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This story was inspired by the confession #633 on @thorinoakenshieldconfessions: “Before I fully wake in the morning, and I’m all warm in bed, I always imagine Thorin is with me, relaxed, sleepy, and snuggly. It’s one of my favorite things to think about.“ While this was the initial spark, the fic took on a life of its own and departed a little from its inspiration.


Thorin was an amazing king. He was also more self-sufficient than the most lowly peasant. At first glance that didn't seem like a bad thing at all.

If, for example, someone were to drop the pair of you off in the middle of a wasteland with just a knife and nothing else, you'd be just fine. By midday at the latest Thorin would have a roaring fire going, with some edible critter roasting on a spit above it. One week later you'd have a hut. It would be in the completely wrong spot because his sense of direction was abysmal, but it would be excellently constructed, and he'd soon replace it with a stone mansion. A few months later all misfits in the wastelands would have gathered under his leadership, and he'd be king again. That's just who Thorin was.

Sadly, he'd refuse to delegate tasks to anyone he hadn't known for at least twenty years, and you'd be right back where you started: being the beleaguered assistant to an insufferable despot and the most impatient and exacting master in existence. So exacting that he'd worked himself to the bone ruling Erebor in the beginning.

Since he had clearly never heard of delegating, you had taken it upon yourself to educate him. A bit over a year ago you'd finally managed to convince him that he needed a personal assistant to take off some of the load.

In true Thorin fashion he had then proceeded to wear out eleven personal assistants in the course of a few months. You'd had no other choice but to fill the position yourself, and you were still holding it now, half a year later.

Six months.

Six long months of practically living in Thorin's pocket, eating hurried lunches at his desk and dinner on the rug in his office. Six-months of all-nighters spent poring over treaties and building projects and mining rights disputes. Six months of ignoring a sexual tension so thick even Dwalin had commented on it. Something about 'two uptight eejits what cannae pop their fool heads out of their arses long enough tae see what's right in front of them'.

Yeah. You'd both blithely ignored that one.

In hindsight, you should not have accepted the position. Apart from being Thorin's general factotum, you were now also the preferred target for every bootlicker and ambitious upstart who wanted a direct line to the king. Since you had the king's ear, you got accosted at every hour of the day and night by petitioners eager to unload their troubles.

No wonder you were sleep-deprived. Unfortunately however, as Thorin's assistant it was one of your duties to see that he got to where he needed to be on time. It was a duty you took very seriously.

Very seriously.

Which is why you had just burst through the door of Thorin's bedroom at the crack of dawn, out of breath from a hard run.

You'd overslept. There were no alarm clocks in Erebor, the dwarves being strangely reluctant to construct one despite your increasingly shrill entreaties. So sometimes you woke up a few minutes later than you should. But this morning was particularly cloudy  and so you'd overslept for a full hour. You barely had time to do more than wash and throw on a barely acceptable dressing gown over your thin sleep chemise before you ran out the door. Rather than being coiled in its usual impeccable updo, your hair fell scandalously loose around your shoulders; your glasses sat askew on your nose and your cheeks were flushed from your undignified run. You held  Thorin's schedule for the day clutched in your right hand, ready to read it to him whether he wanted to or not.

All in all, you presented a thoroughly unprofessional picture as you closed the door behind you. You clung to the thought that you'd have enough time to put your appearance to rights after preparing Thorin for the day ahead.

Then you looked at the bed and your mood plummeted even further.

Thorin was still sound asleep. He lay sprawled across the white sheets and didn't even stir as you walked closer. The bedding looked as if it had gone through a freak storm, and to top it all off, he was naked. Gloriously so.

You straightened your spine.

No. Not gloriously. Inconsiderately.

You knew from experience that you were going to have a devil of a time getting him to wake up.

It was a recent development, one that still mystified you although it probably shouldn't have, given his workload. Then again, he didn't use to have any trouble getting up at the crack of dawn during the quest. The most likely explanation for this sudden sleepiness was that he'd taken a lover.

It was pretty likely — he was a virile male in his prime, secure in his position and power. Pretty maidens threw themselves at him on a daily basis. You had made discreet inquiries, but so far nothing had turned up. Despite that, you had taken to picturing his lover in your mind. She'd be some inconsiderate tart — a buxom widow or a merchant's daughter, you couldn't quite decide — who kept him awake all night with sweaty and acrobatic sexual acts, so that you had a devil of a time waking him up for the morning council meetings…


While the lady reaped the benefits of her king's physique and incredible stamina, you were the one who had to deal with his morning grumpiness -- provided you even succeeded in the Herculean task of waking him up.

