his title with disdain in your voice, “And it was all you needed to throw a tantrum! As if I were your property!” He slams one of his fists against the armrest of his throne.

“You. Are. Not!” his growl is louder, even more ferocious than before. “I’m glad that you have finally noticed!” you try to keep your voice inder control, brushing a stray tear away from your face with a shaking hand. “So now you want me gone, and then what? Will you change your mind again and send your sister to speak with me in your name once more? Or are you going to blackmail me and the whole Iron Hills again, your majesty? Or...”

Thorin the Warrior cuts in loudly, “Cease this nonsense at once, Ragna!” Your whole body stiffens when his booming voice reaches your ears, reverberating against the walls of the chamber.

When the echo of his words disappears in the bottomless chasm beneath you, silence takes reign over the throne room. The King’s shoulders droop slightly and he lets out a sigh. Thorin Oakenshield’s hand moves to cover his face and remains there for a few heartbeats. Now he looks more like a dolorous statue of a legendary hero than a living and breathing dwarf.

A few moments pass, and then he straightens up and says wearily, “What on Durin’s beard are you talking about?”

“Shall I repeat myself, your majesty?” you reply, trying to control your voice.

Placing his hands behind him, the King starts pacing back and forth in front of the throne, not gracing you even with the smallest of glances. He continues speaking in a surprisingly level voice, as if he was discussing an issue at a council meeting.

“Do I take it that you did not wish to come to the feast?” he asks flatly.

”I was made to understand that my presence was mandatory,” you explain, taking in a deep breath to ease your headache.

“It was just an invitation, not a military order!” the King shakes his head.

You snort. He has to be joking! Does he think you are that stupid?

“So now you conveniently deny that you started meddling with the agreement and threatened to annul it just so I would have no choice but to come here?” you retort. “Blackmail! That’s low even for you!”

“What blackmail, you nonsensical woman?!” he rumbles, raising his voice slightly, still not looking at you.

You smirk in satisfaction, seeing that you are still able to get to him. “Are you pretending you don’t know? Why then did Lord Dain tell me that you were going to reject the agreement?”

“I have no idea why he would tell you so,” he grunts, turns around and starts pacing in the opposite direction. “You and me… we did not part on best terms, but I always honor the agreements I sign. All of them,” he flashes his ice-blue gaze at you, almost pinning you to the spot. “The first batch of our weapons is ready to be transported to the Iron Hills.”

He has just looked at you. It was just a glance and yet your silly heart makes a flip. Ignore it, Ragna. It means nothing.

“Then why would he tell me that Lady Dis warned…” your voice trails off. Oh, crap. You weren’t supposed to tell anyone about it. Ragna, what is happening to you? Are you so afflicted by his presence that you forgot to hold your guard up? Weren’t you supposed to put this silly infatuation behind? “Dis? What does my sister have to do with it?” Thorin Oakenshield turns to you and you see how deep his frown is. “Nothing. I must have heard wrong. I apologize, your majesty,” you bow your head in an attempt to lull his suspicions.

The King glares down at you.

“Tell me. What did she warn Dain about?”

You know very well that you could keep on avoiding telling him the truth, but you are smarter than that. It all boils down to one simple decision: due to your indiscretion, one of the descendants of Durin is going to be furious at you. It’s either going to be his temperamental majesty Thorin, the second of his name, or Lord Dain, a wild boar in the body of a dwarf.

“I was informed that you, your majesty, wished to annul the agreement,” you say, “But Lord Dain knew it already from the letters you sent him.”

“What letters?!” the King’s frown deepens even more. “I haven’t written to him since before my visit to the Iron Hills!”

“Then why was he so upset about the agreement?” you counter. “I have never seen him so worried!” “Dain? Upset? Worried? About some pieces of parchment?!” he gives out a sullen chuckle. “The last time I saw that hog worried was when his prized war boar was ailing!”

If this is the King’s idea of a joke, you are not amused.

“Explain it to me then, your majesty: why did he insist on me coming here to try to change your mind about something that you did not even think of d--” And then it dawns on you. “Oh.”

You raise your eyes to meet Thorin’s piercing, icy gaze that almost makes you shudder. Thoughts are running through your mind as swiftly as a startled deer. You feel the heat on your cheeks. No, it can’t be possible… can it?

“Yes, oh indeed.” he nods slightly, and a shadow passes over his stony, expressionless face. “So, you are saying that if not for my cousin Dain and my sister, you would not have accepted my invitation?” The familiar, tormenting ache spreads within you, making you unable to speak, so you simply nod. He turns his back towards you once again and remains silent for a few moments, as if he were a statue carved out of obsidian.

When he finally speaks, his rumbling voice is only slightly louder than a murmur. “And now you say that…” he clears his throat. “That Dis approached you on my behalf.”

This is surprising. You could have sworn that you heard a hint of disbelief in his voice.

“Lady Dis was quite straightforward about it. She even hinted at…” take a deep breath, Ragna, you can say it. It’s just a stupid word. “At you searching for… for a queen.” Here, you said it. A spark of hope, the hope that you had to hide with Lady Dìs, passes through your lips only to fizzle out. As soon as you utter this word that seems to burn your tongue, the King Under the Mountain turns back to face you, braid beads clinking in his hair, his stormy eyes boring into your face. His next words, although quiet, make your eyes widen. “I am not searching for a queen. And I certainly did not employ my sister to coax you into changing your mind,” he states firmly.

You swallow, waiting for his first statement to sink in. Stupid, stupid Ragna, what were you thinking? Were you really hoping…? You close your eyes for a few moments, hoping that the incessant pounding in your head would finally stop. It is making you slightly nauseous. But to be honest, the whole conversation does. Whose idea was it to leave the feast and follow Th… the King, anyway? You reap what you sow, Ragna.

“I don’t understand…” you mumble, resting your gaze on your shaking hands. You hide them quickly behind you.

“Dain and Dis. When we were children, we used to call them Double Trouble,” he explains, but instead of an expected chuckle, you hear a melancholic sigh. “They were always thick as thieves, always meddling, always playing tricks on others. It seems like they played a trick on us both this time.”

As soon as the King stops talking, you hear the sound of his iron boots stomping against the stone floor. You raise your gaze and see how he approaches you in an unhurried manner. Almost immediately you notice how tired he looks from up close, quite unlike the majestic picture of a king you saw from a distance at the feast. There are shadows under his tired eyes, his cheeks seem slightly more hollow than you remembered, and there are a few more silver strands in his rich mane of dark hair.

The King’s brow casts a deep shadow over his eyes. He bows his head slightly and speaks in a hollow voice.

“Please accept my apology for all the inconveniences my invitation has obviously caused you, Lady Ragna. Clearly, it was not the cleverest idea on my part. I was under the impression that you came here out of your free will. I hoped…” he clears his throat and stays silent for a moment, his Durin’s apple bobbing. Your breath hitches and your heart is suddenly beating faster than before. He hoped, that’s what he said. You are sure you heard it right. He hoped…

Before you have the chance to react, he continues matter-of-factly.

“You asked me why I invited you. There was a matter I wished to discuss with you. A... business matter. But now, since...” “I want to hear it!” you interject, surprising both him and yourself at the same time.

“In the light of the recent events, I do not believe it would be advisable nor proper for us to continue our acquaintance,” he speaks, shaking his head slowly. The features of his face are impenetrable, but you notice that he clenches and unclenches his ringed hand. The hand that once tenderly caressed your cheek in the sweet darkness of the night. Damn it, Ragna, don’t you dare cry now! You have always been a pragmatic dwarf-woman, this is no time for emotions, they always get in the way of business. You learned it the hard way, didn’t you?

“As the old dwarven saying goes, business is business,” you say, trying to control your voice as best as you can. “I’m sure that both you, your majesty, and I can put all the… personal issues... aside if it’s a matter of business.”

The King studies your face for a moment. He stops clenching his fist and puts both of his hands behind his back again. There is a glint in his eye when he speaks again. There it is, Thorin the King.

“Very well. I will come straight to the point, my lady,” he nods. “My offer was as follows: Erebor is in need of a skilled negotiator both during the upcoming treaty talks with the Woodland Realm, and in future due to the expected increase of business with other realms. I admired the professionalism you presented during my latest stay in the Iron Hills and I am aware that you have previous experience in negotiating with Thranduil.”

“Oh,” you reply. This is the only word you manage to say while the cogwheels in your mind are spinning too fast for their own good. The King of Erebor is looking at you expectantly.

You have to tread carefully now. The position of the head negotiator of Erebor, the most prominent of all seven dwarven kingdoms, is more than you have ever dreamed of. The prestige. The prospects. The possibilities, including being able to oversee large-scale international trade. But you are too experienced not to know that such offers always come with a catch. You just have to find it.

“Thank you for your generous offer, your majesty,” you reply, “but it would have been impossible for me to accept it. I don’t believe Lord Dain can spare his trade advisor. May I remind you that I’m to take part in the negotiations with King Thranduil on behalf of the Iron Hills?” “It was Lord Dain who recommended you himself for this position. Both Erebor and Iron Hills are prepared for you to conduct the negotiations on behalf of both our realms,” he explains.

“Oh,” you say again. How eloquent of you. Have you forgotten that there are other words in your vocabulary, Ragna? But then a detail comes back into your mind. “What if Lord Dain’s suggestion was just a part of his and your sister’s plan to keep me here?”

The King remains silent for a few moments, looking directly into your eyes and you notice how his jaw clenches as the glint in his eyes slowly fades away. But then he shrugs and his face turns into stone again, the minuscule crack in his armor disappearing without a trace. That damn armor of his!

“Does it matter at this point?” he asks raspily. “I was prepared to offer you this position, including appropriate remuneration and accommodation, no hidden clauses, no misunderstandings. Nothing more than your services as the head negotiator under this Mountain. That was however when I thought you had accepted my invitation because you... wanted to.”

“It is a very generous offer, your majesty,” you admit, but you want to get to the bottom of this. “But I believe it contains a flaw. I wouldn’t be able to act as your representative: as a citizen of the Iron Hills I can't lead political meetings or deals between Erebor and other reigns, dwarven or not, on behalf of your Mountain.” Thorin the King nods, clearly agreeing with your words, as if he has been expecting this question.

“Once you said that a skilled negotiator needs to think of everything. I had a solution to this issue. I was prepared to propose it, but I do not believe it is valid any longer,” he speaks in that measured tone of voice he has been using on official occasions, and you notice that he is playing with one of his rings, quickly turning it back and forth around his finger. You have never seen him do this before.

“May I ask what you were prepared to offer?” you frown.

There is an almost imperceptible pause as he gathers his breath to speak. His face is completely unreadable, as if it was carved in white marble, but the sound that leaves his mouth is more of a growl than anything else.

“Marriage.”

