#richard armitage x OC

[legolasbadass]

Italian Holiday, Part V

Summary: A few weeks before Richard leaves for Boston, he and Lorelei go on holiday in Italy to make the most of the summer and the time they have left together.

This story takes between the penultimate and last chapter of Office Hours and contains major spoilers for that story, so make sure you read it first!

Relationship: Richard Armitage x OC (Professor AU)

Word Count: 4.2K

Rating: E

A/N: I know I've already posted a chapter this week, but it seemed fitting to post this chapter today... 😉💙

Read the full story on AO3

On the morning of Richard’s birthday, I wake early to pick up pastries and fruit for breakfast and a cake at the nearest bakery to surprise him. He is not big on birthdays, but I still want to make this day special. I hold my breath as I sneak back inside the flat, cursing the racket the keys make as I insert them into the lock. But thankfully, Richard is still sound asleep. 

After hiding the cake in the refrigerator, I make my way toward the bed. The crumpled duvet exposes Richard’s naked chest, which rises and falls in an even rhythm, golden under the morning sun sneaking in through the half-closed curtains. One of his arms is stretched out on his side, where I slept earlier, but he does not seem to have noticed my absence. Smiling to myself, I carefully sit on the edge of the bed and rest a gentle hand on his chest, running my fingers over the patch of hair between his pectorals and feeling the steady beating of his heart under his warm skin. There is something quite comforting about seeing him so relaxed, so at ease, and it is in moments like this that I realize just how much I will miss him when he leaves for Boston. My heart tightens at the thought, but I force myself not to think about it. Not here, not now, on this most special day. 

I am admiring the soft, grey hairs in Richard’s beard when he begins to stir. A moment later, his eyes flutter open, his sapphire irises shining like the glittering waves at the beach, and when his gaze meets mine, he smiles sleepily. 

“Good morning,” he says, his voice slurred by sleep. 

“Happy birthday, my love,” I whisper before leaning in to kiss him softly, my loose hair spilling over my shoulders, tickling his cheeks. 

He groans into the kiss as he wraps his arms around me, his large hands caressing my waist through the thin fabric of my dress. “Why aren’t you in bed?” he asks when we pull apart for air a moment later, sounding displeased. 

“I had to go pick up a surprise for you,” I answer with a smile as I bring a hand to caress his unruly hair, then let my fingers trace his temple before settling on his beard. He opens his mouth to retort, but before he can say anything, I add, “I know you don’t care for birthdays, but let me take care of you today, okay?” 

He grins in response and buries his hand in my hair as I lean in closer, supporting myself with one hand on the mattress. I let my eyes flutter close as I rub my nose against his, enjoying the way his beard tickles my cheeks before meeting his lips in a languid kiss. The kiss quickly becomes more heated, and as his tongue tangles with mine, I move to straddle him, welcoming the feeling of his growing arousal between my thighs. 

“A birthday present so soon in the day?” Richard teases, and I giggle, burying my face in his neck and inhaling his scent as I trail a path from his ear down to his Adam’s apple with my lips. 

His large hands rest on my bare thighs, gently stroking them, leaving no inch of skin untouched. Eagerly, they slip under my dress, all the way up to my hips, leaving the fabric bundled at my waist. My skin burns under his touch, and when I instinctively grind myself against him, I am rewarded with a gentle wave of pleasure. His hands dig into my flesh as he hardens under me, his body surrendering to the same sensations he awakens in me.

“Take off your dress, darling,” he suddenly says in a deep voice, fisting the fabric, and I shiver. 

Gazing into his lust-darkened eyes, I raise myself and slowly reach from the hem of my dress to pull it over my head, letting it fall to the floor before reaching for the clasp of my bra. Richard swallows heavily as he stares unabashedly at my breasts and the hardened peaks that beg for his touch. The love and desire burning in his eyes set my whole body on fire, and heat pools between my thighs, soaking my knickers. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, almost as if to himself, then licks his lips, momentarily distracting me. I desperately want to kiss him, to drown in his intoxicating taste while his beard scratches my cheeks, but I force myself to wait. This morning, I intend to draw out his pleasure and explore every inch of his striking body. It is his birthday, after all. 

I offer him a seductive smile before devoting my attention to his chest, pressing light kisses across his collarbone, then down into the valley between his pectorals. Encouraged by his increasingly ragged breathing, I lightly bite his skin, slowly inching closer to his nipples, and he groans and arches into my touch when I teasingly swirl my tongue over one. 

“Sweetheart.” The endearment is both a plea and a command, but I ignore him, making my way further down. “Please—I want you, Lorelei.” 

“Not yet,” I say, shaking my head before caressing his navel with my tongue. 

His hands are now buried in my hair, and I can tell he is holding back; he could easily take control and push me onto my back to have his way with me, but thankfully, he seems content to let me be in control for now. 

Never tearing my eyes from him, I settle myself comfortably between his thighs and press a lingering kiss on the tip of his hardness, then another, this time teasing him with my tongue, revelling in the low groan that tumbles from his parted lips. Smiling, I wrap one hand around him, letting it glide against him in tandem with my mouth, teasing him until the first salty drops of his pleasure meet my tongue.

Richard's moans grow louder, and his body tenses beneath me, muscles straining as I keep up the teasing rhythm. When I take him deeper into my mouth, he tugs on my hair and lets his head fall back, exposing the column of his throat to a sunbeam that travels across the bed, and I moan against him, mesmerized by this tender, handsome man I have the chance to call mine. The way he looks at me now, like I am all that matters to him in the world, makes my heart swell with a love so deep it takes my breath away. And suddenly, despite my desire to take my time with him, I can no longer ignore my need to feel him inside me and share this pleasure with him.

His groan of protest is immediate when I pull away, and I cannot help but laugh as I slowly move to straddle him once more, steadying myself with my hands on each side of his head. Even through the cotton of my knickers, I feel how warm he is, and I know he can feel how wet I am already. 

“Lorelei,” he groans in a deep, desperate voice, pressing his head into his pillow as he struggles to keep his eyes open. “Are you trying to kill me?” 

Another breathless laugh escapes my lips as I lower myself to kiss his jaw, and the new angle causes us both to moan. Richard’s hands are now tugging on my knickers in a desperate attempt to remove the last piece of fabric between us. 

Clumsily, I wriggle out of my knickers by raising one leg at a time, and when, at last, I am completely naked, I wrap my hand around his hardness to guide him inside me. As soon as he slips between my folds, I reach for his hand to steady myself; I am more than accustomed to his size now, but it renders me breathless each time. Inch by delectable inch, he fills me, stretches me, and when he is all the way in, his groan mingles with my moan. Then we still. Neither of us moves for a moment, and only the distant sound of waves and our heavy breathing reveal the passing of time as we lose ourselves in each other’s eyes, bathed in sunlight and the summer heat. No words are spoken between us, but I know we are both savouring every single second and imprinting each little detail in our hearts to cherish when we will be apart. 

The first time I sink down on him, the pleasure is so intense that it draws a shuddering gasp from both of us. Richard follows my rhythm, lifting his hips to meet me as I lower myself onto him, taking him in as deep as I can, desperate to give him as much pleasure as he so passionately offers me. One of his hands moves to my lower back while the other slides up to cup my breast, his thumb brushing over the sensitive peak. Heat swirls through me, spreading from my core all the way to my toes, as he gazes up at me with a mixture of awe and need, the blue of his irises almost lost in the depth of his desire.

Then, between two thrusts, Richard pushes himself up to kiss me, his beard scratching my burning cheeks as I whimper against his mouth. Even though it is only mid-morning and a refreshing breeze floats in from the open doors leading onto the balcony, the air is already hot and humid, and my skin is slightly sticky, but Richard does not seem to mind. Ardently, he covers every inch of my neck with kisses, and a soft, desperate moan falls from my lips as I let my head fall back, drowning in the sensations he stirs within me. 

That is always the flaw in my plan—he knows my body too well. So despite my intention to take control and draw out his pleasure, it does not take long before he sends me over the edge. Clinging to him, I cry out, my nails digging into his tanned back as I tighten around him. And that is all it takes to send him over the edge with me. Groaning my name, he buries his face in my neck, and we cling to each other, trembling as the waves of pleasure gradually subside, leaving us breathless and spent. I can feel his heart pounding against my chest, matching the rapid beat of my own, as his fingers trace lazy patterns on my back. 

“You certainly know how to wish someone ‘happy birthday,’” Richard says eons later, causing me to giggle.

“You deserve nothing less, my love,” I respond, kissing him softly before he lowers us onto the bed so that I lie on his side, one warm wrapped around his middle. Once I catch my breath, I snuggle closer and press a light kiss onto his sweat-slicked chest. “So, do you feel any different? Wiser, perhaps?”

Richard chuckles as he absently plays with my hand, then pauses. “I just feel even luckier. I mean, an old man like me, with a girl like you…”

I bite my lips but choose to lighten the mood by saying, “And I feel lucky every day I’m with you… my old man.” 

Another chuckle falls from his lips before he moves his hand up my arm, then into my hair to caress the tangled locks, prompting me to look up at him. “You really don’t think I’m old?” 

My heart tightens in my chest at the insecurity that softens his eyes. “Of course not! Not that there’s anything wrong with being old.” 

“Hm,” he mumbles, looking up at the beamed ceiling. “I’m getting more and more grey hairs—might have to start dying my hair.” 

“Don’t you dare!” He raises his eyebrows. “I happen to love your grey hairs,” I say earnestly as I run my fingers through his unruly curls. “I love the greys in your beard as well.” I accentuate my words with kisses along his bearded jaw. “I also happen to love the wrinkles at the corner of your eyes.” With my lips, I trace a path from his beard to the lines around his eyes. 

“You like my wrinkles?” Richard asks with raised eyebrows. 

I cradle his face with one hand and lean in until his lips are mere inches from mine. “I think they’re sexy,” I say before pressing a lingering kiss at the corner of his mouth.

“Really?” He sounds even more incredulous now.

I nod. “Surely I’ve told you before?”

“You haven’t.”

“Well let me rectify that, then,” I say softly, then kiss him once more as I bury one hand in his hair. “Your grey hairs are very sexy, as are the little wrinkles at the corner of your eyes. In fact, you are the sexiest man I’ve ever met—I’ve thought so since the very first time I saw you.” 

“Oh yeah?” He chuckles in amusement, but his cheeks are now red with embarrassment. 

“Yes—you were wearing a grey tweed blazer and a white button-up underneath, and your collar was undone, and I remember thinking that was very distracting,” I say, unable to hold back my giggle.

Richard grins, a twinkle in his eyes. “Well, I had no idea I was distracting you so much.”

I bite my lips. “And you know—I’ve seen photos of you from when you were younger, and I can tell you, you only get better with age, darling.” 

Richard chuckles, his cheeks still red. “Yeah, I was a lanky teenager and it took me years to grow into my big nose.” 

“Well, you’ve certainly grown into it. And other appendages...”

Richard’s laughter joins mine, and his chest rumbles against me as he pulls me closer. He is still smiling when he captures my lips in a slow, toe-curling kiss. Then another, deeper, more passionate. His tongue tangles with mine as I wrap my arms around his neck, my fingers pulling on the curls at the back of his head, causing him to moan and pull me even closer; my breasts are pressed into his chest now, and one of his hands slides down my back to caress my bum just as I wrap one leg around his hips, but then he groans and pulls away. 

“Well, there is one thing that doesn’t get better with age,” he begins, slightly breathless. “I don’t think I can make love to you again so soon, no matter how much I wish I could.” 

I cannot hold back my giggle as he brushes the hair from my face. His eyes shine with playfulness, but I still notice a hint of insecurity in his gaze, as though he is worried about disappointing me. I press a chaste kiss onto his lips to reassure him, then say, “It’s just as well—my legs are sore.” I kiss him again. “And I’m starving!” 

“That’s not good. We have lots of steps to go down to reach the nearest café.”

“No, we don’t. Why do you think I got up so early?” Richard raises an inquisitive eyebrow. “I got eggs, cheese, and fruit from the market. And I got us chocolate and pistachio cornettos at the bakery. I thought we could have breakfast on the balcony.” 

In response, Richard smiles and buries his face in the crook of my neck. “God, I love you.” 

“I love you, too,” I say, giggling and smiling widely as I hug him tight against me, pressing a tender kiss in his hair. 

Sometime later, we manage to leave the bed. While Richard goes to the loo, I steal one of his t-shirts to keep his scent on me even longer and slip into my knickers before going into the small kitchen. When he joins me, he helps me prepare breakfast despite my initial protests, seeing as it is his birthday. But we have always enjoyed cooking together, and when he wraps his arms around me to tell me this, I know he is thinking of how much he will miss little moments like this when he leaves. Neither of us speaks about it, though, because as long as we are here, we can pretend that time stands still, and he is not leaving anytime soon. 

We take breakfast out to the balcony, where a gentle breeze rustles the leaves of the potted plants. The sun has climbed higher in the sky, casting a warm glow over the cliffs and the seaside town. As we sit across from each other, sharing laughs and stories, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee mixes with the salty sea breeze as the town below awakes. 

After a lovely breakfast and a long shower, we set out to explore more corners of the charming seaside town, strolling through narrow streets lined with colourful houses and charming shops. But we spend most of the afternoon at the beach, laughing and sharing stolen kisses under the warmth of the afternoon sun and in the refreshing embrace of the Ligurian Sea. In the evening, I bring Richard to a quaint restaurant, where we enjoy delicious pasta and a bottle of local wine. 

The sun has nearly set when we make our way back to the flat after dinner, our hands intertwined as I rest my head against his arm. 

“Today has been perfect, sweetheart,” he says as we reach the front door. “I don’t know how to thank you.” 

I smile up at him, my heart light and warm. “You don’t have to thank me. And the day isn’t over yet, birthday boy.” 

He raises one eyebrow and grins. “You’re spoiling me.” 

“Well, you never let me, so I’m taking advantage of this special occasion.”

Once inside, I pull him toward the balcony and make him sit down at the table. 

“Now close your eyes—and no peeking!” 

He chuckles but complies, and for a moment, I simply watch him, admiring the boyish grin that tugs at his lips and his tousled curls, enhanced by the humidity and the sea air. I cannot help but press a kiss onto his bearded cheek before darting back inside, smiling in excitement. In the kitchen, I hasten to retrieve the cake from the box, then grab the tube of decorative icing I bought this morning. The cake already looks amazing, but I want to add a little personal touch. Unfortunately, the icing comes out uneven as I try to spell out ‘Happy Birthday’ in the centre with a small heart at the end, but I know he will still appreciate it.

“I won’t sing you ‘Happy Birthday’ because I know you hate that, but I’d still like you to make a wish,” I say as I step back onto the balcony and carefully place the cake before him on the table. His eyes are still closed, and I smile to myself as I strike a match, then light the candles. “You can open your eyes now.” 

A surprised laugh tumbles from his lips as he opens his eyes and stares at the messy lettering on the cake. “Did you do that?” 

“I tried!” I reply, laughing at myself. 

“It’s perfect,” he says, raising one finger to swipe off some excess icing from the heart I made, then brings it to his lips and hums appreciatively. 

“Blow the candles before you lick the icing!” I chastise him, but I cannot stop smiling as I wrap my arms around his neck from behind. Richard stares at his cake for a moment, then blows out the candles, except one stubborn one. “Quick, or your wish won’t come true!” I say, but he succeeds in blowing it out before I finish speaking, so I cheer and press a kiss atop his hair. 

He squeezes me tight, then says, “What if it already has?” 

“What?” I ask, not quite understanding, but then I look at the candles, then back at him, and the meaning of his words is clear in his tender eyes as he gazes up at me. 

Smoke is still rising from the candles as he extends a hand toward me, inviting me into his arms, and I momentarily forget all about the delicious cake awaiting us as I sit on his lap. When he speaks, his voice is heavier than usual, though laced with tenderness. 

“You know, for so long I wondered if maybe there was something wrong with me,” he begins slowly as he absentmindedly caresses my arm, causing me to frown. “Everyone around me was falling in love, getting married, having kids, and I could never seem to make a relationship last, no matter how hard I tried. But now I understand why…I was waiting for you.” 

“Richard…” I swallow hard as myriad emotions clog my throat. 

“I’ve been on so many crappy dates over the past eight years, you wouldn’t believe. But it wasn’t these women’s fault—I tried, I really did, but I just never really clicked with anyone and I didn’t see the point in trying and—and risking my heart over again. But then I met you.” He smiles brightly and chuckles as though remembering something. “And everything was just so easy with you.” I open my mouth to retort, and seeing the look on my face, he chuckles and says, “Well, sure, we’ve had our problems—but I mean the connection between us. It just works with you—I’ve always been so comfortable with you, and you understand me in a way no one has ever understood me before. And you make me feel loved in a way no one ever has. I might not have known it at the time, but I fell in love with you the very first time we met. I remember you telling me about your research and what drew you to Tolkien’s work—and the passion in your voice was just…” He trails off then and smiles, and the love in his eyes makes my heart swell ten-fold. 

“And to think I worried I was boring you by rambling about Tolkien,” I chuckle at the memory, trying to ignore the frenzied beating of my heart.

He smiles again before pressing a soft kiss onto my lips, his arms now wrapped around my waist as the sun sinks below the horizon, submerging us in the gentle glow of twilight. 

“I know I’m leaving for a year soon…” Richard hesitantly breaks the agreement to avoid the topic of his departure during our holiday, and I look down at the unbuttoned collar of his linen shirt. “But I want you to know that… I can’t imagine my future without you. I want to enjoy many more lazy mornings with you and I want you to keep sharing all your brilliant thoughts with me.” I cannot help but chuckle and shake my head, and he smiles, squeezing my hand as he continues. “And I want us to go on many more holidays like this one where we dance under the stars and eat great food and have amazing sex,” he adds, causing me to blush, but then he swallows heavily, growing serious once more. “I guess I’m saying all this because… I want to reassure you that even though I’m leaving, you remain my priority. That future with you is my priority—and I’m sorry we have to put things on pause for a little while.” 

I swallow heavily, slightly overwhelmed by the love behind his words and the tenderness in his eyes. “I—I don’t know what to say.” 

“You don’t have to say anything, sweetheart,” he responds, ever so caring and patient with me, as he rests his forehead against mine.

“You know I want all that as well, right?” I eventually say.

Richard smiles. “Yes, I know. But it’s nice to hear you say it.” 

I chuckle, then bite my lower lip. “You’re wrong about something, though,” I say, and he frowns. “We’re not putting anything on pause. It’s just something we have to go through. Sure, it might not be as nice as going on holiday in Italy or that amazing sex you referred to…” He squeezes my thigh, his eyes twinkling mischievously. “But it’s still part of that future—our future.” 

His eyes locked on mine, he raises his large hands to cradle my face. “You saying that… you don’t know how much that means to me.” 

I smile shyly before pressing my lips to his in a fleeting kiss, trying to calm down the frantic beating of my heart. “Now, how about that cake…” 

Richard laughs, squeezing my waist. “Yes, please!” he exclaims, reaching out for the knife. “How big a slice do you want?” 

I chuckle and nod in approval of the generous slice he offers me. The cake turns out to be even more delicious than it looks, and as the night air grows cooler and the streets below grow quieter, we take our time savouring it, exchanging loving glances and fleeting kisses. 

Richard was definitely right; this holiday does just keep getting better.

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[mistresskayla-blog1]

The Spoils of War

**TRIGGER WARNING** Sensitive smut material present

NSFW - NSFM 18+++

Characters: Raymond de Merville as Mars - God of War x OC Rhea Silvia

Lyn's Writing Event 2024 - Day 13 - Week 2

May 13th: Week 2: Mars (god of war) 18+++  NMDI NSFW

****TRIGGER WARNING****  (this will be in two parts)

Characters: (AU) Raymond de Merville (as Mars – God of War) x OC Rhea Silvia depiction   

Fandom: Richard Armitage – Pilgrimage – Raymond de Merville

The character of Raymond de Merville was created by Jamie Hannigan (for film)

The character of Rhea Silvia is a depiction from myths and legends written by Virgil and referred from the Aeneid (Book 1) and other Greek mythology.

This is my interpretation of a Greek myth. Enjoy.

Location: Ancient Rome – The Punic Wars  

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: graphic violence, rape, Greek undertones, shewolf, shame, abuse, dominant male, religious factions, character death, virginity, forced impregnation (implied), rope play, forced fellatio,

            Mars rode into the city, he was battered and bruised but triumphant in his latest battle. He saw a woman sitting on the steps of the temple and dismounted, somewhat compelled. As he approached her, a statesmen came up to him,

“Mars, how is the battles?” Amulius asked. Mars looked at Amulius and then to the woman, “It is well. Now what business do you have with me?” he gritted his teeth.

Amulius blocked his advance, “If you are looking to pursue her, I had a deal to strike with you”. Mars stopped moving, and looked down at Amulius, “I’m listening” mars said, cooly.

Amulius put a hand on his shoulder and stepped away from the steps further from steps, “That is my sister, Rhea Silvia, and I have made her a vestal virgin. She comes highly regarded but I cannot have her heirs, so, well” he looked at Mars and then down at the ground.

Mars nodded, “I see, so I can have her, but if she bears fruit I am to what? Kill my progeny?”

Amulius, “Yes, in a manner, but be not worried, she knows not of a man, she is pure. And –“

Mars cut him off, “That’s enough, I care not about such things. Send her to me tonight”. Mars walked off and away from Amulius and the distant Rhea Silvia, who looked towards him as he tread past. His armor glistened in the afternoon light and it clattered as he proceeded away.

Amulius stomped towards her, and pulled Rhea up from the steps, “You are to be a bride now, and that is final.” Rhea pulled her arm away, but Amulius was forceful, “Take your hand off me. I am a protected priestess”. Rhea tried to stand her ground.

Amulius glared at her, “I made you a vestal to keep you quiet, but now I have another use for you, but if you betray me and create heirs I will destroy you”. Rhea shuddered, “How am I to do that my.. (gulped) King?” Amulius amusedly looked at her, staring at her bosom that was covered in the gauzy fabric of the age, “I am sure you will please him, but you dare not enjoy it”.

Rhea eyes wide looked in a manner confused and terrified. Amulius led her away from the Vesta temple and down to some quarters where he ordered servants to strip her and bathe her. Rhea stood in the tub, tears running down her cheeks. Servants rubbed her down with cloths until her pale skin was reddened. Then they dressed her again in a bridal shift. 

Rhea was a beautiful woman, not like the goddesses they worshipped in what would become the city of Rome, but still quite taking, and her eyes were bright with promise, until today. Rhea trembled in her new gown, and waited until she was retrieved. A robe of dark blues was placed over her shoulders and clasped in the front. It was night now, and the chill of the area was setting in.

---

Torches were lit on the hall walls, and Amulius entered the room.

“It is time, the arrangements have been made, you are his wife now”. Amulius spoke. Rhea looked puzzled, “without a ceremony?” Amulius sneered, “This isn’t a public display, it is just affairs of state”. Rhea looked down and walked slowly towards him, “Please brother be merciful, he is a brut, surely you know that”. Amulius looked at Rhea in the eyes then, and unmistakably sighed greedily, “Oh, I’m counting on it”. Rhea’s eyes widened again, as Amulius let out a deep throaty sinister chuckle. Rhea gathered her robe tighter about her and followed him down the corridor.

A while later they were in the center of the palace, in a section she was unfamiliar with, even though she had spent many years exploring the palace as a child. She could smell the stench of unclean men and hear the ruckus of their chants. A revelry was going on in a room, and she looked up long enough to see them taking part in a drinking game of sorts. Pounding the table and shouting wildly, most men in various layers of battle garb, some nearly nude, she blushed discernibly.

Amulius knocked on a door in the corridor, and a gruff deep voice boomed on the other side. Rhea shivered, even though there was no breeze tonight. Amulius covered her face with the hood of the robe and waited for the door to open. Heavy foot falls came to the door, and when it lurched open a tall dark-haired man stood, somewhat undressed, from battle, an apple in his hand. Mars looked at Amulius amused, “Oh, right. Is this her then?” Mars looked to Rhea, whose eyes were careening past the shadow of her hood, he saw her soft lips, and he groaned into the apple as he took a bite, “Leave her with me” he said to Amulius. Amulius, smirked, “the papers are all in order, Mars”. Mars snatched a scroll from Amulius’ hand. Then looked him up and down again, scoffing, “For a King you do an awful lot of your own dirty work.”