You closed your eyes. For a few blissful moments you pictured strangling Thorin' strumpet until her eyes bulged out of her head. You had to spend several minutes composing yourself before you turned to the task at hand.

And now you had to deal with the fact that  Thorin was still naked. Well, if he thought nothing of displaying himself like that, putting all sorts of thoughts in your head that had no business being there, you damn well had a right to look.

Just this once.

So you did, your gaze roaming hungrily over veritable acres of tanned, gleaming skin. That much male beauty would have appeared nearly unearthly if not for the scars peppering his chest and arms, the thick line of rough dark hair bisecting his abdomen.

Only a thin white sheet lay in a tangle across his midriff, exposing hair-roughened, muscular calves and startlingly beautiful feet.

His eyes flickered beneath his eyelids, showing that he was still deep in the grip of a dream. Suddenly, his hand clenched in the sheets. His back bowed in a breathtakingly sensual arch.

"Mmmm," he hummed. Dreaming about his trollop no doubt. "You wild thing."

Whatever misgivings you might have had about waking him when he was sleeping so deeply flew out of the window.

Pulling a mirror out of your pocket, you tilted it until you caught a blinding ray of sunlight. Then you angled it so it shone directly into his eyes. That usually did it. But this time he only shifted again in that languid way, and threw a muscled arm over his face.

Drat. Thwarted.

"Naughty minx," he murmured, clearly still caught in a sex dream.

On the rare occasions when the mirror trick failed, your next options included brewing a really strong cup of Oin's stinky medicinal tea and waving it beneath his nose, tickling the soles of his feet with a feather and finally, when you were really desperate, blowing softly in his ear.

Today you were at an impasse. The tea would take too long, the feather thing felt inappropriately sexual under the circumstances, and the ear trick, while failsafe, was an option of last resort. It reminded Thorin of orcs, so you avoided using it because he'd wake up full of adrenaline and you didn't relish being choked first thing in the morning.

Well. There was no way around it. Pushing your glasses firmly up your nose, you brushed your hair behind your ears and leaned over him until your lips nearly touched the shell of his ear.


No answer. Not even a twitch.

Despite the prim inner voice that urged you to move away, you stayed where you were, taking a surreptitious sniff. You had never been so close to Thorin before, and you'd likely never be again. The sexy, musky scent of his sleep-warmed skin filled your lungs, making your head spin. You had to press a hand to the mattress to steady yourself.

"Thorin?" you whispered again. Please don't let him choke me. Please don't let him choke me… "You need to wake up now. I's council time."

His chest rose on a deep breath. But instead of the adrenaline rush you feared, he merely rolled onto his side towards you. Before you could move away, strong fingers caught your wrist, encircling it loosely.

"Again?" he growled without opening his eyes. "Already?"

He obviously wasn't quite awake. "It's past dawn," you said, trying to sound as sympathetic as you could, which wasn't very. It came out stern and faintly reproachful.

"Slave driver," he grunted, and then came something you couldn't understand. It was a sleepy mumble and you had to bend down further to make out what he was saying. Some nonsense about glasses and perky bums.

You brushed a strand of hair away from his forehead. "I'm sorry, but it's morning, your Majesty. You really need to wake up."

His grip tightened around your wrist. He tugged without warning, lightning quick even in sleep. Suddenly you found yourself lying on the bed, half-trapped beneath his nude, muscled weight. Thick arms encircled your waist tightly. Thorin cuddled you like one would a beloved teddy bear and buried his his face in your cleavage.

"Y/N," he muttered thickly, nuzzling the valley between your breasts. You froze. He hadn't opened his eyes yet.

"You're a cruel, cruel woman," he slurred. "Keepin' me awake all night." His left hand slid down to give your bottom a good squeeze. You yelped, then softened right away as he stroked his palm over the tingling curve in a soothing motion.

"'s a lovely bum," he explained earnestly to your cleavage. "'s like an apple."

That must be one huge apple, you thought, leery as ever of poetic compliments but rather touched by his fond, earnest tone. Your hand went to his hair. You stroked it restlessly while your mind ran in circles.

