#smith writes

Eridians don't really kiss, but Rocky knows you like it. And though he doesn't have lips for kissing, you know he likes to be close to you - you find that whenever you stand still for more than a minute, his ball is likely to bump gently into your calves before the first sixtity seconds is over. He'll just sit there, doing his work, being next to you.

Sometimes it's borderline painful, only being able to interact with him through what feels like a pane of glass. But then Rocky made a section of his chamber more malleable, a little bit easier to feel each other through. It's still not everything, but at least you can cuddle better.

And hey, you're pretty confident this problem will be solved on Erid, if not even earlier than that. Rocky had told you once - 'Rocky fix. Rocky kiss Y/N.' - in that factual way he does, the same way he would say the sun is hot. If he had the materials or the means . . .

You catch Grace squinting at you sometimes. He hasn't figured it out yet - though you're pretty sure he's only hesitating because . . . how many people would be genuinely in love with someone of Rocky's form? You don't mind that he's not a human, though. It's not the most important thing in the world. He's clever, loyal, brave, and kind. He makes you laugh, he builds you things to make you happy, and you like his company. What more could you want?

You would just tell Grace, but the way he starts trying to 'subtly' find out on his own simply leaves you no choice. You have to watch him stumble through his 'secret' investigation. Because it's funny. Statement.

He starts by subtly interrogating Rocky, which was doomed to fail, as Rocky doesn't know the meaning of subtle. (Like actually. It's not in his database).

When he asks you a few sneaky questions, you remain purposefully ambigious. You tell Rocky later what exactly Grace is doing: he makes thats delightful noise that you know means laughter. He's equally excited about pranking Grace with this. Just having something to do on this long, long journey is a godsend.

(Metaphorical) hands shaken, you and your Eridian boyfriend proceed to start driving Grace up the wall.

Rocky starts it perfectly. " Y/N watch, " he says, smugly, and leaves you with a camera on the lab just so you can watch. The eridian enters the lab and very abruptly asks Grace about 'human mating customs' as if he hasn't already researched them thoroughly. Grace 's attention snaps to Rocky.

" Human mating customs? " He repeats, putting down his current experiment. He squints at Rocky. " Why do you wanna know about human uh . . . 'mating' customs, bud? "

" Research, " Rocky says, innocently. " Need to know. How seduce human, question? "

The tone of the 'what'!?' that leaves Grace's mouth has you muffling your laughter for minutes.

The next time you get Grace isn't actually intentional. It's just that you've had a long day, and you want to cuddle your emotional support rock. Again. Which you can't actually do. Maybe the way Rocky nuzzles up to you in his sphere is suspicious somehow, or maybe it's the way you curl around him. Myabe it's the way you melt as soon as he's there, feeling like you can finally relax. Maybe it's the way Rocky says - " Sleepy Y/N. Soft. Y/N sleep, Rocky protect. " Even the robotic voice seems gentle and loving, but you and Grace have known Rocky for long enough now to recognize the absolute adoration in the crooning noises of his true Eridian voice.

The way Grace looks at you two is less of a squint and more something deeply soft and just a little too aware.

You do kiss that rock, technically. You kiss him through the barrier, anyway, offering little pecks against the surface which Rocky adorably presses his carapace against to receive. The way Rocky bumps into the panels is its own kind of kiss.

And for the record - yeah, you get flirty with your boyfriend. What are you, a coward? The enclosure is an advanced condom, if anything. You can get creative.

So maybe you spend a few minutes leaving kisses all over Rocky's sphere not long after one of your shared creative endeavors.

" What is all over your sphere, man? " You're all in the lab when Grace says it, and he leans down to examine the glass. Your snort quite suddenly when you look over and realize you've left smudges all over the sphere.

" Something on sphere, question? "

" Yeah, it's all smudged. You must have rolled through something, I dunno - " Except as Grace grabs the end of his shirt to wipe it off, he notices slight pattern to the smudges. Your hand is covering your mouth, either out of embarassment, or to keep yourself from laughing, you're not too sure. Grace's head suddenly spins around to look at you.

" Are these kiss marks? "

You can't hold it in. You crumble into laughter.

" Oh, kiss marks! " Rocky says happily. " Rocky have kiss marks from kiss! " He counds very pleased to have evidence that you love him, but Grace is looking between the two of you, shocked.

" Whoa, whoa, whoa - what are we doing? We're kissing the sphere now? Why are we kissing the sphere? " He sounds so uncertain. Rocky answers, sounding smug.

" Ohhh. Grace jealous. "

" Wh- what? " He snaps his head back to Rocky from where he was looking at you with an expression somewhere between shocked and impressed. " I'm not jealous, Rocky - "

" Grace jealous, statement. Rocky get kiss. Rocky handsome, Rocky have mate. Grace alone, alone. Sad Grace. "

" Rocky - " Grace looks between the two of you, exasperated. This kind of playful back-and-forth is familiar, but there's something in his expression as he looks at the two of you, like he's trying to process the information that his two roommates are in fact, kissing each other. Through glass. And one of them doesn't have a mouth.