Amulius, “This one I wanted to take care of personally. She is my niece after all”, he replied, bringing his arm around Rhea’s back and pushing her into Mars as he stood barring the doorway with his frame. Rhea’s eyes were fixed on his hulking chest, it breathed in and out as he chewed his apple, the crunching noise above her ears. She dare not look him in the eyes, she was far too nervous. Amulius retreated and went back to his own chambers for a night of blissful sleep.

            When Rhea knew he was out of earshot she fell to her knees in front of Mars, “Please, my, Archon, please take pity on me, and let me go back to my work a vestal, I promise I will bring no shame upon you.” Mars chuckled, still chewing his apple. He grabbed Rhea by the shoulder and drug her inside the room, closing the door and locking it. He dropped is hands from her shoulder and she dropped her hood. Her brown eyes stared up at him from the floor, and he tossed the apple core across the room and yanked her up to her feet. His eyes searched hers for something, innocence? Meaning? Love? Hate? Rhea did not know. Rhea saw him visibly smell her, take her in, his hands squeezing her upper arms so intensely she let out a little whimper. Mars shook her a little at that, and Rhea turned her head away from him. Mars set her on her feet then, and placed his hand across her chin, “You think I care about your family’s honor. I am a god amongst men” he spat, his face was so close to her, she could smell the apple on his breath, amongst other things and feel the heat of his breath. Mars pivoted and tossed her towards the bed then made two hasty strides to meet her there.

Rhea cowered at the end of the bed; eyes bright. Rhea slumped to the floor again, but removed her robe, leaving her shift that was so thin, he could see the nipples bead against the fabric. He picked her up again, and set her on the end of the bed, and grabbed her breast in his meaty hand, and massaged it, his thumb brushing the nipples through the fabric. Rhea felt a new sensation tingle through her, but she was still scared. Her other nipple followed suit and pursed against the fabric. Mars watched her face as she let him touch her. All things happened in microseconds of time.

Mars tore at her gown, exposing all of her to him. He roared excitedly and shucked off his pants hastily. Rhea shivered again, and closed her eyes, as his hands were all over her. Gripping her buttocks, her hips, and brushing by her throat. His one hand on the back of her neck, he stared at her, then grabbed his cock in his other hand, and started to stroke it. Rhea looked down shamefully and was amazed at what she saw. It was large and veiny and it pulsed in his hand, extending from his body. Rhea had never seen anything like that before. He panted a bit, as he said, “Suck it” to her, and then he pushed her mouth towards his cock. She didn’t know what to do, so she closed her eyes, and he grabbed her hair and pulled, “Look at it!” he barked. She still had use of her hands, so she tried to touch him, but he simply shoved his cock into her open mouth and started to rock into her, his hand on her hair was tight and he fucked her throat with righteous abandon. Rhea gagged and spat and tried to breathe.

Mars just kept fucking her, and moaning, happily, “oh, in all my years” he crowed. Rhea pushed at him and gasped as he pulled out, his hold of her hair loosened. Mars let go of her and she choked and spat on to the floor. Her back was turned so she did not see the rope he gathered from the bedclothes. He tied her hands behind her, “So you won’t get away, or think to mark me up. I have a reputation to hold in the bordellos, you know” he smirked and chuckled, his voice deeper now. Mars picked Rhea up again, by her arms and laid her on her back on the bed, her arms tied and pinned beneath her. He stroked his cock again, filling the slick of her spit on it in revelry. He pushed his thighs against hers, parting them. Rhea tensed, not knowing what to expect next, but only hearing stories from the older ladies of the village.

Mars rubbed his cock against her mound, and felt a warmth and slickness, “You told me you haven’t been with a man, then why are you wet?” he cajoled. Rhea’s face flushed with heat, “I don’t know my archon, I.. I”. Mars leaned over her, and spoke against her lips, “It doesn’t matter now, you are mine, now, I can mark you however I wish, and I don’t care about Amulius’ little treaty.  I’ll fill you with my pups until you can’t stand it anymore”, he said grinned wildly. As he stood back up, pulling her ass to the edge of the bed. Mars entered her with conviction and Rhea screamed from the mixing of flesh on flesh and the tearing of her insides it seemed. Mars roared louder feeling her tightness against his throbbing cock. Her walls were untouched and it felt amazing, he pounded into her, holding her hips, his hands gripping her tight. Rhea’s legs were draped past either hip, limp, but not willing. Mars looked at her, and saw her ashen face, he slowed down a moment. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, towards her ears.

“Been a while since I had a virgin” he cackled, “And your so fucking sweet, you may turn me into a softer man.” Mars stayed deep inside her, Rhea’s pussy trembled around him, pulsing. Rhea could feel a warmth in her core now, it rose and fell with his thrusts, but in his stillness, there was a yearning for more. Mars felt the twitch of her cunt, and he smiled again, leaning down to bite her neck, and sucked her flesh between his teeth, “Mine” he growled. And Rhea let out a sensational moan, she hadn’t ever heard herself make that sound before, “My archon, what was..” Rhea murmured. Mars stopped sucking her neck, and came to look upon her, “That my wife was a moan”. Rhea nearly giggled, but still was mightily uncomfortable.

Mars started his pace again, thrusting deep and fast into her, and panting as he went. His eyes bore into hers, and still tears filled hers in fright and confusion. Mars pulled out of her and readjusted her. He picked her up by the waist, turned her around and pushed her face first into the bed, her ass presented for him. Mars grinned broadly, “oh the gods did smile upon me this day.” And Mars grabbed Rhea’s ass, massaging it greedily, parting her cheeks, and pressing his cock into her pussy again. Rhea moaned, but into the bed. Mars’ cock strained and grew thicker as he pushed deeper and pumped faster. He could feel his climax building inside him, and he wanted to fill her core with as much of his seed as he could. He needed to, to rebel against that spoiled King, Amulius.

Mars kept pushing deeper, right to her Rhea’s cervix, and he banged into it with great relish, bruising it, and causing more spasms inside her. Rhea did not know how to orgasm, he knew that, and her body reacted to him just as nature intended. Rhea’s face was smooshed into the bed clothes, her ass in the air, her core spasming. She felt totally out of control, and she made little sounds with her mouth, but she didn’t know if they were a call for relief or more. Mars went faster and faster and harder and harder. Rhea spasmed around his cock, and as he cum, shooting his hot load against her cervix, washing it with his seed, Mars growled again, and pulled Rhea’s torso up to meet his chest.

His hand drifted lazily against her folds, and he rubbed her clit a little. Kissing her neck, softer now, as she gasped from his fingers on her. His cock was still inside her, pulsing, and when he touched her clit, Rhea’s eyes rolled back in her head in joyful sadness, “Please, my archon, I don’t understand”.  He shushed against her cheek, “Its alright, you’ll understand one day, I’ll teach you”. Rhea’s eyes closed then, tears rolling down her cheeks. Mars cock was still hard, and he pumped into her a few more times, her pussy still clamping onto him, Mars breath hitched against her neck, “You are amazing, just think what can happen, when you know what your doing.”

Rhea blushed at those words, the warmth in her belly transferring to her cheeks. Mars’ arm held her to him, across her chest and against his own. Rhea’s arms still bound behind her. Mars set her down gently then and untied her. He rubbed her wrists, and checked for marks, tossing the rope aside. Rhea turned to him, gathering herself into a sitting position, her knees up at her chest. Mars looked at her then and realized how youthful her face, in the torchlight. “My god, you really are beautiful aren’t you?” Rhea looked down, and wept into her knees. Mars’ seed was oozing out of her pussy, and he noticed it gathering on the bed. He coaxed her with whispered to her to ‘lay down’, and he propped her legs up, against his side.

Mars gathered a bit of covers over her then. And Rhea gratefully accepted them. Mar’s propped his hand on his head and looked at her. Rhea looked at him still puzzled, “What are we doing now?” Mars lazily retorted, “trying to make heirs so your uncle will lose all he has”. Rhea smiled then for the first time all night, “Oh, well, if that’s what it takes, I will try my best.” Mars grinned, letting his finger make circles on her belly against the blanket, “And if it doesn’t, we can just keep trying.” Rhea looked at him then still a little shaken, “But not like that, every time, right?”

Mars looked down a second, a light in his eyes shining warmly towards her, “No, not every time,” he paused, sitting up a bit, “Unless I’m fresh from battle, I tend to be an ogre”, his boyish grin is almost endearing. Rhea tries to feel something besides the tenderness between her legs and the utter sadness of losing her position as priestess, “So what does a wife of a guard captain do?” Mars looked at her with as much seriousness as he could muster in that moment, “Take care of me, I guess. I honestly don’t know”. Rhea actually felt a bit lighter as at his relaxed confession, “Well maybe we can make it as we go along?” she asked. Mars looked at her a bit steely, his blue eyes sharpening in the lamplight “Perhaps.” Rhea nodded in understanding.

(Part 2?)

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Lyn’s writing event 2024 

[lathalea]

The Arrival

Yes, my beloved readers, it's time for another Thorin fic from yours truly!

Relationships: Thorin Oakenshield x Reader/OC (pick one) Rating: G Warnings: none Author's notes: Thorin and his Company have reclaimed Erebor and started rebuilding their kingdom. Everything seems fine except for the fact that the King Under The Mountain is eagerly awaiting the arrival of someone very dear to him... Also, I want to apologise to Peter Jackson for stealing some lines from An Unexpected Journey and J.R.R. Tolkien for appropriating and rephrasing one sentence from The Lord of The Rings.  I'm a hopeless romantic, what can I say? You can find this fic on AO3. For @legolasbadass 💙💙💙

Khuzdul: Iglishmêk - dwarven sign language Kurdelê - my heart Lukhdelê - my light of all lights

The King Under the Mountain, Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, the second of his name, also known as Thorin Oakenshield, the king of Durin’s folk, was not a patient Dwarf—and yet he waited. He had been standing on the main terrace above the Great Gate of Erebor since the moment when the first rays of the morning sun gilded the distant peaks of the Iron Hills. His eyes, however, were turned towards the west, where the jagged tops of the Misty Mountains grazed against the pink sky. As he took a deep breath, fresh spring air filled his lungs. It was his—and his people’s—first spring in Erebor since it was reclaimed. The winter after the Battle of Five Armies passed in a blink of an eye. The kingdom was being rebuilt and prepared for the returning Dwarves, food stores had to be replenished, new trade agreements had to be signed… but among all those duties, something else kept Thorin awake until late on many a night. His memories.

The memory of a pair of hands gently resting on his shoulders as he sat behind his desk, and the sweet timbre of the voice that went with it, “Come, Kurdelê, it is time we reposed for the night, those reports can wait until the morning.”

The memory of those soft, sweet lips pressing innocently against his cheek and murmuring something scandalously indecent into his ear.

The memory of how her body felt in his lap, his arms around her waist, her arms around his neck, her forehead pressed against his, her silver laughter as she pretended to scold his rash behaviour, so unbecoming of a king.

The memory of her bare skin in candlelight.

But there were other memories, too. Their lengthy late-night conversations about anything and everything. Their secret escapades to the market, or to an inn, dressed as common folk, pretending to be a couple of travelling merchants. Their wanderings through the Blue Mountains in search of the best view of the sea in the west (his choice) and the most beautiful flower glades (her choice). 

During the lengthy council meetings he had to hold almost daily in Erebor, he would recall how much her presence changed the dynamics of similar gatherings back in the Blue Mountains. Her reasoning was swift, and her no-nonsense approach to the matters of state made even the most ancient council members nod in approval. Even now, he would—out of habit—turn to his right, wishing to discuss a matter with her or ask for her insight. But she was not there, and so he would give out a dissatisfied grunt and return to the matter at hand. 

He knew that the only thing he had to do was wait, and he abhorred it. But there was nothing to be done. No sane person would risk crossing the Misty Mountains in the middle of winter. Now, however, the spring came into its own right. And he sent his best men to the High Pass to oversee the approach of the first dwarven caravan from Eriador. It was supposed to bring the first group of his people returning home, merchants, masters of craft, their families and belongings… and her. The whole Erebor was waiting for the arrival of their kin—the symbol of a new beginning for the Mountain and its dwellers. Many eyes turned to the west, counting the days, making wagers, discussing the route the waggons must have taken, and the current road conditions. It seemed that in those days, only one topic existed: the caravan.

But Thorin could only think of her lovely hand in his.  Of her kindred touch.

As soon as a raven brought word from the caravan, reporting that they have succesfully crossed the mountains, he could not stop himself from looking to the west, and hoping. 

This was the fifth day he spent on the terrace, waiting for any signs of the caravan’s approach.

On the first day, Gloin waited with him in hopes of seeing his wife and son, but was called away due to some issue in the treasure chamber. Thorin stayed, cursing the enchanted forest (and its haughty king, for good measure) for daring to obscure his view. Sadly, neither the forest nor its king moved out of the way.

On the second day, Dwalin asked Thorin whether he was growing mawkish in his dotage, staring at the edge of Mirkwood like a lovesick whelp—a question he had to take back on the training grounds. 

On the third day, Dori asked whether Thorin would rather wait inside, on account of that nasty rain, and drink some warm tea with honey. No, said Thorin, he would not. And that envoy from the Iron Hills could join him there, on the terrace, by the way.

On the fourth day, Nori, Bifur and Bofur kept Thorin company, amusing him—and themselves in equal measure—with the latest gossip straight from the taverns of Erebor (all two of them, for now). He had no idea that several hundreds of dwarves, mostly newcomers from the Iron Hills and the White Mountains, could wreak such havoc. And marry so swiftly and in such numbers. Spring was truly in the air.

Now, on the fifth day, he stood alone, and waited. Roac was circling the Long Lake below, giving out a single caw from time to time, “Still nothing.”

And then, a hunting horn rang out in the air. Thorin knew its sound all too well.

“Balin!” he exclaimed to his friend who sat in the hall beyond the terrace. “Sound the alarm!”

The elderly dwarf raised his head from above a piece of parchment, slightly puzzled.

“Call out the guard,” Thorin insisted, feeling his impatience take the better of him. “Do it now! 

“What is it?” Balin rose from his seat, his scroll forgotten.

“The caravan!” Thorin gestured excitedly—perhaps a tad too excitedly for a Dwarf of his stature—towards Mirkwood, where a long line of waggons started emerging from the forest. “They will be here soon!”

She will be here soon. 

Over a year passed since the last time he held her in his arms, since he braided the silky dark waves of her hair, and since he looked into the brilliant, wise eyes of the woman he loved. To him, it felt like an eternity, and in that very moment, as he hurried down the stairs that led towards the Great Gate, he made a solemn promise to himself.

When the caravan arrived, most of the Dwarves were already gathered outside of the mountain. The guards held their heads high, presenting their weapons in an honorary salute, not leaving their posts, but even they cast curious glances at the newly arrived, trying to find familiar faces in the crowd. Thorin smirked at his thoughts. They looked as impatient as their king.

He knew the protocol of such meetings like the back of his hand, requiring him to stand by the gate, look regally, and welcome the newcomers to their new—old—home. His resolve wavered, however, when he saw a familiar figure clad in a green, fur-lined gown getting down a waggon, helped by one of the guardsmen. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. Without thinking, he took a step forward, and then stopped, recalling who he was and what he was expected to do. He was also not allowed to leave his post, just like his guards. Instead, he observed from a distance, admiring the way the waves of her hair fell down her shoulders as she looked around, perhaps slightly disoriented, taking in the surroundings. Thorin saw the exact moments when her gaze rested on the mossy stone shaped by his ancestors into statues of warrior kings. Then her gaze moved down, focusing on the green marble of the Great Gate. Her eyes widened, her lips formed an “O” and then moved, she spoke something, but her words were lost in all the commotion. In that very moment, she reminded him of that bright-eyed maiden he had met for the first time in a mountain meadow half a world away; the maiden who laughed at his abysmal jokes, who fit so well in his arms when they danced, and who accepted his awkward courting efforts. The time that passed between then and now did not take away her ability to wonder and enjoy the world around her. She endured so many hardships on the way from the Blue Mountains to Erebor, so many cold nights on the road, faced so many dangers, and yet she never wavered in her decision to leave the Blue Mountains behind to be with him and their people. Now, she was finally here and, at last, he felt complete. Being able to see his own kingdom—their kingdom—through her eyes, and to see how amazed she was at the view, was a reward on its own. 

Thorin could not stop himself from smiling when her eyes finally met his. 

“Welcome home, my…” he began signing in iglishmêk, in that discreet way they often did on official occasions when the eyes of many would rest on them.

A light flush bloomed on her cheeks, she responded with a smile, and began walking towards him, oblivious of her escort and the joyous crowd around her, forgetting about the protocol, moving faster and faster, a giggle escaping her lips, her braids danced in the wind, her cloak flowed behind her, and…

“Thorin!” she called him in that melodious voice of hers, and there were diamonds in her eyes, or perhaps it was only his vision that suddenly turned very blurry, and he opened her arms, and thought “the Abyss take the protocol!”, and he rushed towards her, ignoring Balin clearing his throat in embarrassment, because she was finally here, and he had waited long enough—and they finally met halfway.

He wrapped his arms around her and felt her pressing into him, and there was laughter, and more tears in their eyes, the diamonds of happiness, those most precious among gems, and he was finally able to finish that sentence.

“Welcome home, my wife,” he rasped out, pressing his forehead against her, breathing in her familiar flowery scent, the one he adored so much. This was her, finally her, in his arms, and only she mattered in this very moment, not the crowd cheering around them, witnessing this moment of tenderness between their ruling couple, not even his kingdom, nor the world around them—now, it was only her.

“I missed you, my love,” she murmured, holding tight onto him, as if she wanted to make sure he would not disappear, and a wave of warmth washed over him. “I can’t believe I’m finally here, with you, after all those months…”

“Neither can I,” he agreed, cupping her cheek tenderly and eliciting a small sigh from her. “It was much too long, Lukhdelê.”

“Aye, it was,” she nodded, her eyes searching his face, as if learning it anew.

“I made a promise to myself,” Thorin continued. “Never again.”

“Oh?” she tilted her head in that alluring way of hers, and he had to suppress the improper urge to kiss her passionately in front of his people.

“Never again shall we part for so long. I crave you by my side, my heart,” he stated, bringing her hand to his lips.

“Then I will be looking forward to you upholding the promise,” she graced him with a teasing smile that made his blood run faster. “We have been apart indeed for too long, and so were our people. I believe it is time for us to work on improving their morale, would you not agree, my king?”

“Your wish is my command, my queen,” he agreed and took her in his arms again, and then their lips met. Sweetness intermingled with warmth, tenderness fueled the fire inside them, and he cared not that they stood in front of the gate in the sight of many.

After all, who cares about protocol when you have to properly welcome your wife home?

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[fizzyxcustard]

Covert Eyes (25)

Prologue| Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6| Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Chapter 22 | Chapter 23 | Chapter 24

Masterlist of fan fiction

Fandom: Spooks

Pairings: Lucas North x OC (Amy Holland)

Warnings: Stalking behaviour, anxiety, language, sexual references, angst, smut, heartbreak, gunshot wounds and recovery, abduction, hostage situation, PTSD, torture mention.

Summary: Lucas takes notice of a young woman, Amy, but his obsession and want to get to know her begin to spiral out of control. Amy is now working for MI-5, after being recruited by Ros. But will her involvement with Lucas cause even more problems and heartbreak?

When Amy's parents get involved, how will things pan out for Amy and Lucas?

Official soundtrack list:  here

Comments/Notes: If you wish to be tagged in any of my tag lists for fics or characters, please let me know, and stipulate what you want to be tagged in. People who don't engage are gradually being removed from my tag list.

This fic does have an ending in sight...finally. :)

Feedback, comments and suggestions are always very valuable. My messages and ask box (including anons!) are open.

Thank you so much to those of you who have remained with me through this journey writing this story, and while we are very close to the end of this story, it's not the end of Lucas and Amy! ;)

Morning sickness began, or at least got stronger; Amy couldn’t quite tell. Most mornings that Amy had got up in the last month and she had felt nauseous, probably due to her anxiety spikes, and not just the hormones beginning to surge.  

On the day that Amy was due to meet with Ros and she could barely keep any food in her stomach. Two rounds of toast had been immediately thrown back up. Three days later would be Amy’s booking appointment, where she would speak to a doctor or midwife face to face and begin the process of booking her first scan.

Amy was shaking in the bathroom, unable to control the emotions that were flooding her. She couldn’t face the mirror and turned away, feeling the tears begin to fall. They had been relentless the last six weeks. And after she had been faced with three positive pregnancy tests and then been pushed away again by Lucas, that huge, gaping hole in her gut had grown exponentially. It was overpowering her now, rendering her broken. 

Nights were the worst. Amy was left alone with nothing but her thoughts, and she would always think of Lucas. She replayed the memories of when he tickled her under the bedclothes, when he would come behind her in the kitchen and wind his arms around her, the feel of his hand in hers, the smell of his cologne, the sound of his voice. Every night and she prayed he would contact her, but he didn’t. Her texts and WhatsApp remained empty of any new messages from Lucas North. 

Even her dreams reflected her deep longing for him, and the emptiness that was dragging her down, pulling her into a black sea of nothingness. Upon waking she would remember shards of her dreams in which she was calling for him, crying out, begging. And when she woke, she would feel tears clinging to her cheeks. 

Ros waited for Amy in a Costa, which was in the city centre of Coventry. She slipped away towards the back of the shop and waited. It wasn’t long before she saw Amy’s familiar figure step into the building. 

Amy stopped, scanned the sea of heads and then nodded as she caught Ros’ gaze. 

“What would you like? I’ll get it,” Ros offered with a faint smile. 

“Just a cup of tea, please. I need to keep it a little more bland. I’ve been really sick the last day or two,” Amy said. 

Ros didn’t answer, but instead walked to the counter and placed her order. 

Amy sat down, being temporarily taken back to the café she frequented with Lucas. The place where it all began just over a year ago. It would be their one year anniversary the following week if they had still remained together. The night when Amy had fully let him in, the beginning of their rocky relationship.

Amy watched Ros order their drinks. Why did these people sacrifice everything in their lives just for the sake of a job? What was it about MI5 that was so special? They had given up their normal lives, friends, family, for this job. Lucas thought he could have a normal life, but that had all turned out to be false. No one had a normal life. The long list of casualties on the job proved that. Amy had heard about many of them. Surveillance operatives who had found themselves in deeper shit than they could have ever imagined. 

A tightness was growing in Amy’s chest now, that sensation which had been a friend of hers since Lucas left her life. She woke up with it every morning now, sometimes accompanied with a tension headache and a sense of dread at facing a new day. 

“What should I do?” Amy asked simply, as Ros placed the drinks down on the table. “Lucas is adamant that my parents are right, and has told me he’ll come to the scans and birth but won’t be with me. How can I get through to him?” 

Ros sighed and began opening a sachet of sugar. “Lucas is stubborn at the best of times. But if you want to be together enough then you’ll do it. Lucas wants you safe, and neither of us can argue with that.” 

“I’m not worth the fight for him.” 

“No, it’s not that at all,” Ros said, shaking her head for emphasis. “I’ve known him about three years now, and never saw him as content as when he was with you. He finally seemed at peace with himself. You really bring out the best in him, and he adores you. Never think anything less than that. Lucas never does anything by half measure, especially when it comes to you.” 

Amy looked down into her lap and felt the tears come again. “I wish he would let me make up my own mind. He’s always making decisions for me.” 

“I know, and I’ve told him that. By your parents and Lucas protecting you, they’re suffocating you. We’ve all got to make our own way in life sooner or later. I’ve made enough of my own choices in life, some good and some bad. I know full well that this job comes with risk to those you love. I lost someone I loved through it.” 

“I’m so sorry, Ros. I had no idea,” Amy replied. 