You'd always prided yourself on knowing what to do next in any situation. That was you in a nutshell: Girl Most Likely To Have A Plan (and file the report afterwards). It was your job description, it was your personality, it was your raison d'être. And right now, the certainty that propelled you through life, the very thing that defined you, was gone, replaced by a terrible inner conflict.

Oh, you knew what you'd like to do next. If Thorin had truly been dreaming about you, you could just keep going, let him think he was still asleep. Take advantage of his horny sleepiness in the most reprehensible and unethical way.

But of course you couldn't do that. Because then you'd be Girl Who Took Advantage Of Her Employer (while he may have thought she was someone else). All your prior accomplishments, the cool professional image that had earned you the nickname "Ice Maiden" would be gone in an instant.

So. Door A was clearly not the right choice.

You should stop this now. Yell in his face, maybe give him a bit of a ding round the ear — that would wake him up in a hurry...

Thorin's other hand slid to your bottom in a transparent attempt to influence your decision making. That was one hundred percent more hands than before at work shaping and kneading your tense buttocks, and it felt amazing. A whimper escaped you, quickly suppressed.

Thorin's mouth skimmed your chest and moved up to suckle at the base of your neck.

"Love th'sounds you make," he confessed. His beard tickled his collarbone. The spot he was paying such close attention to seemed to have a direct line to your groin. A very open, very receptive line. Liquid heat flooded the pit of your belly.

Do something, ordered a stern inner voice. Scream! Hit him!

B-but, he said my name, whined another. You slid your hands over his broad, sleek shoulders — that counted as hitting, right? — and shimmied closer. The move flattened your breasts against the manliest chest in existence.

Thorin uttered a rough, contented groan.

You wriggled a little until your face was level with his, and pressed your lips to his. Just to wake him up, of course.

"Mmmm," he hummed, lips parting in invitation. You couldn't help nibbling a little. Maybe just a bit of tongue. That would definitely wake him up. Look, he was returning the kiss already, his own tongue chasing yours, tangling with it in a languid dance.

He tasted so good, hot and male and unbearably sexy. You tilted your head to give him better access and Thorin grabbed the hem of your shift. He crumpled the silk in his big fist, dragging it up to your waist and out of the way. Then his hands settled, shockingly, on your bare bottom. Arousal spiked, magnified tenfold by the skin to skin contact.

"Y/N," he moaned.

There it is! squeaked that excited inner voice. He said my name again!

"Why did you get dressed?" he muttered between kisses.

Oh, bother. You had to stop this now, or you wouldn't be able to.

Breathing a reluctant sigh, you pressed your hands against his chest and pushed away. "Thorin!" you hissed. "You're sleeping. Wake up!"

"Y/N…" Oh, his voice. So rough and deep…

"Thorin!" It was a desperate bark.

His eyes finally opened, though just barely. They were mere slits of cornflower blue in his tanned face. He blinked at the sight your frowning face inches from his own.

"Y/N?" he said, a little more clearly. "Why're you here?"

You beautiful moron. "It's morning. I came to wake you up. Council will be in session soon."

He rolled off of you and to his back, rubbing a hand across his face. You scrambled into a sitting position, hastily smoothing your rumpled shift down your thighs. Your backside still tingled with the memory of his touch.

"Did I do this?" he said, waving a hand in indication of your general disarray, your position on the bed, everything.

For once, you were lost for words. "Ummm…"

He frowned at the ceiling. "I apologize. I thought I was dreaming."

"A-about me?" The words came out small and timid, utterly unlike you. But you needed to know.

He sighed. "I'm afraid so." As you tried to digest that revelation he turned his head to look at you, gaze sharpening as he took you in properly — the mussed hair, the thin morning gown slipping off your shoulder, the delicate chemise that flowed over your curves like water.

The frown intensified as he attempted to separate dream from reality. "Your hair... Why are you dressed like this?"

You grimaced. His irritation was understandable; after all, he'd never seen you any less than perfectly put together. It was part and parcel of being a detail-oriented perfectionist, aka nitpicking bore.

"I overslept," you said tightly.


He didn't have to look quite so surprised. "I'm mortal too, you know," you said, offended.

Thorin sighed. "Wouldn't know it by looking at you, most days," he said. "Did you kiss me, or was that a dream as well?"


His gaze sharpened. Sleepy or not, he was still a king. "Let me rephrase that. Did you want to kiss me?"

Now would be a good time to lie through your teeth. "Yes."

Damn it.