You're smiling, though. You seem very happy, even. Lighter than you were when you both started this journey, and though Rocky doesn't have a face to read, you and Grace both know him well wnough to see the joy in the way he moves.

" Rocky too handsome. More handsome than Grace. "

" Okay Rocky, let's not get rude. "

" Not rude. Is statement. Grace ugly. "

You can see Grace's expression melting into a smile.

" Grace not ugly. It's not a competition, okay we can both be handsome, even if only two people on this ship are . . . kissing. "

" Hm. Rocky win. "

" No, Rock, no competition. "

" Rocky have beautiful mate. Most beautiful. Rocky win. "

" Okay - " Grace responds, laughing.

And all of a sudden, it seems normal. You watch as Grace and Rocky continue their classic bickering - the topic of conversation now being that you aren't some kind of prize for a 'best mate' competition, while Rocky insists that you are, and Grace, adamantly, has no prize (sad human). You can't stop smiling, even more so when Rocky rolls his sphere over to you just to call you beautiful to your face. Good shapes, statement. You hear Grace chuckle again from over by the microscope.

" Y/N is my favorite, " Rocky tells you in a softer tone. " Rocky happy about kiss. Want more. "

" You can have more, " You tell him, and when you lean in, he thumps up against the side of the sphere to receive the little peck you press to it.

" Yay! " He says. You chuckles. " Rocky love. " You hum, happily.

" Y/N love. "

He nuzzles up against you. It feels nice to be openly affectionate. You can feel Grace's eyes on you from across the room, but it's unobtrusive, nothing more than curious. Something seems to settle into place. You feel more at home than you ever have before, sitting in comfortable silence with the love of your life and the best friend you have. Until Grace breaks it.

" For real, though, can we clean off the sphere after kissing it? I don't wanna touch that. "

What you find out is that it takes next to nothing to make the man melt, really. The thing that starts it is so easy - you're nice to him, understanding in a way that many of these people aren't. When you met, you made a light joke to help him settle in and feel a little more welcome. You can still remember the way his shoulders relaxed. He looked like you'd just reminded him he can breathe.

Over the next few months, you get closer. He appreciates that you don't seem unapproachable like the others. You can laugh together, chat like you're not both workers for a secret government project, but just friends. It doesn't take long for shared laughter and chatter to turn into shared touches - little bumps against shoulders, sitting closer enough to be pressed to each other's sides, reaching out just to feel each other. The tide starts turning somewhere around the day you find Grace on a couch, papers strewn over the table next to him, clipboard in his lap, pen between his teeth.

" How close friends are we? " You ask. He startles a little, looking like a deer in the headlights as he responds: " Uh . . . what? "

" Am I allowed to flop into your incredibly inviting lap or do I have to wait for that? " You clarify, and he goes blush pink, looking down at his lap, stuttering. You also blush, because about halfway through saying that sentence, you realized how it sounds.

" I mean - cuddles. " You're so fucked.

" Yeah, yeah, " Grace says - I know what you mean. Laughing a little, he looks up at you with an expression that makes you wonder if he did know that's what you meant.

" Yeah, " He says in a different tone, shrugging, waving his hand invitingly. Yeah, you can. Maybe I want you to.

It's shockingly easy after such a long day to crawl into his lap like a cat into a cardboard box. He's warm and soft and his sweater is even softer. You curl around him, pressing your face into his side.

" Cuddlebug, " He says, absently, in awe, like he's made a delightful discovery. You're not sure he meant to say that out loud. You feel a hand settle in your hair. He scritches your scalp. You push a little closer.

Yeah. That's where it starts.

---

Do you bother to ask Stratt if romantic entanglements are allowed in this line of work? Absolutely not. Besides, she probably already knows. What isn't she aware of?

The point is, Ryland is sweet and gentle and intelligent and he makes you smile. What's even better is, you know you make him just as happy. He can't seem to stop smiling when you're there. In rare moments where he does, it's usually only because his face has gone all soft with affection for you, like he can't believe that he's here right now.

So yeah, you fall in love. And it's like falling into feathers. Ryland cares about you and you care about him. Your adoration starts in sneaking each other coffee and snacks throughout the work day, stolen moments of affection in quick kisses and tiny touches, and cuddles if you can manage it, when the day is through. At least if the world is going to end, you'll have each other.

Things were doomed to get more heated eventually, in hindsight. For every few days of cuddling, sharing a bed at night, there's one where you wake up tangled in him from head to toe and seriously debate testing what he would do if you started kissing his throat, or grinding up against him, or what would happen if your hands wandered. He feels it too - there was that one morning where you both woke up hard and pressed against each other. It had been awkward as you'd both clambered out of bed to get ready for the day, both not mentioning the two elephants in the room. The tension had lingered well into the afternoon.

One day, it breaks.