So here’s the catch. Now it is your turn to gather your breath. Breathe in. Count to four. Breathe out. Don’t you dare to faint, Ragna. You are standing on a platform above a chasm that goes all the way to the heart of the Mountain, remember? Fainting is not a smart idea, and you are a smart dwarf-woman, aren’t you? “Excuse me, your majesty, but I don't quite understand. Haven’t you said that you were not seeking a queen?” There. That was smart. Good job, Ragna, keep it going! The King presses his lips into a thin line and his ice-blue eyes pierce you to your very core. “That is true. In this case, however, I was... prepared to ask you whether you would do me the honor of becoming my wife,” he speaks gruffly, his eyes stubbornly not leaving your face, making you forget to breathe.

Mahal, Mahal, Mahal! Did he really say that or are you hallucinating? And was it even Thorin the King who spoke those words? You can’t believe your ears. A chill creeps down your spine and your headache attacks you with double strength. Those words, those cursed words. You have never thought you would ever hear them from him, not like this.

Hundreds of images flood your mind. You close your eyes for a moment to banish them, but they seem to dance under your eyelids. All those images you had secretly dreamed of during those blissful and passionate weeks, all the possibilities, all those days, all those years you had fantasized about without even acknowledging it. But a slow, cold flame of ruthless reality begins to burn them to ashes.

No, his words can’t be real. No, it’s impossible. If he had really wanted to ask you to marry him, he would have done it weeks before. He would have asked you that last night, that fateful night, and then you would have cried and laughed, and finally you would accept him. He would have taken you to Erebor and tonight you could have been sitting by his side in the Main Hall. You would have been gently squeezing his large, warm hand under the table laughing with him at Lord Dain’s frolics. But that’s not what happened. He didn’t ask you and now you are here in the drafty throne room with a broken heart and a shattered soul. There is a catch, remember, Ragna? There is always a catch with him and this time you know what it is.

“You wanted… to marry me… in order to secure my skills as a negotiator?!” you exclaim. The wall you built around your heart cracks and falls apart with a dull ache. Your head is splitting. Your vision is blurry. The vivid images of the happy future that could have been are gone from your mind, blown away like ashes in the wind. Liquid fury runs through your veins. And then you laugh, but there are no sparks of joy in your voice, only overwhelming sadness that coaxes the tears out of your eyes.

“Did you think that this would be a fair price to buy me? Both my body and my mind? Can’t you take no for an answer?!” you start sobbing, no longer caring about the tears that make your cheeks wet. “First you ask me to become your concubine, your private bird in your private golden cage, a diamond in your priceless gem collection, and when I refuse because I want to live my life fully, on my own terms, you decide to play not only with my body, but with my mind as well?! Do you think I’m a soulless tool you can use and discard whenever you wish?”

“Ragna!” he interjects, gritting his teeth, fury flaming in his eyes, but you don’t let him continue.

“I have feelings too, I have desires and dreams! Did you really imagine that I’d fall on my knees in awe as soon as you graciously offered to marry me? That I would dutifully do my work on your behalf during the day and spread my legs for you during the night? Two birds with one stone, eh? How convenient for you, you heartless scoundrel! I told you already once, I never wanted to be your bed warmer and I’m not changing my mind!” you shout straight into his face, not caring about propriety or etiquette. Screw it all.

“I’ve heard enough!” he growls loudly and you can almost see the lightnings of wrath coming from his eyes.

Both your and his words are echoing in the throne room, but you don’t care. Rapidly you turn your back to the stonyhearted King and start walking away when a series of sobs escapes you. The only thing you want now is to leave this bloody throne room, or better, the whole bloody Mountain with it’s overconfident king inside as soon as you can, just like he ordered you to do a few moments ago. You can’t stand any more heartache. This was a mistake, you kissing him in that corridor in the Iron Hills just before the battle, spending all those nights with him, and then coming here. Yes. One gigantic mistake. Now it’s the time to admit it to yourself.

Thorin the Warrior, Thorin the Lover, Thorin the King is still in your heart, even if you did everything in your power to get rid of your unrequited feelings for him. You knew that coming to Erebor would hurt. You were right. It hurts, more than you thought. To make matters worse, the King’s behaviour is making it even more painful than it could have been.

“Do not dare to leave this place! We are not done here!” he bellows after you. His fingers wrap around your arm, forcing you to stop.

“Yes, we are!” you shout, not turning back, shaking off his grip and walking away even faster.

“Ragna!” your name echoes against the walls of the chamber, a new, coarse tone in his voice, even more demanding than before.

You feel his fingers around your arm again, forcing you to stop, and then more of his words reach you, along with a sigh. “Do you not understand what I was… what I am trying to say, you insolent woman?!”

You turn back to face him, fury etched in your face, ready to roar at him at the top of your lungs, to make sure that he understands the storm raging in your heart.

“Apparently I don’t! Pray enlighten me with your wisdom, your majesty, but be quick about it so I can finally leave this cursed place and you can go back to your comfortable kingly life, surrounded by dozens of pretty maidens, picking them one by one to be your mistresses, as if they were ripe apples waiting to be plucked by the great Thorin Oakenshield himself!” there, you said it.

“What mistresses are you talking about, Ragna?!”

“The ones that keep your bed warm at night! Don’t you remember this is what you offered me as well?” your voice breaks. That stupid, useless pain is still there and it doesn’t want to go away.

He closes the distance between you in one angry stride.

“There has not been anyone else! Only you, every damn day and night since I have met you! No one but you, Ragna!” he roars.

You are gaping at him, lost for words. And hallucinating. Yes, this time there can’t be any other explanation. After the prolonged strain of the last months it has finally happened. You have gone crazy and you are hearing things.

“No one...?” you manage to squeak out and take a step back, or rather jump back as if you have just encountered raging fire about to burn you alive. A fire that can’t be quenched even by all the tears you are shedding.

“Ragna…” his features are softening as he slowly approaches you, his movements fluid and careful, and there is a sudden tenderness in his voice. What an amazing hallucination this is.

Thorin the… no, not the King, neither the Warrior, but Thorin, just Thorin, lifts his hand towards your face, glances at you briefly, and then withdraws his arm.

“I am trying… This has nothing to do with the agreements nor your skills. It is about you, Ragna. I want you to know... ” he clears his throat and his voice regains its previous strength. His brilliant blue eyes meet yours, his jaw proudly set. “My true name is Thorin.”

Exactly five heartbeats pass until you understand his words. Yes, five, you have been counting, even though your panicked brain is frantically running around in circles. Thorin Oakenshield has just told you his true name. Hasn’t he?

“But…” you croak. Suddenly, your throat feels parched. “But Thorin is your chosen name!” “It is,” he nods, squaring his shoulders.

“So how can it be your true name as well?!”

“The best guarded secret is one that is kept in plain sight,” he smirks sadly.

What an annoying dwarf! You grit your teeth. Of course. This is so HIM. So arrogant, so full of himself. Well, maybe a bit clever, too. His true name is there for everyone to see. It’s clear that he did it on purpose, as if mocking any attempts of gaining power over him. Thorin Oakenshield is too stubborn, too bullheaded to be bothered by someone trying to control or influence him in any way. Fat chance! You tried it yourself and look where it got you!

And yet, he has shared his deepest secret with you. The secret that only a handful of dwarves is privileged to know. The secret that should be shared only with his closest family. His sister, his nephews, and… Oh, Mahal.

“Why,” you mumble as you lift your hand to your trembling lips. “Why are you telling me this? Why now?”

“Because I refuse to pretend any longer. I want you to know how much I... esteem you. I am done with all those half-truths. What happened between us…” he pauses for a moment, his eyes rest on your lips for a blink of an eye, and there is a hint of melancholy in his voice, “For me, it was not just a treat to sweeten up the negotiations. I understand it is too late now to pretend that the words we exchanged that night never happened. I wish you to know the truth.”

“So you…” you mumble. “But then…” you utter two more words. “How…” This is where you give up. Ragna, can’t you even put a sentence together? Easy to say, huh? It is as if your mind stopped working altogether. The words Thorin said don’t make any sense to you. The way he acts now doesn’t make any sense either. He can’t think this way. Can he? Surely, he doesn’t. Is this a trick? You can say many things about him but you know that he is not a liar. But why, why does he entrust you of all people with his true name like this? He was only interested in having you in his bed, nothing more! But now he says… Damn your headache, you can barely think straight and you are even more confused than before.

“What do you expect of me now?” you ask carefully.

“Nothing,” you hear his reply and meet his unwavering, darkened gaze.

“But you have just told me your true name! And you don’t know me that well! How can you even trust me with such a secret?! How can you be sure that I won’t tell everyone about it?!” you burst out, furrowing your brow.

“I know you well enough to recognize loyalty, honor…” he lets out a sigh and then shakes his head slowly. You can barely hear his subdued voice when he says, “I have truly cherished those two weeks we had. Treat my offering as a parting gift, a token of appreciation.”

“But this is your secret! You should share it with someone close, someone special!” you protest. You have to make him see! He should take it back! What was he thinking? He enjoyed spending time with you, you understand that much, but this is not the reason to burden his ex-lover with that kind of knowledge! This is all wrong, it is not supposed to be happening like this! “How can you allow me to leave your Mountain with this knowledge?!”

You feel the heaviness of Thorin’s gaze on your face but he doesn’t respond at first. Silence rings in your ears. When he speaks, his voice is solemn, almost devoid of emotion, and somehow, he looks even more tired than before.

“It is yours now, and I am aware that you will take it with you. If you think this is a trick to make you stay in Erebor, you are mistaken. I am not a fool and will not repeat my offer. I know it is unwanted,” he clenches his jaw, his face looks like a stone mask.

What business does he have to look so disappointed?! Does he think you will feel sorry and change your mind now? Does he still not get what you said that night?! Apparently, being utterly confused doesn’t stop you from feeling anger again and raising your voice, “You wanted me to become your concubine!”

“This was meant as an honourable proposal! I wished for you to be by my side and enjoy all the honors and comforts suitable for the king’s official companion! When I said it, I meant… I didn't understand…” he gives out an impatient grunt and tries again. “I had time to think about what you told me that night, about what was important to you…”

“And what has changed now? You wanted me in your bed so much and you needed me to work for Erebor so badly that you were even prepared to marry me? And now you tell me your name? Why?” you retort. He is still not making any sense, at least not in your head. “You can choose anyone, there are so many beautiful ladies swooning at the sight of you, trying to get your attention…”

That shadow of melancholy that has clouded his eyes suddenly dissolves, giving way to the bright, ice-blue glare.

“Give me strength, you insufferable woman! You and your ideas! Nothing has changed!” he roars, furrowing his brow. “Have you not heard what I said? Do you truly not see? I am aware that you do not reciprocate my affection, but you are the one I love, Ragna! You, not anyone else! Do you understand?”

The silence that falls after his words is deafening.

Thorin is towering above you, his chest heaving. He is clearly waiting for your reaction, but his words have made you freeze and your mind goes blank. He has just said the l-word. You heard it well. He said it, no, he shouted it angrily in your face. Your eyes widen. This is the word you buried deep in your heart many weeks ago, promising yourself to forget it forever. Your vision blurs, but you don’t care about the tears flowing from your eyes nor about your completely ruined makeup. Something blooms in your chest and a tiny shiver of something you can’t explain dances down your spine. Yes, Ragna. He really said it. The l-word. And he spoke your name. And your cheeks are wet. And your headache is suddenly, inexplicably gone. And your heart flutters in your chest.

