All Is Fair in Love and Trade – Part 5/9
Relationships: Thorin x Reader
Rating: E
Warnings: lots of smut, swearing, smut, power play and smut
You can read the other parts here:
The Masterlist
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 ...
For @gwen-ever
Notes for this chapter:
The author of the last part of this chapter (Ragna's dream) is gwenever!
Thank you so much for adding this amazing piece to this fic, you really read my mind sometimes! 💙🤩 🤣Khuzdul phrases (based on th NeoKhuzdul dictionary by the Dwarrow Scholar):
Zunshanush - (intimate endearment in Khuzdul) tiny songbird
Zunshanushê - my tiny songbird
* * *
All Is Fair in Love and Trade, part 5/10
Next evening
This has been a very long day, and a very busy night before it. Since the moment His Haughtiness left your chambers, you haven’t caught any sleep. No, it didn’t have anything to do with his scent lingering on your bedsheets nor your reluctance to spend the rest of the night alone in that bed. You are a professional who is simply determined to prepare all the documents on time. Your king has given you a direct order and you are not going to ignore it, you are not that stupid. But Ragna, daughter of Eldi, is not a meek lamb, oh no. Yes, you are going to do as he says, but you are planning to do it on your terms. If that high-handed, arrogant, self-important, annoying, stubborn mountain goat of a king wants his bloody papers, he will get them, and more! Much more.
Fueled by anger and lots of other emotions you are too busy to figure out, you conduct the last treaty meeting, finalizing the agreement. The atmosphere in the council chambers is quite tense and you can’t help but notice the nervous glances exchanged by several of the advisors, including Lord Balin and Master Ori, the king’s personal scribe. It does not surprise you in the least. The King Under The Mountain has clearly decided to outdo himself. He is grunting, huffing angrily, drumming his fingers on the table, casting snide remarks at anyone who dares to speak, and generally giving the impression of a rabid warg whose only wish is to bite everyone’s heads off. Oh, and have you mentioned he is ignoring you almost ostentatiously? Fine. But you know what, your majesty? Two can play this game. You are ignoring him too, as much as the etiquette allows, and doing everything you can to wrap up these cursed negotiations once and for all.
At the end of the meeting, his majesty Thorin II Oakenshield announces pointedly that he expects to sign all the documents tomorrow morning, as soon as they are ready. Speaking these words, he casts an icy glare at you, adding that he is to return to Erebor right after the treaty is finally signed. Stupid, irritating king.
You know exactly what he expects from you but he is not going to get it, oh no. You are not going to crawl on your knees to his rooms, begging him to stay. You! Begging him! In his dreams! That arrogant, full-of-himself bastard can forget it! Since the moment the door closed behind him after he left your chambers last night, that thought has not crossed your mind. Not even once have you thought of getting up from your desk and rushing after him. Not at all. You didn’t have to stop yourself from pressing the door handle down and opening your door in order to leave your place. There were no stupid, ridiculous tears dropping on the parchment and smudging the ink as you wrote the conditions of that pointless treaty. And, of course, you didn’t have to start writing from scratch once or twice. Or maybe thrice. Not that you were counting, because, hey!, there was nothing to count! Nothing like this has ever happened! Certainly not. But shredding the tear-stained pages to pieces and throwing them into fire seemed awfully liberating. Deep down, you are hoping that the King of Longbeards and Short Temper kept on pacing through his rooms, waiting all night long for you to come, brooding, fuming, and not being able to sleep, exactly like you.
And now, the next evening is upon you. The King told you to deliver the treaty documents tomorrow morning, but you are going to hand them over to him now this very evening. Just because you can. And then you are going to show him what you think of him.
You are walking along the corridor leading to his chambers, clutching the rolls of parchment in your hands, when the door to his rooms burst open and a visibly frightened servant darts out of them.
“Out! Now!” a roar follows the sprinting dwarf.
You recognize that voice at once; you have heard it every day and every night for the last two weeks.