Thorin bowed his head as if in supplication. "Thank you, Mahal."

You blushed. "You… You really dream of me?"

His head fell backward to the headboard with a thunk. "Every night, for months now." He still spoke as if in a dream, slow and a little slurred.

"Those kinds of dreams?"

He shrugged. "What other kind is there?"

Your lips twisted. "Me yelling at you about paperwork?"

That got you a small smirk. "That is my reality. No need to dream about it."

"I don't yell that much."

That faint smile again. "No. You are stern and disapproving and painfully prim." He stroked a finger down your cheek to your jaw. "And yet you kiss like fire."

Oh my. Dazed, you abandoned all thoughts of propriety and maintaining a professional workplace relationship. You closed the distance between you in one undignified scramble, uncaring that the morning gown was threatening to fall off you entirely. Thorin took hold of your waist and pulled you the rest of the way into his lap.

He studied your face for a moment. Then he reached out and, very deliberately, removed your glasses. The clink as he set them on the night stand sounded awfully final.

You bit your lip, feeling very naked all of a sudden.

Thorin brought his face closer, until his features turned into a blur, and brushed his cheek against yours.

"Good morning," he said into your ear. His voice, so rough and deep it was a nearly subsonic growl, made you shiver.

"Good morning," you replied stupidly.

His lips skimmed across your cheek, searching and finding your mouth. He claimed it in a drowsy kiss. You turned into it, into him, opening yourself up to his slow, thorough plundering.

Thorin rolled you over until you were both lying on your side, then cupped your bum again, pressing you up against his burgeoning arousal. And what an arousal it was. Your thin silk shift might have not been there at all for all the barrier it provided against that hot, hard, swelling length. And it was still growing.

Another hot kiss briefly distracted you.

Still growing.

Oh my.

You sighed happily and hooked one leg over his hip, basking in his soft grunt of approval. He stroked one hand down your thigh to your knee, hiking your leg up even further. Tilting his hips, he rocked languidly into the cradle of your thighs.

Broad, scarred hands moved over your skin, dipping lightly between your legs, dragging roughly over all your hidden, sensitive places.

He still moved oh so slowly, but more purposefully now, kneading and stroking and plucking all the right strings to turn you into a shameless, wanton mess.

"Thorin," you whispered, and felt him smile against your mouth. "Are you sure?"

"Oh yes," he murmured. "Very." He moved to nuzzle the crook of your neck again as he slid the morning gown the rest of the way down your shoulders. Then he hooked a finger under one of the spaghetti straps of your chemise, sliding it down just enough so he could insinuate a hand between silk and skin. He cupped your breast, unhurried but sure, and thumbed idly at a budding nipple. It tightened beneath his callused fingers.

You whimpered. Thorin gave a satisfied hum in response. No longer sleepy, he still was more relaxed than you'd ever seen him. Not necessarily less intense, just more in the moment the way you'd only seen him in battle, nearly serene as he focused with all his being on the single goal of driving you out of your mind.

A muscled thigh nudged your legs open. He closed his eyes as he felt you, slick and hot against his skin. He moved then, narrow hips settling easily into the cradle of your legs. You didn't even think as you lifted your hips in a welcoming rush. He slipped inside as if he belonged there, without fuss or ceremony.

Thorin groaned, as surprised as you were, and took your mouth in a long, sweet kiss.

It felt so right.

Six months of foreplay, you thought vaguely as he started rocking. There was no finesse, no elaborate touches; Thorin simply thrust into you deeply, evenly. One hand clenched in your hair, exposing your throat to his marauding teeth. You keened as you met his thrusts with an increasingly frantic fervor.

His hips stuttered for a moment, then his thrusts resumed, harder and faster than before. It was enough to shred the last of your control. Your nails dug into his neck, urging him to take you harder, to suckle and bite at your neck until you had the marks to show for it.

Thorin did, as merciless in imparting pleasure as he was imparting death on the battlefield. You squirmed around his broad, thick cock, blind with desire and sunlight and Thorin

"Don't stop now, don't stop…"

And he didn't, drawing back a little so he could watch your face as he unraveled you, his own features fierce, implacable. You grabbed at his shoulders, trying to anchor yourself in that blue, blue gaze, but it was too late—

You keened as you convulsed all around him. Stars, supernovas, whole galaxies erupted into being before your eyes. He rode you through it, never faltering, that muscled neck arching into his chest like a charging bull, and then he exploded inside you, flooding you with his seed in a hot rush.