Ros smiled at Amy. “You didn’t know him, but you’ve probably heard his name mentioned. Adam Carter. Things wouldn’t have worked out between us. I always knew that. The job kept us apart, but he died on the job, same as his wife, Fiona. MI5 will either make or break you, Amy. But either way, once you’re in, you don’t leave. You and Lucas are truly devoted to each other, and you deserve happiness.” 

***

“You’re approximately twelve weeks,” the midwife told Amy. “Baby is growing well. Seems quite active.” 

Then Amy heard it: the first actual sound of her baby’s heartbeat. Amy smiled, staring at the screen, looking at the moving mass. Sharon held Amy’s hand, watching her daughter’s face as it lit up for the first time in six weeks since being home in Coventry. 

“I estimate your due date approximately the last week of August.” The midwife wiped the gel from Amy’s stomach and paused the image on the screen, printing the scan. “I’ll book you for your next scan, and hopefully then we can determine the sex of the baby, if you want to know.” 

Amy smiled. “I’d love to know. I always had it planned out in my head that if I had children, I’d want to know. It helps me get to know them better.” 

The midwife, a middle-aged lady with short greying hair and glasses, smiled. “That’s nice,” she said simply. 

Amy looked away and sighed. Of course the midwife wouldn’t be as interested; she saw dozens of pregnant women every day, and no doubt they all sounded like a broken record to her. 

Would Lucas want to know the sex of their child? He should have been here, but Amy couldn’t stand the idea of him being half in and half out, having to see him at scans but not being able to go home with him. Everything at the moment was a mixture of emotion, and it was confusing. One minute she was sad, the next angry. The grief of an ended relationship, and the anger of Lucas making the decision he had, alternated frequently, like a whirlwind. 

In the car and Amy sat in the passenger seat, her thumb trailing the curve of the baby’s head. “Should I send a copy to Lucas?” she asked absently. 

“I still think it’s best he has no part in this,” Sharon hissed. “We’ll all pull together as a family, we always do.” 

***

Time passed, weeks turning into months. 

Amy felt the tension and anxiety lessen, as the nausea got worse by her fifth month, and then eased again. The fluttering sensations began, something she knew was inevitable as the baby grew. Her stomach was becoming harder and more prominent, resting a little heavier on the waist of her trousers. 

Ros still remained in touch, having formally put Amy on early maternity leave after two months of sick leave. She had done all she could to keep the position open for Amy and also enable money to continue coming in, so she at least had something to live off. 

Lucas was silent. Sometimes his deafening silence brought her to tears in the middle of the night as she lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, praying he would be back beside her one day. She tried to imagine what the baby would look like, giving it Lucas’ grey blue eyes. But thinking on the baby’s appearance, always caused her to break down again. 

***

Over a hundred miles away, in London, Lucas sat at the dining room table. He stared at the wall, the lifeless atmosphere of the place seeping into every fibre of his being. Three and a half months now he had lived by himself, haunted by Amy. Every inch of the place reminded him of her. After all, it was her flat originally. Living with her had been bliss; he would kiss her on his way out of the door, or at the main door to their office as they travelled in, pining for the end of the day when he would see her again. 

Lucas walked slowly into the kitchen and looked out of the window, into the communal garden. It was growing dusk, with longer days moving in as the weeks passed quickly through spring. He thought of Amy, imagining her sitting in the garden, holding a baby on her lap, reading her old battered copy of The Hobbit, with a warm sun high in the sky. He had given her the ultimate gift, the one thing she had wanted for a while now, but he couldn’t enjoy it with her. Lucas knew she would be an amazing mother; doting, kind, eager to play and re-live her own childhood through their little one. 

Work seemed to be the only thing that got Lucas through each day, making him soldier on in this empty existence. It felt like being back in prison. Rather than being locked in a cell, he was locked in loneliness within his own mind. Memories of Amy were all around him. Would he ever be able to let go? The more he pondered on that fact, the more he knew the answer. The years Lucas had spent with Elizabeta had revolved around their work as operatives, and upon his return to the UK from Russia, their temporary ties were still work-based, her being his handler. The months with Sarah were, again, work-based. Everything revolved around MI5. Amy was so different. Their relationship had been built away from work, despite work being the thing that was constantly pushing them toward breaking point. Their love for each other was almost innocent, pure. It didn’t revolve around necessity. 

One way to numb the pain was alcohol. In the last few weeks and Lucas had welcomed whiskey and vodka into his life on a more permanent basis. The bedside table housed half empty bottles. 

Lucas even made himself feel the pain of showers, turning on the fast jet of water so he could be taken back to his days of torture in Lushanka. Re-live the waterboarding, where ice cold water was thrown over him as he begged for mercy and tried desperately to hold onto the information the Russians so badly wanted. He deserved the pain and the anguish. Beneath the water he shivered and wept, waiting and wishing for everything to end. Then maybe upon his deathbed, he could at least see her one last time in his moments of euphoria. 

That night and he sat on the edge of the bed, downing whiskey from the bottle. He rubbed his stubbled chin and stared aimlessly through the gloom. 

Amy was so ready to fight for you and you just let her go. 

But she needs to be protected. Her and the baby. 

You want her and she wants you. Fuck what her parents think. 

The arguments raged. Back and forth the voices went, turning into whispers the more that Lucas drank from the bottle. 

Tears trickled down Lucas’ cheek as he picked up his phone, and for the first time in months, he sent a single message to Amy. The alcohol had worn his inhibitions right down. 

I love you. 

***

Amy stared at the message, unable to comprehend that Lucas had actually sent her something. He’d been silent now for months, so she had taken this as her sign to leave him be and go through her pregnancy alone. The timestamp on the message was 2:04am. Messages in the dead of night were always a cry for help in some way. She whispered his name, still feeling stunned and not sure what to do. 

A few hours passed and Amy still wondered what on earth to do with the message from Lucas. She’d looked back at the message multiple times, making sure that she wasn’t imagining it all. But it was still there. Three simple, desperate words. 

An incoming call came from Ros. 

“Hi, Ros. Is everything okay?” Amy asked, trying to force a cheerful tone. 

“I wish I could say it was,” she replied. “Lucas didn’t turn up for work this morning, and has been coming in smelling of drink. Amy, he’s not doing well. He needs you.” 

Amy sighed and swallowed hard. “He’s stubborn, Ros. No matter what I say and do, he won’t let me come back. You know he won’t.” 

“Something tells me not this time.” 

A short time later and Amy was staring at a letter she had left on her parents’ dining table. She had explained that she needed to go back to London and was taking the next available train out to London Euston. Amy knew her parents would go absolutely ballistic, especially her mum. But there was no way she could let Lucas remain alone and suffer. 

Lucas had suffered enough in his life and all Amy wanted was to see him find peace, wherever and whoever he found that with. He deserved peace; after all, he put his life on the line daily to protect the UK public. Of course he deserved some peace. She wanted to embrace him, comfort him, just be there and hold him during his dark hours. 

On the train an hour later and Amy flicked through her purse, checking that she had enough cash to get her across London to her old flat. But as she rummaged in the coin compartment, she felt something long against her fingers. It was her original flat keys; two of them held together on a ring. One got her through the front door into the lobby area, and the other got her into the flat itself. Why had she kept them all this time? Was it because she always knew she would one day be going back? 

The flashing of buildings and landscape somehow soothed her, while a teenage girl of around sixteen years of age sat next to Amy, flicking through Instagram, and occasionally posing in her front facing camera. 

The closer she got to London and the more she could feel the fluttering in her belly, which was now showing. 

For a second, she placed her hand on her bump and smiled. 

We’re going to see your daddy. 

Apprehension and excitement both rose inside Amy. She had missed Lucas more than she could ever express, and while on the underground and then walking the street, getting closer to the flat, she could feel her anxiety taking hold. 

The last time she had been in London and it had been cold, but now it was mild, a sure sign of spring. It was just after six in the evening when she made it to her old building and looked at the familiar sight. Sadness rose in her chest and she thought back on the day she had moved in, nervous at the prospect of a new beginning. Now she had another new beginning on the horizon, one that involved a new person, a new life. 

Amy let herself into the main front entrance of the building, and then walked down the corridor to flat number three. With a deep breath, she knocked, waiting for a response. 

***

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[middleearthpixie]

The Ties That Bind ~ Chapter Eleven

Summary: Although Erebor is his once more, Thorin knows there is still a great threat to the peace of Middle Earth. Azog is gone, but another has taken his place and has sworn to finish what Azog began. Erebor is back, but it’s sadly lacking in protection and as much as he hates the thought of it, Thorin knows there is one thing that will guarantee the safety and continuation of his line.

War is coming and all Eirlys of Mirkwood wishes to do is fight alongside her brother Legolas and the other elves, united with Men and Dwarves in their attempt to quell the renewed tensions between them and the orc army of the north. But, her father, Thranduíl has other plans. Unite his kingdom with the newly reestablished kingdom of Erebor and use the power of both to defeat the orcs.

An arranged marriage that neither side wants, but both sides need. But what happens when the two sides realize that maybe—just maybe—being together isn't quite as bad as they'd thought...

Pairing: Thorin x ofc Eirlys of Mirkwood

Warnings: None

Rating: M

Word Count: 4.3k

Read on AO3

Butterflies fluttered about in Eirlys’ belly as Madris steered her to the bench at her vanity. “This is silly, Madris. He knows what to expect. He’s a man and has probably done this a thousand times before.”

“Eirlys!”

“What?” Eirlys met her horrified gaze in the large oval mirror above the vanity table. “Have I said something I shouldn’t?”

“Well… not exactly, I suppose. But what do you know of what he expects?”

“Because Tauriel and I did speak. And quite often.”

“And that’s what His Majesty gets for allowing the two of you to become friends.”

“That is neither fair nor kind, Madris.” Eirlys shook her head. “I never thought you to be anything of a snob, you know. Tauriel was like a sister to me and I miss her so terribly now.”

“Well, ordinarily I’m not, but… well… you are a young maiden and should have been innocent of such things until you were married.”

“And now I am. And I know full well what Thorin of Erebor will expect this night and all I can hope is that I do not disappoint him. I’ll imagine he’s been with a fair number of women before me.”

Although her cheeks grew ruddy, Madris merely asked, “What makes you think so?”

Eirlys stared at her in the glass. “Have you not seen what he looks like, Madris? Tauriel thought Kíli handsome, but Thorin makes him look like a mountain troll.”

“My lady!”

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

“Well… no, I don’t suppose I can. But, again…” Madris sighed sharply, her cheeks growing redder still. “What did Tauriel tell you? Just so I know what I should tell you.”

The butterflies worsened and her cheeks grew slightly warm, but Eirlys still managed a smile. “You needn’t tell me anything, Madris. I’ll be fine and your face might melt completely off otherwise.”

“Are you certain?”

Eirlys let her gaze drop to her own reflection. Her cheeks were only slightly pink, despite the growing heat in them. “Well…. I suppose…”

“What is it?”

“What if I do disappoint him? What if I disappoint him so greatly, he seeks his comfort elsewhere?”

“You know him better than I do,” Madris replied carefully, sinking onto the elaborately carved chest at the foot of Eirlys’ bed. “Do you think he would do such a thing?”

“I don't know. I only know him slightly better than you, remember.”

“Fair enough. But,” the mattress squeaked softly as Madris got to her feet and moved to cup Eirlys’ chin, “do not worry and do not compare yourself to any who might have come before you. You will benefit from anything he’s taken away from previous experience. And besides, you know not that he will even compare you. Men are funny that way. They tend to forget those in their past when they are caught by the one with whom they are meant to be.”

“Meant to be? Madris, my father arranged this marriage and it’s mostly one of convenience.”

“Perhaps,” Madris straightened up as a gentle knock sounded, “but I saw how he looked at you, both during the ceremony and after. I’m not entirely sure it will remain a marriage of convenience. For either of you. At least, not for very long, anyhow.”

“Eirlys?” Thorin called softly, knocking once more. 

Eirlys swallowed hard, her hands falling into her lap, into the pale ivory silk of the nightgown that had been left laid out on her bed by one of the servants. The fabric was cool and smooth, but wrinkled easily, so she smoothed out the newest creases and said, “You should probably let him in.”

“Of course.” In a rare breach of protocol, Madris bent to press a kiss into the top of Eirlys’ head. “Worry not. You have nothing to fear, love.”

Tears poked the backs of Eirlys’ eyes at the maternal touch, and smiled as she slowly nodded. “I hope not.”

“You won’t. I feel it in my bones.” Madris stepped away from the bench and crossed to the door, where she tugged it open and greeted Thorin with a warm, “Good evening, Your Majesty. I apologize for the wait.”

“It’s of no trouble,” he hesitated, “Madris, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. If you require me for anything, you need only tug the cord alongside Her Highness—erm—Her Majesty’s bed. I will bid you both a good evening and once more offer you my best wishes on your marriage.”

“Thank you.”

With that, Madris took her leave and as the door clicked shut, Eirlys’ belly gave a might leap. She suddenly felt terribly underdressed in the nightgown, as it was far more revealing than anything she’d ever worn before, with a plunging neckline, edged in lace, that offered up more than a peek at the inner curves of her breasts.

And that wasn’t all. The sides were lace, and would leave little to the imagination when she stood. She stared at her reflection, swallowing hard when she realized the gown was sheer enough that she could make out the dark shadows of her nipples through the silk. Oh, my…

Madris had set out a silk and lace wrapper for her as well, but it currently lay draped over the foot of her bed, where it had been set earlier alongside the gown, and a sudden, unfamiliar shyness swept through her, rendering her incapable of rising.

“Is something the matter?” Thorin’s voice was still soft, his boots thudding dully on the floor as he came into the room and appeared in the glass behind her. He looked tired, his eyes heavy-lidded, as he eased the brilliant blue tunic he wore over his head.

Her mouth went suddenly dry at the unexpected sight of her husband’s bare chest. He’d shown no hesitation in whisking the garment from his body, no shyness at all, and it was easy to see why.

He was, without a doubt, the most powerfully-built man she’d ever seen. Thick, curly black hair shot through with silver spilled over broad shoulders and tumbled down his back. A heavy mat of black hair curled away from his skin, covering his barrel chest from shoulder to shoulder and down over his belly, where it disappeared into the waist of his black linen trousers. He bore more than a few scars, and the upper right side of his chest was inked with an intricate pattern of lines of varying size that curved along his upper arm and over his shoulder as well. 

Draping the tunic over his forearm, he said, “Where should I put this? It needs to be laundered.”

“O—over in that—that basket.” She rose and then turned to point to the tall, narrow woven basket in the far corner, near her wardrobe. “Maylin will take everything in the morning, while we are at breakfast.”

To her horror, his eyes widened at the sight of her and the urge to throw her arms across her chest nearly strangled her. Especially when those pale blue eyes moved slowly up to meet hers.

Then, he offered up a sheepish grin, balling up the tunic to throw at the basket. The basket bumped softly against both the wall and the wardrobe, but the tunic landed squarely inside it. “I beg your pardon, Eirlys. I wasn't expecting you to look so… striking…”

The uncomfortable heat became far more pleasant with those words. She still felt far too exposed, but for a moment, she didn't mind it. “Thank you.”

The sheepishness left his smile and he lowered his hands. She swallowed hard as he reached for his heavy gold belt buckle, and it rattled when he unbuckled it. Any moment now and those elegant trousers would simply spill from him to puddle at his feet.

But to her surprise, the gold belt with its heavy buckle slid easily through its loops, and his trousers remained firmly in place. He turned to let it fall atop the chest, and while he had his back to her, Eirlys practically dove at her wrapper and was shrugging into it as he turned back.

His smile widened, his eyes dancing with something that looked very much like merriment as he said, “I wish you wouldn’t worry so much about covering yourself. You’ve no need to, you know.”

Heat swirled through her, caused her to pull the ski robe more tightly about herself. “I—I beg your pardon?”

He took a step closer to her. “You looked fine the way you were.” 

As he spoke, he caught the edge of the wrapper, curling his fingers into the stiff lace. Her heart pounded against her ribs at his gentle tug, at the lace scraping lightly against her. Her cheeks felt like they had to be bright scarlet by now, but there was no denying how the sudden race of her blood was far more delicious than it was unnerving. It almost made her tingle from the inside out.

He leaned toward her then, the coarse whiskers along his chin scraping her just as lightly as the lace dragging against her collarbone did, and when his lips found hers, they were warm and soft and gently teasing.

Eirlys met him, letting her hand come to rest against his bared chest, her fingers slipping into hair that was far softer than she imagined it would be. Beneath her fingertips, his heart beat, steadily at first, but as his lips parted and his tongue swept along hers, it sped up, thumping hard and fast beneath her touch. 

His lips moved against hers, going from warm to hot as his tongue slid deep along hers, teased hers, drew it back into the wet heat of his mouth, where she did the same to him. The lace scraped harder now, the silk skimming her left shoulder as it spilled from her to pool in the crook of her bent arm. 

Fire filled her as he deepened his kiss, his hunger feeding hers. Another gentle tingle swept through her, the warm silk a caress against her now-too-sensitive skin. Her nipples beaded against it to bring a sigh to her lips. The silk teased those aching beads now, her back bowing of its own as if to encourage him to let his hands wander down to her breasts, to cup them and tease her nipples further still. 

But to her great impatience, he showed no interest in her breasts, but instead caught the wrapper with both hands now to shove it from her, and she lowered the hand resting on his chest to let it spill from her.

A thick arm slid about her waist, drew her flush against him and she couldn't hold back her gasp as that crisp hair combined with the hot smooth silk to torment her further. Tiny knots tightened deep within her, first in her belly, but then they dropped lower and she was all too aware of the damp heat now swelling between her thighs. 

He bent her back slightly, groaning softly into her mouth as the motion thrust her breasts firmly against his chest. His free hand skimmed down along her hip, his fingers brushing her bared skin as he slowly tugged the silk gown up, along her calf, over her knee, toward her hip. 

His fingertips came rough upon her aching skin, and as they swept along the back of her thigh, she shivered against him, lifting that leg to arch against him, against the sudden, firm bulge she felt at the apex of his own thighs. 

The hand on her hip swept around, curved against her cheek to clasp her hard against him. His gentle thrust was almost her undoing, as it sent a spiky hot pleasure rippling through her, one that had her mewling with pleasure into his mouth. 

He drew back, breaking his kiss, but then moved to sweep his lips along her chin, her neck bowing as he moved along it, as he kissed his way down into that plunging vee, along the inner curve of her left breast. 

Eirlys couldn't keep her heavy-lidded eyes open. The sensations racing through her rendered her addled and aching for more. She couldn't breathe, her head spun too wildly and her heart raced unlike it ever had before. Desire, strong and sweet, flooded her and without thinking, she slid one hand down between them, to curve it against that swollen part of him, her curiosity as strong as her need. She had never seen a naked man before and as she traced along his thick length, her imagination ran wild with what she would soon see with this one.

“Eirlys…” her name was a breathless, heated whisper along the curve of her right breast, and she shivered as he shifted and his mouth closed over her nipple, his tongue dampening the silk as he slowly traced about the bead he’d caught. The combination of wet silk and his rough tongue set off a chain reaction inside her, made those knots twist and tighten as arousal flooded her.

He rocked against her, the pressure offering only hints of relief. 

Then, his fingers brushed down into the crease of her thigh and bottom and then—

“Oohhh…” she breathed heavily into his hair as his fingertips brushed the curls shielding her womanhood from his eyes. Those curls parted. And his fingers teased lightly along aching flesh that had been touched by no man before him. 

Her curls parted. His caress slow and teasing as he slid one fingertip along her, as the pad of that finger just brushed over the sensitive bead nestled within. 

Her fingers tightened on him involuntarily, a cry bubbled to her lips as he then slipped that same finger slowly inside her. She tightened about it, her hips moving of their own as he did a slow, teasing stroke that had her sinking her free hand into his thick hair. She twisted and held on, her body begging him to move faster, the knots threatening to come undone in the sweetest of ways. She teetered on the unfamiliar edge, clinging to him, rocking to meet each teasing thrust, each delectable swirl.

He teased her until she thought she’d burst, until she thought she’d go mad with the need for some kind of release. Her head spun madly. Her body begged for his, for that part of him that would bring out the relief she so desperately sought.

His name rose of its own to her lips, a husky, raw whisper, “Thorin…” 

His tongue swirled about the silk, about her nipple. His finger moved silkily inside her. The knots tightened further still. Every muscle seemed to tense, hot and tight and aching with need.

Then he shattered her.

She cried out, unable to hold it back as the knots exploded and fire rained upon her, spun wildly through her, left her dizzy and raw and clinging to him as each delicious pulse swept through her, as she tightened about him and her fingernails dug into his nape, her fingers twisted sharply in his hair. Oh, this was beyond amazing, this pleasure that tore through her like a wildfire, that washed over her like a tidal wave.

He caught her around the waist with his free arm, kissing his way back to her lips before drawing back. Then, he swung her effortlessly into his arms to spirit her to her bed, where he bent to set her down, looming over her, his black hair spilled all around them. 

Thorin bent to her, his mouth hot and hungry as it found hers, his kiss filled with the same fire and desire he’d sent sweeping through her. Without thinking, she freed the buttons of his trousers to shove her hand inside and beneath the hot linen she found even hotter man. That hard part of him was hot and veined, the skin soft and almost supple. Her fingers moved of their own along his length, about his thickness, and when she curled her fingers about him and swept her hand down, he shuddered against her.

He arched into her touch, his groan low and throaty, a shudder rippled through his body and his tongue plunged deeper into her mouth. With each stroke, he grew harder, thicker, and she smiled as he moaned softly. She might not know exactly what she was doing, but he certainly seemed to have no complaints.

His breath caught. His body tensed. His head fell into her chest as he growled, “Eirlys…”

Then, to her surprise, he grabbed her hand to pull it free from his trousers. Disappointment flashed through her, even as he breathlessly whispered, “I wish to see you.” 

She bit down hard on her bottom lip as she met his gaze. His eyes seemed brighter, far bluer now and they held hers as he shifted to catch her gown, now damp in several spots, to whisk it up along her thighs. The air was cool despite the fire crackling on the hearth, but heat swept through her as the silk rose over her hips and his gaze fell upon her. No man had ever seen her this way and the fire that gleamed in Thorin’s beautiful blue eyes spoke volumes. They fairly burned with desire and a sinful smile curved his lips as he tugged the silk higher still.

Eirlys pushed herself up and as the silk skimmed over her head, she felt his gaze before she saw it. The gown fluttered to the floor, leaving her bare before him and she almost smiled at the soft, strangling sound that rose in his throat.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, reaching to tug off his boots and stockings before coming back up to grip the waist of his trousers. They rested on his hips and seemed to offer no resistance as he pushed them down. Linen swept along thighs heavily laden with muscle and layered with curling black hair, down along calves wrapped with bands of thick muscle.

Her mouth went dry. He was a sight to behold, her dwarf, and she had never dreamed such a magnificent man could exist.

Until now.

He offered up an impish smile. “You are staring.”

Heat climbed into her cheeks. “I beg your pardon… I did not—”

He bent to brush her lips with his. “I mind not. I find I’ve got a bit of the stares myself. You are stunning.”

He gave her no chance to respond, but claimed her lips in a teasing kiss that was gentle and sweet. Her lips parted of their own, welcomed him as it deepened, as he gently eased her onto her back and settled between her parted thighs.

He was solid and firm, but kept most of his bulk supported on his forearms. At least, he did until she slipped her arms about his middle and pulled him firmly against her. He arched against her, his sigh becoming hers as she pressed her thighs into his sides and that thick, swollen part of him brushed against her slick, aroused feminine flesh. He arched again to glide against her, and although the remnants of her climax had faded, the pleasure surged through her anew.

He reached between them and a moment later, she felt him press against her. He was gentle, moved slowly as if afraid he’d hurt her otherwise. Her fingernails bit into his back in anticipation as he deepened his kiss and pushed with a bit more force. Any moment and he would be inside her. Any—

—moment.

Ow. 

The pain came unexpectedly and she sucked in a sharp breath as it felt like he tried to tear her asunder. Hot. Stinging. Sharp. She couldn’t hold back her cry as he continued his assault.