As for the servant, a blond-haired boy in a green doublet, he passes you by, pale as a sheet, probably not even registering your presence. In a blink of an eye, he disappears around the corner. Poor soul. You wonder what he has done to deserve such treatment, but then you recall why you came here in the first place. Taking a deep breath, you approach the king’s chambers. It is time for your revenge.
The door is still wide open, but you knock on it anyway. Being obnoxiously polite never hurts.
“I said: get out!” there is fury in Thorin Oakenshield’s voice. His broad back is turned towards you and his fist slams into the table in front of him. Oh, someone is in a foul humour. How sad for the young servant who had to face the onslaught of the King’s wrath moments ago. How unlucky for the ruler of Erebor. Such manifestations of anger do not make the slightest impression on you. You have taken part in too many negotiations to not to know how to handle furious dwarves.
“Does that mean that you are no longer interested in signing the treaty, your majesty?” you ask flatly.
His back straightens and he turns to face you, stone-faced, his jaw set. His ice-blue eyes are piercing you ruthlessly, traveling from your face to the parchments in your hands, but you notice a shadow of surprise in his gaze.
“Lady Ragna,” he greets you coldly and strides towards you. “Have I not told you to bring me those documents tomorrow morning?”
This is when you fire your shots.
“I took the liberty of delivering them to you sooner, your majesty. I thought you might want to read them tonight...” you smile viciously and deliver the last load without batting an eyelash, “...and be free to leave the Iron Hills faster.”
If his freezing stare had magical qualities, you’d be a chunk of ice right now.
“How thoughtful of you, Lady Ragna,” each of his words sounds as if it was imbued with venom as he slightly lowers his head, looking like a battle ram ready to charge. The only thing missing in this picture is a pair of curved horns on his head. “But this is not what I asked of you.”
“Well, the papers are here now,” you reach out to hand him the parchments, but he doesn’t make a move, standing there like a mountain, silent and unreachable. Feeling the weight of his scrutinizing gaze on you, you pointedly walk towards his desk on your left and leave the documents there. Casting a look around the chamber, you notice an open trunk in the middle of the room. It is already half-filled with clothes and other personal items. He is truly leaving. There is a lump in your throat. You take a deep breath and close your eyes for a moment.
The sound of slamming door makes you jump. You turn towards the source of this noise and see the King facing you, his back towards the now closed door.
“Why tonight, Ragna?” he growls. “Why?”
“So you can read it, sign it, and go back to your life, to Erebor, to serve your people waiting for you there,” you raise your voice. Why? Maybe because you have just imagined him spending nights in the arms of some of his people, his beautiful, alluring, and most probably very devoted subjects. And then you continue with a smirk “While I… I will continue to serve my people again. I will be following your lead in everything, your majesty, exactly as I told you!”
Yes, you will. Lord Ulfgeir, Captain Eivor, Master Fjorvi. All three of them, at once. Just because you can.
King Under the Mountain’s fury apparently doesn’t cloud his judgement because he grits his teeth, catching your hidden meaning while his hands clench into fists.
“Nobody was stopping you from doing as you please in your spare time!” he bellows.
“Sadly, I was occupied every day and every night with fulfilling your demands, your majesty! Now I will be free to do as I please with anyone who pleases me and me alone!” you rush towards the door in an attempt to leave this bloody place and the king behind before you lose control even further.
There is, however, one small problem. Thorin the Warrior is blocking the door, standing rooted to the spot, his legs wide apart, his strong arms folded on his chest.
“So our agreement hasn’t brought you pleasure at all. Is that what you are saying?” he sneers.
“Our agreement was clear: a day of fruitful negotiations for a night in each other’s arms. Now you are leaving so the deal is done,” you speak coldly, hoping against hope that each of your words causes him as much pain as you are feeling now.
“This was not the deal, Ragna!” he towers above you, flashing his white teeth in anger, fisting his hands.
“This was the deal, Thorin!” you shout back at him, raising your chin defiantly. “You are leaving and now, there is nothing I want to happen more, to see you leave and go back to Erebor so you can lay with every single dwarf-woman in that damned mountain of yours!”
Your words echo in silence.
The king’s shoulders stiffen visibly when he speaks, cold fury ringing menacingly in his voice, “You will be disappointed to know that your wish will not be fulfilled. This is not what I want!”