When he collapsed over you, panting harshly into your neck, you buried your hands in his damp hair and cradled him close.

You were his now, even if this never happened again. Irrevocably his.




You basked in the afterglow for a while. Thorin had turned on his back and pulled you close. Now he was idly trailing his fingers along your arm in a light caress. If you could ever have imagined a moment of perfect contentment in your life, this would have been it. By rights you should have wanted for nothing.

Of course the responsible part of your personality would pick just that moment of unguarded joy to intrude. What was Thorin going to do once the sexual lassitude wore off? Would you be able to keep your position? Would he want a repeat performance? Several?

Also, you were going to be so late to that council session it wasn't even funny. What if someone came looking? What if—

You clenched your jaw and tried to push the worries away, at least for another minute.

Really, this was just like you. You'd just had the best sex of your life, arguably the best experience of your life, and all you could think about were consequences. How you wished you could lock away that killjoy part of you, at least for a few days.

A strong finger ran gently over the crease between your brows.

"I am quite certain this is not the expression of a content woman," Thorin said. "And here I thought I'd made a decent showing."

You shook off the gloomy thoughts. "You were amazing," you said softly. "I'm dreading the return to reality, that's all."

"I see." He pressed a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. "You have been working without respite for a long time," he said. "Would you indulge me for a little while?"

"Of course." Whatever could he want from you?

"Lie down. On your belly."

You complied. You'd welcome another bout of sex to take your mind off things.

"Close your eyes."

Once your eyes were firmly shut, Thorin got off the bed and opened a drawer. You heard him rummage around briefly, then the mattress dipped under his weight again. There was a loud pop, like a stopper being removed. A faint, pleasant scent filled the air — sandalwood? A minute later Thorin placed oil-slick hands on your back.

Ah, so that was it. He was going to give you a massage. While his intentions were nothing but good you still cringed, expecting the worst. It wasn't that you doubted his dexterity, it was just that dwarves had a different pain threshold than humans. Even at your most relaxed your back was a stiff, knotted mess; you carried all your worry in your lower back, and the muscles of your neck felt like they had fused into a monolithic mass long ago. If he got to work with even a fraction of his strength it might hurt more than it helped.

"Go easy on me?" you pleaded.

But Thorin didn't dig in with the brutality you feared. At first he kept his hands right where they were, letting their warmth seep into your back. Then he started moving his thumbs in slow circles, with barely any pressure.

Even that light touch hurt at first, you were so tense. But gradually, you relaxed a little. The searing pain you feared refused to materialize and you started to drift.

The room was so quiet you could have heard a pin drop. Thorin poured more oil into his palms at regular intervals, never letting the friction become to strong. He worked on your neck in smooth, patient circles, until you were all but purring under his hands. When he finally began digging his thumbs into the deeper knots, smoothing them out with just enough force to keep it bearable, you were too much of a limp noodle to protest. And it did feel good. When his work there was done and he moved away to run his palms in long passes down your back, you all but melted.

Shifting a little on the bed, he trailed the callused pads of his fingers over the twin dimples at the base of your spine. There was a pensive quality to the gesture. You could all but feel his gaze follow in the wake of his touch. Admiring. Possessive.

You held your breath. But he only stopped to pour more oil and then he began carefully massaging your lower back, working out the kinks accumulated by months of overwork.

A guttural groan escaped you as his powerful thumbs skimmed over the base of your spine and pressed into the tight flesh of your buttocks. Thorin kept going, alternating between firm digs of his thumbs and lighter, sensual sweeps until you were all but begging him not to stop.

He squeezed your hips, then moved lower, pressing the heels of his palms against the globes of your ass. When you lifted up into the touch, craving more of that firm, delicious pressure, he stopped.

"Easy," he commanded, as if calming a skittish mount. "Easy now."

You obeyed ungraciously. Even though he had not touched any of your erogenous zones yet, not even in passing, you were so aroused that you thought you might burst into flame at any moment. Your body was abuzz with sensation; every little touch seemed magnified, every sweeping pass of his hands left a tingling trail.

Pleased with your compliance, he placed his spread hands at the base of your thighs. You sucked in a breath as he swept his thumbs along the twin creases there. He did it slowly, from the inside out. And then he did it again, knuckles brushing against your pussy.