Taking a deep breath, you close the distance between you, barely able to keep balance.

“You… you do?” your voice trembles as you raise your face to meet his gaze, trying to stop the flowing tears.

“I’m afraid so,” he murmurs, nodding slightly. There is a softness in the way he looks at you, as if a field of cornflowers bloomed in his eyes under a stormy sky of sadness.

Thorin’s hand unhurriedly wanders to your cheek and his thumb gently wipes away a solitary tear. The warmth of his skin seems to melt the ball of ice that has constantly been growing in your heart since the moment he left the Iron Hills.

“Forgive me,” he speaks softly under his breath. “I should not have said it. I never wished for my confession to be the reason for your tears.”

You give out a small chuckle and he looks at you in puzzlement. He probably thinks that you have gone mad. Well, maybe you have. And maybe he has as well. Right now, it seems that the whole world has gone mad, but you don’t care. This is your chance, a chance you have never thought you would ever get. You are going to ride this madness to its very core, and this time you are going to follow the voice of your heart.

“You silly, silly king,” you whisper, grabbing the folds of his tunic and standing on your tiptoes. Swiftly, before your mind starts overthinking the situation, you let your emotions run freely, and press your lips against his half-opened mouth, stopping him from speaking. He tastes like malt beer and sweet tobacco smoke, and his lips are as soft as you remembered, but then he interrupts your kiss and pulls back slightly, cupping your face with his hands the way you kept dreaming of every night, touching you carefully, as if he was expecting you to disappear at any moment. “Ragna…?” he speaks hoarsely, knitting his brow, and his gaze searches your face.

“You should have told me weeks ago, you stubborn oaf!” you brush your nose against his, smiling widely. “Tell you… what?” he replies as his frown deepens.

You sigh. Has one sweet kiss completely befuddled his brain? One of your hands moves to his face and covers his bearded cheek. At the same moment, Thorin leans into your touch and your heart skips a beat. Oh, how you missed this prickling sensation against your skin!

“Tell me how you felt, of course!” you explain and see how he shakes his head.

“I did not understand what I felt. I was too blind to see what I found,” his voice lowers to a gruff murmur. “I had to lose you, Ragna, to see it. By then it was already too late to take back both my actions and my words. I had to accept that for you it was only a fleeting affair.”

“It wasn’t!” You interrupt him as fast as you can, nearly screaming at the top of your lungs. Thorin looks at you shocked, the wrinkle between his eyebrows becomes more and more visible. You take a deep breath and look down unable to handle his stare. “I was confused and too afraid…” your lower lip trembles and you have to take a deep breath to steady yourself.

Blinking away the tears welling in your eyes at the painful memories, you continue.

“I didn't want to throw my whole life away in exchange for an empty chamber in Erebor and your embrace at night, nothing more. This wasn’t what I wanted. It didn’t feel like a fair trade.”

“Did you truly think I would lock you in a golden cage?” the muscles of his jaw tighten.

Thorin’s voice is heavy as he speaks, full of worry and sadness. You clearly remember both the words you said to him that cursed night, and the words you hadn’t had the courage to utter. Guilt and regret start taking over your mind, dark and chilling like a winter’s night. You hurt him, as much as he hurt you. “I said some things... I wish I could take them back. I know you wouldn’t let it happen, you wouldn't keep me away from the world. I simply didn’t wish to become your lover and have my heart shattered when you marry someone else,” you whisper, looking away in embarrassment. “I didn’t dare to admit what I felt for you…”

“Will you tell me what you feel now, sweet Ragna?” he whispers huskily, his breath mingling with yours. His thumb caresses your cheekbone and you don’t want it to stop. Ever. The warmth of his touch on your face, the way he looks at you, the emotion that softens the features of his face, everything starts making sense. Incredible tenderness fills his eyes, along with a bright splash of hope, and so many, many other emotions. It all takes your breath away. Can this really be happening?

“I…” you begin, still unable to look at him, but no more words come out from your mouth. Biting your lip, you hide your face in the ornamented tunic that covers his broad chest. The fabric mercifully dries some of your tears, enveloping you with a familiar scent of pine, some unknown exotic spices and soap. Your hands find their way under Thorin’s cloak and you wrap your arms around his torso, your body pressed flush against his. It feels wonderfully, amazingly, excitingly real. Just like Thorin. Your Thorin.

His embrace is even better, even more reassuring than you remembered. Thorin is holding you close in his strong arms, as if he was shielding you from the world beyond the two of you.

“Thorin, I…” you whisper his name, his true name, slowly relaxing into the firmness of his chest, your cheek resting against his pectoral, rivulets of tears running down your cheeks.

He gently lifts your chin up with his finger and you see the curve of his lips, a hint of a smile hiding in his beard.

“Why are you crying, Zunshanushê?” you feel his voice rumbling in his chest as he brushes away your tears with the back of his hand. “Have I asked for too much?”

Zunshanushê. His tiny songbird. When he speaks this word, his voice is as tender as on that night in the Iron Hills when he called you the same way for the first time. Had he already meant what he said back then? Calling you his? What if he did? Is it possible that you have misinterpreted all the signs so badly?

“No, you haven’t,” you swallow your tears, but you can’t stop yourself from smiling. “It’s because I’m happy! Because you are here, because I am here too, and we are embracing, and you are not letting me go, and you look at me this way, and I see you smile, and I’ve just heard you say…” you realize that you are blabbing, but you don’t care any longer. “These are happy tears, because... you have my heart, Thorin… you truly do...”

You have finally shared your secret with him. Your true feelings for this amazing, irritating, alluring, and clueless dwarf. The words pleasantly slide off your tongue, leaving a sweet aftertaste in your mouth and a deep warmth growing in your chest. It is both exhilarating and terrifying. As if something big was ending, and there was a new trail ahead, but you didn’t have the slightest clue about where it could lead.

You gently take his hand into your trembling hand and place it over your heart, covering it with your palm, trying to explain what you are unable to say in words. Thorin’s gaze moves between your face and your intertwined hands, now trapped together between your bodies.

“Ragna, are you saying…?” he whispers hoarsely. You are suspecting that now it is his turn to think he is hallucinating. Luckily, you know a very good remedy for this affliction.

“Yes. And I would like you to kiss me now, Melhekhel,” you say, moving your chin up and closing your eyes.

You don’t have to wait long. Thorin’s reply comes soon after; his lips lightly brush against yours, and then a feather-light kiss lands on your upper lip. The next one caresses your lower lip slowly while one of his hands cups the back of your head, his fingers sinking in your hair. His hot breath fans against your delicate skin and Thorin’s lips start peppering your cheeks, your nose, your mouth with soft little kisses, igniting the light of countless new stars in the firmament of your face. One kiss for every tear you have ever shed, thinking of him. One kiss for every night full of torment after he left. Each kiss seems to be even more tender than the previous one; as if Thorin was professing the depth of his feelings, etching it into your skin, affirming it over and over again. With these kisses, a whole new trail stretches before both of you, a trail woven of hope, dreams and your hearts beating in unison.

“Is this the kiss you had in mind, Zunshanushê?” he murmurs, pecking your nose.

All the sensations you experience, all the emotions you feel overwhelm you with their sudden outburst; your knees are suddenly weak and you sway. Thorin steadies you, his strong arms are holding you tight. You have never before felt so extremely happy at the fact that this dwarf is embracing you now.

Chuckling in embarrassment, you say, glancing at him hopefully from under your eyelashes, “I guess it will do. But I think we will have to make up for all the time we were apart.” You press your lips to the upturned corner of his mouth, brushing against the thickness of his beard, and then, as he leans closer towards you, you give him a gentle, lingering kiss, just one, but it is a kiss that contains all your hopes, your desires, and your dreams alike; all that your heart has been brimming with since the moment that blissful realization has dawned upon you. Thorin loves you, Ragna. And you love him.

When your lips part, you take a deep breath; your eyes flutter open and you see his face so impossibly close to yours. His blue eyes have a familiar softness to them, the softness you have seen several times before, never understanding what it truly was. But now you know. Thorin is like a book in a foreign language, the language of his heart, and you have finally learned to decipher it.

“How could we be so blind?” you exclaim. “We were both clueless like cave bats on a sunny day! I can’t believe we’ve wasted so much time for silliness!”

“It has never been a waste of time for me,” Thorin brushes a stray lock of your hair away from your face and gives you a small smile. “It brought you to me. And I don’t intend to let you go. You are my cave bat now.” As you chuckle, something flickers in his eyes, a gentle kiss lands on your lips, overwhelming you with tenderness. The world seems to spin around you in joy, making you sway, but he is there, standing in front of you and holding your hands firmly in his. You give him a smile, and the dizziness in your head subsides as you focus on the warmth of his touch, the pleasant roughness of his skin when his hands of a warrior cover yours and his cornflower blue gaze rests tenderly on your face.

“The first time I saw you, Ragna... here, in Erebor…” Thorin speaks slowly, as if he was weighing each of his words before daring to speak them aloud. “I could barely tear my eyes away from you.”

He gives out a sigh and continues, oblivious to your widened eyes and mouth forming an ‘O’.

“The way you look… The way you move… Your voice... The fire in your eyes… The way you turn into a fierce warrior at the negotiation table…” each phrase he laboriously utters is punctuated by a heavy grunt and he exclaims, frowning with frustration. “By Mahal’s beard, this is harder than fighting a pack of Orcs!”

You can’t stop yourself from giggling and press a hot kiss against the curved line of his mouth.

“But it is much more pleasant! Is there a chance,” you whisper into his ear, rubbing your cheek against his, “that you could tell me more?” You nibble gently at his earlobe, knowing how much he likes it, the tip of your tongue tracing its curve.

“Woman,” he purrs, “you are such a distraction from… from yourself. I am trying to tell you, or rather struggling…” “You are doing really good, my King,” you tease him as your lips find their way to meet his mouth once again. It seems that you can’t get enough of the sweet, tender kisses you have been exchanging, because this one takes even longer than the previous one. When your lips part, Thorin looks at you intensely.

“Zunshanushê, will you allow me to continue?” his chest rises as he takes a deep breath, the playfulness disappearing from his voice. You give him an encouraging nod, not quite sure what else he may want to say. You wouldn’t say no to hearing more of his compliments, now, when you have finally learned of his feelings towards you, but something tells you there are other things on his mind.

“It took me a long time to comprehend… perhaps too long...” Thorin starts with a grunt, “But I have finally understood the true meaning behind our legends. Do you remember the stories describing how Mahal himself carved Durin and his spouse from the same piece of rock? I gave up hope of finding the other half of my rock years ago,” he closes his eyes for a moment. “Only to find it at the least expected time and place. Now that I have her in my arms… I do not want to lose her again.”