“What a shame! You had your last chance last night, but you threw it away! You and your stupid pride! Now go and live the rest of your life thinking how royally dumb you were by not taking the last piece of me when you had the chance!” you retort, walking up to him and jabbing your finger at his broad chest. “By not taking the last kiss, the last moan, the last embrace, the last caress from me and--”
In a blink of an eye, Thorin the Warrior pins you to the wall, his hands wrapped around your wrists. You feel the hardness of his chest brushing mercilessly against your breasts, the scent of pine and peppermint filling your nostrils.
“Silence!” he roars, flames of wrath burning in his eyes. “Is this how you wish to end this?!”
“End what? The negotiations? Isn’t that what you wanted?!” you hiss at him.
“Do not take me for a fool, Ragna! You know what I am talking about!” a grow leaves his mouth, his face dangerously close, hovering above yours. Mahal, you can’t falter, not now. You take a deep breath.
“There is nothing else to end! You left my chambers the other night, and that's how the agreement between us ended! You could have stayed, but you’d rather leave, so that's how it ends! With you leaving these hills, your majesty!” you spit out at him.
“You have just brought me the papers so that I would leave sooner and now you are telling me I could have stayed?! If you didn’t want me to leave you could just have come to me last night!” His voice turns into a low gnarr, sending shivers down your spine, making you think of a caged beast. You have never thought that the urge to kiss someone could be so intense. No, you are not going to kiss this heavy-handed brute! You try to free your arms, but he doesn’t budge, unmovable like a rock. Anger flames inside you with the heat of a thousand forges.
“Come to do what?! To give you your usual piece of pleasure and see that smirk on your lips while you are enjoying yourself? To fall on my knees for the King Under the Mountain as I take off his trousers and he slips his under my skirts? To be pinned to the wall by none other than his majesty King Thorin II, so that he can mark me at night like a wild animal would and barely tolerate my existence by day? If you think I would run to you like an obedient servant and fulfil your every whim whenever it suits you, you wasted two weeks of your life, your majesty!”
A shadow passes over his eyes. Unexpectedly, he lets you go, takes a step back, and runs his hand over his face.
“You are driving me mad, woman, with your senseless accusations!” He barks at you, his frown deepening. “Is that how you see me? Are you so insecure that you cannot even try to fathom one simple thing? That it is you I have chosen to spend my time with? Not any other lady but you?”
Oh, great. Now he is trying to turn the table around and make it all about your and your imaginary flaws, and remind you how great of an honor it is to spend the nights with the great Thorin Oakenshield. Not a chance! You both know that he is the problem here, not you.
“Don’t you dare to assume things about me!” you rest your hands on your hips firmly. “You know nothing of me! You didn't even care! All you cared about was to bed me! Now you don't even have the balls to ask me for it one last time because you are a proud, stubborn son of a goat and a donkey!”
“I do not have to know everything about you to see the truth!” he thunders back at you. “Do you not think I have not noticed how your eyes follow me every time I enter the council chamber? How you react whenever I touch you at night? Everyone in the Iron Hills has heard your moans of pleasure by now!”
“Well, now you will not have to be inconvenienced by them any longer! Here is your bloody treaty,” you take a few steps towards the desk and point at the stack of papers there. “You are free to copulate with every dwarf and dwarf-woman you haven’t had the chance to yet, everyone will be happy to please you! And while you’re at it, you are free to imagine they are me, because that is the only way you are going to see me from now on! In your imagination!”
In a heartbeat, he approaches you, intimidating you with his imperious glare. You take a small step back and your bottom bumps against the edge of his desk.
“I see that you are already planning to be busy in some old chambers or armory, being pinned against a wall by someone else who would try to match your appetites and fail miserably, leaving you wishing to have me between your legs instead, are you not?!” he raises his voice again. “Because if so, Lady Ragna, you can go and--”
“Fuck yourself!” you finally bawl at him, cursing that heartless dwarf and everything about him, the raw, dizzying male aura he projects, the words he spits out at you, the pain he makes you feel. That obstinate mountain goat!