Ryland doesn't know how to shut up and to your delight, that trait does carry into the bedroom. Noises don't stop leaving this man, who whines and moans and whimpers like you're the best thing he's ever touched. He tries not to swear, usually ending up saying some silly kid-friendly alternatives (fudge, cracker, shoot, and so on) which always makes you laugh. Sometimes, that resolve doesn't last, and you get him past the point of caring. The first time you got him to swear an empathic fuck may have been the proudest moment of your existence to date.

Usually, you're in charge, at least a little bit. You have done anything too exciting yet: all the love you've made so far is sweet, but you like the way he squirms and begs you when you're the one paying him attention, and from the way he looks at you like you are the sun itself, you know he likes it too.

You've never done anything too exciting. Until . . .

---

" Hey, you wanna see something? "

You're in a meeting. A couple dozen people all gathered around a room watching a powerpoint as Stratt, well . . . points at it. Pretty standard stuff. But then Ryland appears next to you quite suddenly, quite close, bumping into your side with a hushed voice that tells you he's showing you a secret.

You assume it will be something cool tucked away in the palm of his hand, maybe something he was examining in the lab, maybe a silly little tchotchke he'd found and thought of you. He likes to do stuff like that to remind you he thinks of you. Likes having you be a part of his day, even when you're not there. You look down, instinctively.

His fingers are slipped beneath his jeans, pulling at the hemline just enough that you can see what's underneath - pink lace panties, kissing his tanned skin in the perfect contrast.

Your heart just about leaps out of your chest. Your stomach does something wildly acrobatic. Usually, he wears simple or silly boxers, which you adore. You've never seen anything like this. You're not even sure he had those before. Did he get those just for you?

You look up at him, reeling. You realize, belatedly, that he's flushed pink with embarrassment - but his eyes are dark and eager. He psyched himself up for this, you realize, and caught you in a moment when you'd least expect it, maybe to make it more fun, maybe to make it a little easier for him to be brave enough to do it. He looks relieved when he sees the look in your eyes, his shoulders melting in that manner that always tugs at your heartstrings, reminding you that you make him feel safe. He smiles.

Like nothing happened, Ryland moves his hand, his jeans going back into place. He turns his attention back to the presentation. He's still flushed, and though he looks immensely proud of himself, he shifts on his heels, either eager or nervous or both.

Your jaw works as you follow his gaze back to the presentation. He should be nervous. He is so in for it now. You are gonna make that boy cry.

---

You manage to pull Ryland out of the meeting pretty shortly after it's concluded. When he coyly asks if you're sure you don't want to check in with Stratt, you growl at him, pulling him away. He swallows. Suddenly, he's very complacent.

You don't make it to his room before you're pressing against the wall in the hallway, kissing him soundly.

" Ry, you better have planned for me to ruin you, " You mumble breathily as your kisses travel from his lips to his throat. He bares it beautifully, silently encouraging you. His flush disappears beneath his shirt.

" Oh, " He says, just as breathless. He's clinging to your waist, then pulling at your shirt, his hands not having decided where to settle yet. " Oh, yeah, okay. "

" We don't have to, " You say, not wanting to pressure him.

" Oh, no, no, " He says, his voice high and needy. " We have to. We have to do that right now. There is no alternative at all. "

You manage to stumble into the bedroom before anyone can find you making out in the hallway. Not that anyone would be surprised.

" In front of Stratt, you madman, " You mumble into his throat, pulling his cardigan off his shoulders. You press him into a dresser and nip at his throat with your teeth. He makes a soft noise, tugging at your shirt. You pull away just long enough to him tug it off of you.

" I don't know what came over me. I was gonna . . . show you later tonight, but I couldn't stop thinking about it. Driving me crazy. " He laughs softly as you pull his shirt over his head in turn. You hum, pleased as you press against each other, the first touch of skin to skin. He's always so warm. He kisses you, his tongue tracing over your lips. You push your tongue between his and he moans, a ragged breath leaving him. When you trail down, lips over his collarbone and heading down to his chest, his breath trembles.

Your hands slip beneath his thighs, lifting him up onto the dresser. A little huff leaves him as he is set upon it - he's gotten used to that, by now, but the first time you lifted him like that, he scrambled for purchase, a number of shocked exclamations leaving him. You guess as a six-foot man, he's probably not very used to being tossed around. A moment later, your tongue finds one of his nipples, teasing the little bud there as Ryland sucks in a shaky breath. His hand slips into your hair. A little whine leaves him as you wrap your lips around it and suck gently.

" That's good, " He says, his voice high and tight. You feel him press his face into your hair, breathing hot and heavy against your scalp. You squeeze his hips and pull him a little closer. You linger here, letting him enjoy the feeling of your tongue and lips teasing his nipples, first one and then the other, and in turn, you get to enjoy the noises he makes, soft gasps and a pretty little whimper when you use just a bit of teeth.

" Can I fuck you tonight? " You ask eventually, lips pressed to his solar plexus, nuzzling the little bit of golden hair there.

" God, please, " He breathes. You hum, pleased.