Your eyes widen. And… and… you’re speechless. By Kaminzabdûna’s lush braids… This… This is… If not for the fact that you see Thorin right in front of you, as you are drowning in the twin pools of his gaze, you would have never guessed that he was capable of professing his feelings in such a way. Come to think of it, you are wondering whether he knew it himself. Or, to be more precise, you would, if you weren’t busy melting after the full meaning of his words has reached you.

“There is a question I wish to ask of you, both as a dwarf, and as a king,” Thorin continues, firmly holding your hands in his.

For a moment, it seems that all the air has gone from the world, or maybe the Mountain has turned upside down, because… because...

Thorin Oakenshield kneels in front of you.

Again.

Just like he did that one time.

Only now you are not in a broom cupboard in the Iron Hills.

You are in the throne room of Erebor.

The legendary Arkenstone, the King’s Jewel, is shining at you from above.

And the King is kneeling; and smiling at you softly; and his eyes are brighter than ever before.

There is only one occasion on which it is proper for a king to kneel in front of a standing person. It is only when...

Your breath hitches.

“Th-- Thorin?” somehow you manage to articulate his name.

“Ragna, daughter of Eldi, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife and my queen?” he says gruffly and his words make your world spin again. Your heart is racing, and you have to, you need to hold on to his large, warm hands, his steady grip anchoring you in the moment.

“But… but you said you were not searching for a queen...” you whisper, trying to understand what is happening. He nods, looking at you from under his heavy brows, his eyes sparkling, “I am not. I have already found her. The question is, would she agree to marry an old, grey-haired battle invalid?”

You feel him squeeze your hands gently, and then something in your mind clicks. Wake up, Ragna, stop staring at your king like a goat at a cabbage patch. Thorin, the dwarf who found his way to your heart, is waiting for your answer! You open your mouth but only a strange, squeaky sound leaves your lips. The world starts revolving around you even faster and you fall on your knees before Thorin, barely able to gather your skirts on time. You don’t care how cold and hard the floor is, how drafty the chamber is; all you can think about is Thorin’s words ringing in your ears and his gaze lovingly caressing your face.

Tears run freely from your eyes and you suspect that at this rate you may be heavily influencing the water levels in the Long Lake. You wrap your arms around his neck and press your forehead against his, a sob escaping your lips.

“A very old, infirm, completely grey-haired invalid who can barely move?” your sob turns into a chuckle as you cradle his face in your palms, your tears making his cheeks wet. “I don’t know anyone who fits that description. But I know a great king, a tremendous warrior and an amazing lover who gets only better with age, just like the Dorwinion wine.”

“It is only because you know how to make him feel younger,” he murmurs as your fingers are running through his beard. At that moment, you can’t stop yourself from smiling through your tears of joy when he pulls you into a passionate kiss; your lips meet his and you want to taste him and drink him like the wine, enjoying every single sip for as long as you can.

“Oh, Thorin,” you manage to mumble against his lips and then everything turns into a blur. His hungry mouth covers yours, his hands roam your body, and yes, oh yes, he definitely feels alive. As he leans over you, you rest your hands on his shoulders and try to return his kiss with equal fervor when your noses bump against each other and your faces pull apart.

You burst out in laughter, and he joins you quickly, running his finger along the ridge of your nose.

“Have I injured you greatly?” he rumbles softly.

You shake your head, saying playfully, “You can kiss it better, to be on the safe side!”

Thorin, your Thorin, looks at you with a half-smile for a moment, and then replies, “As you wish!”

You close your eyes and wait for his kiss, but it never comes. Instead, a pair of strong arms lifts you effortlessly from the ground, and when you blink your eyes open, you are in the air, pressed against his chest as he takes a few steps ahead.

“Why am I being manhandled and where is my kiss?” you demand, wrapping your arms around his neck. You could definitely get used to this mode of transport, but you are not going to admit it, at least not yet.

“Patience, Zunshanushê, I am aiming at making it much better,” he smiles at you in that special way that makes him look so carefree and playful.

When he sits down, you gasp. Yes, Thorin is sitting down. On the ancient throne of the kings of Erebor. This is the place where the greatest events in the history of the Mountain have transpired, where great rulers and esteemed guests visited, where the most important ceremonies and audiences happened. And you are not quite being respectful of the place now, almost indecently settled in Thorin’s lap, feeling the hardness of his muscular thighs under your bottom, your arms around him, his arms around you.

And then Thorin kisses you softly on the tip of your nose as if you were in his private chambers. “There. Better now?” he gives you a bright small smile that reaches his eyes. “Yes, but… Thorin, we shouldn’t be here,” you protest, feeling the heat on your cheeks and trying to wiggle out of his embrace. “It’s the throne of the King Under the Mountain!” “May I remind you I happen to be him?” he gives out a rumbly chuckle, holding you steadily in place. To be honest, you don’t mind it at all.

“Yes, well, it’s hard to forget with that crown and everything,” you make a vague gesture at his attire, “but… but it’s improper!” “For me to be the king?” he chuckles with amusement.

“No! For us, like this, embracing, and kissing! It’s the great throne! The symbol of your rule!” you try to explain feverishly, but it seems like you are failing. The longer you speak, the wider Thorin’s smile gets.

“It is a chair, first and foremost,” he replies. “And it serves its purpose quite well, wouldn’t you say?”

“But only think of the scandal that would erupt if anyone saw us here!” you cautiously look around, focusing on all the entrances to the throne room.

“Do not fret, Zunshanushê. Can’t you hear the singing? The music? Who in their right mind would think of walking into the boring throne room now, in the middle of the feast, instead of being merry in the Main Hall?” Thorin seals his words with a gentle kiss on your lips.

“Well…” you hesitate. “I did.” “Only because you followed me,” he murmurs and pulls you closer to him, “which I am grateful for.”

When his lips rest on yours again, you bury your hands in his hair and plant several kisses along the curve of his mouth, as if they were budding flowers of happiness, his beard prickling against the softness of your skin. One of his temple braids brushes against your cheek when Thorin presents you with a bunch of kisses in full bloom, kindling the first flames of a familiar fire inside you. Through the fabric of your gown you feel the warmth of his hand sliding down your back, sending a tingling sensation down your spine. You offer your lips to him once more, and he covers them with his mouth in one bold move. You give out a small whimper when he grazes your lower lip with his teeth and then your lips part, allowing his tongue to gently slip inside.

Oh, Mahal, how you missed his kisses. Thorin takes your lips in his possession, piece by piece, letting his passion for you speak for him, letting you savor him for as long as you like. Tilting your head, you take him up on his offer, your lips dancing with his, softly, unhurriedly, as if you were getting to know each other once again. Everything seems so new, so exhilarating, and yet so familiar at the same time. You run your fingers through his long, wavy mane at the nape of his neck, making him purr. His hair is silky to your touch, as you remembered, but its scent is slightly different, amber with a hint of musk. His hand is now pressing into your thigh, and you feel how tense his shoulder muscles are. Thorin is holding himself back, his passion thrumming under his skin, like a recently tamed beast, barely held at bay. But now you are kissing, and only his lips matter, the sensual lips that have been haunting your dreams and whispering your name, your true name, in that alluring way, the feverish lips that now brush against your cheek, play with your earlobe, and then you feel his hot breath against its sensitive surface.

“Ragna, I’m burning for you,” he whispers hoarsely into your ear.

You turn your head to meet his gaze and see a stormy ocean of emotions, of desire so overwhelming, so urgent, that it almost matches yours. Admit it, Ragna. You feel the same hunger, the same thirst. But it’s not only his body that you crave. You want him, your Thorin, his mind and soul alike. Now that you know his true feelings for you, you yearn for a closeness that will fill the gaping need buried deep inside your heart. It’s just like the ancient legends say: some dwarves were created by Mahal from the same piece of rock. You’ve always thought these were only cute bedtime stories, until now. In Thorin’s arms, it all suddenly makes sense. The overwhelming emotions. The way your body responds even to the lightest of his touches. The fluttering in your chest whenever he looks at you. The peace that comes with his embrace. Perhaps there was a grain of truth in those stories after all?

You want to become one with him, because now you know for sure it was not just your imagination; legends or not, you truly feel that unique pull towards him, the other half of the rock you have been carved of. You have tried to ignore it, and failed, and now you want to feel whole again. With him. With the dwarf that reciprocates your feelings. With the king of your heart.

And is there a better place for it to happen than the throne of kings?

Your eyes meet his and for a moment there is nothing else in the world, no Mountain, no feast, no throne room, only the boundless sea of his gaze. The only thing you want to do is to sail its waters under the clear sky of your passion, because you know that in the end he will lead you to the safe haven of his heart.

Thorin’s mouth is surprisingly soft and his feather-light touch makes you feel as if dozens of rose petals brushed against your delicate skin, and you feel yourself shiver with anticipation. When he rests his hands on your waist, bunching in the silk of your gown, you rest your hands on his shoulders and straddle him in a long, fluid movement. Wordlessly you thank whoever built this throne for making it large enough for both of you, hoping they would approve of your unorthodox use of this seat of kings (Mahal help you!).

But before your thoughts distract you completely, Thorin makes one of his alluring half-smiless and casts you a sensual glance from under his eyelids, only to drown you in a kiss that leaves you breathless and wanting for more as his hands run along the silky softness of your thighs.

Your skin prickles with the heat of his touch and you let out a sigh at the sensations it stirs within you. The only thing you yearn for now is his kisses and caresses, nothing more. Only his arms around you, only his titillating murmurs. Only Thorin. You want to feel his skin against yours. Even the clothes between you are too much. Swiftly your hands find your way under his doublet and tunic, quickly discarding them, along with his heavy cloak. Your fingers are running across his bare, sinewy chest, along the elaborate lines of his tattoos, and you feel his satisfied rumble under your palms before you hear it. You tremble in pleasure when he ghosts his lips along the length of your neck; you give out a yelp when he unlaces your bodice and buries his face in the soft curves of your breasts. You arch your back when his exploring mouth and hands cover them, kissing and caressing them generously, heralds of rapture blooming within you under his touch. You barely notice when he frees you from all the layers of your clothes, focused only on the pleasure his kisses bring as he covers every bare piece of your body with his mouth.

As he brushes his prickly beard against the buds of your nipples, a wave of heat devours you and you fist your hands in his hair with a stifled moan. Instinctively you press your core against his groin and gasp at the familiar hardness. The groan he gives out is lower than ever, heavy with lust, just like his lips are, scorching and wanting. Liquid fire runs through your veins, a familiar heat pooling between your legs.

“Thorin, please…” you mumble tentatively into his mouth, feeling the weight of six long weeks of feverish, unfulfilling dreams lifting from you. “What is it, Zunshanushê?” he murmurs in response, meeting your unfocused gaze. He probably feels how you are trembling against him. You rest your palms on the wide expanse of his chest, enjoying the way his hands rest on your waist, his fingers meeting over your spine.

“I… I want you, Melhekhel,” you manage to whisper, hoping he will understand. You want all of him, his gentle kisses, his tender smiles, the ardent glances he casts at you, his inquisitive mind, his fiery temper. Everything that makes Thorin the dwarf he is.