“With pleasure!” Thorin the King bursts out at you, his voice echoing against the walls of the chamber together with yours.
Time stops, or at least that is what it feels like to you. A sudden silence descends on you both, interrupted only by the sounds of your frantic breathing. All you can do is stare into his stormy eyes, Thorin’s words ringing in your ears. He reciprocates the stare, not making even the slightest movement.
You and him. Him and you. Two elements against each other. One heartbeat, two heartbeats, three heartbeats.
And then the powerful wave of your combined emotions washes over you both. You grab him by his clothes. He pulls you flush against his body. You start rapidly unfastening his tunic. He grasps you firmly like a feral beast holding its prey. The skin of his hand is coarse against your cheek as he lifts your face towards his and assaults your mouth with a rough, savage kiss. Your lips attack him back. His lips are crushing yours, drawing you into the whirlwind of his passion, like an army pillaging and plundering everything it encounters on its way. He catches your upper lip between his lips, you can feel his teeth grazing your skin, and then he moves your chin up to angle your head better, diving into a deeper kiss with a ferocious growl. Oh… His ministrations send a shiver of lust down your spine, and a familiar pool of heat starts forming between your legs. But you are done, so done with him! And that is why you are bloody going to show him what he is going to miss for the rest of his kingly life! After you are done with Thorin bloody Oakenshield, he will never forget how amazing you are in bed, since bedding you was all he bloody wanted in the first place!
You fist your hands on his tunic. Your tongue dives deep into his mouth in one bold move. That bull-headed, captivating, irritating, stunningly handsome bastard of a warrior is going to feel the full force of your wrath. He counterattacks swiftly, his tongue swirling around yours, as if it was a sparring match, bringing the battle to you. Confound him!
Your hands are furiously grabbing the fabric covering his broad chest, holding him close, while your ferocious lips and your tongue decide to fight back his onslaught. You match his attack with equal force. A thrust, a feint, another attack, and a parry. Just a few moments longer. You chuckle, catching his tongue between your teeth for a moment, but at the same time, he pushes your legs apart with his knee and grinds himself slowly against you. Mahal, Mahal, Mahal! A yelp of surprise escapes you and your legs almost give way beneath you but he holds you firmly in place. His hand is splayed at the small of your back, your bottom pushed against the hard edge of the desk. Thorin the Warrior, Thorin the Lover pierces you with his ice-blue gaze, his face so close to yours.
“I feel your heat through all the layers of your skirts. You want me, Ragna, do you not?” he purrs in that seductive, deep, deep voice of his. What a presumptive dwarf!
“You have no idea what I want!” you spit back at him, pulling him towards you by his tunic. One of his temple braids brushes against your cheek while you are pressing your lips against his. “No idea whatsoever!”
While your kiss deepens, your fingers are fumbling with the stupid straps of his tunic that hinder you from enjoying the chiseled hardness of his chest, skin against skin. He lets out a growl, or maybe it is a chuckle, and thrusts his tongue into your mouth, again and again.
“Then let me show you what I want,” he murmurs hoarsely.
His hands land on your hips and pull you up quickly, unceremoniously. Instinctively, you wrap your arms around his neck to keep balance. Now you are sitting on the desk, your legs apart, his scorching hands under your skirts, pressing into your bare thighs, as he pushes himself against you. You recognize the unmistakable hardness of his sword against your lower belly. This warrior is ready to battle. Which is good, because you are planning to sheathe him whole so that he never wants to leave.
“You can deny it all you want, but your little forge is dripping wet and ready for me, dying to be properly pounded at,” as these words leave his mouth, one of his hands traveling down between you and cupping your mound of pleasure through the fabric of your undergarments. “And that is what I am going to do to you, Ragna.”
Thorin the Warrior’s eyes never leave your face as his nimble fingers move the thin fabric aside, slick with your juices. First one, then the second finger swiftly delves inside your heat, retreating and returning, returning and retreating, leaving you dizzy, flushed, and breathless.