“No… please don’t…”

She tried to pull away but he whispered, “It will stop in a moment, mesmel. I promise you, it will…”

But it didn't stop. No, it worsened exponentially and she shuddered beneath him as there came a sudden, tearing pop and then…

Then he filled her and went still against her. 

Was that it? She frowned even as the stinging subsided. It no longer hurt, but…

He moved slightly.

Her breath hitched. That definitely did not hurt.

“Eirlys?” He rose onto his forearms, gazing down at her with eyes of concerned sapphire. 

“I think I’m all right,” she whispered back, easing her grip on his back. “I just… I didn't know it would hurt.”

“But does it still?”

“I—I don't think so,” she shook her head. 

“Good.” He bent to kiss her, then offered up a slow thrust, whispering, “And that?”

She smiled, shaking her head. “Not at all.”

“Good.”

Then he thrust once more, this time with a bit more fire. All traces of pain vanished and left in their wake, a sparkling pleasure that grew with each steady, controlled thrust. He moved easily inside her, silky and slow, and she savored every delectable inch of him, her thighs squeezing his sides, her fingernails biting once more into the warm skin of back. 

The pleasure engulfed her, going from sweet to spicy hot as his thrusts came swifter and more powerful now. He rose onto his forearms once more, moving faster still, his eyes screwed shut, his breath as fast and furious as his thrusts now. 

Delicious fire filled her, beginning where they joined to flood her veins, to send flashes of brilliant white light dancing before her eyes. Her head spun wildly once more, her body hummed with the need for release and with each thrust, Thorin brought her closer to that blessed end. She clung to him as he drove them both along the length of the bed, where she finally had to throw up a hand to keep from slamming into the headboard of woven branches. 

He surged hard then, crushing her close as the knots inside her burst once more and she cried out her pleasure, arching to meet him, wrapping herself about him. He drove them over the edge, her climax a shower of fire and ice and everything wonderful.

“Eirlys…” Her name was a husky growl on his lips. He thrust hard once more, tensed, shuddered, and then went rigid as he came. 

A peaceful silence, broken only by their mutual fight to draw breath, settled about them as Thorin sank against her, his head coming to rest on her breast, his breath hot blasts against her equally hot skin. 

Eirlys’ eyes were too-heavy-lidded to remain open and so she let them close, her fingers moving lightly along the silken length of Thorin’s tangled black curls, smiling when his lips ever so gently swept against the inner curve of her left breast. 

“Are you all right?” she whispered.

He lifted his head, regarding her with eyes that were just as sleepy as hers. “Isn’t that what I am supposed to ask you?”

“Is that a yes?”

“Are you all right?”

She nodded. “I’m fine.”

“Good. I am as well.” He shifted sightly and they both winced as he slipped free of her. He eased off her and for a moment, she thought he was going to get up and leave, which brought down her blissful mood a tad.

But then, he stretched out alongside her and reached for her, drawing her up against him as he draped his arm about her shoulders. Eirlys hesitated at first, wincing at the damp stickiness between her thighs, but as she reached to draw the sheet and coverlet about them, she forgot the mess. The wet spot behind her was another story, but Thorin didn't seem to mind her curved up against his side, and she was so very comfortable with her head resting on his chest and her arm draped over his belly.

His thick fingers swept lightly along her shoulder, along her upper arm. “I am sorry I hurt you, Eirlys,” he murmured into the growing darkness as the logs on the hearth slowly burned up. “I hope I won’t the next time.”

She smiled. “I should have remembered.” She peered up at him in the darkness, her eyes adjusting enough to make out his profile. “Tauriel warned me, you know, after she and Kíli were married.”

“Well, no one warned me.”

Her smile faded. “I suppose I’m the first virgin you’ve been with,” she murmured. 

The sheets rustled softly as he rolled to come over her. “Mesmel, you are the first woman I’ve been with.”

His eyes glittered in the pale moonlight that filtered through from the terrace and she stared up at him. “What?”

“You sound as if you don't believe me.”

“Well, because I don’t.”

“Why?”

She stared up at him, dumbstruck that he should ask such an obvious question. “Thorin… do you mean to tell me that this was your first time as well? I mean, your first time, ever?”

He smiled and dipped to brush her lips with a teasing kiss. “It was, indeed. And a better first time I could not have asked for.”

“How is that possible? I mean… how has no other woman ever caught your eye? They must have been nearly pounding down your door to get to you.”

To her surprise, he laughed. Low and smooth, it rumbled from deep within him and he shook his head. “I am flattered you think that of me, Eirlys. Truly, I am. And perhaps it is not this way for elves, but for dwarves, we remain chaste until marriage and then, we are faithful to our chosen partner for all eternity.”

Without thinking, she reached up to trace her forefinger along his jaw, over the bristly black beard shot through with silver. “But you didn't choose me, Thorin.”

“It matters not. We are bound together and so we shall stay bound together. And I consider myself quite fortunate in that, you know.”

His words warmed her, made her smile, and when he dipped back to kiss her once more, she lost herself in it and surrendered to the magic of him once more. 

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[greenandsorrow]

MASTERPOST || HELLO MY OLD HEART (ongoing)

Pairing; mainly Thorin Oakenshield x fem!faerie!reader

Warnings; fighting scenes, descriptions of injuries, death & loss, sexual undertones at times, middle earth magic, angst & hurt, mean!reader, selfish!reader, immortal!reader, reader with fem anatomy, a not sugarcoated Thorin, I have read the Silmarillion and you should too

Summary; Thorin & company set out to reclaim the kingdom of Erebor from the claws of the cunning Smaug. On their way out of Hobbiton they come across something peculiar. Faeries in Middle Earth have gone extinct, but you have managed to survive against all odds. Your unique beauty and mischievous but still kind character captures the king's heart. His suspicions towards your magic will soon be replaced with a deep love for the real you. Are you ready to go on an adventure?

Author's note; I love the Hobbit. I have some issues with the movie adaptation but that hasn't stopped me from rewatching it relentlessly. The book is like a blanket of comfort to me and I've been smitten with the fictional character of Thorin for too long 🥹

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THE HOBBIT

An unexpected journey

soon

The desolation of Smaug

Battle of the five armies

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[legolasbadass]

Italian Holiday, Part III

Summary: A few weeks before Richard leaves for Boston, he and Lorelei go on holiday in Italy to make the most of the summer and the time they have left together.

This story takes between the penultimate and last chapter of Office Hours and contains major spoilers for that story, so make sure you read it first!

Relationship: Richard Armitage x OC (Professor AU)

Word Count: 1.3K

Rating: T

I am sitting on the balcony, wearing shorts and one of Richard’s t-shirts, my knees tucked under my chin, when he finally returns to me. His hair is still wet and unruly from the shower, and his white shirt clings in places to his damp skin, but none of that is as enticing to me as it usually would be. Right now, I can only watch his face, which is still clouded in frustration and hurt. 

“I’m sorry,” I say hesitantly, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry I snapped at you like that. I didn’t mean to.” 

Richard remains silent, his eyes fixed on some dehydrated potted plant in the corner of the balcony. 

“I’ve just been so stressed lately. You know what the pressure is like, especially when you’re just starting out. And you’re right—I do need a break. I desperately need a break. But when I allow myself one, I just start to feel like I’m at risk of falling behind and missing out on opportunities, and I can’t afford that. I mean, even when I’m giving my research my full attention, it doesn’t always turn out the way I want it, like with this paper…” 

“What paper?” he asks, and I look up, almost surprised to hear his voice after his unbearable silence. 

“I submitted a paper for this edited collection on maps in contemporary fantasy, but it got rejected. I just got the email about it today.” 

Understanding dawns on Richard, and his eyes soften as he takes a seat next to me. “I didn’t even know you’d submitted a piece for that.” 

“Well… at first, I didn’t tell you because you were so busy preparing for Boston. We were both so busy. And then I started to feel more anxious about it as time went on but… I don’t know… you already had so much on your plate—I didn’t want to bring this up when it’s so minuscule compared to you working with Stanley Griffin.” 

“Sweetheart… you have to tell me these things. I want you to tell me—no matter how busy I might be.”

“I know—I’m sorry,” I sigh, running a hand through my messy hair. “Honestly, I feel so stupid for not telling you after making such a big deal out of us needing to share everything with each other.” 

He reaches out to gently squeeze my thigh. “I just want to be there for you, like you’ve been there for me,” he says softly. “I would hate to think you’re not sharing things with me because you think I’m too busy.” 

“You’ve never made me feel like that, Richard, I mean it. You’re always so supportive,” I hasten to reassure him, and his shoulders slump in evident relief. “This was all in my head and—and I’m sorry. I promise I’ll talk more. Because I really don’t like it when we fight, and you don’t deserve me snapping at you like that.” 

He offers me a soft, crooked smile. “I don’t like it when we fight, either.” 

I smile back at him hesitantly, the tightness in my chest slowly dissipating. Then he lets go of my thigh and, leaning back into his chair, opens his arms in invitation. 

“Come here.” 

My smile widens as I eagerly take refuge in his awaiting arms. Once I am comfortably settled on his lap, he wraps his arms around me and presses a series of tender kisses into my hair as I rest my head on his chest, comforted by the steady beating of his heart and the smell of rosemary and sandalwood from the soap he is so fond of. We remain in this embrace for a long while, basking in the sun’s rays. In the streets below, the city is alive with tourists and locals enjoying the warm summer evening, the gentle hum of their voices and laughter rising up to us, blending with the distant sound of music. But up here, it is just the two of us, sitting in comfortable silence, wrapped around each other. As it should be. 

“Do you want me to just keep holding you or can I offer my opinion on the situation?” Richard eventually asks. 

I pull away from him just enough to meet his eyes. “Your opinion?” I respond, raising a hand to brush one rebellious strand of hair away from his forehead. 

“I really do think you deserve a break. I know how stressful those first few years after you get your PhD are, especially when you’re trying to secure a permanent post at a university. But overworking yourself will just hurt you more in the end. And, sweetheart, you’ve accomplished so much in the past year alone. You started working at Exeter, your first monograph was published, and you organized an incredibly successful conference, at which you also presented an amazing paper. I didn’t even do half that the year after I got my PhD, and I turned out alright, didn’t I?” 

I chuckle, feeling so grateful to have him by my side, yet still unable to completely shake off the knot in my chest. 

Sensing my discomfort, Richard presses a tender kiss onto my temple. “What’s really worrying you?” 

I take a deep breath as I snuggle deeper into his embrace. “I just… sometimes I worry—what if I don’t get offered a permanent post at Exeter? What will happen with us then?” 

“Oh, sweetheart…” he breathes out, squeezing me tight. “Firstly, I think, if somehow, the college were to not offer you a permanent post, they would be making a terrible mistake, and it would make me question if it was really the right place for me,” he says playfully, causing me to chuckle. “Secondly, I think, if it came to that—which I really doubt it will—then we will just figure it out. We’ll make it work just like we’ll make this year apart work.” 

“Really?” 

He offers me a tender smile. “Really. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m quite mad about you, so trust me, I’ll do everything to ensure I get to kiss you, hug you, and make you smile and laugh every day.”

I smile, his tender, honest words, combined with the love shining in his eyes, making my heart swell tenfold. “I love you.”

“I love you more,” he responds before kissing me softly.

“No, I love you more,” I whisper against his lips, giggling. 

 “I fear this could go on for quite some time,” Richard chuckles as he pulls back, gazing lovingly into my eyes. “How about we just have dinner here tonight?”

“I’d like that.” 

“I could go to the shop and get some ingredients while you take a shower.” 

“You take such good care of me,” I say as I press a lingering kiss onto his bearded cheek, feeling so much happier than I was earlier. 

After exchanging a few more kisses, I stand up, glancing at the pastel-coloured houses on the other side of the street as I stretch, but before I can open the French doors leading inside, Richard rests a hand on my back, urging me to turn around. 

“I don’t remember packing that t-shirt,” he says with a frown, clearly amused.

I bite my lower lip. “Oh, er, I brought it, actually. In my own suitcase.” 

“Oh?” 

“Well, you see, I knew I would end up borrowing a t-shirt from you to sleep in, but I wasn’t sure if you would think to account for that when calculating how many t-shirts to bring, and I also didn’t want you to use up your limited luggage space with clothes I would be wearing so…” 

Richard laughs before leaning in to capture my lips in a deep, languid kiss, and all I can do is wrap my arms around him, the sparks he ignites in me letting me forget about the strain in my neck from tilting my head up so much. 

“Have I mentioned how much I love you?” he muses after we pull apart eons later, breathless, our cheeks warm and our lips slightly swollen as we stand under the golden evening sun. 

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[richardarmitageshands]

At the ripe old age of 28, I finally learned how to add links on here. Five chapters are up, 20 are written.

There is M/M smut, F/F smut, and ultimately M/F MARATHON SMUT (the longest sex scene I've ever written, plus many shorter ones)

[lathalea]

Entangled 3/10

Relationships: Thorin Oakenshield x Dwarf OFC (The Hobbit) Rating: G (subject to change) Warnings: ANGST Summary: Arranged marriages are common among the dwarven nobility. After reclaiming the Lonely Mountain, the Kingdom Under the Mountain needs to be rebuilt. Thorin agrees to marry a lady from the Blue Mountains, securing a mutually beneficial alliance with the Broadbeam Dwarves. Lady Mista is said to be a practical and hard-working dwarf-woman, willing to give him an heir who would secure the line of succession. A decent queen material, his advisors say. If only Thorin could let go of his past… You can find this fic on AO3 (search for lathalea). ✨ Chapter list: Chapter 1 (Prologue) | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3... ✨ Entangled Masterlist

Khuzdul:

Azsâlul'abad - the Lonely Mountain (both the mountain and the dwarven kingdom known among Elves and Men as Erebor)

Tumunzahar - Nogrod (my headcanon for this story is that the dwarven city of old had been rebuilt and populated by the Broadbeams)

‘Urdêk - local name of ‘the Lonely Mountain’ (referring to the dwarven Halls within the mountain), used by its inhabitants

Zabdûna undu ‘Urd - Queen Under the Mountain

‘Urd - local name for Lonely Mountain (referring to the Mountain itself)

Later that night

Mista sighed, finally freed from the weight of her crown and royal garments by Katla, her new maid. The girl knew her duties well and quickly helped her change into her sleeping gown. As soon as Katla curtsied and left the bed-chamber through a gilded door, wishing her queen a “fruitful night”, Mista – who did not feel like a queen at all at that moment – poured herself a glass of water. Her throat was parched, and her whole body felt stiff. She glanced at the other door in her chamber; the dark walnut door that led to the King’s chambers, but it was still closed, and no sounds seemed to come from the other side. Apparently, she still had some time for herself.

Mista took off her glasses and squinted, looking into the mirror in an opulent golden frame. This sumptuous object hung on the wall in her new chambers in the royal wing of the dwarven kingdom of Azsâlul'abad. The reflected image was blurry, and so she squinted harder, stretching her neck forward. Finally, she made out a dwarf-woman, plain and far from being a beauty, her mousy hair unbraided — except for her marriage braid – and still adorned with scores of diamonds. Diamonds are the bride’s best friends, an old saying claimed. Yes, she was a bride and she was wearing a luxurious, crispy white sleeping gown. Why? Because, by a turn of fate, on this very day she fulfilled her dearest, her most secret wish: today she wedded the only Dwarf she loved. 

Mista became Thorin Oakenshield’s wife – and the Queen Consort of Azsâlul'abad.

And now she was waiting for her lord husband to fulfil his marital duties.

A knock on the door — the dark walnut door — jolted her from her reverie.

“Come…” She cleared her throat and tried again, hoping her voice did not tremble too much, “Come in.” 

She had barely enough time to stand up and straighten the silks of her sleeping gown. It was hard not to notice that her fingers were trembling more than her voice.

The King Under the Mountain, Thorin II Oakenshield, entered the room. Gone were his crown and his opulent wedding attire; he wore plain bedclothes, but his dark, wavy hair streaked with silver was braided only with his marriage braid, exactly like hers, just as the tradition dictated. She couldn’t stop herself from admiring his strong shoulders, his lush beard pleated into two thick braids, and his regal profile. Years passed since their first meeting in Tumunzahar, and yet her heart fluttered as if she were that girl hiding behind a statue again. “Good evening, My Lady.” He stopped by the fireplace, slowly taking in the room. Surprised, Mista could not help but notice the tension in his movements. Surely, he could not be nervous, was he? Not him, not now, away from the prying eyes. He was the fearless hero of Azanulbizar, after all, and she was only a bookish, unremarkable girl. It simply could not be. “Good evening, My Lord,” she replied and stole an apprehensive glance at the four-poster bed beside her. “Are your chambers to your satisfaction, My Lady?” Her newly wedded husband asked, putting his arms behind his back and taking in the room as if he was seeing it for the first time. Was he? Impossible, Mista scolded herself. Princess Dis informed her that he hadoverseen the renovations himself to ensure they offered the utmost comfort to his new wife.

Mista cleared her throat and took a deep breath.

“Indeed, they are, My Lord. I am very grateful. These rooms have exceeded my expectations by far,” she admitted truthfully. She was used to the comfort and splendour of Tumunzahar, but Azsâlul'abad’s opulence was unmatched.

“I am glad to hear it. If you  are ever in need of any one thing, please do not hesitate to ask for it. As the royal consort, Lady Mista, you shall receive only what is best in my kingdom.” He spoke in a steady tone, his low voice slightly hoarser than before.

“Thank you, My Lord, for your generosity,” she lowered her head, wondering whether he was just as uneasy as she was. He thanked her with a nod and observed her silently for a few moments. Mista knew very well how she must look in his eyes and swallowed in embarrassment. Her figure was not what they call “statuesque”, her bosom was too small to be considered enticing, and so, if anyone asked Mista, the low cut bodice was a waste of the tailor’s skill. Besides, she was a bit on the stocky side, and not in that feminine way that was so highly admired among dwarves. As her mother had pertinently put it, “curvaceous” was not the word that described Mista’s figure. Apparently, she resembled a stone slab the most. Crude, angular, and plain. To put it simply, she knew well that she was not the most graceful nor alluring woman in the dwarven kingdom of Azsâlul'abad. Therefore, she felt a bit of relief at the fact that her new lord husband’s gaze did not stray below her neck.

“Let us sit down for now.” He pointed at the two armchairs standing nearby, “and talk.”

Mista hid her confusion at this statement, and joined him quickly by the fireplace. Talking meant that the moment she both dreaded and hoped for would be delayed.

After a few moments of silence, the King finally spoke, his voice solemn, “We have found ourselves in quite unusual circumstances, My Lady. We have been joined in the eyes of Mahal and our people, and are expected to consummate our union. I believe, however, that the best course of action would be for us to wait until we… are better acquainted with each other.”

“Oh, I see…” she replied, taken aback. Something stung in Mista's chest. Was she that unalluring to him? She mustered all her strength to appear unmoved and quickly added, “That is very… thoughtful of you.” “I gathered that you may not feel too comfortable,” his throat bobbed as he looked away, “sharing your bed with someone you have only met for the first time yesterday.”

A surprised, nervous chuckle escaped her, but she stifled it quickly, “Are you jesting, My Lord?” “I am not certain I take your meaning.” He frowned. “We met for the first time in Tumunzahar, at the feast in honour of your family’s arrival to our city,” she explained, cheerily at first, and then — not so much as the signs of puzzlement became more pronounced on his face. The King, her newlywed husband, knitted his eyebrows together. A ball of ice began to grow in her stomach. 

Mista added, her voice barely audible, “And you… you asked me to dance.” “Did I, My Lady?” he tilted his head slightly and looked above her head, perhaps attempting to recall the event. “That must have been… eighty years ago?”

“One hundred and three,” she interjected quickly and then felt her cheeks burn instantly. “I wore a blue gown adorned with sweetwater pearls and you asked me about them. We discussed pearling; I believe you wanted to try it yourself in order to find a pearl for your sister.”

Recounting those long-gone events she treasured in her memory for so many years, she saw an absent expression on his face and the enthusiasm in her voice slowly died off. Mista had hoped that the King, Thorin, would easily recall how he laughed at her silly dragon story or the moment when he showed her how to make a raven out of her dance card to her mother’s utter bafflement. Sadly, the handsome features of his face said the opposite.

“My apologies, My Lady,” he replied, shaking his head slowly. “I am ashamed to say it, but I must admit that I cannot recall that particular event. It seems that too many years have passed since then.” Silence fell after his words and she lowered her gaze, clasping her hands on her lap to prevent them from shaking. Suddenly, in her well-warmed-up room, she felt cold.

“Forgive me, I seem to have forgotten my manners,” Thorin Oakenshield stood up swiftly and made a small bow. “I did not mean to imply that your age…” “No offence taken,” she swallowed the lump in her throat as he sat back down. “We are not younglings any more. You were correct, My Lord. That feast happened long ago. Anyone could have forgotten.”

Anyone. But not Mista. She kept on cherishing the memory of that meeting, and when she first heard about the offer of marriage, she could not believe her ears. She thought that perhaps Thorin Oakenshield remembered her fondly for all these years and… nevermind. It was clear that she was mistaken. He did not recall Mista at all. Why would he? She was simply one of the many uninteresting maidens he had danced with. Plain and easy to forget. So unlike her stunningly beautiful sister Adla who never learned the bitter taste of rejection; whose husband waited impatiently for their wedding night – and with whom Adla now had three sturdy sons.

Thorin Oakenshield drummed his fingers on the armrest of the chair but remained silent. Mista stared at the elaborate pattern of the carpet under her feet. Somewhere deep in the bowels of the mountain the mine bell struck for the third time since midnight when the King poured wine into two goblets that stood on the nearby table. Only then did he finally speak. “As you know very well, My Lady, this… marriage,” he said that last word with a hint of uncharacteristic hesitation, “was to serve several purposes. Did your father inform you about all the clauses of the contract before sending the proposal to me?”

Her eyes widened. 

“Before…? I do not understand. Were you not the one to offer the alliance between our houses, My Lord?” Thorin II, the King Under the Mountain, frowned, “The offer came from your father.” “Oh… I see,” her throat tightened. Her eyes pricked. “Were you not aware of this?” The King’s eyes searched Mista’s face. “Father spared me the details,” she admitted, trying to ignore the dull ache deep inside her that seemed to come in waves. It was not the first time Lord Tair, her father, did something of this sort, but she promised herself it would be the last time. The Lonely Mountain and the kingdom beneath it was beyond his reach. 

“I have been informed of the cornerstones of the deal: you give the Broadbeams of Tumunzahar the trade licences and I…” Mista swallowed. “I give you heirs.”

Somehow, she managed to keep her tone of voice casual. Her voice did not tremble this time. What a relief. Perhaps she was not as alluring as Adla, perhaps her husband — unlike Adla’s — was set on delaying the consummation of their marriage, but at least she kept her dignity intact. She would only need to hold in the tears until she was alone again. 

“That is indeed a very straightforward approach,” the King offered with a nod. “I understand that this must sound to you like a soulless contract, but rest assured that I aim to follow all the clauses of the agreement. And as the Queen Under the Mountain, Zabdûna undu ‘Urd you will be treated with the utmost respect due to the royal consort.” “Of course, My Lord, I did not expect anything less of you,” she uttered. He had been a true gentledwarf when they had met for the first time, after all. One hundred and three years ago. “Your reputation is that of an honourable Dwarf. That is why I agreed to this marriage.”

“Then I will strive to maintain it. May I reciprocate by saying that although I do not yet know you well as a person, your conduct gives you great credit. I admired how composed you were during the ceremony, but perhaps that is not a surprise, knowing that you come from such an ancient and noble house. And I have heard of your admirable work in the Blue Mountains. All those traits are exactly what the kingdom of ‘Urdêk needs from its Queen,” the King gave her a small smile.

“I am happy to hear it, My Lord,” she whispered, looking at her hands on her lap. Your admirable work. Warmth spread in her chest. “May I ask what ‘‘Urdêk’ means? I don’t think I am familiar with this word.”

“Forgive me, this is how we call this kingdom – our home within the Mountain,” he offered. “We do not often use it when talking with outsiders. But now, you are one of us, My Lady.”