“You have me,” he replies huskily, his hand brushing against your cheek, cupping it. “All of me, my beautiful Ragna.”

When he places a soft kiss on your lips, you let out a shadow of a sigh. When his hands move along the curves of your body, meticulously, unhurriedly worshipping every inch of your body, you give out several stifled yelps. When his lips travel down, hungrily closing over the flower of your breast, your breath hitches and your impatience gets the better of you. As soon as he finishes his ministrations, you tilt down your face, finding his mouth and covering it with yours, while your palms travel down the ridges and valleys of his firm chest. The coarse trail of hair guides you down his abdomen, towards his navel, and there your fingers meet an obstacle. Your lips part and you cast a glance down between you at the massive metal buckle of his belt and his leather trousers it holds. “May I?” you lift your gaze to meet his, your eagerness suddenly gone, perhaps overwhelmed by the whole situation, the place, the throne, the multitude of various entangled emotions that suddenly fills you. This is your king. This is his throne room. This is his mountain. And this is you, wanting only him, the dwarf beneath all that splendour. But you don’t want him now, not just this once. You need him today and tomorrow, next week and next month, next year, and much, much longer.

“Always, Ragna,” Thorin moves his mouth over yours, devouring its softness. His large palm covers yours in an affirmative gesture and it’s all you need to know. When his belt buckle gives way with a clink, your fingers find their way to his trousers, quickly freeing him from the last layers of clothing that jealously guarded his body against your touch. You press your body flush against the rounded bulges of his muscles, marveling at the contrast between you, the delicate softness of your skin against the raw power slumbering beneath his skin. Thorin’s hand moves down your side and cups the curve of your bottom, purring sweet nothings into your ear, and a wild surge of pleasure runs through you.

And then, suddenly, he does something that makes you gasp. You feel an amazing hardness between your thighs. He is there, by your entrance, impossibly hot, eager to uncover the blissful secrets your womanhood has to offer.

“Come to me, Zunshanushê...“ you hear how hoarse his voice is, how tense his muscles are under your touch. You take him into your dewy garden with one lunge of your hips, and he follows you swiftly, your moan intermingling with his low groan.

In the motionless silence that comes after, Thorin presses his forehead against yours, and whispers one word, one special word, “Ragna…”

His voice is like bits of coarsely ground black pepper against the dark sweetness of wild honey. Even though he speaks your chosen name, it finds its way straight to your heart, taking a hold on it making the fiery flower encased within it open its petals in full bloom. Finally. You are one. Two pieces of the same rock, joined together.

I will stay with you.

He wraps his arms around you, splays his hand on your back and presses you close against his hard body of a warrior. His lips adorn the column of your neck with a myriad of soft kisses while your breasts brush against the coarseness of his chest hair. His skin is incredibly warm, almost scorching, but you know that fire well, and you welcome it gladly.

His hips move upwards in a delightfully slow thrust, his silky length sinking in you once again. You both give out a gasp of pleasure that portends the diamond peak of ecstasy. You tremble in yearning, but you are not in a hurry. There is a whole night ahead of you, and you intend to cherish the harmony of your bodies and hearts for as long as you can. Your searching lips against his lips. Your tingling skin against his skin. Your fervent breaths against his breaths. Everything else can wait. Gently rocking your hips against him, you press your lips to his, caressing his mouth more than kissing it, and then he moves again.

“Take all of me, Ragna,” he rests his hands on your hips, “Just as I am taking you.”

With these words, he thrusts deeper into you, at just the right angle. Your moan echoes in the chamber as he fills you completely, fitting inside you oh so perfectly, sending yet another wave of pleasure throughout your body.

I am not leaving. I found my place by your side.

“I missed your singing, Ragna.” Thorin catches your lower lip between his teeth and then kisses you ardently. “I love how you sing for me.” You tighten around him in pleasure, eliciting a groan out of him, a moment of bliss softening his features.

“I love it when I have you deep inside me... Thorin,” you retort, seeing a glint in his eye, chanting his name rather than speaking, time after time, as you move in unison.

Another thrust of his hips makes you tilt your head back and keen at the bliss that fills you.

“I love how you moan my name, Ragna,” you hear his raspy voice a moment before his lips find that special spot at the juncture of your shoulder and neck, sending ripples of fire through your body and waves of sweet abandon through your heart.

You found your way to my heart. And I found my way to yours.

“I love how…” you start.

He thrusts again, making you moan and cling to him tighter, your arms wrapped around his strong neck.

“You were saying, Ragna?” he whispers into your mouth, kissing you once more, coaxing the fire within you even more, but you are already overwhelmed with all the sensations you feel, your mind in a haze.

“I love…”

You rock your hips against him and lift your body slightly only to slide down onto his unbelievable hardness. Thorin’s eyes flutter open, unfocused, darkened with passion, and you can’t take your eyes off him, the color in his cheeks, his dilated pupils, the tension in his jaw, the relentless yearning in his movements. In that very moment, he is the perfect embodiment of a lover, a warrior and a king. You want this image burned into your eyes, into your heart, and into your mind forever, and you mean to guard it greedily, like your most precious treasure. A gem of the first water hidden under the countless layers of rock that has served as his armor for so long. But not tonight; tonight you have both shed your defenses just as you have shed your clothes, your bodies spurred by your mutual feelings, drifting on the blooming seas of rapture.

“Ragna….” he plunges into you, and you meet his thrust, and then another, in a tight embrace, so close, always so close, skin against skin, flesh against flesh, your breaths mingling, exchanging wet, tender, sloppy kisses, moving together towards the summit of your ecstasy.

We will have many nights together, and many days. Until the end of time.

He murmurs something under his breath, something that sounds like “you and me”, but you are not quite sure. Yes, you and him. This is the way you want it, Ragna. You want him, not just now, but you want him in your life, by your side, you want him when you wake up, and you want him when you fall asleep, you want him always by your side, to share both joys and miseries of life.

Another powerful thrust, another ardent kiss.

“I love…” you moan, set on finishing that complicated sentence, when all you can think is how amazing it feels when he… when he… Oh, Mahal!

Thorin presses you onto him at a new angle, sending you both among the stars, and there are only his hands on you, his hips against yours, his manhood sheathed deep inside you, his groans rumbling in his chest, his lips roaming your neck. There is only him. Thorin.

“I… love… you,” you finally say it, holding him tight as he rides your shared ecstasy in a series of delicious movements of his hips, a lush flower garden blooming with thousands of colors of bliss under your eyelids.

My heart belongs to you. Only you.

You don’t know how long you have existed as a disordered heap of limbs and discarded pieces of clothing, but when you finally come to, you feel that you are still in Thorin’s strong arms as you sit on his lap, with his fur-lined cloak wrapped around you.

You haven’t noticed when your elaborate hairstyle fell apart during your lovemaking. Yes, it was lovemaking, that’s how it felt, and that’s what it was. Now you are sure of it, and you are no longer afraid of saying that one little word. Love.

Countless braids adorned with your beads are now intertwined with Thorin’s braids among the waves of his raven hair. Your eyes are drawn to the chaotic pattern they created, and you like it. Just the way your braids are supposed to look like. Perfectly imperfect. Together.

***

“Are you asleep, Zunshanushê?” Thorin’s rumbling murmur reaches you as you rest your head on his shoulder. His arms are encircling you, and you feel relaxed, satiated, and, yes, a bit sleepy. Who would have thought the throne of Erebor was so comfortable?

“No,” you reply with a sigh, nuzzling his neck, your fingers playing with the hair on his chest. “I forgot how good this felt…” “If that is the case, I am willing to refresh your memory whenever you wish,” he chuckles and you like the way this sound reverberates in his body.

“I may take you up on this offer,” you place a kiss on the side of his neck, just above his collarbone, his hair brushing against your cheek. “Does that mean that you are willing to become my queen? Are we going to strike a bargain? Or do you require more… negotiations?” he teasingly squeezes your naked thigh and catches your lips in a sensual kiss.

“You use a very effective negotiation technique,” you admit when your lips part, trying to maintain a professional tone of voice. “And your argumentation is flawless. I believe I will accept your offer, your majesty, but these are my conditions.”

The kiss that comes after your statement is light as a feather and leaves you wanting for more. “I’m listening,” a mischievous glint lights up in Thorin’s eyes as he kisses you yet again.

You have to take a deep breath and put your thoughts in order before you state, “I will not be spending my days under the Mountain idly, choosing new dresses, deciding on menus or some other pointless frivolities.”

For a few heartbeats, Thorin’s lips meet yours again, sweetly, softly, before he speaks.

“No, Ragna, I imagine you would not,” he chuckles, and you notice the cornflower tenderness blooming in his eyes. And, of course, a kiss follows, to underline his words, and you welcome it gladly.

“I’m going to accept your offer and become the head negotiator for Erebor, but the decisions I make will be mine and mine alone,” you name another condition, your lips still tingling after the last kiss.

“I would not dare to insult your intelligence nor your honor by offering you a position in name only. Besides, Master Dvalarr who currently holds this post, wishes to retire soon, and he will not accept a meek and acquiescent successor,” Thorin’s lips curl up in a small smile and he leans towards you again. “Are there any other conditions I should be aware of?”

“Let me think…” your voice trails off as you close the distance between your mouth and taste his irresistible lips again, enjoying the warmth of his body against yours, his scent, his closeness. You don’t feel like talking business any more, you’d rather spend the rest of the night in his arms, wake up next to him in the morning, and then do something that you’ve never dreamed of doing with Thorin. You will finally share a breakfast with him. No more hiding, no more sneaking around in the wee hours of the morning on an empty stomach. Just you, him, and a hearty breakfast. You dreamed about it so often in the Iron Hills...

And then you recall, “Ah! One more thing! Yes, yes, I will lead those negotiations with Tranduil for you,” you correct yourself, “For Erebor and Iron Hills.”

“Thank you on behalf of our people for this great sacrifice,” a mischievous spark glints in his eyes and you can’t stop yourself from chuckling. In fact, all you want to do is laugh, and sing, and dance. And kiss Thorin, that silly oaf of a king, senseless. Which you promptly do.

“I believe you forgot about one crucial condition,” the silly oaf of a king says some time later, with a smile that makes the charming crow’s feet around his eyes even more visible.

“What is it?”

He cups your face, saying, “Our trip to Kheled-zâram.”

“Could we...?” your eyes widen in surprise. Your thoughts return to that evening in your chambers, to your father’s map you showed Thorin, and to the moment when you told him about your greatest wish. To see the lake by the East-gate of Moria, the place visited by Durin himself. To travel further than you have ever been before. To see all those places you have only dreamt of, to catch a glimpse of the nimble ibex, to spend a night under the starry sky among the dwarf mountain pines. And to think that until now you were convinced that Thorin offered to accompany you on that trip out of courtesy, nothing more. A blind cave bat, that’s what you are, Ragna. But at least you are not the only one.

The other blind cave bat, the one with the crown, says, “I believe we have already agreed on it, have we not?”

“But King Thranduil is coming soon, and the negotiations will begin, and there is so much to do… Will we even have enough time for such a trip?” You frown while your mind is frantically going through your busy schedule.