" Can I fuck you with those panties pulled down to your thighs? Ass up and whining into the mattress? "

The noise he makes is strangled. You look up at him from where you've kissed your way down to his belly, your gaze dark. He looks at you, star-struck, and nods rapidly.

" Use your words, Ryland, " You whisper, teasing. He huffs, a little smile gracing his lips even as he rolls his eyes.

" Yes, please. " He breathes sweetly. He licks his lips as he looks down at you. " That. "

You press another sweet kiss to his stomach, smiling against him. When you lift him up into your arms, his legs wrap around you - "Oh, here we go, " he says, and you chuckle as you deposit him on the bed, crawling in over him. He laughs too, and he's grinning when you look up at him. God, he's beautiful, all golden and happy like that. You'd do anything to keep him smiling.

" I love you so much, baby, " You whisper, and his whole face softens, melts into something vulnerable and honored.

" I love you, " He says, just as softly, reaching out to rub his thumb over your cheek. You press into the palm of his hand and he speaks quietly, pleadingly. " Come up here and kiss me. "

You do as you are told. You kiss him soundly, stealing his hand from your cheeks and tangling your fingers with his. You take that hand and pin it above his head. You feel him lose a little of his breath against your lips as you do. Without you asking, his other hand comes up to join the first. You move your hand to pin both.

" Eager, huh? "

" I'm so not joking, I need you to - to fuck me now. Hard. " You can see his desperation in the way he swallows, in the way he pushes past the instincts he's learned after years of working with kids just to be crass at you. I need you to fuck me. I mean, he asked nicely. And your dick agrees with him so bad. You look at him with a dark gaze and his voice goes softer, sweeter, somehow. " Please? "

" Good boy, " You praise, soft, and you earn another one of those sweet little breaths of relief, like he was holding his breath he was trying so hard. After a moment's thought, you know exactly how you wanna do this.

" Turn over. "

---

He's whimpering, whining, squirming and shuddering beneath you. It's got to be the most beautiful thing you've ever seen or heard, the high-pitched noises that leaves him unbidden. His ragged breaths are pressed against the sheets as he twitches and shifts beneath you, unable to control himself. A pillow tucked under his hips keeps him accessible to you and comfortable for him, though the way he's squirming threatens that he might make his back start aching tomorrow, which is why one of your hands is pre-occupied rubbing his back in firm, soothing movements, partially to massage his muscles and partially to keep him still. The other is still tangled in Ryland's hand where he clutches at you tightly, refusing to let go.

Oh, yeah. You only have your tongue in him, so far.

" Oh - oh, god, yeah, " He's whining, his eyebrows drawn up in ecstasy, the softest look on his face. God, he must look so pretty right now, squirming beneath you with pretty blush pink panties pulled down just below his ass. If only you could see him better and keep licking him with your tongue, but alas. You'll get a great view in a minute, anyway, once you actually get this show on the road.

" Good boy, Ry, " You whisper, pressing a kiss to his ass cheek. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him turn his face to hide in the mattress. His hand squeezes yours a little tighter. You smile. You lick over his hole, spreading him apart to dive in. He whines like he's wounded, his hips moving to grind against your tongue. You let him. You like to spoil him, generally speaking. He's so well-behaved, how couldn't you?

" Oh - oh, please. Please, baby, I need more. More, please - " He breaks off into a beautiful little whimper as you curl your tongue just so, dragging over his rim. Your hand moves from rubbing his back to squeezing his ass and he makes another desperate little noise. " ________, please, please - "

You offer him a little mercy, panting from him to catch your breath. That same hand comes down to circle his rim and he pants in relief.

" Yeah, yeah, thank you. Thank you, " He swallows, thickly, you hear it in his breath. You tease him for just a moment, tracing your fingers around his hole and not quite pressing in. To his credit, he doesn't complain - and, now able to peer over his shoulder and see his face, you can see that he's biting his lip to keep himself from begging. His eyes are shut. He's pretty.

With a regretful squeeze, you finally pull your hand out of his, reaching out to grab the bottle of lube you'd acquired. He whines in an entirely different tone that makes your heart squeeze, a noise that wordlessly says 'where'd you go?'. You drip some lube down onto his ass, getting your fingers properly wet before you do anything else. The bottle is tossed aside for later. You take his hand in yours again.

" Relax, sweetheart. " With a happy sigh, he does as he's told, melting into the bed. You're pleased that he's learned to trust you so much that he can do it on command.

One of your fingers slips inside. He moans unashamedly, hips pressing up towards your touch. You soothe him - shh, sh - as you begin to gently fuck him open, the way added signficantly by how long you had spent fucking him with your tongue beforehand.

" You're so pretty, baby, " You whisper praise as he squirms and whines. Your tongue is no longer preoccupied, you can compliment him just as much as he deserves. " Doing so good for me. Taking me so well. I'm gonna fuck you so good for this. Make you come in these pretty panties for me. "

He moans and pants beneath you.

" Christmas - baby, why are you so good at that? " He manages, and you chuckle softly (mostly just because of 'christmas').