“You bastard,” you mumble, hungrily pressing your pelvis against him. You can only think of how intense, how good it feels, and how much you want all of him inside you. All the other thoughts are gone from your brain. You want that dwarf, his hands worshipping your body, his alluring voice whispering the filthiest praises into your ear, his feverish mouth covering every single patch of your skin, his inventive mind, his fiery temper, and his heavy-lidded eyes looking at you the way he looks at you now, darkened with desire. You want every single piece of his body and soul before it’s too late.
“Just as I told you, dripping wet…” he rumbles and retracts his fingers only to attack you once again, a sultry smirk on his face. That annoying goat of a king. That overconfident mouth of his kissing you, sucking on your lower lip. Those insistent fingers of his diving inside you, hard, fast, at just the right angle. And this is when his thumb finds its way to your ruby nub along your folds, already swollen with desire. Oh, how you looo--- Oh.
You arch your back, giving out a small moan, and then bite on your lower lip, trying to keep silent. No, there will not be any more performances by the Night Singer, not if you can help it. You have plans for another performance and you want it to happen now. Your hands wander down to his trousers and start freeing his impressive weapon from its prison. As your hand runs against the lengthy and deliciously hard bulge of his sword, he groans, but you give out a sudden gasp at the same time. Thorin’s hand, the hand of your king, has abandoned your core, leaving you empty and panting, the ripples of pleasure subsiding. He catches both of your narrow wrists in his hand, his fingers encompassing them with ease, pulling them away from his body.
“Is this what you want, Ragna?” he rumbles, his lips brushing against yours. And then he presses himself against your core. Gasping, you look down below your rolled-up skirts at his hand guiding his manhood between your folds, coating it with your juices, slowly, mercilessly playing with your patience.
“At least I know what I want!” you huff. And stifle a moan. You want him so badly it almost hurts. You want to show him what he is going to miss for the rest of his life. Now. You want him now. Inside you. You lean slightly back as an invitation, exposing yourself to him but his whole attention seems to be focused on his slow, circular movements. His glistening tip, red as the noble tourmaline and almost equally hard, slides away from the entrance to your secret temple only to return in a few heartbeats, his silky skin brushing deliciously against yours, making you burn with raw desire. Does he know how much this bloody teasing annoys you?!
“So you finally admit it. You want it as much as I do,” he leans over you, freeing your wrists from his grip.
You rest on your elbows and as soon as you feel the cool hardness of wood beneath you, you arch your back in defiance. Biting your lip, you decide not to give him the satisfaction of an answer, even though you are aware that your body has already betrayed the truth. Your chest is rapidly rising and falling, your cheeks are flushed, you feel the familiar, sweet wetness between your legs, and… admit it, Ragna. You have achieved your goal, or rather you are about to in a few moments. In Thorin’s eyes, you are like a cup of the best Dorwinion wine and you know very well that before the night ends, he is going to drink his fill. What’s more, you are not going to stop him, oh no. After all, you are planning to do exactly the same thing with him. This is your last night together, the last night you are having him only for yourself. And you are going to enjoy yourself and make him beg for more.
“Enough of the talking,” you finally grunt, and, at the right moment, when his tip is right over your entrance, you push your hips towards him, taking him in. You groan slightly as his head slips inside you exactly how you want it.
“You vixen,” he enters you with a growl, stretching you deliciously. Oh, Mahal, what an amazing feeling… Yes, that’s it. You wrap your legs around his waist, not planning to let him go anytime soon. He buckles against you like a wild pony and then slides even deeper inside you, all the way. Oh. Is it you or has he gotten even bigger overnight? Thorin is everywhere, his hot breath fanning your lips, his weapon of passion fully sheathed within you, his nose pressed into your cheek, his body leaning over yours, his hair brushing against your neck. Your lungs are filled with the scent of the forest pines, the heat of his body burns your skin, coaxing your passion for him into full bloom. One of his arms is pressed into your side as his hand rests against the desk for support, while the other is clasped at your hip.
“That’s much better,” you whisper into his mouth, licking teasingly at his lip.
“No,” a grunt rumbles in his chest, “This is.”
He thrusts into you with the force of a battering ram. Once. Twice.