“We most certainly will. We have the customary six months after the wedding where I can retire from my duties for some time. It is about time Fili took on some new responsibilities. Besides, it only takes three weeks to arrive at the gates of Khazad-dûm. We would have ample time to see both the lake and the places you marked on your maps. What do you say, Zunshanushê?”

“Six months… after the… the wedding…?” you whisper, your mind working even more feverishly than before, trying to take in all the information. Your cheeks are burning and you bite on your lower lip in confusion. Suddenly a simple fact of hearing and saying this last, both exhilarating and terrifying word, makes it all too real. Your wedding. Your and Thorin’s.

“That is, if you agree to wed me, Ragna,” there is a hint of hope in Thorin’s bright cornflower eyes as he presses his forehead against yours. You feel the warmth of his skin, the minuscule swirls of air when he blinks and his eyelashes almost brush against yours, his nose touching yours, his breath fanning your skin. If you agree to wed him. You gulp nervously. This is the moment you have been dreaming of, haven’t you, Ragna? Ragna. That special, tender way he says your name makes you melt inside. That loving way. Yes, he loves you, and he wants to marry you, and it’s not a dream. The King Under the Mountain. Thorin Oakenshield. The king of your heart.

If you agree to wed him. He is a handful, an irritating, annoying, and stubborn handful, and so are you, an explosive mix, and yet... You take a look at his face, so close to yours, and you see that small smile hiding in the thicket of his beard, the same smile you saw on that day when you kissed for the first time. And there is that surprisingly soft look in his iridescent blue eyes that makes you think of the calm, clear waters of Long Lake on a sunny spring morning.

If you agree to wed him. You know very well that marrying him means saying yes not only to this wonderful, overbearing, thoughtful, infuriating dwarf, but to the whole Erebor, both to the king and his kingdom. To his desires and his duties. To Thorin the King who conducted negotiations demonstrating his iron will and expected to be thoroughly obeyed; and to Thorin who, on his knees, caringly fixed your dress in a broom closet. To Thorin the Lover who makes you melt under his scorching touch; and to Thorin who dismissed you frigidly from his chambers on that night in the Iron Hills. To Thorin the Warrior who slayed thousands of orcs; and to Thorin who looked so vulnerable in your bed that night in your chambers.

You will not just become his wife, you will be a queen, and the head negotiator, having countless duties of your own, every single day. But then you realize something. Every single evening, when the night comes, it will just be you and him, Thorin and Ragna, two souls in love. Two pieces of the same rock.

Without thinking, you wrap your arms around his neck. After all the emotional turmoil, you realize that this look in his eyes is the only thing you need. In a moment of clarity, you find your answer deep inside your fluttering heart, a million chaotic thoughts condensed into one word.

Your lips hover above his earlobe, almost brushing against his richly ornamented silver earcuff. You take a deep breath and whisper only one word.

Your true name.

--- THE END* ---

* * *

Read it? Like it? Reblog it! Taglist: @fizzyxcustard @shrimpsthings @dark-angel-is-back @sherala007 @amelia307 @jotink78 @anyaspidergirl-blog @tschrist1 @rachel1959 @saltwater-in-the-afternoon @xmly-xo @justfollowtheroad @kirenia15 @linasofia @bitter-sweet-farmgirl @yourqueenunderthemountain @legolasbadass

238 notes • Posted 2021-04-28 15:24:40 GMT

All Is Fair in Love and Trade – Part 1/10

This is my reply to @gwen-ever‘s ask. Thank you so much 💙💙💙 I got really inspired by this one and, well... see for yourselves 😉

Relationships: Thorin x Reader

Rating: M (it will turn into E at one point)

Warnings: none

* * * All Is Fair in Love and Trade, part 1/10

“Twenty percent off our regular iron ore price,” you state your offer firmly.

“It is not possible, my lady,” his low, rumbly voice reverberates against the walls of the chamber.

“Twenty-five,” you offer. You won’t give up that easily. Especially not when the prosperity and safety of your home, Iron Hills, is at stake. And especially when it comes to the legendary King Under the Mountain. You have heard a lot about him since he reclaimed his birthright and the kingdom of Erebor for his people five years ago. Some said he was cantankerous, others – that he was as stubborn as a mountain goat, and some – that he was a great warrior, while the elderly dwarves claimed that he was as skilled strategist as his grandfather. Everyone agreed on one thing: Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, had a temper. Unfortunately, none of those pompous bastards cared to mention how impossibly handsome he was.

Now, he is sitting across the table in a meeting chamber of Erebor, slowly shaking his head in disagreement. A vertical line of a frown cuts through his forehead. Though no crown graces his temples, he emanates a distinct regal air. One glance into those piercing ice-blue eyes of his and no one can doubt who is the king here. The dark mane of his hair, almost as black as a raven’s wing, cascades down his shoulders. One of his temple braids brushes against his bearded cheek. You can’t stop yourself from admiring his thick beard braid clasped with a bead made of silver and sapphires. The King of Erebor is both a formidable and an alluring opponent, but you don’t plan to budge.

“Twenty five percent, and we will deliver the final product to Erebor on our cost: blast furnace-cleaned, refined, high quality iron ingots straight from the Hills, ready to work with. This is my final offer, Your Majesty,” you repeat your generous proposal.

“My lady, I told you already: this is out of the question. The Forge Masters of Erebor will never divulge their secrets, not even to their kin in the Iron Hills,” he stands up. King Under the Mountain or not, he has a nerve! You grind your teeth and rise from your chair as well.

“Every secret has its price,” you try once more, reminding him of an old dwarven saying.

“Are you suggesting, Lady Ragna, that my Forge Masters are for sale?” He rumbles at you in that deep voice of his. How dare he speak such things?! And how dare he make your knees weak with every word he speaks? His voice makes you think of wild honey, malt beer, and a stormy sky at midnight. In moments like these, you are glad that he calls you by the official name you chose for yourself when you came of age, a widespread dwarven custom. You keep your real name secret; only a handful of dwarves know it. According to a legend, disclosing your true name to another Dwarf binds them to you for life, but also grants them power over you.

You take a few steps towards him, your hands clenched into fists. No way in seven hells of Morgoth you'd show your weakness to Thorin, son of Thrain.

“I am proposing a trade deal! Erebor needs our iron and we need those long-range crossbows against the orc raids!” you throw your hands in the air, gesticulating forcibly to stress the importance of your words.

“The only deal Erebor is prepared to enter into with the Iron Hills at this point is as follows: our gold for your iron, the customary trade exchange,” he bares his teeth as he speaks, their white, even rows contrasting with his dark, lush beard, reminding you of a feral beast. And now he glares at you too. Perfect.

“But this is the exact same deal we have been renewing every year for the last five years!” you protest loudly.

“Indeed,” he articulates this word slowly and crosses his arms against his chest. There is a mysterious glint in his eye as he looks at you, but you don’t care at this point. You want to smack him in the face and wipe off that haughty smirk from his lips.

“The times have changed. We need weapons, not gold!” you protest. He clearly does not understand a thing!

“You may take it or leave it. Your choice, Lady Ragna,” he looks at you pointedly, makes a short bow, and leaves the council room. This is when you realize that the negotiations are over. Bloody, cantankerous, stubborn, too handsome for his own good king of all seven Dwarven Kingdoms!

* * *

One month later

Your second meeting with that irritating mountain goat also known as the King Under The Mountain happens in slightly different circumstances.

“Welcome to the Iron Hills, your majesty,” you make an elaborate bow, cursing the uncomfortable, heavy, jewel-encrusted bodice of your ceremonial gown. Yes, it is supposed to flaunt the wealth of Iron Hills at this particular spectator. Its cut is rather low, uncovering your shapely neck and some strategic parts of your two voluptuous assets, as you call them (it’s all about business with the Dwarves, isn’t it?), but there is a perfectly practical reason behind your choice of wardrobe. It has absolutely nothing to do with those deep ice-blue eyes of the king. Nothing whatsoever. You simply have a new strategy against this difficult mountain goat.

“Lady Ragna, what a surprise,” king Thorin of Erebor responds with a bow, his voice even lower and more enticing than you remembered. A piece of sinfully sweet caramel covered in dark chocolate comes to your mind.

He wears black royal robes embroidered with gold, and a fur-lined cloak hangs from his shoulders. His broad shoulders of a warrior. The legendary Raven Crown rests on his temples, obsidian against gold, a symbol of his power. What business does he have looking like this? Why can’t he be elderly, toothless, bold, with a humped back or a much too large beer belly? Who allowed him to have this majestic profile, wavy dark hair with several noble silver strands among them? And what about his patrician nose, of all things? Didn’t he get the memo about what Dwarf-women say about men with prominent noses like his? Outrageous.

There is that glint in his eye you recognize from your visit to Erebor and his gaze discreetly slides over your body. It takes less than a heartbeat, but you notice it clearly. Ha! Your strategy seems to already bear fruit. He’s not the first Dwarf to look at you this way, as if you were a succulent smoked ham, ready to eat. Dwarf-men tend to think with their stomachs. And with that one other interesting body part as well. You are glad to see that the King of Longbeards is no different.

“I hope your journey was untroubled,” you recite the customary niceties.

“The highroad was dry and we were spared the rain,” he clasps his hands behind his back. You are trying to ignore the protruding outline of his pectoral muscles. You are also trying not to think that under his bespoke tunic, there might be a well-honed chest of a warrior.

“May I ask where my cousin is?” he looks around searchingly.

“Lord Dain sends you his regrets, your majesty, but important defense matters delayed his return,” you explain with an unfazed expression on your face. You don’t want to spoil the surprise.

“What important defense matters?” he sets his piercing gaze on you.

“There were Orc sightings by our southern border.”

King Thorin Oakenshield gives out a short laugh. Confound him! Why does even his laughter have to be so alluring?

“Ah, that’s Dain! He would never miss an opportunity to fight!” he smirks. “Is he not to be the one leading the negotiations on behalf of Iron Hills?”

“You will be provided with the negotiator he appointed, your majesty,” you explain graciously. Just a moment longer.

“And who is he, my lady?” King Under the Mountain tilts his head slightly.

“She,” you correct him with a small smirk of triumph. “It is me, your majesty.”

You are still cherishing the expression that crept up on His Majesty Thorin Oakenshield’s face when he heard your words. You keep recalling it over and over as you sit behind a very impressive and completely soulless mahogany table. The possibility of a trilateral treaty with Mirkwood is to be discussed, but first Erebor and Iron Hills have to work out a mutually beneficial approach before the diplomatic talks with the Elves can begin. Or, as Dain affectionately calls King Thranduil’s subjects, ‘those damned tree shaggers’.

After hours of unproductive negotiations between two groups of very talkative and very boring advisors, your mind starts to wander and your gaze rests on someone’s strong, slightly tanned hand. A quill scratches against the parchment, held in thick but surprisingly nimble ringed fingers. You admire the elegant letters that appear on the page, gladly ignoring the exhausting droning of Master Stenfast, Lord Dain’s Mining Advisor about the yearly ore extraction.