Mista’s throat tightened, but she was somehow able to utter a handful of words. “Thank you, My Lord.”

“The task before us both,” the King continued, unaware of the sudden wave of emotions that washed over her, “is to serve the Kingdom Under the Mountain to the best of our ability. Our people will rely both on you and me now.”

Our people. You and me. Those words rang in Mista’s ears like the loudest mine bells after a discovery of a new gold deposit would.

“I will strive to learn my duties as fast as I can and help you with your work, my king,” she replied, feeling his gaze on her face, but unable to meet it.

“Perfect. Time is of the essence, so Lord Balin has taken the liberty to find a capable secretary for you. She will introduce you to the way things are run here. And if you have any questions, do not hesitate to ask him. You can trust him – he taught me most of what I know about ruling this kingdom. He will be more than happy to offer his advice to you as well. There is a lot of work ahead of us; my wish is to make the Mountain fully habitable to our people as soon as possible.”

“You can count on me, My Lord,” she replied enthusiastically. “The people of ‘Urdêk, the Longbeards, the Broadbeams, and everyone else — our people — are returning and they deserve to find new homes here.”

“It brings me great joy to hear you say it, My Lady Mista,” the King took a goblet in his hand and raised it, as if to toast her, before taking a sip. “Once again the proverbial generosity of the Broadbeams turns out to be worth its weight in gold.”

“As you know, I have never visited Azsâlul'abad before, but I have heard many tales of its greatness of old. What I have seen so far only confirms these tales — and I wish to help return the Lonely Mountain to its former glory if I can.”

She looked timidly at the King from under her eyelashes and saw a flicker in his eyes as he peered at her.

“And I will do what I can for you to feel at home here, My Lady,” he gestured at their surroundings. “This kingdom is now yours as well.”

“You are very kind, My Lord,” Mista bowed her head reverently.

For a moment, they sat in silence. 

“Well, this was a productive conversation, My Lady,” he clapped his hand against his muscular thigh and then rose from his chair. “I will not impose myself upon you any further. You must be exhausted after today’s ceremonies. Allow me to bid you good night,” King Thorin, her husband, made a hasty bow and returned to his chambers.

The sound of the closing door echoed dully in the silence of her bedchamber.

For a long while, Mista stared blankly at the dark wooden surface behind which her newly wed husband disappeared, without even once addressing her as “wife”. She was barely aware of the tears that fell from her face onto the soft fabric of her nightgown. Even this elegant piece of clothing was not enough to make her alluring in the eyes of the King. If she only were as enticing as Adla…

It was Mista’s wedding night and she felt like the greatest fool in the world.

✨ Chapter 1 (Prologue) | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3... ✨ Entangled Masterlist 💙💙💙 Read it? Like it? Spread the love and reblog it! 💙💙💙

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[fizzyxcustard]

For Her Or My Country?

Fandom: Spooks

Pairing: Lucas North x OC (Amy Holland)

Warning: Non-graphic smut, insecurity, language

Word count: 3731

Summary: Lucas has been given an assignment which means potentially sleeping with a subject who is linked to a Russian subject of interest. After discussing with Amy, will he put his relationship or duty to country first? 

Notes: As always, if you wish to be added to my Forever Tag list, let me know. Or you can request to be added to a list for a specific character/fandom. Please contact me if you wish to be added or removed.

Comments and reblogs are always appreciated. :) Any comment at all.

Read on AO3 here

Masha Petrova. Beautiful. Elegant. Rich. Holder of intelligence that MI5 needed. And Lucas had been assigned to the case. Being able to speak Russian himself and having a vast knowledge of the culture and risks that were posed to the United Kingdom, it was only natural that Lucas be placed on this case. 

The team of Section D were all seated in the main briefing room, watching as photos appeared on the screen, flipping every few seconds. Harry described each one and gave background to all the subjects and contexts of them. 

Lucas was to go undercover in two days’ time, posing as a potential client for Masha Petrova’s prestigious art gallery. She would be hosting an auction, where paintings worth millions of pounds were to be sold, and the money then transferred to her ex-husband, Konstantin Sidorov. But the man had disappeared three years earlier. He was a ghost, with his last movement being on a flight back to Moscow and then nothing. Her motives behind keeping in such close contact with her ex-husband were being questioned. 

“Jo will be on standby,” Harry began. He turned to the bleach blonde woman who sat two seats down from him. Her large blue eyes were locked on him, waiting for her instruction. “We’ll need you to mingle with the men, stroke their egos.” That normally meant sleep with them if necessary. “Lucas, Masha is known to always have a string of attractive men on her arm who wish to warm her bed…” 

That was it. Amy, desk-based intelligence officer, and also Lucas’ girlfriend of ten months, felt bile rise in her throat. She looked at the photo of Masha Petrova and felt that stab of intense self-hatred rise. This was the kind of woman that Lucas should have been with, not her. He deserved beauty and elegance, not someone like Amy who rarely wore make up and dressed constantly in jeans. 

Now Amy knew why she had been kept off the case for as long as she had. With Ruth Evershed on long-term sick leave, the team were bursting at the seams with workload and needed another pair of hands. Amy was the only person available. 

Harry gave both Jo and Lucas a briefing pack, outlining their identities which they would need to learn over the next forty eight hours. 

Lucas looked down the table at Amy and could see the bright red flush of her cheeks, paired with her inability to keep her eyes out of her lap. He could see her hands moving beneath the table, a sign of her fidgeting, which she always did when nervous. Every expression and movement was something that Lucas had become intimately acquainted with. 

Once the meeting had concluded, Harry requested that Lucas stay behind. Everyone else got to their feet, stretching due to the length of time they had all been sitting. Amy dashed out of the room first, being closest to the door. Tears were prickling her eyes. For most of the meeting her imagination had been running wild, churning over a vivid vision of Lucas and Masha Petrova in an erotic position. Amy’s chest tightened, causing her to flap her arms to try and get more air. 

“Are you alright?” Jo asked, approaching Amy. 

Amy smiled weakly at Jo, knowing that it had always been impossible for her to lie about her feelings. She was transparent, unable to mask any negative feelings. She couldn’t answer. 

“I’ll make us a coffee and we can pop outside for some fresh air, yeah?” Jo proposed.

Amy nodded, feeling as if her friend’s kindness was about to open the floodgates and the tears would never stop. But she swallowed hard, feeling the pain in her throat. That damn floodgate would remain closed, even if it killed her. 

Outside a few minutes later and Jo lit a cigarette and the two of them stood on the balcony, which gave them a view of London. It was grey and overcast. The colour of the sky was threatening rain. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Jo asked. 

Amy’s green eyes darted this way and that, anywhere so they didn’t have to focus on Jo. “I don’t know,” she said softly. Then she sighed, and looked out over the Thames. “I just….I always knew this was something that would probably come, but I hoped it wouldn’t.” 

“Believe me, Amy, Harry wouldn’t have asked Lucas to do this unless absolutely necessary. He knows the moral dilemma and risks all of us face when we’re asked to go into situations like this.” 

Amy took a sip of her coffee. “Why is it always our morals and lives that we have to sacrifice?” Amy knew all this when taking the position, but now that she was here, facing the prospect of her boyfriend having to essentially cheat on her, it was worse than she could have ever imagined. 

Those words caused tears to slip down Amy’s cheeks, which she rubbed away angrily with the sleeve of her cardigan. “Lucas loves his job so much, and I should have always known that I would never be truly first.” 

“Amy, it’s not that, and you know it isn’t. He loves you. But the world we live and work in is a dark one, so much darker than people on the outside ever realise.”

“I’m still human, Jo, and I think I’m allowed to feel betrayed and heartbroken when my boyfriend has been told to sleep with someone else.” 

Jo watched Amy hang her head in shame and defeat. She knew that Amy had incredibly low self-esteem and had been living in constant shock for the last ten months that Lucas would even be interested in her. But Jo could see the chemistry between her two colleagues; Amy’s kindness towards Lucas, and his ability to make Amy feel seen and heard. Even before their relationship had begun, and Jo knew that they would be a perfect couple, despite Amy always having voiced how little she thought of herself. The two of them may not have looked as though they would date, when considering the way they carried themselves, but their interactions cemented the fact they complimented each other perfectly. 

Back in the office a short while later and Amy took a seat at her desk. She pulled out her drawer and picked out a Mars bar from the multipack. It was the only thing that could distract her from the fact that Lucas was sitting a few feet away from her, watching. She knew that he knew she was feeling emotional turmoil. If she had to look at him then she would break down. 

Tariq’s desk was behind Amy’s and he could see Lucas’ blue gaze studying her. Tariq watched in fascination for a minute and then turned his attention back to making minor amendments to Jo’s briefing pack. For once, he could see that Amy wasn’t smiling at Lucas or gazing at him, but instead keeping her gaze away. In his mind, anyone who didn’t notice Amy’s reactions must have been blind. 

For the next hour and Amy took up her time in a meeting with Ros, discussing the ANPR data results for a subject they had been investigating. At least for now, Amy could put her mind elsewhere. 

Meanwhile, Lucas remained quiet at his desk, feeling Tariq’s gaze burning into the back of his head. It had been common knowledge amongst all of the staff at Section D, that Tariq had a crush on Amy. All except Amy herself. 

Once Amy had emerged from the side room with Ros, Lucas got up and approached her. He stood with his back to everyone else and Amy with her back to the wall, looking down at her, almost shielding her from prying eyes. “Do you want to head out for something to eat?” he asked. Then he pulled his hands from his jeans pocket and picked up her hand, feeling her warm skin against his for a couple of seconds. But he frowned when he saw her look at the floor; he could see her throat quivering. He dropped her hand. 

Amy swallowed hard and looked up at him, feeling the overwhelming emotion wash over her. It was painful, so painful. Her beautiful, perfect Lucas. He was Amy’s everything and for some unknown reason, he also wanted her. 

“Come on,” Lucas whispered, holding his hand out to her to take. 

Amy knew she couldn’t deny him and took his large hand in her small one. 

Together, they walked out of the office, and into the mid-day air. It was drizzling, forming a mist in their hair as they walked the two streets to their usual café. They were both quiet for the duration of their walk, with the hustle and bustle of the busy London streets washing around them. 

Lucas grabbed his wallet from his back pocket and didn’t even have to ask Amy what she wanted. She’d already made up her mind and was on her way to grab a table. “A strawberry smoothie and a cheese and onion toastie, please,” her voice drifted back over her shoulder.  

Lucas sighed and placed their order. Every now and again he would glance towards her, noticing how she still wouldn’t look at him. Instead, she grabbed her sketchbook from her handbag and began to touch up one of her latest drawings. 

Suddenly Amy was taken aback as her sketchbook was pulled away from under her face, just as she rested her pencil tip against the paper. 

Lucas sat down. “Look at me,” he said sharply. 

“Give me my book back.” 

“No, you’ll talk to me. Your drawings can wait.” 

“What do you want me to say, Lucas?” Amy said, her tone low and her words to the point. “If you had to watch me go and sleep with a man as part of an operation, I’m sure you wouldn’t be particularly happy about it.” 

“Of course I wouldn’t,” Lucas hissed. “But this is our job. You know what’s at stake if I don’t do it.” 

“Keeping the country safe and all that crap. Yes, I know,” Amy scoffed. “I’m reminded of that every day. Funny how you’re always paired with the beautiful, elegant women.” 

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Lucas snapped. 

Amy rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. 

A young woman with blonde hair tied back into a ponytail came and set Amy’s food down on the table, along with hers and Lucas’ drink. She offered a quick smile, immediately recognising the familiar signs of a lover’s tiff. 

“No food?” Amy asked. 

“Can’t say I’ve got an appetite.” 

“Just fatten me up like a pig, then.” 

Lucas grit his teeth and closed his eyes, clasping his hands together on the table. He knew her defensive attitude all too well when she became overwhelmed by self-consciousness. Passive-aggression and sarcasm tainted her words as she tried to fling painful darts back at him. 

“Not here, please,” Lucas begged. His voice was quiet, full of defeat. 

Amy at least silently acquiesced to his request and slipped back into her seat, nibbling on the edge of her toasted sandwich. She adored the very breath of the man sat in front of her, and she was sure he knew that. But she couldn’t bring herself to look him in the eye, and instead let her gaze trace the crisscross stitch of the red and white tablecloth. 

Lucas sipped his coffee and watched Amy for a few seconds before sighing, resigning his gaze toward the framed quote behind her on the wall. It was some cliché shit that seemed to belong on every mantlepiece in the UK, apart from his and Amy’s. Instead, Amy had a line of Disney character figurines across hers, and the thought of it made a smile emerge on his face. This woman he had committed himself to had no idea how amazing and beautiful she was. Curious. Quirky. The kindest person he had ever met. Unbelievably strong of mind and spirit. Underestimated herself. Broken by the arseholes who had taken advantage of her introverted and generous nature. 

One way or the other, he would repair her. No ifs, buts or maybes. He would repair her. 

***

The flat was dark as Amy stepped back inside. Lucas was required for a further meeting regarding the new operation with Masha Petrova, so wouldn’t be home for a further hour or two yet. 

The isolation enveloped her along with the dark. 

Tears flowed down Amy’s cheeks as she finally allowed the locked floodgates to open. She dropped back into a chair in the dining room and sobbed. Amy would never be good enough for Lucas, always sitting in the shadow of other women. Everything that they were reflected what Amy wasn’t. These women reminded her of the dark shadow of lack which lived in her chest. 

Tension soon began to press down behind Amy’s eyes as she prepared hers and Lucas’ dinner. It felt like a huge weight was crushing Amy from above, pressing her down into the ground as her whole body became weak. 

Cheesy 80’s music played on the radio in the small box kitchen, and not even that could lift Amy out of her prison of darkness. All she could think of was Lucas with Masha Petrova. No doubt he would enjoy it. Of course he would. Being ridden by a blonde supermodel of a woman, with the confidence to fully express her sexuality. 

It had taken Amy a few months to become more confident in bed with Lucas. It wasn’t until they’d been together for six months that Amy could finally make love to him without the light turned off and not feel the need to shrink back at his touch. Now she openly enjoyed his touch, reciprocating it. But those whispers would still creep up on her when they lay together afterwards, telling her how unworthy she was of such a beautiful man’s love. 

Amy loved Lucas with her whole heart, having never felt so drawn to anyone else. Lucas, to her, was incredibly handsome, charming, intelligent, gentle and kind. He was perfection. Even when he woke in the middle of the night, sweating and shouting out, gripped by the horror of his memories of Lushanka, eventually waking her up, it only helped her to love him more. The vulnerability he shared with her helped her move closer to him, bridging the gap which her insecurity had always created. 

The closing of the front door suddenly echoed from down the hall. And Amy heard Lucas’ slow footsteps coming towards the kitchen. She felt her hands begin to shake and a painful lump rise in her throat. “Dinner’s almost ready,” she said.

“Dinner can wait,” Lucas instructed. It wasn’t often that Lucas was demanding, but when it came to digging into Amy’s insecurity and bad moods, it was the only way he could defend himself and fight for her. 

Amy sighed and placed her hands on the edge of the sink and looked out into the murky evening. She could see fog beginning to descend on the world and the brightness of the streetlamps lighting up the rooftops, showing the gleam of an earlier shower. 

Lucas stood beside Amy and curled his arm around her waist, then took her hand in his, kissing it. “The only thing I can say is that I love you, Aim.” 

Amy felt everything crumble and she couldn’t help but break down again, becoming a sobbing mess in his arms. 

Lucas held her tight, his right hand tangled in her hair and his lips kissing her forehead. “I love you more than anything.” That was all he could say, and he meant every single word, the emotion so overwhelming as he uttered them.  

“I should support you, Lucas,” Amy said, sniffing as she pulled from the embrace to look up at him. “I’m so proud of everything you do, but I…”

“I know,” Lucas whispered. “Don’t you think I know? I don’t want to do this.” His eyes were locked on hers, tears swimming in them, making them look even brighter a blue. 

“You’re being paid to sleep with someone. Perk of the job, I guess,” Amy said wryly. 

“Don’t you dare say that,” Lucas hissed. His eyes became alight with frustration, his frown casting a shadow across his brow. “Why do you always have to turn to sarcasm and pettiness when you’re hurt?” 

Amy pulled from Lucas’ grasp and stormed out of the room, casting him an expression of disgust mixed with hurt. Of course he was right; Amy knew it. Sarcasm and pettiness become her defence mechanism when hurt or cornered. 

“What do you want me to say, Aim?” Lucas shouted. “Do you want me to leave my job, get down on my knees?” 

“Just fuck off!” Amy hissed back. “Leave me alone.” 

The room felt as if it were becoming so much smaller as Amy stood facing the wall, sobbing, with breath almost coming in gasps. More than anything, in that moment, she wanted to disappear. 

“You don’t mean that, Aim. You never do,” Lucas said, placing his hand on her shoulder. “I know you enough by now. When you tell someone to leave you alone, it means ‘hold me tight’. You want people to get closer when you’re hurting, even though you push them away.” 

Amy felt Lucas’ arms wrap around her middle, and she sighed, feeling that all too familiar wave of arousal spiral down her body and the butterflies swarm in her belly. She couldn’t fight off the way he made her feel. All of the attraction and love was far too strong to keep her away. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered. Lucas kissed her cheek, taking in the scent of her. It was strawberries mixed with the faintest hint of her perfume from that morning, Olympea. 

Slowly, Amy turned around and looked up at Lucas, sniffing over her blocked nose. Her eyes were sore and red. “It always comes back to this feeling of me not being good enough.” 

“And that’s what it is, just a feeling. There is no truth whatsoever in it. It’s a dark voice, nothing more. I chose you, Amy. Above everyone else, I choose you.” 

Amy threw her arms around Lucas and they held each other tight, remaining silent. The only sound was the patter of rain against the window, which gradually got louder and heavier. 

Heat spread through Amy as she felt his arms encase her, protecting her from the outside world and everything evil that was in it. 

The two of them kissed, the heat mounting, until Amy’s hands slipped up Lucas’ chest and she began popping the buttons of his shirt. She pushed the fabric aside to see his chest exposed, which was tattooed with William Blake’s Ancient of Days.

“You could have anyone,” Amy began, “absolutely anyone in this world. And yet you choose me.” 

“Why did you choose me?” Lucas whispered. “You don’t see your beauty, and your light. Any man you choose would be blessed beyond anything he could ever imagine, and you don’t see any of that.” His finger brushed a stray hair from her brow, and then the tips of his fingers trailed down her cheek and his thumb brushed her plump lips. “You made me feel again, and I owe you everything.” 

They kissed again and began to remove each other’s clothing, slowly. 

As Lucas stood before Amy in only his underwear, she traced the tattoos on his chest and stomach. “I thought about getting one, to match yours.” 

“Don’t,” Lucas demanded, his tone quiet but stern and saddened. “All they serve is a reminder of the darkness in the world, and I never want to taint you with that. Your skin is perfect as it is, untouched and unblemished.” 

“And I want to share everything with you. The good and the bad.” 

Lucas lowered Amy to the bed, her arms locked around his neck. And they kissed again, hard and hungry for every fibre of each other. 

Amy gasped as Lucas slipped inside her. 

A groan fell off his lips as he felt a wave of that beautiful euphoria. This was where he belonged. It was the only place on this Earth he would ever be safe: inside her, one with her, vulnerable and bare. Gradually he moved, rocking his hips against her as his hand gripped her thigh. 

Amy pulled him in closer, needing him against her, the closest in physical proximity that was possible. “I love you,” she whispered. 

Lucas’ blue gaze locked on hers and he stopped his movement, remaining still. He smiled. It was a content, peaceful smile. The first he had smiled since he was a child. “This is where I belong. It’ll never be anywhere else. I promise.” 

A while later and they both lay on their sides, facing each other. Lucas’ arm was draped idly over Amy’s hip. He was smiling at her again. Innocence, kindness, compassion and love had always shone through Amy’s face and been left on anything she touched, a golden light lingering behind from her fingertips. 

He leaned forward and kissed the tip of her snub nose. 

The happiness in Amy’s face drained and a serious expression rose. “I’m sorry about earlier. I know you need to do this.” A sadness began to wash over her green eyes. Then she forced a smile. 

Lucas never answered, but in his mind, he knew what needed to be done. He moved over her and drew her into another embrace, followed by more love making. 

***

The next morning, Lucas stood at Harry’s office door. His heart was racing in his chest, something that rarely happened when on the job. 

With one last backwards glance to Amy, Lucas knocked on Harry’s door. She looked up from her desk and smiled at him from across the room, those beautiful eyes sparkling so brightly. Lucas knew that he had made the right decision. 

For her or my country? Always for her. 

“Come in!” Harry’s voice came. 

Lucas took a deep breath and slipped inside the office, bracing the inevitable storm.

“Lucas? What can I do for you?” Harry asked, leaning back in his seat. 

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to stand down from tomorrow’s deployment, Harry.” 

***

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[glassgulls]

More delicious character chemistry between my beloved Amy and Lucas! I absolutely love the two of them together so much, they're canon for me. @fizzyxcustard knocked it out the park yet again with her writing skill and talent for creating characters I feel I could meet, in a world I can almost reach out and touch. So please go check it out and enjoy the special connection Amy and Lucas have.

[gwen-ever]

Chapter 2: Cry me a river

HELLOOOOO, my favorite band of chaos gremlins! 💖 Guess what? We’ve got NEW CONTENT! Yes, finally, the wait is over—this chapter has some juicy new info about the oh-so-complicated past between Geira and Thorin. 🎉And oh, we’re not stopping there! Let me throw some questions your way (because I love torturing you all with mysteries): 1️⃣ What do you think the tattoo means? Is it just some cool dwarven ink, or is there something deeper at play? 2️⃣ What about the bracelet? Is it just a shiny trinket, or does it hold secrets that could change everything? 3️⃣ And seriously, what could Balin have done to make Geira hate him with the fire of a thousand dragons? 🐉🔥 Was it something petty, or is there a major betrayal lurking in their history? I NEED to hear your wild theories, folks, because honestly, your guesses fuel my creativity (and my endless need for drama)!Now, go on, dive in, and let me know what you think—your comments give me life! 💬✨

Summary: When Smaug arrived, he not only killed the dwarves of Erebor, but he also destroyed the lives of the few who survived… whether he did it on purpose or not.After a hundred years, a part of Thorin’s past will come back to haunt him in the form of a dwarf who last knocks on the door of Bilbo Baggins’ house, resurrecting old grudges and the pain of a life no one wants to talk about. Geira, daughter of Geiri, is anything but an open book, an exiled who no one wants around, a warrior who has no one to fight for, but only an oath she must fulfil.

Relationships: Thorin x FemaleOC Rating: M Warnings: none. AO3 LINK: HERE

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The following days seemed to mirror the Company’s gloom: the relentless sky sent forth its dark grey clouds heavy with rain. Even the trees' canopies failed to shield them, allowing raindrops to seep through, drenching them despite the hoods of their cloaks.

Thorin hadn’t glanced at her even once, nor had he spoken to her since that evening. Bilbo always rode beside her, but aside from exchanging a few simple words, he remained silent, sneezing loudly or muttering unpleasant remarks about the rain or Gandalf. The wizard was perhaps the only one undeterred, continuing to ride and humming occasionally.

It didn’t take long for her to realise that their argument hadn’t just torn her own soul apart but had also wounded the entire Company. In the end, her aunt had been right about one thing when it came to the line of Durin:

"A kingdom reflects its king."

And at that moment, Thorin's kingdom was this Company. Like it or not, her presence and very existence had exacerbated the oppressive silences that had hung over her from the start.

Surprisingly, the rain vanished suddenly by mid-morning, replaced by a clear sky devoid of even a wisp of cloud. And as she had expected, the collective gloom of those days was swept away by the song of a handful ofswallows and the chirping of distant crickets under the warm spring sun.

"Stop, wait!" Thorin commanded loudly, raising his hand sharply and tugging Minty’s reins.

The dark mare reared onto her hind legs.

Geira pulled her reins and halted instantly, as did the rest of the line, taken aback by the sudden order. The only one who failed to stop—and she wasn’t surprised—was Dwalin.