You take your sweet time making this sweet man fall apart, because he deserves it. He drinks it in eagerly, no longer nervous about making sure you feel good too after you've reassured him more than once that you'll tell him if you want something. No, today he's very happy to just lie there and take the attention, absolutely blissful as you open him up with first one finger, then two, then three.

“ Oh - I’m gonna - I’m so close, “ Ryland warns, panting. You kiss the spot between his shoulderblades as you crook your fingers just so. He jolts, a sound like a sob leaving him.

“ Think you can come twice? “ You ask, whispered soft against his skin. He shudders.

“ Maybe, yeah. “ He chokes a little as you rock your fingers in and out of him once more, whining. His voice is high and tense when he says: “ You should try it. “

Well. If he says so.

You sneak a hand around his waist just to hold him close, keeping him from squirming away as you drive him to the edge with your fingers. He pants, whining, barely holding on.

“ Do you want me to touch you? “

“ Yeah, yeah, yes, god yes - “

“ Say please. “

You feel him tense in your grasp, his hips twitching.

“ Oh . . . please? “

And it's just so soft and sweet and needy, how could you possibly resist?

He moans as you take his length in your hand, stroking him in pace with the movement of your fingers. It only takes a few strokes before his moans crescendo (oh- oh- oh!). You feel him tense. His lips part with his cheek pressed to the mattress. He shudders.

He comes, spilling over your hand with a low moan. You work him through it, dragging your fingers over that sweet spot inside of him, stroking him slowly until he whines and pushes away from you. Only then do you remove your hands.

“ God. You're so fucking hot, Grace, “ you compliment pressing kisses around his ear. Breathless, he answers - “ Language. “ You slap him lightly on the ass. He whines.

“ Gorgeous. “ You pet him gently, running your hands over his chest and back and peppering his skin with kisses as he catches his breath. It doesn't take him long at all to start wiggling against you.

“ I still want you to fuck me. Please? “ He moves his hips back, finding the angle to grind his ass over your still-clothed cock. You grunt, a sudden spike of heat going straight down as his bare ass drags over your crotch.

“ Oh, god, that feels good, “ Ryland mutters, almost to himself. He peeks over his shoulder at you, and you - you can't help but pull him in by his hips, encouraging those little movements. You're hard as a rock, and having him pressed against you feels fantastic. “ Please, baby? You said . . . “ He swallows. “ You said hard. Can I have it hard, please? “

You mouth kisses along his throat as you grind against him. Quite pleased with how beautifully polite he's being, you decide to reward him with a mark on his throat. You'll be so happy to watch everyone teasing him about it tomorrow. He moans softly as you work the bruise into his skin, whispering a shaky - yeah - as he tilts his jaw just so to give you room to work.

“ You tell me if it's too much, okay, honey? “

“ Yes. Yes, sir. “ He freezes. “- ______. . . . oh, fiddlesticks - “

“ Sir? “ You repeat, pleasantly, in the middle of his rambling. He groans, but you can see him flush a little pinker.

“ I’ve been reading some . . . stuff, okay? Where do you think I got the idea for the panties? “

You laugh, softly, leaning in to nuzzle his hair. He smiles at you over his shoulder. You can feel his heart beating against your chest. Both of you are hit with a wave of adoration for each other. You don't have to be him to know he's feeling it.

“ I love you, " he says softly.

“ I love you, " you hum. “ And you're showing me what you read. "

“ No. " He says, empathically. Mmhmm, you hum. “ Uh-uh. No way. My secrets. " You chuckle.

“Fine. Maybe I’ll fuck you hard enough that you’ll wanna tell me anyway."

“Now how exactly are you planning on doing that?“ He says, laughing a little. “You're going to put your dick in me so hard that I -"

He's getting a little too cocky. You slap him again, hard on the round of his arse. He jerks in surprise, moaning out an: “Oh - shhhhhuuhh . . .” that melts into nothing as he presses his face into the pillows beneath him. You chuckle at his fervent determination not to get into the habit of swearing. You nuzzle at his hair. He whines and presses back into you.

“ Behave, " you remind him. He nods.

“ Yeah. Yes. Sorry, " he says, rapidly.

“Sorry, what?" The air is tense for a sharp moment, not in an unpleasant way. You feel Ryland release a shaky breath.

“I’m sorry, sir." Oh god, that sounds so good. You really like hearing that. You squeeze his hips, affectionate and possessive and he presses back against you a little harder. Ryland - your clever, beautiful, creative Ryland - finding that this experiment is going well only runs further with it. There's eagerness in his voice as he goes on: “ Please, sir, I want it. Need you in me. I’m begging you, please. "

“I’m not gonna make you beg me, baby," you say, fondly. The clinking of metal is the only reason Ryland can tell you're unbuckling your belt, and he groans. “You're so pretty like this. Wearing these cute little panties for me.“

“Uh-huh. All for you,“ He says, sticking his ass out a little farther. You pet his ass and his thighs, rearranging his position just to make it a little more comfortable for him.