“Thorin!” you grasp at the back of his powerful neck, feeling his tense muscles under your touch.
He growls and thrusts again. Harder. And once more, slower. And again. Finding a steady rhythm. Unwavering. Deliciously intense.
“This is what I want, Ragna,” he delves deep inside you, filling your secret temple of womanhood to the brim.
You bite on your lip, making an effort not to moan. Your eyes meet, and for a moment you are under the spell of his twin sapphire pools filled with insatiable desire. Breathe, Ragna.
“Every single night,” he thrusts again, pulling your hips towards him, his eyes burning into you, “This is what I want every single night, do you understand, Ragna?”
“You have it now,” you reply raspily. Yes, you have this single night together, and then he leaves, and he is going to spend his other nights with... No thinking, Ragna. You don’t care about what his other nights will look like. There is a more important matter to attend to between your legs.
“You should have come to me last night,” Thorin the Warrior growls and pushes into you, demanding an answer.
“You should not have left my chambers,” you reply, thrusting your hips at him. He growls louder and his hand covers your breast still imprisoned by your bodice. Through the layers of fabric, you can feel how eager his touch is, your body demanding to feel his fingers against the delicate skin of your breasts.
“You defied me yesterday,” another thrust, sending you closer towards the edge of the bliss. “Just like you defied me tonight,” he sinks inside you once more, “bringing the documents too soon,” he grunts into your ear, his teeth nibbling at your earlobe, sending shivers of pleasure straight to your core.
“You should have not left me wanting yesterday,” you oppose him, squeezing your inner muscles around his manhood, and as an impulse, add one word at the end in a seductive whisper, “Thorin.”
A long grunt escapes him and his lips cover yours, kissing you senseless. The flames of his desire encompass you, making every fibre in your body scream in delight. You want him to burn in that fire of passion your bodies created, and you want to burn together with him.
“You will not defy me any more,” his grip on your hip intensifies as he covers your neck in sensual lovebites, driving you crazy with pleasure, but only a small whimper escapes you. Your neck arches backwards and a triumphant smile plays on your lips. Tonight, you are definitely not in an obedient mood.
“I want you to sing for me, Ragna,” Thorin the King commands you, his beard brushing against your burning skin.
When your eyes meet, you see that his gaze is clouded with the haze of passion, probably just like yours. Your hand sinks into his hair, grabbing a handful, and you utter, “Not tonight.”
You don’t want to be remembered by him as the Night Singer. To him, on your last night together, you simply want to be Ragna. The one who shared the unbelievably high diamond peaks of pleasure with him. The stubborn, the defiant Ragna. The unforgettable one.
You wrap your legs around him tighter, spurring him with your heels, welcoming his next thrusts. Thorin the Warrior is picking up the pace, the rough skin of his palm brushing against your thigh, lifting you slightly.
“Your king commands you to sing,” he murmurs huskily, ramming into you at a new angle.
“No,” you state firmly, although it sounds more like a half moan, your head spinning in ecstasy. You are not going to change your mind.
His deep growl reaches your ears, “You will sing, Ragna!”
A slap lands on your bottom as he says these words, leaving your skin tingling with heat. The sensation is new, unexpected, and completely enthralling. Some women would be outraged by it or submit to the king’s wishes at once, but not you. This rough caress only spurs you further, intensifying all the other sensations as your hips move hungrily to meet his. But… as soon as it happens, you give out an unguarded moan. Just one. One too much. Damn it.
“This is what I want to hear, Zunshanush,” his eyes flicker victoriously and he covers your lips with his. As your kiss deepens, your thighs clench around him once more and you run your nails along his back. Now it’s his turn to give out a growl of pleasure. He called you Zunshanush, a tiny songbird. Such an endearment from the mouth of this lecherous, unfeeling, gruff dwarf...
Another of his deep, powerful thrusts finds its way straight to your core, but you bite his shoulder to stifle another moan of pleasure. You are clawing his back, your hips matching his rhythm, meeting his every move, your legs tightly wrapped around his taut waist, but not another sound leaves your mouth.
With a growl, Thorin the Warrior pins your back to the desk.
