Middle Earth || OS

31. Thorin | Golden Spirit I

Tumblr : averil-of-fairlea

Setting: the day Smaug attacks (from the movie scenario, not book) || Genre: angst, fluff, romance, brief sexy talk, more angst + a prompt from :

Reader is a hybrid (elf and a dwarf) shunned by both is brought under the mountain as Thror lovingly offers the orphan asylum. Grows to be his favourite amongst his people.after Smaug- thorin seeks her out demanding help in his quest to reclaim erebor because of her combat intelligence and magical healing abilities.Only for her to die horrifyingly in botfa. Reincarnated as thranduil's sister.Finding Thorin as an age old rival in business

King Thror's eyes beamed as you strode into the dining hall, both hands bunching the front of your puffy aubergine skirts to hike up the layers just enough not to trip on them.

"U'zagthithinh, you've joined us at last," Thror announced, standing respectfully until you bowed to him and returned his loving smile.

"Good evening, King Thror..." You nodded to the others, adding, "...and to everyone. So sorry I'm-"

"Late," Prince Thorin said curtly. He turned to the King. "And you still call her u'zagthithinh, Grandfather? She's not a little warrior anymore."

Hm. Impressive, you thought. He was starting the game early.

You circled the table and went to your seat across from your opponent and in between Dís and Frerin, who were busy eating from their full plates of round steak, boiled potatoes and bread.

"You will forgive me, Prince Thorin," you said politely, scooting up to the table and snatching your fork. "My sword training went well past its time." You stabbed the air with your knife, aiming at Thorin's heart.

His eyes smiled before his mouth did, and suddenly the room became very, very hot.

"So I may not be a 'little' warrior anymore," you continued, "but I'm a warrior all the same. Would you like to see my latest moves?"

You didn't mean it in a suggestive way. Still, the most mischievous smile formed across Thorin's lips as he leaned forward, his dark blue tunic dangerously close to his nibbled food.

"I would love to see your moves."

Your mouth, and the knife, fell.

No contest. He won.

In the ten years since King Thror welcomed you to Erebor as a 'Dwelf' orphan to find refuge from the world's cruelty, Thorin's contribution to the meal conversation had evolved from subtle eye rolls belying his short-lived resentment of your special treatment, to grunts and sneak peeks at your curves as you grew and blossomed. He had moved onto snippy remarks, just to light your fire.

And light it, he did.

Thorin loved the verbal wrangling as much as he enjoyed sword sparring with you. And quite honestly, the banter took the place of the greater passion burning within you both.

To Thorin, you were no longer the guest, and, thank the gods, he did not consider you a sister either.

You were the insatiable lover in his feverish dreams, the name on his lips in the heat of the night. In his visions, it was your body and your mouth, not his hand, bringing him pleasure.

He never acted on courting you, nor had he broached the subject with his grandfather or father. But the more he saw you, the deeper his feelings became, and the more complete he felt.

After hearing that the son of your weapons trainer fancied you, Thorin came up with an arbitrary harbinger: If you were late for dinner four nights in a row, he would take you aside and confess that you alone had his heart.