You whined softly in frustration. Thorin seemed not to hear it. Again, he picked up the bottle. This time he poured a thin stream of oil across your buttocks and the backs of your thighs. It ran down your skin, cool slick rivulets running down the swell of your ass and the gentler, longer curve of your thighs to pool at the backs of your knees and between your legs, where you were now fairly quivering with arousal.

You moaned when Thorin touched you again and began spreading the oil around with long, sure motions. Then you gasped as he began to knead the back of your right thigh in even, scissoring motions, working his hands in counterpoint to each other, back and forth. He worked his way down to your knee and then back up again several times. On each pass, he grazed the aching place between your legs until you were nothing but a needy mess.

This time, though, you knew better than to arch into his teasing touches. You could only bite your lip and stare blindly at the bedding as he repeated the same procedure with your left thigh, then smoothed the heels of his hands from the backs of your knees up to your neck a few times.

You couldn't stand it anymore. You were going to explode. You were going to—

"Turn around," Thorin ordered.


He had to repeat himself twice before the meaning of his words registered in your scrambled brain. You rolled limply to your back, then laid there, watching him through hooded eyes as he arranged your body on the bed to his satisfaction.

One he was done, he shifted into a kneeling position; you only understood why when he tugged your left foot into his lap and began to work his oil-slick thumbs into the aching arch.

The sound you uttered was borderline orgasmic. Any ticklishness was staved off by his strong, sure grip. You moaned again when he ran his knuckles over the heel and instep to press against the ball of your foot. And yet he was still not done: next, he caught the foot between his palms and moved down to gently stretch your toes.

He repeated the procedure with the other foot, undeterred by your incoherent mewls and garbled offers of marriage.

You quieted when he began kneading your calves. He moved up, inching ever further up your thighs, thumbs sliding in teasing circles. Soon, his fingers were skimming your hipbones only to dip back between your legs, knuckles brushing unerringly against your oil-slick, sodden sex.

You scratched at the bedding, hips lifting in a silent plea for more. Thorin placed a broad hand on your lower belly, right at the top of your mound, and eased you back down. With his other hand he grabbed the bottle, deftly flipping it in the air so he could thumb off the stopper one-handed, then poured more oil — over your belly, your chest, your aching sex. It pooled in your belly button and spilled down your sides, drenching the bedding.

Thorin didn't seem to care. He leaned forward spreading the oil all over your hips, your ribs, the belly muscles that fluttered and clenched helplessly beneath his touch. His palms smoothed lightly over your chest and up your neck to cup your jaw. He held you like that just long enough for the heat from his hands to seep into your skin, long enough for you to understand he was still in charge. Then he drifted down again, skimming the sides of your breasts along the way, only to circle right back up and catch the aching tips in a firm grip.

You arched into the touch. He rolled the nipples between thumb and forefinger, tugging slightly. He took his time, teasing and kneading your breasts, taking in your every reaction with an intent, predatory alertness. When he eventually released you, it was to flip you back onto your belly. It was done so effortlessly that it took you a moment to realize what had happened. That moment was all that he needed to slip a thick, puffy pillow underneath your hips.

Thorin straddled you, keeping his weight entirely off you as he did so.

"Push up a little," he commanded, hands resting idly on your hipbones. When you complied, he leaned forward, pressing a hand to the mattress next to your head to support himself. His other hand caressed your hip, gently tilting your pelvis up further, then you felt the broad head of his cock nudge at you. He hovered above you, his incredible strength apparent in the way he kept nearly all of his weight off you with only one hand. You whined softly when his other hand slipped between your legs to trace your slit. He circled your nub with careful, slick fingers and slid home.

You clenched hard around him. With your legs so close together it was an incredibly tight fit. Behind you, Thorin let out a slow, measured breath as he lifted his hips, pulling out slightly, then sank back in, fingers dancing lightly over your sex. Sparks of sensation danced across your clit, made jagged streaks of lightning tear across your vision.

Thorin began moving. It was slow enough to excite without allowing you to climax but not so slow you had time to recover. After a while he adjusted position, insinuating one knee between your thighs, then the other. His free hand moved up over your belly to cup your breast, pinching the nipple just firmly enough to cause a sharp sting of pleasure right between your legs. His lips brushed over your shoulder, then moved up in small, nibbling bites. His teeth grazed the nape of your neck, closed sharply over your earlobe.