“Tell me if it's too much, okay?" You remind him.

“I will. Promise.“

And with that, you press yourself up against his back. Your cock slides over his hole and both of you inhale sharply. You don't tease for long, just slicking up your aching length in lube before you line yourself up and - slowly - press inward.

Ryland moans, fingers twisting in the sheets. You moan too, watching as your length disappears inside of him, inch by inch. He's plenty prepared, and it's a sweet and easy slide as you bottom out deep inside of him. You stay there for a second, panting as you let him adjust.

“Well?“ You ask, petting his hair. “What do you say, Ry?“

He groans, rocking back against you. You don't let him go far, holding him in place by the waist.

“Thank you. Thank you, sir. Oh my god." He seems wrecked already, pressing his overheated cheeks to the sheets beneath him. You press a kiss to the nape of his neck.

“Good boy."

Without warning, you pull nearly all the way out and thrust back in, hard. The pace you start is sudden, fast and deep, though not brutal.

Ryland sort of shrieks.

“OH! Oh, my - Oh, f- ohhh -“ You don't give him nearly enough time to get a word out, and rapidly, his rambling melts into desperate little moans. He clutches desperately at the sheets as you hold him close, both of you panting heavily as you finally - finally, make love to each other properly.

As you fuck, you pull the cute little panties up a bit, not letting them slide down his thighs. Ryland whines.

“Feel so good, baby,“ You praise, breath heaving. You're already holding back, wanting to make him feel good since he wanted this so badly. You don't want it to be over so soon. “You're so good. Taking me so well.“

“Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you," Ryland whines. He's just about this close to crying, you can tell, but not quite there yet. You pet his hair fondly, burying your face against the back of his neck. One of your hands sneaks up, your fingers slipping between Ryland’s where he clings to the mattress. The other, still around his waist, shifts just enough to take his cock in hand. Ryland whimpers, then groans as you begin to stroke him at the same pace. He's shaking a little bit, you realize. He's probably pretty overstimulated, at this point.

“You good, baby?“ You pant against his neck. He nods.

“You gonna come for me?“ He whines and nods harder.

“I can't - I can't -“

“You can. Do it for me, sweetheart. Let me feel you, Ry. Let me see you. Be a good boy for me. Be so, so good for me, Ryland.“ The more sweet praise leaves your lips, the more Ryland begins to shudder and fall apart. He's trembling, shaking in your arms, and you can feel it as he begins to twitch in your hand. You can feel the same tension building in your own stomach, heat gathering in your cock as you lose your rhythm just a little, chasing your own orgasm as much as you're chasing his.

“Oh, fuck,“ he whines. Over his shoulder, you catch a glimpse of the brightest blue eyes just barely shining with tears. “Oh, fuck - !“

He clenches around you so tightly that you see stars. You can't help but moan as he comes around you, spilling into your hand with a sob. You come not a moment later, gasps buried into his shoulders as you press into him as far as you can, coming deep inside.

For a few incredible moments, it's just bliss and warmth and perfection. He stops twitching in your head, and he slowly relaxes beneath you with a groan, nearly becoming liquid as he melts into the sheets. Your face stays buried between his shoulders and you squeeze his hand as you slowly pull out, only to tug him close to you with a hand around his waist.

Breathing heavy, you both take a moment to settle. It doesn't take long at all for Ryland to roll over in your arms - but he's suddenly halted by his legs tangled in the panties around his thighs.

“Oh, get off -“ He wiggles, pushing them down and attempting to kick them off of the bed. You are no help at all, rather a hindrance actually, as you pull him into your arms to pepper kisses into his hair.

“We sure did.“

“Ha, ha,“ He says, but he giggles right after. He manages to escape the lace trap and wiggles himself right into your arms, holding you closer than should be humanly possible.

“You're so pretty,“ He mumbles.

“So are you. You were so good for me, Ry."

“I’m so good. I’m always good,“ He says in that ironically self-aggrandizing manner of his. It makes you smile, and you just hum, silently agreeing with him.

“Yeah, you are. You feeling okay?“

“Incredible,“ He sighs happily as you begin to pet his hair. Somehow, he melts even more.

“Iluvyoo,“ He mumbles, muffled into your throat.

The world comes back into focus as you feel an arm slide beneath your shoulders, and then another slips beneath the back of your knees. You're lifted into strong arms, hanging there limply. Could you move? Maybe. If you had to. But you don't have to. You finally have a chance to rest.

Your head lolls and falls against a chest. You nuzzle into it slightly - a soft cotton shirt atop a warm body. It smells nice. Freshly washed. You can feel the rhythm of footsteps as you are carried shift, becoming heavier as you go up a staircase. With your eyes still closed, you aren't paying attention to the world around you, but you recognize the path towards your bedroom anyway.

It doesn't take long to realize who's carrying you. It's Erik, of course. He seems as calm as ever from what you can tell of his actions and the few words exchanged after your collapse at the doorstep. But you know better than to assume he's truly okay. You're sure you've worried him sick. You guess he simply isn't going to tear into you just now, not when you're already so hurt and so tired.