The letters on the parchment slowly transform into refined geometrical shapes and artistically cut gems. After a while, you realize it’s a pommel and a grip, parts of a sword design. At that moment, the advisor finishes his lengthy tirade. You thank him with a nod, and then it’s time for Erebor’s Mining Advisor to recite the numbers. As his endless litany, your eyes return to the parchment only to see a large blotch of ink in the middle of the page. The quill snaps in half under the strong fingers of the artist as if it was a straw and then you recognize one of the signet rings adorning his hand. The royal seal of Erebor. For the last hour, you have been openly staring at the hands of Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King Under the Mountain. Damn. You raise your gaze to his face and notice the furrowed brow, the determined set of his jaw, and the stormy look in his eyes. There is that regal glare again. Damn, damn, damn. If only he were not so disconcertingly handsome.

Quickly you avert the gaze and look around, noticing the glossy, blank stares of several Dwarves as well as Master Hrothgar’s quiet snoring in the corner of the chamber. That’s it. You order a break for the day and decide to reconvene tomorrow.

* * *

You are sitting on a stone railing of a terrace carved in the face of the mountain, overlooking the valley below. Dangling your feet over the precipice, you can’t shake off the feeling of restlessness. For a while now, you have been stargazing, puffing on your pipe from time to time; it has always brought you peace after many a long day, but tonight it is different. You can’t stop thinking about that stormy gaze and the sparks glittering within, like stars floating on the endless sea of heaven. Damn that Dwarf. And his majestic hair, too.

“May I have a light?” a deep, rumbling voice reaches you in the darkness. Great. Isn’t it enough that he is tormenting your mind? Does he have to barge in and ruin your moment of peace?

“Your majesty…” you quickly put your pipe away.

“Please, do not stand up on my account, I have already received too many bows today,” a large silhouette approaches you slowly and soon Thorin Oakenshield stands beside you. You can see the outline of his face in the pale moonlight that softens his features.

“As you wish, your majesty,” you nod and reach to your belt, quickly procuring your flint striker.

“Are the people of Iron Hills always so formal, Lady Ragna?” he moves closer to you with his meticulously carved red oak pipe in his hand.

“Only when showing respect to the King of the Longbeards. Our king,” your voice trails off when you see how his lips slowly wrap around the bit of his pipe. You swallow. He grunts, clearly displeased at your words.

“Shall we?” he mutters through clenched teeth and moves his face towards yours. The smell of fresh pine needles, tobacco, and leather envelops you. Of course, why not, more torment for you. You hold your breath… and then you see that he’s looking expectantly at your hands.

“Of course, your majesty,” you raise your hands to the bowl of his pipe and start working with your flint striker.

“Thorin,” he says.

“Your majesty?” you freeze.

“We are alone. Away from the court. You may call me Thorin,” he takes out the pipe from his mouth for a moment.

“But… you are the King Under the Mountain!” you protest. What is he thinking? And why is he eyeing you this way? Is this some new trick of his?

“I won’t tell anyone if you won’t,” he grins, and suddenly he looks more like a mischievous young Dwarf than a seasoned King of Seven Dwarven Kingdoms. The sullen King Thorin Oakenshield. Grinning at you. Perhaps you packed your pipe with Old Toby instead of your regular Dale Leaf and now you’re hallucinating?

“Under one condition, your majesty.” “It is always trade and negotiations with you, Lady Ragna,” he chuckled. “Let us hear it, then.”

“You may call me Ragna,” you lift your chin proudly.

“Your wish is my command, Ragna,” he bows his head slightly, putting the bit into his mouth again. Is that a shadow of a smile hiding in the darkness of his beard? You are definitely hallucinating.

“I am honored, your m-- Thorin,” you correct yourself politely. Vigilance. Yes, you have to be vigilant. Maybe he is trying to soften you up to gain the upper hand in the negotiations tomorrow. But what about that lingering smile? In order to hide your confusion, you return to your efforts of lighting his pipe. Damn your hands, why are they shaking? It’s not that cold! Several sparks fly in the air, but a stray gust of wind blows them off.

The King’s…, no, Thorin’s face moves closer towards you, his broad torso shielding you both from the wind. A stray lock of his hair brushes against your cheek (why is it so soft?!), and if you wanted to (not that you do!), you could have easily pressed your forehead against his in an intimate gesture (but you’re not that easy, oh no! It’s not even on your mind, not at all!).

He holds his pipe firmly in his hand; a few more sparks fly and soon small wisps of smoke begin their unhurried pilgrimage towards the sky. The wind picks up and your hand moves swiftly to shield the pipe, brushing against the incredibly warm skin of his palm. A surprisingly pleasant tingling sensation runs all the way from your fingers to your spine. Why are you trembling now, woman?!

“Are you cold, Ragna?” Thorin asks hoarsely. The way he speaks your name, with a slight growl, may or may not make you… feel some things. Before you start pondering it, his large palm covers the back of your hand. His skin is slightly coarse and calloused, probably from long years of battle training, but his touch is careful, almost delicate. Your eyes meet above the pipe, its glow shedding a golden gleam on his face, lighting mysterious fires in his eyes.

You shake your head and quickly move your hand away, “The only place I’m cold at is the negotiation table. You will see it tomorrow.”

“And until then?” golden flames dance in his eyes. The sweet smell of his tobacco surrounds you.

You place your hand above your breasts, the same hand that touched his moments ago. His eyes follow your gesture, and you say, “Until then I’m going to be hot as a furnace. I bid you goodnight, Thorin.”

Your feet land on the stone floor of the terrace, you gather your skirts, make a mandatory bow and then you return into the mountain as graciously as you can. Only when you are out of his sight and a few corridors away, do you stop and rest your back against a cold stone wall, exhaling loudly.

That sly, arrogant, overconfident goat herder of a king! How dare he make your heart beat faster?!

* * *

So, how do you like it so far? Would you like to read more?

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Taglist: @fizzyxcustard @shrimpsthings @dark-angel-is-back @sherala007 @amelia307 @jotink78

276 notes • Posted 2021-02-04 22:57:19 GMT

Dragon sickness by ladynlmda

276 notes • Posted 2021-04-15 12:30:28 GMT

Lost My Way

This is my reply to @guardianofrivendell‘s ask. Thank you so much and enjoy! 💙

Relationships: Fili x Reader

Rating: M (to be on the safe side)

Warnings: none

You closed your eyes with a sigh, enjoying the warm, lingering caresses of the late afternoon sun on your face. The grass beneath you was as soft as a goose down mattress and the smell of blooming spring flowers filled the ear. The birds chirped lazily, hidden among the tree branches, and a busy bee buzzed nearby, feasting on the blue cornflowers. You loved days like these, peace, quiet, no chores to think of, just enjoying the beauty of the world around you in silence.

That was when you heard a horse neighing. You quickly sat up and opened your eyes. No, it wasn’t a horse – it was a chestnut pony, and it had a rider. And what a rider it was... Oh, my! A wild mane of golden hair, the braids in his hair and beard clasped with beads glittering in the sun, a small smile dancing on his lips as he gazed at you, making a small bow with his head. Oh, Valar! Just look at those eyes! Bright and blue like the cornflowers. One glance at you was enough for you to feel like a hungry bee, drawn towards that sweet goodness. Yes, those certainly were the eyes of a good man. But there was something else in that glance, a mysterious glint. Before you could decipher it, the rider jumped off his pony and led it towards you.

As he approached you, it became obvious that was a warrior, and a very good one, judging from the amount of impressive weapons on his back, at his belt and by his saddle. He certainly wasn’t one of those healthily rotund Hobbit farmers who lived nearby. His body was honed by endless hours of training and, most probably, battles – judging by that small cut that ran straight through one of his eyebrows and a tear or two in his fur-lined tunic, revealing a chainmail underneath. Those deliciously broad shoulders and the movements that made you think of a prowling panther told you the rest of the story: he came out victorious from this fight, whoever the enemy was. You have never seen a Dwarf warrior before, they weren’t a common sight in these parts, but he looked exactly like you imagined one should look like. I wonder if the legends are true and if they are really made of stone?

“Good afternoon!” he greeted you, stepping towards you, and you stifled a sigh at the sound of his voice. Oh, how wonderfully it would be to wake up to this voice murmuring sweet nothings in your ear, his hot breath fanning your delicate skin. Focus! You needed to focus! Behave! Answer him before he thinks you’re slow or something!

You stood up quickly, straightened your dress and said, “Good afternoon, Master Dwarf! What brings you here?”

You fought the urge to lift your hand to your hair and make sure your tresses are safely tucked away. It wouldn’t do if such a fine specimen of a Dwarf thought that all the daughters of Men have messy hairdos, but a part of you whispered: what if he thinks that you fancy him? A blush spilled on your cheeks. Drat! The last thing you wanted was to make him think you’re one of those easily impressionable young ladies who can’t stop giggling at the sight of a handsome man, be it Dwarf, Elf, Hobbit or one of the Men.

“My name is Fili, son of Vili, at your service, my lady,” he bowed his head in polite reverence. “I’m sorry to disturb your rest, but would you be so kind and point me towards the trail to Shire? I think I’ve lost my way,” he admitted with a dazzling smile. His azure eyes flickered again. Don’t. Stare. At. Him. Just. Don’t. Remember. To. Breathe.

“It is nice to meet you, Master Fili,” you cleared your throat and introduced yourself as well. “I’m afraid you’re quite away from Shire. It will take you half a day’s ride to reach the trail.” The dwarven warrior cast a look at the sun that hovered low above the rolling green hills on the horizon.

“I see. And how many days until I reach Hobbiton?”

“Three and a half, maybe less, if your pony is swift,” you gestured in the direction he should take.

“Aye, he is. Beetroot is a fine companion and wouldn’t say no to some galloping,” he patted the side of his pony’s neck with his gloved hand. You wondered what his hands looked like. Strong? Long-fingered? Calloused? Wide and muscular? How would it feel if he were to cup your face with those warrior’s hands of his and… Drat! Stop it! Focus! He’s talking to you!

“Would you happen to know a place where I and my faithful steed can spend the night? I don’t want to miss the trail after sunset,” he turned his gaze back to you.

“Let me think, Farmer Brown had a spare room or two, I believe,” you pondered, frantically trying not to think about that very cozy and very empty room in your own home and a large pot of stew you prepared earlier that day. How would it look like if a single lady like you invited a man, and a Dwarf at that, into her house for the night? What would the other villagers say? They wouldn’t ever stop gossiping about you two and the things that could have happened between you! Drat! Stop blushing, woman! Look at his smirk, now he’ll really think you fancy him!

“Even a barn will do, Beetroot and I are not picky,” the cornflower-eyed Dwarf of your dreams replied. Wait! What dreams? Well, you haven’t had any dreams of him yet, but now you’re sure he’ll be a frequent visitor in them. The way his lush mane fell on his shoulders made you want to run your fingers through it. You wondered how his hair would spill on that pillow with the flower pattern in your bed. He would lay on his side, taking in the beauty of your face with a soft smile, in the afterglow of your lovem--- What??? Seriously? Can’t you think of anything else? Snap out of it! Deep breaths, yes, that’s it, and think of washing the dishes or cleaning the chicken coop instead. Ignore that flip your heart just made when he adorably wrinkled his nose as a bee tried to land on it.