The warrior had been riding directly behind her, but with a couple of nudges to his pony, he moved up alongside his leader as usual, positioning himself right at his side.

"What’s wrong?" Dwalin asked bluntly, leaning toward Thorin.

Puzzled, Geira turned her head to peer past the cluster of dwarves ahead. They were near the edge of the forest, just before a valley filled with small hills and thickets. Yet strangely, instead of leading them out, Thorin had come to a complete halt and remained silent.

A glance at the sinking hooves of Thorin’s pony in the mud was all she needed to understand the problem—and why they had stopped.

"A marsh. And it’s raining," she muttered to herself, a growing unease creeping over her.

Bad news.

Perhaps her words carried clearly, for around her arose grunts and sighs, along with a few accusing glances directed at her as the bearer of unwelcome news.

"You're joking, right?" Bombur sighed heavily from behind her, murmuring with a full mouth.

Gandalf, riding beside her, slightly turned his horse to look at the dwarf.

"I fear not, Master Dwarf... and this is not to our advantage, particularly given the hour," he murmured, casting an enigmatic glance toward the sun. She understood instantly, looking up.

It was low—too low. Sunset was approaching, and they could not stop here for the night.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Bilbo draw closer, examining the expanse of mud and grass.

"What do you mean by ‘marsh’?" Bilbo asked, perplexed.

"It means we can’t proceed without risking the ponies drowning in the muck and losing our damned supplies in this swamp, Master Hobbit," Dwalin snapped, his stony face turning toward the end of the line.

"Oh no, no, no, no!" Dori cried out, his voice growing increasingly shrill, drawing her attention.

The dwarf gently tugged the reins of his dragging pony and shook his head, much to the bafflement of his younger brothers. "I’ve endured four days of rain, six days of riding, but this—I will not. I am not about to crawl through a filthy, stinking swamp. You’ll have to drag me!"

Gloin squinted, his mouth drawing into a firm line beneath his red beard. “As if we’ve got any other choice, Dori,” the dwarf retorted sternly.

“My alternative is to turn back and find a way around. There’s got to be some route that avoids this hellhole of mud and filth!”

“And add miles and miles to our journey? Brilliant idea, brother,” Nori said sharply from his side.

“Any other bright ideas?” Bofur chimed in with a wry grin, his accent lilting as he leaned forward on his pony. “Or are ya just lookin’ to moan us all to death, eh?”

Quickly, another round of bickering broke out over what should or shouldn’t be done.

Geira, however, couldn’t tear her gaze away from Rosalie’s hooves, noticing how short her legs seemed compared to Gandalf’s horse. Crossing the marsh would be a risk—not just for them but for the ponies as well. Yet turning back wasn’t an option. There simply wasn’t enough time.

The voices around her grew louder, overlapping and drowning out the cheerful chirping of birds. Even Bilbo attempted to chime in, stammering something incoherent amidst the racket. But then, a low growl cut through the noise.

“Enough! Silence!” Thorin roared, his eyes flashing as he glared at the Company. Instantly, all voices ceased, and every wide-eyed gaze turned toward him, including hers. Thorin gestured sharply toward Dwalin at the back of the line.

“Dwalin, move to the rear and ensure everyone stays in position! Fili, Kili—take the centre and do the same,” he barked, glancing at the two brothers before shifting his gaze to her.

Geira held her breath but met his eyes squarely, refusing to be intimidated. Thorin’s lips parted slightly as if he were about to give her an order, but he quickly closed them and turned away, ignoring her entirely as he had for days.

She bit her lip. If he wanted to pretend she didn’t exist, he was free to do so.

Gently, she tugged Rosalie’s reins and shifted into the newly ordered formation. Cautiously, she positioned herself in perfect alignment, ahead of Fili and Gloin, and preceded by Balin, Bilbo, Gandalf, and Thorin, forming a straight column where everyone would be covered.

“I don’t like this at all,” she heard Bilbo mutter with a resigned sigh.

“Nor do I, lad,” Balin replied unexpectedly.

Cautiously, they began trudging around the edge of the dark mire. As soon as the ponies stepped in, the muck rose to their calves, accompanied by a foul stench of mud, leaves, and rotting wood.

A shiver of disgust ran down Geira’s spine, but she bit her lip to keep still, while the others made no attempt to hide their revulsion. Groans, coughs, and colourful expletives echoed as each struggled with the foul conditions.

The brown mud clung to her hands; leaves, twigs, and tiny insects stuck to her clothes, crawling or buzzing as they went.

“Keep the ponies’ noses up. Don’t let them lower their heads into the mud,” Thorin ordered, marching ahead without looking back.

Geira leaned down, pulling Rosalie’s reins and placing a firm hand beneath her neck to steady her. The pony was far from pleased, shaking her head irritably.

 “Stay still, that’s it… just a bit longer,” she murmured into the animal’s ear, stroking its neck soothingly.

Midway along the edge of the marsh, the mud had climbed nearly to their knees, and the ponies were quickly growing restless, nickering and pausing intermittently.

“By Durin’s beard…” Gloin grumbled irritably ahead of her when Bungo , Gloin’s pony, came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the line, blocking everyone behind him.

The pony whinnied loudly as Gloin tried to coax him forward with a tug, only for Bungo to shake his head stubbornly.

“Gloin…” Balin tried to interject, but the elder dwarf’s voice was drowned out by another loud groan.

“Why won’t you move, Bungo?” Gloin demanded insistently, giving the reins another sharp tug—harder this time.

The pony neighed again, thrashing more violently, clearly confused and frightened by its inability to move.

“If he keeps struggling, he’ll get stuck!” Geira shouted, raising her voice above the increasingly agitated cries of the pony.

But Gloin persisted, yanking the reins again. At that moment, Bungo reared, kicking his hind legs dangerously close to Rosalie, who began to panic in turn. The chain reaction spread quickly, and soon all the ponies were jittery and frightened, starting to move on their own.

A sharp gasp escaped her lips as Rosalie jerked forward so hard that the reins scraped painfully against the buckles of her bracer, reopening a freshly healed wound.

Dwalin growled loudly, wrestling to calm Myrtle with visible difficulty. “Hold still, you stubborn beast!” he barked impatiently at Gloin, whose actions were making matters worse.

“Mr Gandalf, do something!” Dori called out anxiously.

The wizard remained unruffled, murmuring something to his horse to settle it, sparing only a brief glance at Dori as he lifted his staff slightly to keep his own steed steady.

If this continued, they’d all sink into the mud, losing their supplies and nearly all hope of success.

Without thinking—or weighing the consequences—Geira acted: she leapt off Rosalie and waded into the swamp, sinking nearly to her neck in the filthy mire under Bilbo’s astonished gaze.

She held her breath as the stench reached her nose, a shiver of disgust running through her from head to toe.

“Gloin, Fili, dismount the ponies!” she ordered sharply, moving towards Gloin’s pony and throwing a glance at the prince. He looked at her in confusion but followed suit, plunging into the mud with a horrified expression.

Gloin’s pony bucked even more stubbornly at its rider’s insistence, nearly landing a hoofed kick square in her chest.

“I don’t take orders from you!” Gloin roared, refusing to spare her even a glance.

“I’m not giving you orders—I’m trying to help!” she shot back firmly, trying to grab the pony’s reins and keep it steady.

“If you want me off this pony, you’ll have to pull me down yourself!”

“If you don’t get off that pony, Gloin son of Gróin, the swamp will swallow us whole!” she pressed, growing weary, too weary even to check her acid tone.

For once, they had to listen to her!

The pony, distressed by their bickering, started to move in panick nearly unseating Gloin. Her attempts to grab hold of the pony’s halter became increasingly futile as she wrestled with its thrashing.

With a deep sigh and an even deeper effort, she silently sent a prayer—a damned prayer for help and a blessing to the only one who might knock sense into Gloin. Still trying to calm the pony with her hands, she cast a pleading look towards Thorin, who stood watching impassively. His cold gaze shifted between her and the pony without offering a word or command.

 If they waited for his direction longer, they’d drown thanks to his pride.

“Uncle…” Fili called out to Thorin, approaching her through the mud and branches, looking bewildered and concerned by Thorin’s lack of direction.

Thorin pressed his lips together, his jaw tightening before fixing his stern gaze on Gloin.

“Gloin, do as she says,” he commanded sharply, holding her gaze briefly before turning back to Gloin.

The red-haired dwarf seemed unconvinced but obeyed nonetheless. He dismounted the pony with great difficulty, grumbling in irritation as his beard sank into the brown muck.

No sooner had Gloin left Bungo than the pony calmed enough for Geira to grasp the straps at its head in a quick motion.

She turned to Fili beside her, gesturing towards the two unaccompanied ponies. “Fili, take Daisy and Rosalie’s reins and make sure they follow,” she instructed with a grunt as Bungo tried to free himself from her grip.

Then she looked over the pony’s neck at Gloin. “Gloin, go behind Bungo and push steadily. I’ll pull from the front. Let’s try to keep him calm, or he might get stuck.”

Though visibly irked at the thought of taking directions from her, the dwarf nodded silently, casting a glance upwards in search of further orders from Thorin—which did not come.

Once both dwarves were in position, she moved in front of the black pony, gripping the sides of its bridle tightly to steady it as much as possible.

“One… two… push!” she shouted at the top of her lungs, beginning to pull on the straps.

She clenched her teeth, groaning with the effort as her muscles trembled under her skin. She threw her head back, pulling with all her strength.

“Come on, Bungo, move…” she muttered through gritted teeth, glancing back to see the other ponies had made it to the far side of the swamp.

Before she realised it, the reins suddenly became lighter to pull. Astonished, she looked to her side and saw Thorin, as mired in mud as she was, pulling the pony by the reins from the opposite side.

A lump formed in her throat as she found him beside her. His white teeth flashed as he pulled harder on the reins, his gaze fixed straight ahead, ignoring the mud that smeared his blue cloak and half of his dark hair.

The shock of his gesture froze her briefly. Only when Thorin frowned, ready to pull again, did she follow his lead.

Bungo continued to resist, though Gloin tried to soothe him with murmured words. But after a few more attempts, she felt the ground beneath her shift as the pony’s hoof stepped forward. Thorin noticed it too, and as she stepped aside to let the pony pass, he did the same, wrapping the reins around his wrist and continuing to pull.

When they finally reached the far bank, Geira felt as though the ground would give way beneath her. Taking a few steps, she freed herself from the mud, leaning both arms against a tree trunk and pressing her forehead against it in exhaustion.

It was perhaps the most arduous and absurd thing she’d done in years, but they were safe—every one of them, along with their supplies.

“What a mess…” she heard Dwalin mutter behind her, followed by the thud of someone likely stepping off a mud-caked steed.

“Many claim mud is good for the skin and works wonders on beards, you know?” Bofur teased.

“Shut your mouth, Bofur,” came the retort, followed by a disgusted grunt and the muffled sound of coughing as Bofur’s laughter rang out, joined by a few others she couldn’t identify.

Bilbo’s groan grew louder, accompanied by gagging noises. “I think I’m going to be sick,” he murmured weakly.

“Oh, come now, Mr Baggins��a bit of mud never hurt anyone,” Kili jested.

“A bit of mud? I look like I’ve emerged from a dung heap—or worse, my bath! Damn it all,” Bilbo snapped shrilly, provoking more laughter and jests from the company.

As soon as Geira felt she’d recovered some strength, she tried to lift her face from the moss-covered trunk. Her heart was still pounding furiously, not just from exertion but also from what Thorin had just done.

He had helped the company, not her, she told herself. Don’t dwell on it.

She glanced down at her clothes, completely covered in muck. The filth clung to her shirt, black leather vest, and trousers, even seeping into her boots. She didn’t dare imagine what her face looked like. With a shrug, she let the heavy fur cloak drop to the ground, though the sticky sensation and stench clinging to her nostrils didn’t diminish in the slightest.

Her gaze shifted to Gloin, who stood with his face close to Bungo’s head, speaking to the pony as though addressing another dwarf. He responded in a low voice while stroking the animal’s muzzle with both hands. Her eyes wandered to Thorin, standing a little further ahead. He had just removed his cloak and laid it over Minty, his brown mare. Balin assisted him by holding Deathless , Thorin’s sword, which he had carried for as long as she had known him.

Almost involuntarily, she ran her fingers over her own sword, brushing a layer of mud from its pommel and clearing the sticky foliage from the grip with her thumb. She would have to clean the blade as soon as she found a place to wash—a necessity for everyone at this point. Both ponies and dwarves were caked in filth, and even those who hadn’t leapt into the swamp to help Gloin were covered in sticky brown muck up to their waists.

In the distance, Dori’s beard braids were smeared with mud, and with a disgusted expression, he tried wiping them clean on his shirt sleeve, muttering indignantly all the while.

“Well, Master Dori, at least we’re out of the swamp! Surely you’d have preferred this over more rain?” Gandalf teased, riding his horse near him.

Dori scrunched his nose, looking down at his soiled clothes and hands. “It’s a pity we now smell worse than goat dung!”

Gandalf chuckled heartily, giving his horse a gentle nudge with his heels as he rode towards the edge of the forest, disappearing briefly behind it while humming a little tune.

Geira shook her head.

Wizards and their mysterious ways.

Bifur was riding nearby, muttering to himself as he tried to clean his axe on a leaf as large as his head. “ Ei Nai’rikhi jalaibsêk inîn !”

“You’ve got a point, cousin,” Bofur chimed in, waving the hat he always wore in front of his face. “Finding a nice spot to clean up would be a miracle right about now. We’d need to find a…”

“A river?” Ori cut in suddenly, his tone surprised.

The young dwarf was standing at the forest’s edge, peering through the bushes and trees ahead.

“Exactly, Ori, a river!”

“N-no… no…. a river…” he stammered, still pointing towards a small gap between the trees.

Curious, Geira looked over at the youngest member of the company, as did everyone else. Ori pushed aside a cluster of branches with his arm, revealing how the grove ended abruptly, opening into a small clearing. At its centre flowed a narrow river, with small rocky hills rising in the background—hills that had seemed so far away only moments ago.

In astonishment, Geira blinked several times, wondering if it was a mirage.

“A river…” she murmured to herself, a spontaneous smile forming on her lips.

“Could we not take advantage of this and have a bath?” Balin suggested to Thorin, who was still gazing at the small passage. “Given our condition, lad, it seems an ideal opportunity.”

Whether it was the advice of a friend or Balin’s own desire, the decision was made before Thorin could protest.

“Oh, praise great Durin! I’ve never been so happy to see water in my life!” Dori exclaimed enthusiastically, throwing his arms into the air. Without waiting for approval, he grabbed his pony’s reins and hurried towards the small path Ori had indicated.

There was barely time to head towards Rosalie before they all followed one by one, making their way through the bushes.

Gandalf observed them with amusement from his horse as they passed, cutting through the undergrowth and sparse trees that separated them from the clearing, taking the ponies with them. Judging by their whinnies, the animals were delighted to smell water.

This was all too perfect—too perfect to be real.

They should have heard the sound of rushing water, yet there was none. In that moment, Geira remembered how Gandalf had slipped away earlier, ignoring Dori’s questions and humming as he vanished. 

The answer to all her questioning dawned on her.

She watched as everyone followed Ori’s directions unquestioningly, under the watchful eye of the wizard, who was busy packing tobacco into his pipe. She picked up her cloak from the ground and placed it over Rosalie’s back, the pony nudging her cheek in gratitude.

“A little rest for you too, at last,” she whispered into Rosalie’s ear, receiving another gentle nudge in response.

As Geira passed Gandalf at the entrance to the narrow path, she gave him a knowing look.

“You had something to do with this, didn’t you?” she asked bluntly, a smile of amusement tugging at her lips.

The wizard widened his eyes in mock innocence. “Me, my dear? Absolutely not! Whatever gives you that idea?” he replied slyly, giving her a quick wink and clearing the path ahead of her with the tip of his staff.

“Thank you,” she nodded in appreciation.

The wizard didn’t reply, only widened the path further with an enigmatic smile.

Holding Rosalie’s reins, she made her way through the light brush, weaving between branches and broken tree trunks. Once she emerged, she had to take a deep breath, though opening her mouth wide was difficult. This was Gandalf’s handiwork. In her entire life, she had never seen anything in nature as perfect as this clearing. A small waterfall tumbled from a hill into the clearing, encircled by clusters of trees. A well-trodden path of smooth, round stones led to the river, across which a ford of large flat rocks led to pastures on the other side of the crystal-clear, almost transparent stream.

The entire company was already inside the clearing. Many had tossed their soiled clothes onto the short grass, leaving a trail leading to the water. They splashed about in the stream, laughing boisterously and pouncing on each other like children, though most were well past that age—far, far past it.

Others, mostly the older ones, sat on the rocks beside the river with their eyes closed, savouring the moment. A few who had not yet entered the water were busy undressing. Geira spotted only the black curls of a certain dwarf in the middle of the water and had to make a conscious effort not to let her eyes linger on him.

After freeing Rosalie, she settled on the riverbank and began removing her boots, placing them neatly beside her. She did the same with her sword, unfastening it carefully from her belt and setting it next to her after cleaning the blade lightly with her palm.

Next, she tackled the intricate laces criss-crossing her chest. With a sigh of relief, she finally managed to free herself, breathing deeply for the first time in what felt like an eternity after removing the infernal contraption. In moments like these, iron armour would have been a dream compared to the torture of  leather bodice.

“Geira?” her name was called hesitantly.

Distracted by her thoughts, her hands, which had been fiddling with the ties of her shirt collar, paused as she looked up.

Bilbo stood beside her, still fully dressed except for his pink jacket and blue waistcoat. His fingers fidgeted nervously, and he was deliberately avoiding her gaze, his eyes dramatically fixed skyward.

“Bilbo, is something wrong?” she asked, noting his reluctance to speak.

“W-what are you doing?” he stammered, refusing to meet her eyes.

“I’m undressing. I need to wash too, you know?” she said with a chuckle at his embarrassment.

“Yes, yes, of course, you need to wash,” he muttered in a deeper voice, “but… here? With us?” he asked, scratching his chin nervously.

Confused, she raised an eyebrow. “Of course, I’ll bathe here with you… where else would I do it?”

“But… but… don’t you see the… the problem?” he asked, glancing at the river and then quickly back at the company already splashing about, blissfully unaware of their conversation.

Geira couldn’t understand why she shouldn’t bathe there. “What problem?”

Bilbo’s face grew redder as he darted his gaze briefly to her chest before jerking it away again. Clearing his throat, he raised a hand to his mouth. “You know… you…” he gestured vaguely, pointing first at her and then at the dwarves in the water. “And them…”

“You mean… the fact that they might see me without clothes?” she asked, starting to grasp his point.

“Y-yes, that they might see you without clothes… others… I mean…” he stammered, gesturing wildly towards Fili and Kili, who had just launched themselves at Nori and Bofur with splashes and laughter, only to be thrown into the water amidst roaring guffaws.

“You’re worried the company might see me naked?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

“Exactly…” he confirmed, still refusing to look directly at her.

Geira had to resist laughing at the sight of his trembling hands. His naïveté stirred a deep sense of affection in her.

He truly knew nothing of the world, it was true. He knew even less about his companions.

She stood up abruptly, and even then, Bilbo refused to glance her way, despite her being fully clothed. Instead of reaching for his hand, she placed her own gently on his shoulder. He flinched at her touch, his wide green eyes finally meeting hers.

“Don’t worry, Bilbo,” she reassured him. “They’ve already seen me naked… more than once, actually,” she admitted, barely stifling a laugh as his eyes widened further in shock.

“What?!”

His startled exclamation only made her smile. “Most of them, at least. And I’ve seen them naked too.”

“How?!” he exclaimed again, gesticulating wildly.

Geira searched for a suitable explanation, or at least a half-truth, to avoid revealing too much. She wasn’t ready for Bilbo to know her past—not yet.

“When travelling like this, as we are now, we have to make compromises. One of them is deciding what we can and can’t do,” she began, gripping his arm gently. “For us, a body is just a body—nothing more. We don’t feel shame or embarrassment about it. It’s like… it’s like being clothed, in a way,” she explained in the simplest terms she could.

Bilbo’s expression shifted from embarrassment to curiosity. Tilting his head slightly, he squinted at her. “So, you’ve travelled with them before?”

Her jaw tightened, and she felt her breath catch. She had said too much, betrayed herself.

Nodding stiffly, she released Bilbo’s shoulder. “A long time ago. I travelled with… with some of them… a long time ago,” she murmured, her gaze drifting towards Dwalin, who was reclining among the water and stones, basking in the sunlight. Her eyes traced scars across his abdomen and chest and the thick muscles of his arms. She still remembered how he had gotten those scars. She had been there.

“So… what you did… what they hold against you… it happened while you were exiled…”

“If you like, Bilbo, I can move further away from you if it makes you uncomfortable to see me,” she interrupted with a smile, unwilling to continue the conversation, especially about those terrible days.

Bilbo pressed his lips together, then offered her a gentle smile. He had clearly realised this wasn’t a subject she wanted to discuss. She felt guilty, but she wasn’t ready—not yet, and perhaps she never would be.

Bilbo shook his head. “No, it’s not fair—I’ll turn around,” he muttered, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender before shrugging nervously.

“As you wish,” she murmured softly, more to herself than him. She quickly shed the remaining layers of her clothing—the trousers and her red shirt—placing them with the rest of the pile near the riverbank.

The moment she was naked, a slight chill sent goosebumps across her skin.

As the soles of her feet touched the smooth but firm pebbles, her face twisted into a grimace, though it softened the moment the cool, clear water enveloped her. A sigh of relief escaped her lips as she sank into the river up to her neck, tilting her head back to let the water soak into her hair.

She stayed like that for a while, basking in the sun’s warmth on her face and the river’s coolness, which eased her weary, aching muscles. The sunlight painted small spots on her closed eyelids while the water’s currents brushed softly against the scars on her arms and legs.

Dipping her head fully underwater, the sounds of the forest and joyful cries became muffled. She could hear only the faint hum of the riverbed as her breath slowed. When her lungs began to burn, she surfaced quickly, gasping and rubbing the water from her eyes, pushing her hair back from her face.

With a few strokes, she reached a rock in the middle of the river. She leaned against it, crossing her arms and resting her head atop them, exposing her back and letting the water soothe every fibre of her body.

She deserved a moment of peace.

For long minutes, she lay there, listening to the birdsong and the rustling of water, along with the distant chatter and laughter of the company. The droplets on her skin dried under the gentle warmth of the sun. It was so tranquil that she felt as though she had travelled back in time, wandering through forests as she had in the past. How many streams and rivers had offered her respite during her journeys, witnessed the same melancholic and wistful expression she wore now?

She couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Every time she opened an eye and glanced towards the company, no one seemed to be looking at her. Yet as soon as she closed her eyes again, that strange sensation returned.

“Geira?”

Bilbo’s uncertain voice made her open her eyes and turn to her left. The hobbit, still wearing his shirt and trousers, was swimming nearby, trying not to look directly at her.

“May I?” he asked, motioning towards a rock close to hers, clearly hesitant.

“Of course,” she said with a nod, inviting him to join her. Without hesitation, he settled onto the nearby rock, leaning back as she had, letting the cool water lap around him.

They sat in companionable silence, listening to the wind whistle through the trees, the river’s gentle flow between them, and the noisy chirping of birds. Her unease lessened, knowing Bilbo was nearby. It’s brief whistle further eased her spirit, calming the storm within her.

“What does the tattoo on your back mean—the two ravens?” he asked suddenly. A terrible pang struck her chest as she straightened in the water, placing a protective hand on her scarred shoulder.

“Why do you ask?” she whispered, her fingers brushing the outline of the bird’s wing.

“They were talking about it earlier,” he explained cautiously, gesturing vaguely behind her. “I’d tried to approach the others, making my way through the chaos, and as I got closer, I overheard them mentioning your tattoo. It seemed important to them, so I wondered…”

“Thorin?” she interrupted, gritting her teeth as pain stabbed through her chest.