At some point, the world tilts again and you feel Erik put you gently on your feet. He stays close, holding you to his chest, letting you lean your weight onto him so you don't have to stay upright without support. He says your name, softly but firmly, calling your attention to him.

"You're tired," he announces as if that isn't obvious. "Sleep now, or can you handle a quick shower?"

Right. Because you're covered in dirt and blood. It would be an uncomfortable sleep if you didn't pass out as soon as you hit the pillow, which you suspect you will. But the idea of being cleaned off and tucked away is tempting. Maybe . . . maybe you have just enough energy left to make sure you're not worsening the risk of infection in the little cuts and scrapes scattered across your body.

The bathroom is only a few steps away. Erik walks you in and wordlessly taps your arms to get you to lift them, pulling up your shirt. You feel quite small as he dutifully gets you out of your ruined clothing, supporting you with an arm around your waist as you step out of your bottoms. It doesn't feel strange to be naked, though it should. Perhaps it's the way Erik seems almost clinical, acting the role of a nurse, not at all awkward or hesitant as he helps you, though he does make sure to support you in places that aren't uncomfortable to touch. The bathroom tile is cool against your bare feet as he takes off your shoes and socks, and the ache there is made stronger, almost painfully cramping, but the pain soothed.

You are gently set against the sink as if you are a piece of fragile furniture as Erik turns the faucet and tests the water. The pressure sounds strong and you can feel the warm steam beginning to fill the room as he takes you back against his shoulder, letting you use him as a support.

The step into the shower is large but easy, as all you really need to do is lift your leg and lean against Erik and he maneuvers you in the right way to get you inside without hurting you or causing you strain. The thought hits you that he's probably been like this countless times before, alone. Covered in blood, injured, and having to drag himself into the shower, or home into bed. Perhaps that's why he seems to know so well how to help.

The water is warm but not too hot as you step one foot and therefore half of yourself into the pressurized stream of it. You can feel your muscles relaxing as the water washes over you, melting the stress away. The ache worsened by the cold tile floor slinks off, softened by the warm water streaming over your feet and towards the drain. Part of you remains outside of the beloved warmth, and that part shivers. You're eager to get under there as soon as possible.

The second step is harder. Your body weight is leaned against Erik, it's hard to push yourself upright without him. You try it, but you don't manage to finish before Erik moves, interrupting your effort. As soon as he sees you struggling, he steps into the shower too. He's behind you, then, pulling you back against him to rest against his chest. You watch the fabric of his shirt turn darker as half of him is soaked through in seconds. He's still fully clothed, wearing jeans, shoes, even, but he doesn't seem concerned with his hair falling flat and the water dripping down half of him like he's just entered a downpour. He just shifts to better support you and helps you lift yourself into the water. A hand lifts and brushes through your hair, petting it back and away from your face. Silently, he begins gently washing the blood and dirt away.

You do not have to move anymore. The thought hits you that Erik is here, holding you, and you don't think you even have to try to stand - he would probably just carry you down to the shower floor, wouldn't he?

You sink back against him, letting your full weight rest there, your knees sagging. Erik doesn't falter. There is a slight shift as an arm is wrapped around your waist. The other keeps gently washing your hair, kneading the mess out of it. He carefully uses his thumb to wet your dirtied cheeks and forehead and let that wash away, too. It's difficult, but you raise your hands to help, washing away the parts that are more intimate to touch as Erik washes your hair and your back, holding you upright. Minutes pass in careful, caring silence as you are tended to, aided.

You feel half asleep already as Erik carefully guides you to rest with your back against the shower wall. Little scrapes and cuts have been carefully washed, but there is the wound on your thigh - you had torn an old shirt to bandage the damned thing, done your best to stop the bleeding with what you had, but the sweat and filth have turned that old shirt brown, dangerous to use as a bandage. You lean against the wall of the shower as Erik unties the cloth. His touch is gentle but firm as he washes the wound. it stings, it really does, but he is quick, and you're sure it's much safer now than it would have been before.

The warmth has sunk into your bones. You feel clean, finally, free of sweat and blood and whatever else. Erik's shirt is as soaked as you are, only a small part of his leg kept safe from the shower's downpour. He helps you out of the shower step by step. Before the cold air can set in, you are wrapped in a large, fluffy towel. Another is used to dry you off so you aren't dripping like he is.

There is another long and yet short walk, a handful of steps out of the bathroom and into your room that feels like a lifetime. You are set against the dresser, toweled and warm. Erik lifts your arms once more to pull a warm sweater over your head, then pulls your towel away to help you step into underwear and pajamas.

You are impossibly sleepy. Perhaps you've been nodding off in the interim as Erik has been taking care of you. Finally - finally - Erik does not bother with making you walk. He lifts you up into his arms to carry you over to your wonderful bed, the mattress soft and waiting to swallow you and guide you into blissful slumber. You sink into it as you are laid down upon it. The warm and gentle seems to surround you, holding you like sunlight on a warm summer day. It feels as though you have been half asleep for hours already. Like a dream.