“Follow me, then, Master Dwarf. The village I live in is just behind that hill,” you started marching towards your destination. As he joined you, walking in a springy step, you tried to ignore the fact how tall he was for a Dwarf and how sturdily built he was. His presence made you feel small and fragile, but not in a threatening manner; he seemed to emanate an air of safety and comfort.

Unfortunately, when you arrived at the village, it turned out that Farmer Brown’s relatives decided to pay him an unexpected visit. That meant no free rooms. Your hamlet was too small to have its own inn, and you didn’t have any other Dwarf-friendly neighbours, so the inevitable had to happen. What a coincidence. Who would have thought.

“It seems like me and Beetroot are going to spend a lovely night under the stars,” Fili spoke as you were leaving Farmer Brown’s house.

“I… I have a guest room at my home. It’s not too big, mind you, but it’s clean!” you blurted out, suddenly discovering that the tips of your shoes were a very interesting thing to look at.

“Would you offer me, an unknown Dwarf, a place under your roof?” his eyes widened in surprise. “Would your family not mind?”

“I live with my auntie, but she’s away now, traveling,” you admitted quietly. It was certainly not the time to tell him how you suddenly appeared in Middle Earth on a stormy night, torn out of your world, and how a kind widow from the village took you in and told you to call her ‘auntie’. It took you a while to gain the acceptance of the villagers, but after some time, they warmed up to you. As much as you were fond of your new auntie, you still haven’t truly felt at home here. Some days, the insistent feeling of being lost in an unknown land was quite difficult to shake off.

“Will your neighbours not mind? I visited enough of the villages of Men to know that a Dwarf staying overnight with a lovely maiden like you is frowned upon,” the Dwarf named Fili furrowed his brow.

You gritted your teeth, forgetting about the manners of this world for a moment.

“Those nosy farmers can go and fu--, I meant to say, can go and get stuffed,” you cursed inwardly. You haven’t missed much from your old world but the ability to curse like a sailor was one of those little exceptions. “It seems to me that you’ve been in a fight, Master Dwarf, and you deserve a night of proper rest.”

Fili stifled a chuckle, “A fair maiden who can make a good use of her mouth?” You betcha. Drat! Not thinking about your mouth! His mouth! Any mouth whatsoever!

“If you were a dwarven lady, you would have at least a dozen suitors queueing at your door,” he continued. You decided not to blush. Not to wonder if he would be among them. Knowing your luck, this gorgeous specimen of dwarfhood probably had a wife and a couple of babies already.

“I’ve never met a Dwarf before today, but if your men are as boorish as some of the farmers of Men I know, I’ll be happy to spend my life in solitude,” you stopped in front of your house, wondering if that was going to be your lot in your life here.

“Then I’ll make an effort to show you how courteous a Dwarf can be,” he made an elaborate bow that belonged to a king’s court and certainly not to a shabby village in the middle of nowhere.

“You can start by cleaning your shoes,” you pointed at his muddy boots with a small smirk. “And I’ll take Master Beetroot to the stable. Then we’ll have supper.”

“Your wish is my command, my lady,” Fili grinned cheekily and took another of his bows. You couldn’t stifle a giggle this time.

Fili, son of Vili, turned out to be a very well-mannered and thoughtful guest. You spent a great time sharing the meal, he told you several amusing stories of his travels and you shared some anecdotes from your life in the village. After the supper was finished, he helped you do the dishes and entertained you with his frolics that involved juggling the mugs, catching swirling plates mid-air and throwing your large kitchen knife so that he landed right in the middle of your cutting board. If you hadn't known any better, you’d think he was trying to impress you. You pretended not to notice several glances he stole when he thought you weren’t looking, or the way his eyes hungrily followed the movements of your fingers when you were rebraiding your hair while sitting on your porch after supper, enjoying a pleasantly warm spring evening.

“Do you see those seven stars, over there?” Fili pointed with his pipe at the sky. The air smelled with the blooming thyme and the sweet tobacco smoke.

“Yes. I often wondered what they were called, but no one here could tell me.”

“We call it ‘Durin’s Crown’. It is a symbol of the kings of my people,” his words were quiet, measured. “The Dwarves born under these stars are believed to accomplish great things in their lives…” his voice trailed off.

“I heard quite a bit about the brave warriors and kings of your people,” you offered, interrupting the silence.

“Aye, there are still warriors among us. Me and my brother were trained well by my uncles. Thanks to them, I can sit here in such a lovely company,” he winked. “You flatter me, Master Fili,” you opposed.

“I do not! On the way here, I encountered an Orc ambush.” “Orcs? Here? We have to alarm the elders!” you rose to your feet.

“Do not worry, my lady. They have been dealt with,” he placed his hand on your forearm in an attempt to appease you. His skin was scorching hot against yours. “Your village is safe.”

You let out a sigh of relief and sat down slowly, observing his hand. His palm was wide, its back lightly dusted with golden hair, and you could see the strength slumbering beneath his skin. His nails were clean and well-maintained, and he wore a golden signet ring. And then his fingers... They were thicker than you imagined, but something told you that they had to be very nimble. Oooh. Take your head out of the gutter at once, woman! He’s just making a friendly gesture!

You didn’t register the moment when your palm covered his. Well, this is MY friendly gesture!

“Thank you on behalf of everyone living here. There are only farmer families here, we wouldn’t stand a chance against a band of orcs,” you lifted your gaze to meet his only to catch that mysterious sparkle in his eyes again. One heartbeat, two heartbeats, three heartbeats… were you drowning in his eyes or was it the other way around?

“Think nothing of it,” he finally shook his head with a sheepish smile and you thought you noticed a cute dimple hiding in his beard.

This time a sigh of disappointment left your lips as he removed his hand from your skin, placing it over his knee. Was that a trick of light from the lantern or were his cheeks slightly flushed under his golden beard?

A few moments passed in total silence and you couldn’t tear off your eyes from Fili’s handsome profile as he puffed on his pipe, the blue wisps of smoke traveling all the way to the Seven Stars on the black velvet fabric of the sky above you.

“I’m on my way to meet my brother, and some of my kin,” he finally said. “There is a matter we need to attend to, far away from here, over the Misty Mountains.”

“When will you be coming back?” you heard yourself say. Stupid, stupid, utterly stupid! Have you just hinted at wanting to see him again?! Valar have mercy on you!

“I’m not sure,” he spoke hesitantly, avoiding your gaze. “It might be a while.”

You nodded, wishing for the ground to part beneath your feet. What else did you expect?!

“There is a chance I may lose my way again when I’m travelling back to Ered Luin,” a small smile tugged at his lips, and there was a mischievous sparke in his eyes.

“Well, if you do, there is a chance you’ll find a friendly house here and a place to stay the night,” your face brightened and you wanted to pinch yourself. There was a chance you were dreaming, after all. Ouch! No, this was definitely not a dream!

“A friendly house and a pleasant company,” he murmured, and his face hovered somewhat closer to yours. He was so close you could count golden hairs in his beard. You wondered how it would feel if you touched it. And would his sensually curved lips feel as soft as they looked? You licked your lower lip.

“What else a Dwarf could want…?” Fili added in a coarse whisper and you can read the answer to his question in his eyes. Oh Valar, those cornflower eyes of his, his tempting lips! Where is a bucket of cold water when you need one?!

“You tell me, Master Fili,” you replied as his gaze slid over your mouth and your heart skipped a beat as his face moved even closer. A bit more and you could brush your nose against his. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, waiting for the moment when your lips would finally meet.

His voice made you open your eyes in surprise.

“Forgive me my rude behavior, my lady,” he suddenly stood up, his cheeks visibly flushed. “I’m tired and your pleasant company quickly goes to the head of a humble traveling Dwarf like me,” he avoided your gaze. “You are a wonderful hostess and I wouldn’t dream of imposing on your hospitality. I bid you goodnight.”

With these words, he hurriedly disappeared inside of your house.

You sat outside for a long while after he removed himself from your presence; the Seven Stars of Durin’s crown being your only companion. They seemed to blink at you soothingly. You wondered what they would tell you if they could speak.

The breakfast passed quickly, and quietly. You couldn’t help but notice a certain nervousness in Fili’s movements, his frown, his gaze set firmly on his plate. Shadows under his eyes confirmed that he spent the night the same way as you did, tossing and turning in his bed.

“May the trails ahead be straight and wide,” you said a customary farewell as he led out his pony from your stable. Beetroot greeted you with a neigh. “Here, it’s cheese and bread, enough for a meal or two on the road,” you gave him a bundle.

“Thank you, my lady,” he nodded and accepted your gift. “It is more than I could hope for. May I offer you something in return?”

“What could that be?” He moved his hand into his hair. Something clicked, and then you saw it. There was a beautifully ornamented golden bead in his outstretched palm, “Something to remember me by.”

“But… this is gold… I can’t accept this!” you opposed.

“This is the customary Dwarven way to show our…,” he cleared his throat, “... our appreciation. It would make me a happy Dwarf to know that you keep it as a token of… as a memory of our fortunate meeting.”

“Well, if you put it this way, then I’ll be happy to keep it… to honor your tradition,” wide-eyed, you took the bead and traced the beautiful runes on its surface with your fingers.

And then you heard his alluring murmur, the words intended for your ears only.

“When I tell my brother I have found the most beautiful wildflower in Eriador of all places, he won’t believe me!” he took your hand into his, slowly closed it over the bead and covered with his other palm. His calloused thumb brushed against your soft skin. The warmth he gave out made you melt inside.

Before you could reply, his forehead pressed against yours, your fingers still intertwined, and he whispered,

“My lady… may I kiss you?”

You didn’t respond; not in words at least. Instead, you tilted your head slightly and brushed your lips against his. Yes, they were as soft as you imagined, and impossibly tender. He returned the caress, pressing his lips against yours, and then sealing them with a myriad of gentle butterfly kisses. You sighed softly, drifting away on the sea of bliss.

“May I have the honor…,” he whispered against your skin, breathing heavily, his heart pounding in his chest, “May I hope that you will wait for me?”

“Yes, Fili. I will wait.”

***

You closed your eyes with a sigh, enjoying the warm, lingering caresses of the late afternoon sun on your face. Almost a year has passed since you last saw Fili. The Dwarf who stole your heart. Many days and nights you spent wondering about what he was doing, worrying about his safety, until one day, a raven came with a letter addressed to you and your world has changed forever.

Today was going to be the first day of your new life. Fili was about to return and hear your answer to his question. In his letter, he asked whether you would consider spending your life with him in a dwarven kingdom of Erebor. His letter started with the words: “My One…”

You knew what your reply was going to be. You were not lost any longer.

- - -

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279 notes • Posted 2021-01-31 17:22:29 GMT

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