Bilbo nodded silently, staring at the water lapping his stomach. “Fili and Kili were asking questions… then he and Balin…”

Geira’s gaze drifted to Thorin, seated on the opposite riverbank, talking with Balin. The older dwarf’s eyes were fixed on his king, but for a moment, she swore Thorin glanced her way. She could only see his broad back, yet it was enough. That back, sculpted like pure marble, bore scars and a tattoo she knew by heart. His tattoo was similar to hers—a single raven, crowned.

Old anger stirred within her chest, and the more her fingers touched the permanent mark on her back, the more it begged her to unleash her wrath. But she restrained herself; she had to. She had promised.

Enough of the past—her last confrontation with Thorin had been enough.

She dropped her hand from her shoulder, crossing her arms over her chest and lowering her gaze. Rising from the water, she headed for the shore.

“It means nothing, Bilbo,” she said hastily, grabbing her clothes from where they lay near the river. She clutched them to her chest, determined to wash them and rid herself of these intrusive thoughts.

“From the way they spoke, it didn’t seem like nothing,” Bilbo countered softly.

She must have shown too much vulnerability, even to Bilbo.

Trying again, she spoke firmly, as if issuing a warning. “Please, Bilbo, it truly means nothing…” She hesitated. “Please, let it go.”

Bilbo didn’t respond further. She only heard him sigh as he let the matter drop. Perhaps he had realised the situation was far more complex than he had anticipated.

In silence, she scrubbed her clothes in the river, washing away the dirt, as though trying to cleanse her mind of negative thoughts. Soon, she would do the same for her sword.

“For what it’s worth,” Bilbo said after a long pause, shaking his head as if banishing unwanted thoughts, “I… well, I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened to you, but whatever it was—if it’s any comfort—I think Thorin or anyone you might have wronged will forgive you, in time.”

“And what if I don’t want to be forgiven? Or if it’s I who must forgive?” she snapped, scrubbing the last layer of mud from her trousers and leaving Bilbo no time to reply.

Yet, as before, she immediately regretted her outburst. Her emotions would be her undoing.

With a heavy sigh, she lowered her gaze to the water, brushing her fingers over the intricate metal bracelet always fastened to her wrist. “You don’t know dwarves. You don’t know Thorin.”

“And you…?”

A faint smile graced her lips as her fingers traced the delicate craftsmanship of the bracelet. Its links were as light and strong as dragon scales, precious enough to construct a palace.

“I thought I knew him, a long time ago… a very long time ago,” she murmured, her voice fading.

“What happened between you two? I mean… before… before the exile?”

“There are events that leave a deep mark on you. The coming of Smaug was no different. It changed us—both him and me,” she said, pausing to take a steadying breath. “He used to smile more,” she murmured, a painful ache tightening her chest as she fought back a tear she had sworn never to shed again.

She heard Bilbo inhale, preparing to ask another question, but before he could speak, the voices of the company rose. Many of them began emerging from the river, signalling to both that it was time to move on.

Geira left the water quickly, eager to put distance between herself and the emotions Bilbo had stirred within her. Gathering her dry clothes in her arms, she left the wet ones near the sacks and sheathed her sword. With brisk steps, she walked towards the forest.

The grass brushed against her toes, the leaves of low-hanging trees grazed her skin, and the approaching sunset warmed her gently. Its rays dried the tips of her short hair, curling them slightly at the ends.

The grove grew denser, with oaks and shrubs increasing with every step she took, as did the silence enveloping her.

She was retreating again, needing those few minutes of privacy only a cluster of trees could provide. She didn’t want to see anyone’s face—not for a while.

She stopped after a short distance, unwilling to wander too far and risk making them search for her.

Scanning her surroundings for any uninvited visitors, she eventually felt assured of her solitude, though not entirely at ease. With a huff, she draped her clean clothes over a curved branch and began dressing quickly, piece by piece.

She secured her trousers, covering the two rune-like stripes tattooed on her thighs, and slipped on her white shirt, hiding the tattoo on her back and ensuring no one—not even herself—could see it again.

Tense as a bowstring, she reached blindly for the leather corset on the branch, but as she grasped it, her wrist caught on two small twigs.

Geira tugged her hand free, but the green wood didn’t break immediately. She was forced to look at it again, and her gaze fell on the bracelet of pale metal glimmering like moonlight in the waning sun’s rays.

Until the last breath.

“No, no, no, no!” she muttered aloud, yanking herself free and looking away immediately. “Let it rot! Let it all rot, him and everything else!” she growled, fumbling with the clasp that kept the cursed thing secured to her wrist.

She wanted to throw it away right then and there, in the middle of nowhere. She didn’t even want to sell it—she just wanted it gone, never to be seen again. She didn’t want it near her or on her, didn’t want to see it anymore. It was the last reminder of what she had been—not for Erebor, not for herself, but for him. What he had once meant to her.

Her hands began to tremble, her breath came in uneven gasps, and her throat tightened, making even breathing painful.

She tried to remove the bracelet, but the more she pulled at its clasp, the more the indestructible metal seemed to cling to her arm like a vice. Gritting her teeth, she grabbed at it, yanking it with such force that it hurt, but it refused to move.

With a despairing groan, she gave up, slumping against the branch in front of her, resting her elbows on it and burying her face in her hands.

Tears threatened to fall again, but she forced them back, clenching her eyes shut. She couldn’t keep reacting this way—she had to be strong, as she had always been taught, as she always had to be.

She needed to be like she was in battle—unfeeling, unemotional. Even now, she had to remain hard, unable to cry any longer.

Blowing out a sharp breath, she ran a trembling hand through her damp, tangled hair. Suddenly, a rustling sound different from the others made her ears perk up. Something had stepped on fallen leaves.

She straightened immediately, her senses on alert, scanning the area for the source of the noise. She knew exactly what it was.

“Go away, Bilbo,” she said wearily, rubbing her temples with the tips of her fingers. “I’m not in the mood to talk.”

Her head throbbed as though a hammer was repeatedly striking it, adding to the exhaustion weighing on her body.

“You still have the habit of making assumptions without first being certain, lass,” came a rasping voice, making her lift her head from her hands. “You’ve always been so impulsive.”

At the sound of that voice, Geira hastily pushed the bracelet back under her shirt sleeve.

“Some habits are hard to break, Balin, and flaws are even worse,” she replied coldly, not even turning to face the older dwarf.

Hearing his voice alone made her skin crawl. Looking at him would only worsen the turmoil within her. Instead, she continued dressing, grabbing the corset she hadn’t managed to don earlier and wrapping it around her shoulders and waist.

“I’m sorry. I never intended for this particular trait of yours to be considered a flaw,” he said calmly.

“It’s always been treated as one, though, if I remember correctly,” she retorted acidly, fastening the straps around her waist. For days, he hadn’t given her so much as a glance, and now he wanted to talk as though nothing had happened, as though the years between them didn’t exist. As though everything that had transpired was a fleeting memory. And he wanted to talk about her faults.

He had no right. He could go back to scheming with his king.

The older dwarf chuckled softly. “Not when it came to taking charge. You’ve always been the most capable in that regard. It’s one of the reasons you were always the best.”

“It was only training,” she interrupted tersely.

“I didn’t mean the best at fighting—I meant the best overall…”

Geira stayed silent, hoping in vain that time had made Balin less intrusive, that he would leave her alone without trying to twist the situation to his advantage, as he always had.

He was, after all, a politician. He had always been one. She remembered when he would visit her home with her father, sitting in his study for hours, filling out documents and preparing speeches for the king. She didn’t want to be yet another page for him to analyse.

“Why are you here, Balin?” she asked bluntly as she finished fastening her corset. “If you wanted me to hurry up, you could have just left. I would have caught up in a few minutes.”

“I came to apologise for what my brother said to you a few days ago. It wasn’t fair of him, and I wanted to thank you for what you did today.”

A bitter laugh escaped her lips.

“Dwalin does what he wants when he wants, as he always has. Your apology, like his, isn’t necessary. And your gratitude isn’t either. I did what needed to be done to ensure everyone survived,” she explained, kneeling to pull on her boots and avoid letting the situation spiral further. “I can handle things on my own without anyone’s thanks.”

The older dwarf sighed, remaining silent for a few moments. “I know, I know, and so do the others…” He paused, taking a heavy breath. “Even Thorin. Though he’ll never admit it, he knows.”

At the mention of that name, she felt her back burn as though the tattoo beneath her shirt flared to life. Her eyes itched to glance at her wrist where the bracelet lay hidden.

“I don’t care what he knows or doesn’t know. He has nothing to do with my decisions anymore. I do what’s right, not under his orders—and certainly not for him!” she snapped, nearly growling as she bent to tighten the straps on her boots.

Balin took a small step forward. Instinctively, she stepped back, clenching her teeth.

“You’ve taken the hobbit under your wing. For that, I think a thank-you from all of us is warranted. He wasn’t quite the companion we’d expected,” Balin continued, his tone measured.

“I don’t want your gratitude, Balin. I don’t want gratitude from any of you!” she shot back sharply. “Bilbo deserves the same chance to survive as the rest of us. He deserves it. He was thrown out the door with nothing but a push and nothing to guide him, without so much as a clue how to cross the threshold.”

Balin remained quiet, offering no reply. The birdsong filled the silence, and she had no intention of adding to her earlier words. She had told him what he needed to know.

She secured the leather strap around her calf, then repeated the motion with the other, waiting for Balin to leave.

“Your father… where is he?”

Her hands trembled, and she kept her gaze firmly fixed on the ground, clenching her fingers with all her strength.

“He’s dead. A hundred years ago, near the banks of the Adorn,” she murmured, her voice as controlled as she could make it, stripped of all emotion. “He’s buried there, at the base of the highest hill I could find,” she added, recalling the small cairn she had built with her bare hands and the runes she had carved in mere hours. “The closest thing to a mountain for miles,” she muttered to herself, rising to her feet despite the sharp ache in her chest.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“No, you’re not sorry, Balin. So don’t waste your breath on these empty platitudes,” she snapped, her voice low but cold. “My father died in exile, and his grave is in exile. Nothing can change that—not your sorrow!” she spat, glaring directly into his eyes.

“What happened, Geira,” Balin began cautiously, “what happened to you… it wasn’t an easy decision for anyone to accept—or to make, for that matter. On either side.”

“Don’t speak as though you opposed it, Balin. No one did. No one said a word that day!” she shouted, stepping closer and jabbing a finger at his chest. “We were cast out like wild animals, forbidden from speaking to any of our kind for the rest of our lives! Everything was taken from us!”

Her voice rang out, echoing through the small grove. The fury she had suppressed for years finally poured out.

He had been there—Balin, like so many others, had watched silently as Thorin, Thráin, and Thrór had exiled her and her father. They had seen, they had heard her pleas, and yet no one had done anything then, nor in the 120 years that followed.

Balin’s lips quivered beneath his white beard, his face clouded with sorrow. “No one could have said anything in the face of such a verdict. It wasn’t easy, Geira—not for anyone,” he said softly, emphasising the word anyone to make his meaning clear.

“It wasn’t easy?” she shouted again, her voice raw, almost breaking into tears she refused to let fall. “For whom? It didn’t seem hard for him—or for anyone in this company!”

A shadow passed over Balin’s eyes, and his expression darkened.

“It was a very difficult time, Geira,” he murmured, lowering his gaze.

He couldn’t even look at her.

“... far too difficult.”

A bitter laugh escaped her lips, laced with pain and words left unsaid. It was laughable, how Balin still believed Thorin might have cared, might have suffered for her, when he had been the one to order her banishment.

With a wry smile tugging at her mouth, she stepped closer to Balin, her eyes gleaming with unshed tears. “Look me in the eye and tell me you think I’m not a traitor. That I didn’t deserve what happened to me—or what my father endured. Tell me he doesn’t think the same.”

“That day was terrible, and the years leading up to Smaug’s arrival were even worse. What happened to you is…”

“Answer the question!” she hissed, her voice as cold as ice. “Look me in the eye and tell me, Balin!” she then shouted, her voice erupting with all the strength she could muster.

Balin flinched at her outburst but continued to gaze at her with sorrow, his mouth slightly open as if ready to respond. Yet no words came. His eyes met hers, searching her soul, but he could not offer the answer she already knew.

“See? Your apologies, your regrets—they’re meaningless to me, just like all the other lies,” she whispered icily.

Without waiting for a reply, she brushed past him, leaving the old dwarf and all her anger and pain behind her. She headed back to the others—and inevitably towards the source of her suffering.

------------------------------- TAG LIST: @mrsdurin

[middleearthpixie]

I'll See You in My Dreams ~ Chapter Four

Summary: Noelle James knows soul mates exist, the trouble is, she just can’t seem to find hers. Especially since hers seemed to have existed only in the world of cinema and The Hobbit movies. No one believes she actually spent time in Tolkien’s Middle Earth and even fewer believe Thorin Oakenshield existed in her world, either. 

So when she finds herself unexpectedly alone on yet another Christmas, she has no way of knowing exactly what the universe has in store for her this time.The trouble is, this man claiming to be Thorin can’t possibly be him, for he died at the hands of Azog the Defiler at Ravenhill. She saw him die with her own eyes.

So, it can’t be him.

Or can it?

Pairing: Thorin x ofc Noelle James

Warnings: None

Rating: T

Word Count: 3.4k

Read on AO3

Noelle set her keys in the crystal bowl and closed the door behind her with her free hand. Thorin strode into the living room, where he set the Orcrist down on the coffee table, just as he’d done the last time he was in her apartment. 

She couldn't help but smile as he shrugged out of his coat, tossed it haphazardly over the arm of the sofa, then moved to the windows across from the sofa, the windows that offered up such an amazing view of New York City. He apparently hadn’t lost his fascination with the view from said windows, as he stood before them, hands clasped behind his back, and just peered out at the world like a king surveying his domain.

Of course, he was a king. This just wasn't exactly his domain.

A king. 

He certainly had the bearing of a king, as he stood there, reflected in the glass. She had a small artificial Christmas tree on the table in the corner, its twinkling lights highlighting his features, dancing along the tangle of black curls the spilled halfway down his broad back. Even if she didn't know he was a king, she would have guessed he was a man of importance, just by that bearing alone. 

“So little has changed since I was last here,” he remarked without looking over his shoulder.

“No, it probably hasn’t.” She hung her coat on the rack mounted to the wall just inside the door, then joined him, trying to see her world through his eyes. Impossible. She’d been born and raised in this world. There was nothing new or unusual as far as she was concerned. The styles of cars down below may have changed, buildings might have been built or torn down, neighborhoods went to slum, were gentrified, or remained the playground of the wealthy, but overall, New York City itself never changed. 

She peered over at him. “Has your world changed?”

“Since Ravenhill?” He nodded. “Very much so. Esgaroth is now completely rebuilt and Dale is once more a great and bustling center of trade as well. Erebor is almost finished in its rebirth. But…”

A low sigh leaked through his lips and she waited for him to finish his thought. When he remained silent, she prompted, “But what?”’

“Clouds of war continue to gather across the whole of Middle Earth,” he replied without turning away from the window. “Azog is dead, but another has taken his place and the orcs grow more powerful with each year.”

“So, do you think they will try to conquer all of Middle Earth?”

“I do, yes.”

He said it softly, with no little finality in his voice. Noelle turned to him. “So, maybe we need to go back to Turtle Pond? Or do you think that’s why you’re here? Like last time, when I was supposed to keep you from getting run through, only I screwed it up. Am I supposed to watch Lord of the Rings to maybe figure it out?”

“Who is the Lord of the Rings?”

“You know, the One Ring? Bilbo found it in Goblintown and carried it all the way through the Battle of the Five Armies. It’s how—how he got to Ravenhill so fast…” She pursed her lips briefly, then added, “At least, that’s how your people think it happened. Since I was erased from your world.”

Thorin rubbed his forehead with one hand. “It’s far too difficult to keep up with everything. I couldn't tell you how you and Bilbo came to be up there. I just know you were there.”

“We fought our way up there, believe it or not.” Noelle managed a smile. “I was the most inept fighter in the world, but I managed to not get killed. All I managed to do was not remember how to keep you from being run through until it was too late.”

“Noelle, it wasn't your fault. It had to happen that way. I know that, even if I don't entirely understand why no one remembers you were there. Master Baggins said nothing about a ring.”

“No one remembers because they couldn’t. Because that’s not how Tolkien’s story was written or how the movie’s plot unfolded, and there’d be a hell of a lot of really confused fanboys out there, if all of the sudden, ten, fifteen years after those movies came out, the story somehow changed.

“As for Bilbo not saying anything, I don't know why he kept quiet about it, other than he just didn't want anyone to know, which is reason enough, I guess. Unfortunately, none of that even offers up a hint as to why you’re here to begin with.”

“It doesn’t, no,” he admitted, and this time, he did turn toward her. “I just know that for some reason, I was brought here again. And this time, it had nothing to do with the waters in Mirkwood, for I was in Erebor when suddenly I was here.”

“Really?”

“I was taking in a bit of air when it happened. So, I imagine I’m supposed to be here for some reason.” He reached out to curve his hand against her cheek. “I know not what that reason is just yet. But, I do know I’ve missed you.”

As he spoke, he swept his thumb along her cheek, leaving a swath of tingles in his wake. Still, she smiled as she shook her head. “Why do I think you haven’t even thought about me these last three years?”

“Has it been that long?”

That quelled the tingles even as she nodded. “Yeah. It’s been that long. At least, here it has been. I don’t know, maybe time is different on your side of the wormhole.”

The moment lost, she drew back, turning to go into the small kitchen. “I’m going to pour a glass of wine. Want one?”

“Have I said something I shouldn’t?”

A hint of confusion wove through his words, one she tried to ignore as she tugged open her refrigerator door to grab the bottle of chardonnay. She certainly couldn’t tell him that his answer wasn't quite what she’d expected, but she also couldn’t tell him that she’d wanted to hear him say she was wrong, that of course he pined for her. Just as she’d pined for him.

No. She frowned as she tugged the stopper from the bottle and reached for the glass on the sideboard. That wasn't right. She didn't pine for him. She’d mourned him and that was completely different.

“Noelle?”

She peered over her shoulder to see him in the doorway, his brow furrowed and his expression troubled. “What?”

“Did I say the wrong thing?”

“No. I just—I have to remember that our experiences are pretty different.” She filled the glass about two-thirds of the way, then lifted it to her lips. “You thought I went home and I thought you were dead.”

“And you’re angry because I’m not?”

“What? No, of course not!” The wine was smooth and buttery and one of her favorites, but she only barely tasted it as she lowered the glass once more. “But…” 

“But what?”

“What happened after I left?”

“I told you,” he came into the kitchen, stepping around her to sink into one of the two chairs at the small round table tucked into the far corner of the long, narrow room, “I awoke in the infirmary in Erebor and when I asked about you, no one had any inkling as to who I was talking about. I’d say your name and the response was always the same. Who? There was no one here called Noelle.”

“It was as if I’d never existed, wasn't it?” Although she expected it, his nod sank her spirits some just the same. “Fíli, Bilbo, Bofur… not a one of them remembered me, did they?”

Thorin hesitated, then slowly shook his head. “I stopped asking about you, for anytime I did ask, the person I’d asked looked at me as if I’d gone mad. I thought they would become convinced I’d fallen into the dragon sickness once more.”

“The same thing happened here after you left when we were in Central Park. No one remembered you. Any picture I had of you, your face was impossible to see. Anything I had that you’d written was blank once more. The only thing that remained was your ring that you gave me in the cab.”

His forehead furrowed. “Ring?”

“You wore it on this finger.” She tapped his left middle finger. “You gave it to me on our way to see Ian to ask him about the wormholes. Hold on one sec.”

She set down her glass, then moved around him to go into her bedroom, where she pulled the heavy, but now cool and silent ring from its slot in the bottom drawer of her jewelry box. When she returned to the kitchen, he was right where she’d left him, in his chair, still looking as if he was trying to figure out a particularly nonsensical mathematical equation. 

Without preamble, she caught his left wrist and turned his hand palm up, then dropped the ring into it, where it no longer looked so comically huge. In his hand, it looked normal size, and he stared down at it. “You kept it?”

“Obviously.”

He looked up at her. “No, I mean, why?”

It was her turn to look at him as if he’d gone nuts. “Thorin, I was in love with you. And I thought I’d lost you forever. It was all I had left of you. Why wouldn’t I keep it?”

He turned his attention back to the ring, turning it over as if fascinated by the way it glinted in the low light offered up by the light above the window, which was itself above the sink. “And now?”

“What do you mean, and now?” 

He looked up, his fingers closing about the ring he held. “You said you were in love with me. Meaning that you no longer are?”

She didn't answer him right away, but instead reached for her wineglass to give her something to do as she tried to make sense of her own jumbled thoughts. “Thorin, I thought you were dead. People don't come back from the dead.”

“I wasn't dead, though.”

“But I didn't know that.” She studied the pale gold Chardonnay remaining her glass as if she’d never seen it before. “I was a wreck after Ravenhill, Thorin. And I couldn’t tell anyone because I knew from when you’d left here that no one remembered you. They’d have all thought I’d gone bonkers if I started telling people I’d been at that battle, that I’d been with you in Mirkwood, at the armory. That I was close enough to actual orcs to smell them.”

At his curious stare, she sighed softly. “Crazy, Thorin. They all would have thought I was crazy.”

“So what did you do?”

“I went home.” She drained the wine, then set the glass down before coming over to sink into the empty chair. “I went home to New Jersey and told my mother about this fictional man who had sacrificed himself to save his people and that I had fallen in love with him in the process. She humored me because that’s what moms do, but I think she would’ve wanted me to see a shrink, but then I ran away.”

“A shrink?”

“A head doctor. For people who are bonkers.”

He nodded. “And did you?”

“No. I knew I wasn't nuts. I knew it had really happened, no matter how impossible it might seem.” She traced her forefinger around the wineglass’ rim. She had to tell him about Rich. “Instead, I decided to run further than Jersey, so I ran away to the UK. England, mostly. I’d planned to do Scotland and Wales, but my plans… changed.”

“Why?”

“Because I needed a change of scenery.”

“No, I mean, why did your plans change?”

And there was her cue. Her heart beat faster now, sending her pulse thundering through her temples with enough force, she had to fight back a wince. It wasn't easy, but she met his blue eyes. “I met someone on the flight out of Kennedy. He had the seat next to mine and we just started talking and—”

“You chose to stay with him instead?”

His voice held no emotion and his eyes remained tranquil, and she wasn't sure if she was relieved about that or not. “Yes and no. He’s from London, so he showed me around and since he was raised in England, he offered to show me far more than simply London. So I spent the two weeks I’d planned on using to tour the whole UK to see England alone instead.”

“And did you enjoy your time with him?”

Pressing her lips together, Noelle nodded slowly. “I did. He made me smile again and little by little, pulled me out of the darkness. He made me happy and I desperately needed to feel that again.”

Thorin bobbed his head. “Good. I wouldn’t want you to mourn me, Noelle.”

“What about you? Three years is a long time, surely you moved on as well.”

Another nod, only this one more forceful than the last. “I did.”

Although she’d expected this, and she certainly couldn’t grow angry at him for doing exactly as she’d done, hearing it still stung to a certain degree. However, she forced herself to smile. “Did you? Good. So, does that mean Erebor has a—a queen?”

He held her gaze for so long, a hint of concern fluttering through his eyes, that she braced herself to hear an affirmative answer. 

However, he shook his head slowly. “No. There isn’t. I thought there might be, but then…”

His voice trailed off and he suddenly seemed very fascinated by the woodgrain pattern in the small table between them. “I began feeling as if something was wrong, as if I wasn't where I supposed to be. As if I—”

“Was with the wrong person?”

He looked up, a hint of surprise lighting in his eyes. “How did you know?”

“Because I felt it as well. And that was before the dreams.”

His brows almost met, he knit them so tightly. “You had strange dreams?”

She nodded. “I dreamed about Ravenhill, and I had your hand against my face and I felt—”

“I touched your cheek.”

Somehow, his words didn't surprise her. Instead, she smiled and nodded. “You touched my cheek. And I’d wake up and expect you to be there beside me.”

“But it was another instead.”