“Now I have you where I want you,” he plants a rough kiss on your lips.
“What a coincidence,” you purr back at him, “This is exactly where I want you.”
Half-groan half-laughter escapes him while he launches his greatest attack in this battle, his sword shoving into you with a pace that is driving you closer and closer to completion, deeply, passionately, with abandon, causing your back to arch from the newfound pleasure. You push back towards him with a renewed force, your bodies clashing against each other, the legs of the desk screeching against the stone floor.
“So impatient…” he growls triumphantly, his body hot like a furnace covering yours, his palm greedily squeezing your breast, his teeth biting at your neck, his beard prickling you, the cold metal of his braid beads burning your hot skin and you can’t wait much longer.
You look deeply into his eyes and say two little words. Nothing more. Only you know that they contain all of your feelings, unrequited hopes, and impossible dreams. He will never know what your heart hides, but your voice will carry it all to his ears, all that cannot be.
These two little words are enough to send him over the edge as soon as they leave your mouth.
“My king!”
That is when he lunges into you again, like a charging bull, grinding against your secret mound, crashing into you like a stormy sea into rocky cliffs, sending waves of pleasure straight into your core.
You moan as the ecstasy washes over you both at the same time, his satisfied growl intertwining with your sigh and yes, you might be a bit loud. Who cares. The only important thing is that your mind is drifting away together with his, above the stars, and this is the only place you want to be right now. With him.
As the storm of ecstasy slowly subsides, your eyelids flutter open.
“Thorin?” you softly whisper his name, as if it was his true name and not the one he chose for himself. Your chest is still heaving in the aftermath of the battle of passions that has just taken place between you, the echoes of pleasure withering away, your limbs heavy with sweet tiredness.
His forehead is resting against your left collarbone, his lips placing a soft, lingering kiss on the curve of your breast as he hums questioningly in response.
“Would you please take me to bed?” you ask quietly, unsure of this new, fragile truce between you, hoping that Thorin the Lover will hear your plea and carry you away in his strong arms.
And so he does, without a word of protest, enveloping you with his reassuring warmth, holding you close against the wide expanse of his chest. Perhaps closer than usual. Or perhaps it is just your silly imagination.
* * *
You wake up, a ray of sunlight hits your face, annoying you enough to force your eyes to open. Another day begins. Another day full of meetings, ink stains on your fingers, more ink and petitions to resolve, some trouble with the miners’ safety that could be solved with a little more effort on the part of the mine overseers. You wearily extend your arm across the bed, finding it empty but still slightly warm. A smile escapes your lips and you suppress it with difficulty against the soft pile of pillows under your head.
You blink a few times before sitting up with your eyes still half-closed. You wearily move the curtains of the bed inlaid with gold and blue and place your feet on the soft black fur. For a moment, you stare at the wall of green marble in front of you. With a stifled sigh, you make your way to the bathroom letting your crimson nightgown fall to the floor. After the bath, you begin to do your hair yourself, which is now quite a rare occurrence, as is eating breakfast in a hurry, risking even choking on bread and jam. Ragna, you now have more time, you feel that everything around you moves much slower through time, the time that flows with so much sweetness that sometimes you feel as if you are flying through the corridors of the mountain, never touching the ground.
You've become lazy now, Ragna.
Someone knocks on the door and you open it. It’s your young maid who helps you put on that almost deadly tool that you are used to calling a gown, one of many, one of too many. She helps you to tighten the necklaces around your neck and laughs as she fixes the braids that you had badly styled without ever touching the one on the side of your temple. You hold it between your fingers, pressing a quick kiss on the ornamented surface of the small bead clasping it.
Some time before you might have even thrown up at such a thing... or at least that's what you'd have wanted to think yourself.
You've become romantic now, Ragna.