Turning your head, you met his seeking mouth in a slow, wet sideways kiss. He lowered himself on his elbow and tangled his fingers with yours, his larger hand swallowing yours entirely. His unbound hair spilled around your face and shoulders, shrouding you in scented darkness.

You focused on the feel of his lips moving across yours, the careful way he moved inside you, coaxing out every last drop of pleasure from your body.

You felt cherished, enveloped, impossibly safe.

Thorin moved in you, slow and deep. You barely felt the moment your climax started, it built so achingly slow. It began as a tingling in your toes, a deep itch at the base of your spine. It built up inside you, filing you to the brim. Wave after wave of sweet, dark pleasure poured into you, saturating your flesh, your blood, your very bones.

Thorin's iron control, the cage of his arms, the hot, male weight pressing on your back, it all fed the building heat, until you barely knew where you ended and he began.

And then, it finally happened. Not like lightning. You slid into it seamlessly, dreamily. One moment you were unbearably full, stretched beyond bearing by the aching swell of sensation, and then you just overflowed, spilling yourself out as you climaxed. It was a slow unraveling, quaking through you with the deep thrum of an erupting volcano, as powerful and just as hot, filling your veins with honey.

Thorin rocked you through it, muttering hot words of praise into your ear, and then he stilled, so tense he was shaking, and you felt him spill himself inside you.

He collapsed above you moments later, barely catching himself enough so he didn't crush you under his weight.




A ray of golden sunlight warmed your belly as you lay on your back next to Thorin, hands still entwined.

You glanced at him as he propped himself up on an elbow to look at you.

"I wish to court you," he said gravely. "Do I have your permission?"

You tried to picture being courted by a king and failed. But Thorin was not one for half-measures, and the way he looked at you now echoed everything you felt —  surprise, giddy disbelief, unreasonable adoration. Oh, he had undone you so thoroughly. It felt like he was branded on your heart, your head, your— Well. Just about every relevant piece of your anatomy: "Owned by Thorin II Oakenshield, King Under The Mountain". Well, except for your kidneys perhaps. And the small intestine. Organs like that. The rest though? It belonged to him now.

Courting seemed nearly backward, under the circumstances.

"You do," you replied softly. "Though one may argue that you already have courted me enough."

He brought your hand to his lips, kissed your knuckles. "You deserve to be wooed," he said. "Allow me the pleasure."

You stared at the ceiling for a long time, unseeing. Your heart was so full, it was a wonder it didn't spill over. You had never experienced bliss like this before. It was hard to imagine ever feeling any other way again. But you knew better. Real life would intrude soon enough, with its state business and petty squabbles and the mountains of paperwork that never seemed to get smaller. If you let it, it would suck the life out of this beautiful thing you had found with Thorin.

You wouldn't let it, you resolved. You were a new woman now.

"If we're going to do this again we'll have to schedule it," you said.

Thorin burst out laughing. It spilled out of him in great guffaws, making his shoulders quake.

You waited until his laughter trailed off to stray, fond chuckles to say, "I just meant that we both have responsibilities and I don't want this to be buried under their weight. That's all."

Thorin stroked his thumb over your cheek and leaned in to kiss you. "I know," he whispered against your lips once he'd rendered you quite dizzy. "Be sure to schedule it often."

You nuzzled your nose against his. "I'll pencil it in. But be warned, you'll get even less sleep than you already do."

"No," he said. "I will sleep more, now that I no longer have to contend myself with dreams that leave me aching."

"Never again," you agreed. "I will make it my personal mission to keep my king in, uh, proper working order."

He chuckled again. "Proper working order. I like that. I vow to do the same for my lovely assistant."

You couldn't help an impish smirk. "What, keep me well-oiled? Inspect my carriage? Take me for a spin every so often…" You hid your face against his shoulder. "Wow, that degenerated quickly. You are a bad influence, Your Majesty."

"I prefer to think of myself as a freeing influence," he said, cuddling you close. "This light-heartedness suits you. I shall strive to coax it out more often."

You barely heard him. All the excitement had worn you out, and the massage had done the rest. Suddenly you found you could barely keep your eyes open.

"Need to get up now," you slurred. "The council—"

"Can wait," Thorin said, kissing your forehead. "Sleep. I will guard you from all intruders."

"And people bearing paperwork?"

"Especially those," he vowed.

You turned into his chest with a sigh and did as he ordered. He was still your king, after all, and kings needed to be obeyed.