“It was another instead.” She drew in a deep breath, bracing herself once more as she asked, “Was there another beside you as well?”

He shook his head. “No.”

She couldn’t contain her surprise, her eyes going wide as she blurted, “Was there ever another woman beside you?”

He offered up a mild smile at her question. “Do you not recall what I told you about dwarves and intimacy?”

“That once you find your One, you remain faithful to them even in death.”

“Exactly. And I think that is partly why I’ve not yet taken a wife.” 

“But you knew I wasn't coming back and as far as your world was concerned, I never existed. You could have slept with another woman.”

“I could have, I suppose. But I loved you.”

She didn't miss his use of the past tense either, and sighed softly. “So what do we do now? Am I supposed to help you get back home again? What?”

“I don't know.” He sat back in his chair, setting the silver ring on the table before him. “Tell me, are you still with the man you met on the plane?”

“Not anymore, no. We broke up a few weeks ago. And you?”

He hesitated and she knew what that meant. “Her name is Thalia. She’s—” 

“You don’t have to explain, Thorin. It’s okay. I get the picture.”

“The picture?” His forehead furrowed.

“I understand.” 

“Ah. I see.”

“And you’re still with her.” It wasn't a question. She knew the answer before the words even left her mouth. 

“I am.”

“Good. I’m glad you found someone who makes you happy. And it’s good if she’s really your One. It probably should be a girl dwarf, you know, especially with you being a dwarf yourself and all.” She pushed the chair away from the table and stood. “So, I guess then we see how we get you home, which probably isn’t going to be quite so easy this time around, since we both know how you got sent home the first time.”

A low chuckle bubbled to his lips and to her surprise, his eyes darkened slightly. “I do indeed remember.”

Heat shot through her as their eyes met and she slowly shook her head. “No, not this time, Thorin. I’m not a home wrecker.”

“A—”

“You’ve got a girlfriend, Thorin. I’m not sleeping with a guy who’s in a relationship. And since you’re with her, that means I wasn’t your One to begin with, no matter what you tried to tell yourself.”

“I’m not entirely sure of that, you know.”

“Well, I’m pretty sure of it. So, we should get some sleep—me in my bed and you on the sofa—and come tomorrow we can figure out just how else we might get you back to your girlfriend, who’s probably wondering where you’ve vanished to anyway.”

“Noelle, wait.”

He reached for her as he rose from his chair, but she shifted to move beyond his reach, almost darting out into the living room. She couldn't help it. She knew it was stupid and hypocritical and that she had no grounds whatsoever to be troubled by his confession. After all, she’d also been in a relationship since returning from Middle Earth. But the difference was, he was still with this faceless woman named Thalia. As far as she was concerned, that was a huge difference. 

Not only that, but it was a huge difference that hurt almost as much as losing him at Ravenhill had hurt. So no matter how she tried to tell herself she had no right to feel the way she did, it was pointless. She didn't listen to herself. 

Thorin came into the living room as she was making up the sofa for him. “Noelle, I—”

“You don't have to explain anything,” she told him, shaking her head as she set a folded quilt on the sofa arm. “Really. Life goes on, right? Mine did, too. So I really can’t be mad at you for realizing that I wasn't your One and I’m not mad at you for it. Promise.”

“You seem angry.”

“Nope.” She shook her head again. “I’m fine. And I’ll help you get home again. I just don't really know how. But, I’ll figure it out and I’ll send you home to your beautiful dwarf girl and you can live happily ever after. So, I should get some sleep, because I don't even know where to begin to figure this out, and honestly? I’m beat. It’s been a long day.”

Thorin reached for her hand, catching it before she could step away from him, and the moment they made contact, her heart leapt and heat swept through her. He linked his fingers with hers. “I don't know that I’m meant to go back.”

“Either way, we know that this can’t go any further than this.” She squeezed his hand for emphasis. “Because we know what happens if it does go further. So, either way, I lose and I’m really not strong enough to do that again.”

He slipped his hand from hers, his expression going serious. “I suppose you’ve got a point. Perhaps Science Man might help us?”

“I highly doubt it. But I can always ask him again.” She moved to the doorway between the living room and the short hallway leading to her bedroom. “Anyway, good night, Thorin. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Good night,” he replied softly as she padded toward her bedroom, adding an even softer, “amrâlimê.”

She froze. My love.

Damn it. In all the times she wished he’d return, or wished that she would wake up and find herself on the golden floor in Erebor’s Hall of Kings, lying in Thorin’s arms again, she never thought it would happen. And now that it had happened, there could be nothing between them on a physical level because she just wasn't strong enough to lose him again.

The trouble was, she wasn't strong enough to resist him, either.

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[linasofia]

A Shooting Star

Part 1 l Part 2 l Part 3 l Part 4 l Part 5 l Part 6 l Part 7

Fandom: The Hobbit

Relationship: Thorin Oakenshield x OC Vega

Summary: Lady Vega loves to sneak out to Erebor’s rampart to study the night sky, but one night, an unexpected visitor joins her. It is the beginning of a story whose end only the stars can tell.

Warnings: none

Special thanks to @lathalea & @legolasbadass for all your support and feedback. 💙⭐️

A small gush of wind met Vega, daughter of Vimar, as she climbed the many stairs to the rampart. Since she left her lantern by the wall, her only guidance was the moon. Thankfully, it was a clear night, and the pale light coming from the grand silver coin in the sky was enough to illuminate her path. As she silently entered the rampart, she felt the usual excitement tingling in her body. She knew she was not allowed to be there, but it was the best place for stargazing, if she did not count the mountain slope outside the gate, and it was worth the risk of being discovered. Without making a sound, she hurried to her secret spot, hidden behind a large block of stone—remains from a battle long before she came to live under the Mountain.

Vega rested her back against the rough wall and took out her book from the pocket in her skirt. She was grateful for choosing her warm stockings of finest mountain goat wool; the wind on the rampart was colder than she had expected. Her long winter shawl covered her upper body, and she pulled it tighter. She should have taken the heavy cloak instead, but it was too late to go back now. Besides, she had endured worse weather on the rampart. Vega opened the book carefully, found the most recent of her notes and peered up. Her trained eye easily located the stars of her people’s most important constellation; the magnificent Durin’s Crown. Every year, when a feast was held to celebrate Durin’s Day, the constellation could be seen right above the Mountain. Now, however, when the days were much shorter, it was set far to the west. She smiled. A handful more full moons, and then she would close the circle and be back at the first page in her notebook. She had stood on the rampart many nights and studied the constellations' quiet movements over the sky. It was a fascinating hobby, but not completely without danger. The rampart was high, and the darkness could be compact, at least when the new moon resembled a curved, thin chain of mithril. In addition, there was obviously always the risk of being discovered. Vega preferred not to tell anyone about her own private escapades. Especially not her father. In his eyes, she was still a young girl with little or no understanding of what was considered dangerous. The fact that she followed in her mother’s footsteps and refused to marry any of the lords she was presented to, out of duty, only fueled the old man's conviction that she did not understand what was best for her. Her mother, on the other hand, supported her strong will and constantly defended her daughter’s decision in public.

Vega grew up in the Blue Mountains, and as the daughter of a trusted construction advisor to the king, she lived what many would describe as a relatively comfortable life. Their home was always filled with her father’s construction drawings, books, and strange tools. During her first years, her father would not let her near his precious drawings, but as she grew older, he opened up another world to her, where the symbols, numbers and lines started to make sense. Vega believed it was her father’s work that laid the foundation for her interest in trying to understand things written or drawn by others long before her time. When she found an old map, she instantly tried to visualize the places, and eventually, she started to dream about adventures far beyond her people’s borders.

After King Thorin and his company had reclaimed Erebor, it did not take long before a messenger with the king’s summons reached the Blue Mountains. Vega’s father quickly answered the call and packed his most important belongings. Then, less than a year later, he arranged for his wife and daughter to make the same journey. She still remembered the excitement she felt as a young woman when their caravan set out toward their new home. Vega had heard many old tales about the great treasures of the Lonely Mountain, but also songs of unspeakable grief. She could not wait to see the great halls with her own eyes, and her mother repeatedly assured her it would be worth the long absence of her father. He had an important role to take on as the King of Carven Stone had returned to the Mountain. That was now many years ago, and Vega had grown, both in body and mind, since then.

Suddenly, the sound of heavy boots reached her ears. She drew nearer to the large stone and hid in its shadow. Her heart was banging in her chest, and her throat tightened, making it hard to breathe, as if she was deep down in the dusty coal mine under the Blue Mountains—a place restricted to the strongest miners among her people. Was this the night she finally was to be discovered? A tall shadow appeared on the stone floor in front of her, but she could not see the dwarf for the massive block of granite. She waited, desperately trying not to make any sound, as the shadow slowly moved closer. Then a broad figure walked right by her and stopped only a few arm’s lengths away. The pale light of the moon fell upon the male, and it made the rich fur on his cloak shimmer. It reminded her of a tale she once heard; about a rare fox who changes color—from almost black to white—when the first snow falls. From behind, the cloak in front of her looked vaguely familiar. In the darkness, all things appear to be grey, but Vega instinctively knew she had seen that cloak before. Admired it, even. The man searched his pockets and pulled out a long, thin item. A small flash of light tore the darkness apart, and when he turned his face to shield his pipe from the wind as he lit it, Vega stared—horrified—at the dwarf’s regal profile. The tobacco glowed as he inhaled loudly, and then a thin cloud of white smoke seeped from his nostrils. The dark, pleased hum that followed made something stir in her lower body, and Vega let out an involuntary gasp. The king instantly turned his head towards the dark corner, and her heart almost stopped. With a hand over her mouth, she held her breath.

“Who’s there? Step out of the shadow!” the king demanded, his voice raised, but not to its full capacity.

Vega took a deep breath and forced her feet to obey. When she stepped out from her hiding place, the moon appeared to be brighter, and she gracefully curtsied as the ruler of Erebor’s piercing stare met hers. The look on his face shifted from annoyance to surprise.

“Good evening, My King.”

“My Lady, I did not expect to meet anyone here. What in Mahal’s name brings you to this dark place?”

Vega hid her book behind her back. “I’m simply looking at the view.” She tried to control the tremble in her voice, but the rush of adrenaline made it impossible.

“The view?” The king looked over the edge of the rampart. He could see lights from the city of Dale, but other than that, the night offered nothing spectacular.

“Surely you must struggle to see anything interesting at all.”

Vega gazed up with a broad smile. “Not that view. This!” She pointed above their heads, where countless stars silently stared back at them.

Silence fell heavily between them. Thorin smoked his pipe while searching his memory for constellations he learned long ago, when he was a much younger dwarf. He could only remember a few of them. Back then, Frerin was much more interested in these stars and always waited patiently for his older brother to locate Durin’s Crown. Thorin’s heart ached at the memory. His brother’s death had removed the joy from so many activities, stargazing was only one of them.

He glanced at the lady standing beside him, her chin lifted and her eyes fixed on the sky. She seemed lost in her thoughts, and the smile still lingered on her lips. Her dark hair was braided in a beautiful pattern—the style popular among the women from the Blue Mountains—and then he spotted a bead with her family's name. He smiled. When he first saw her, he was unsure who she was, but as he looked closer, he could clearly see the resemblance. She was truly her father’s daughter, but beautiful and with a disarming smile.

”Is Lord Vimar aware of your late visit to the rampart?” He could hear her surprised gulp, and she quickly turned her focus on him instead. She had not realized he recognized her, and Thorin met her startled gaze with a calm smile. ”Do not worry, My Lady, your secret is safe with me.”

”Thank you, My King.” She smiled back, a sweet and slightly mischievous smile. ”No, my father would probably lock the door to my chamber if he ever found out what I was doing during the nights.”

”Nights? Are you telling me that I could have had the pleasure of meeting you here on other nights previous to this one?”

Vega wanted to smack herself. Why did her mouth speak too much as soon as the king rested his captivating azure gaze on her?

”I…” she did not know how to continue. How could she explain the thrill and the longing to do something forbidden? What it felt like to slip out in the cover of darkness and just be alone with her dreams and imagination. ”I’m afraid that is the truth,” she then admitted.

”Did you bring a book to read in the dark as well? Your eyes must be much better than mine.” The king sounded almost amused when he spotted the leather-bound piece in her hand, and Vega instantly pressed it against her chest.

”It contains only a few hasty notes I made for myself to read, together with drawings of constellations I have seen. It is nothing of importance.” Vega tried to gain control of her own words; she always spoke too much when she was nervous.

”Would you allow me to see it? I am certain your handwriting is neat and a pleasure to read.”

Her heart hammered again, just as it did when she was hiding, but this time it was not from fear. Was the King of the Longbeards really interested in the stars, or was he only being polite? She searched his face for the truth but found only honesty in his eyes. For a short while, she allowed herself to admire his prominent nose and full beard before she remembered she had no right to gaze upon her king like that.

”My King,” she hesitated, but was tempted to share her findings, if only to make him stay a little longer. Never before had she spoken to someone with such powerful charisma, and he made her very curious. ”It is nothing like the maps in the Royal Library of Erebor,” she then heard herself say. ”But I will be honored to show it to you.” Her hands trembled slightly as she opened the book, but when she tried to offer it to him, he took a step closer.

”Please, My Lady, explain it to me.”

Vega had to take a few deep breaths before she mustered enough calmness to explain her notes. When she spoke, the king listened intently, but every time he pointed at one of her drawings of Durin’s Crown, she couldn’t stop herself from staring at the heavy rings adorning his thick fingers. He had the hands of a warrior—large and calloused—but something in the way he let his fingertips glide over her stained papers told her those hands could do more than just harm.

The notes were indeed created for her eyes only, but after the initial insecurity, Vega found herself growing bolder in the king’s presence. As he leaned a little closer to her, no doubt to see better, a faint hint of pine and leather caught her senses, and it made her head spin, just like the strong tobacco she once was persuaded to try. She promised herself after that single time, to never smoke anything equally strong again. But she wouldn’t mind feeling this type of warm dizziness again. Then Vega shook her head to clear her mind. Who knew the alluring scent of the mightiest of all dwarves alive could evoke such delusional ideas.

”Considering all constellations, which one do you find most mesmerizing?” His question came unexpectedly, spoken in a much lower voice than before. It felt very personal, and Vega shivered. She knew what he probably was expecting from her, but eventually, she decided to answer honestly.

”Of all the constellations and the tales told, I must say I have two favorites, next to Durin’s Crown, of course.” She smiled warmly when a thick black eyebrow rose in surprise. ”The first one is The Hammer.” Vega pointed to the east, where nine stars proudly formed a large hammer.

Thorin nodded, remembering the constellation from Frerin’s rare attempts to actually teach him something useful. He was not sure about the tale; Frerin sometimes changed the story, only so he later could claim that Thorin remembered it wrong.

”And the second?” he asked, gently holding the unusual emerald gaze of the lady beside him. Thorin found her truly fascinating, and the way her voice enchanted him, as she spoke passionately about the stars, made him wish she was a member of his council instead of her elderly father. The endless discussions would be much more bearable if she was.

”The second one cannot be seen now. You will have to wait until spring before you can spot Raven’s Nest in the east.”

”Is it easy to find?”

”If you know what to look for, I supposeit’s easy. It’s one of the smallest constellations I know of, but I love the tale.”

Thorin smiled. He wanted to question her about the tale, just so she would keep talking, but he realized he could not ask her to stay on the rampart all night. The icy wind was growing in strength and the hour was late. He had gone to the rampart for the possibility of clearing his mind after a long evening session with the council. Instead, he had stumbled right onto Lord Vimar’s daughter’s secret stargazing spot. He had completely forgotten his manners and did not introduce himself properly. And what was even worse—he had no name on the lady in question.

”My Lady, even if your father sometimes speaks of his family, I do not think I have ever heard your name. May I ask for it?” His words were soft, and less formal than their initial conversation.

Vega stared at the king. Had he just showed interest in knowing her name? She could not understand why, but she had no intention of denying her king. The unexpected warmth in his eyes made her weak. His raven hair rested against the fur of his cloak but as he turned his head, the wind caught strands of it and blew life into the dark locks. She briefly wondered if his hair was as soft as it looked.

”Vega,” she almost whispered, her voice suddenly failing her as a result of her improper thought.

”Lady Vega, you have been most kind and shared your private notes. I thank you for that. But I’m afraid I need to ask you to return to the warmth of your chamber, before you get too cold.”

”Of course.” She averted her gaze, afraid he would see the disappointment in her eyes. The most exciting moment in a very long time would soon be over, and Vega pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. She could do nothing to stretch their chance meeting further.

”I bid you a good night then.” He gave her a short nod.

”Good night,” she echoed as she made a poor attempt to curtsy. Her knees wouldn’t cooperate. Thankfully, King Thorin didn’t seem to notice, or care. All he did was grace her with another warm smile.

”And Lady Vega, do not hide in the shadows next time. I might mistake you for an intruder.”

She mustered one last smile in return. Then she watched him disappear from her—no longer—secret spot on the rampart. His cloak's movement as he rounded the corner was the last thing she saw of him. Vega took a deep breath and the cold air in her lungs made her cough. The king was right; she really should get back home. As she climbed down the stairs and found her lantern at the same place as she left it, she couldn’t stop thinking of his last words to her. Next time. Would there really be a next time?

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[loupsgarou]

i might’ve done a thing (to paraphrase bow wow wow shh 🤐)

… Bryn heard him coming and hastily delved a hand into her satchel to find a thicker maroon tunic with success.

Throwing it on and pulling her arms through the sleeves, taking heart in the fact that it had remained dry, she stepped out from her corner to fasten the belt at her waist and grumbled under her breath as the coldness made her hands feel like ice. Hearing him clear his throat, she looked up from dealing with her buckle to meet his blue gaze and raise a questioning brow at the half-expectant look he adopted.

Cocking a thick brow in return, silently asking if she needed help, Thorin barely hid a brief smirk when Bryn’s shoulders slumped and she nodded a bit in compliance. Stepping closer, he took the offered bronze buckle and helped her fasten the black belt at her waist.

Willing the fresh warmth coloring her cheeks to leave at having him in her proximity again, Bryn started to thank him for his aid when Thorin took her hands—which were nothing short of icicles at this point—in his own to warm them up. Her initial reticence at his gesture dissipated as the seconds ticked between them, and she mumbled, “thank you, again.”

“Thank you, as well, for not arguing over this,” Thorin remarked in the same quiet tone, choosing to look down at their hands, noting to himself that her fingers were otherwise-delicate, and fit near-perfectly in his grip, despite her expertise with knives and arrows.

[legolasbadass]

Italian Holiday, Part IV

Summary: A few weeks before Richard leaves for Boston, he and Lorelei go on holiday in Italy to make the most of the summer and the time they have left together.

This story takes between the penultimate and last chapter of Office Hours and contains major spoilers for that story, so make sure you read it first!

Relationship: Richard Armitage x OC (Professor AU)

Word Count: 1.1K

Rating: T

“I didn’t realize you could actually speak Italian,” Richard says as we step out of the gelateria. Despite the late hour and the sea-salted breeze that weaves through the narrow street, it is still unbearably hot and humid, so the iced dessert is a welcomed treat. 

“Oh, no, I’m far from fluent; my vocabulary is pretty limited and I probably have a terrible accent,” I chuckle as I take a bite of raspberry gelato before it melts off the side of the cup. “But I’ve been ordering for us since we got here—had you not noticed or what?” 

Richard chuckles. “Yes, but you had an actual conversation with the lady in the gelateria,” he says, shoving a big spoonful of pistachio gelato in his mouth. “What was she saying, anyway?” 

“Well, when she realized we were English she asked how we were handling the heat. And then when she handed me your gelato she said, ‘Here, the pistachio for your handsome man.’”

“She did not say that,” Richard snorts. 

“She did!” I say, giggling at the memory and the incredulity on his face. “She has good taste.” 

He shakes his head sheepishly. “So do you secretly speak any other languages?” 

I giggle at the change of subject. “Apart from Old English, Middle English, and Latin, I do speak a tiny bit of French.” 

“Really?” 

“Yes!” 

“How did I not know that?” he asks, sounding impressed. 

I shrug, taking another bite of gelato. “I thought I could more easily impress you with my knowledge of medieval languages, even if it’s not as practical.” 

“Well, it did get you a job at the top university in the country,” he says, smiling. “Where did you learn French, anyway?” 

“I studied it for one of my A Levels.” 

He nods, then grins. “Say something in French.” 

I chuckle, pondering what to say, then grin. “Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?” 

Richard bursts out laughing and wraps one of his strong arms around my shoulders. “I think you already know the answer to that question—it’s why we only got out of bed past 10 am this morning.” 

I smirk in recollection of the lazy morning and squeeze the hand resting over my shoulder. Suddenly, the sound of distant music drifts through the air, and as we turn a corner, the street opens up into a charming town square bathed in the soft glow of string lights. Amidst the passersby and the busy trattorias, a musician is playing a lively tune on a violin near the fountain in the center, and we sit nearby on a bench under a tall olive tree, enjoying the atmosphere as we finish our gelato. 

Sometime later, after throwing away our empty gelato cups in the nearest bin, Richard looks at me with a thoughtful expression, then offers me his hand with a playful smile. 

“Dance with me.” 

“What?” I laugh, but I shake my head when I realize he is serious. “No way—there’s too many people around.” 

“Who cares?” he responds, pulling me to my feet. “No one knows us here and look—no one’s paying attention to us.” 

“Yeah, that’s cause I haven’t yet tripped and fallen on my arse,” I say, causing him to chuckle, but then I sigh, unable to resist him. “Fine. One dance.” 

Richard’s smile widens, and he raises my hand to his lips, pressing a tender kiss on my knuckles before pulling me close and guiding me into a gentle sway. 

We move awkwardly at first, but it is mainly my fault, as I keep stumbling on the uneven cobblestones, struggling to concentrate when Richard gazes so lovingly into my eyes. He, on the other hand, is surprisingly graceful, twirling me around and effortlessly catching me when I almost lose my balance. 

“Where did you learn to dance like that?” I ask, holding onto his shoulder more tightly. 

“I, er, took dance lessons as a teenager,” he admits sheepishly. 

I raise one surprised eyebrow. “Really?” 

He chuckles. “Yeah, all the drama students did.” 

“Well, well,” I say with a grin, then laugh as he spins me gently once more, causing my dress to twirl around me. 

We continue to dance, my movements becoming more confident as the awkwardness fades away and I give in to the joy of the moment. I catch sight of a few onlookers smiling at us, but I forget all about them when the music shifts to a slower, more romantic melody, and Richard pulls me even closer. One of his arms is now wrapped around my waist while he intertwines the fingers of his other hand with mine, cradling it between our bodies against his chest. 

“See? You’re getting the hang of it,” he says, the low rumble of his voice, combined with his warm closeness, sending a thrill through me.

“You make it easy,” I chuckle, losing myself once more in his deep blue eyes. 

Richard smiles, leaning down to brush his lips against mine in a tender kiss, and the busy square around us disappears—the whole world disappears—and time stands still, leaving only the two of us, happy and carefree in each others’ arms as stars shine in the sky overhead as they do so every night, constant and unchanging. Under their watchful eyes, I think of how much has changed in the past year and how much uncertainty lies ahead. But wrapped in Richard’s arms, I can truly believe that our love will weather the difficult year ahead and any other challenges that will come our way in the future, remaining just as constant and unchanging.

As we continue to sway in each other’s arms, the music picks up again, transitioning to a lively tune that draws laughter from a nearby group of onlookers. The spell of the moment breaks, and I glance up at Richard, who seems equally caught between the remnants of our private world and the bustling square around us.

“Shall we?” Richard says, slowly disentangling himself from me but still holding onto my hand. 

With a soft smile, I nod and follow him across the square, but Richard pauses by the violinist. He fishes out his wallet, pulling out a generous tip, and places it into the open violin case with a nod of thanks. The musician gives him a warm smile, never missing a beat, and Richard turns back to me, his eyes bright with affection.

“This holiday just keeps getting better and better,” he muses with a smile. 

I smile in return. “Agreed,” I say, reaching for his hand again and leading him onto the narrow street to our flat. 

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