The maid places the heavy gold and black adornment on your head, gathering up your long locks and making you look decent when you stare at your own reflection into the mirror. Youthank her and dismiss her before heading past the small bedroom parlor and into the small room adjacent to it, still dark, and barely illuminated. You advance slowly, silently, you know what might happen if you would place your foot on the wrong marble slab... aYou want to enjoy the silence for a bit longer. You approach, guided by the half-light, and carefully move the richly ornamented transparent curtain. You can't help smiling as you look at the chubby cheek resting on the small pillow decorated with squirrels and wolves. You notice how the little hand is trying to grab one of them, its tiny owner still sleeping. You brush away a small dark lock from the ruddy cheek, before leaning down and leaving a quick kiss on his temple, something that his father loves equally much.
You've become nostalgic now, Ragna.
You cautiously close the curtain letting the little pebble have some more peace and rest. He definitely needs it after the previous two nights when he was more interested in laughing at nothing and making little noises holding his feet up and then putting his little fists in his mouth... in your bed.
You walk out of the rooms, twirling around as if nothing could break the spell of this moment. As if there was nothing but that day, like every day. You increase your pace, waving at the guards you meet at the crossings of the staircases. You know the names of every single one of them: at least in this matter your memory serves you very well. You stop and ask some of them how their day is going: many of them have recently taken wives or husbands, others have risen in rank, often thanks to your interventions. Once or twice, you had to grab the broken nose of the captain of the guards or slam your fists on tables harder than his iron gloves, but you got your way in the end.
You continue to walk down the stairs, quickly dodging two young dwarves who are already covered in mud, despite the early morning. The blond one tells you it was his brother's fault, the brown-haired one doesn't answer, staring dreamily at a dwarf maid on the other side of the stairs. When their mother sees them, she will bury them alive. Poor things.
Hurrying down, you meet other friendly faces on your little journey, and one meeting keeps you busy; a long chat with two elder dwarves, about how it's not a good idea for Durin's Day next week to serve only the wine from Mirkwood... it was too fruity. And instead, the other dwarf states how it was a great idea given its healing properties.
You tell them you'll talk about it later at the afternoon council meeting. You knew it was going to be a tough day, but you didn’t expect it to be so busy at this hour!
You have become complacent now, Ragna.
In less than a handful of minutes you find yourself in a room with a golden floor. You look ahead, standing on your tiptoes, trying to look through the crowd, but your search is unsuccessful. You keep walking. You need to search further. By now it has become your routine, a morning habit that made you feel alive.
You have become addicted now, Ragna.
You walk smiling, making bows left and right, until you arrive in the most opulent halls of the mountain. You look into the most important of them, suspended in the air… and empty.
Sighing, you keep walking and go to the next chamber, its golden door is open. You hear voices, you see figures: Lord Dain sitting on one of the chairs, lords of several clans and men of Esgaroth sitting on others, but the largest one is empty. You sigh, remaining unseen in the doorway, looking at your feet.
A pair of hands wrap around your waist pressing you against a hard body, its warmth enveloping you. A smell of pine and leather enters your nose causing your eyes to close. A chin rests on your shoulder.
"Have you come here to save me?" you hear a hoarse voice behind you, rumbling against your ribcage.
"Is there a time when I haven't?" you ask, wrapping your hands around the immense ones now resting on your belly.
In response, you receive a snort and one of the hands moves, lifting the heavy locks of your hair from your shoulder and neck.
"You've done it more times than you think," he whispers in a rough voice.
A pair of lips settles on your neck eliciting a small whimper from you mixed with a chuckle. "Have you been drinking early in the morning, my king?"
"I have yet to taste my favorite wine," he answers and gently lifts your face, turning it towards his.
A pair of eyes as blue as the clearest of waterfalls, eyebrows as black as the night you had spent by the gates of Moria, by the lake of Kheled-zâram, a well-trimmed beard with a thick braid, the three beads among his dark and silver hair rubbing against your bare shoulder, and soft, warm lips that rest on yours giving you a new breath of life.
Not even Mahal could have done so much, not even the Creator himself.
"Zunshanushê ," he murmurs against your lips with a grin.
Stupid, arrogant, stubborn and full of himself Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King under the Mountain. Your Thorin.
You have become happy now, Ragna.
* * *
The Masterlist
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 ...
Please let me know how you liked it! Do you want me to continue with this story?
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
193 notes
·
View notes