It is the easiest thing in the world to slip away into rest, eyes fluttering closed against the pillow only seconds after being put down. You do not stir as Erik pulls your blankets up over you, tucking you in. You are not aware of it as he brushes his hand over your cheek, looking down at you with worry and care in his eyes. Perhaps you feel a distant touch as he leans down to press a sweet kiss to your forehead, petting your hair back.

He sits on the edge of your bed for a short while, watching you doze and worrying, as you thought he was, though he's barely said a thing all night. you know someone is likely to be chewed out sometime soon, but tonight, all is peaceful.

When Stratt first came, you felt like you'd gotten in trouble. Broken the law, maybe, with the energy she carries and the way she stared at you. She practically interrogated you on your way home, it seemed, forcing nervousness out of you whether she meant to or not.

In spite of the pressure she put on you, you didnt crack, that was the thing. Your answers to her rapid-fire questions were all correct: not just correct, but intelligent, thoughtful. 

The final nail in the coffin? She questioned the results you'd written on your professor's documentation. You had, after all, completely thrown an entire scientific theory out the window, deeming it incorrect, proving it to be so. If it worked this way, you'd said, which it does - it would make sense, then. And we could solve it. She pointed out the near-arrogant decision you'd made, slyly suggesting error in a manner that would have had near anyone second-guessing themselves.

You didn't.

Everyone scrambles to keep up when Stratt is leading. She seems to walk twice as fast as anyone else without even trying, and thinks at least twice as fast as that. At least the adults on this ship know how to handle themselves. You, who has never filled out a W2 nor had to schedule your own doctor's appointment before, are left in the dust. 

The first week is constant pressure to catch up. The conversations seem to speed ahead without you. When people pause to let you speak, it feels like dropping the plate. You can feel the energy in the room just . . . plummet. And that's what happens with the nicer people.

There are experts in their fields who question you, and the only reason you think they're not outright demanding you leave is because Stratt is the one who brought you here. They try to assign you to menial tasks, ignore your input, question your judgement, belittle you, reject you.

. . . You're crying in a closet. It's the final straw - after so many days of feeling unwelcome, you can't *take* it anymore. Maybe you should go home. Maybe you should give up on your dreams entirely. You're not sure if you want to be in this field, if everyone else is like this. 

The door opens.

" Maintenance closets are for maintenance only. Get out, please, "  You hear a soft, polite, struct voice that is so familiar by now. She leads every meeting, she instructs everyone. She brought you here and she shouldn't have.

You don't move, burying your head between your knees as your breath hitches in a sob.

You hear a very quiet sigh. A moment passes. The quiet click of heels on the floor, and they stop next to you.

" What is wrong? "

She sounds as patient and untouchable as ever. Somehow, she doesn't sound annoyed. She never really does.

" I shouldn't be here, "   You cry, weakly, not looking up at her. Your heart seems to break in two as you say the words and you sob a little louder. You don't *belong* here. These people hate you.

" You shouldn't be here, "   Stratt agrees.   " This is the maintenance closet. "

It startles a noise out of you, somewhere between a sob and a laugh. You're mad about it. You're upset right now. You don't want to laugh.

You feel a gentle touch at your temple as she brushes back your hair. The touch is shocking. It makes you look up, finally, surprised at the show of gentleness, however subtle it may be.  You think you catch something in her gaze that wasn't supposed to be there - a glimmer of softness that wasn't meant to be seen.

" I brought you here, "   Stratt tells you.   " Because you are needed here. We have many scientists with much expertise. We have intelligence. We have bravery. You are here because you are unique. You were willing to challenge what you were told to expect and find the truth. This is an ability that is lacking, in men and women who have spent their lives being told that they are always right. "

You blink at her with eyes shining with tears, but she seems unmoved, her walls back up - at least, to those who don't know what to look for.

(There's just the slightest softness in the tilt of her shoulders, in her eyes.)

" You belong here. "   Her quiet confidence makes it sound like a fact of life, as certain as gravity.    " And you do not need to cry about it. Get up. "

She gestures with her chin, and, sniffling, you scramble to your feet. You're not sure why you feel reassured. Stratt isn't kind . . . but there's just something about her that makes it easier to believe in yourself. Maybe it's because she believes in you.

She hands you a handkerchief. It's embroidered with her initials.

" We have work to do. "

For the next few days, you notice Stratt is in the room with you more often than she was before. 

The next time someone questions you, she looks at you, expectantly. Her gaze is an answer in and of itself - when she directs attention to someone, even without a word, everyone listens. She's waiting to hear you defend yourself. And with her looking at you, you realize, you can. There's someone in your corner, if something goes wrong. There's someone who believes in you.

It makes it easier to believe in yourself.

By the time you’d reached high school, it was practically painful. Either you didn’t have a soulmate or they were years and years younger than you, which might even be worse.

And then you fell into Middle Earth.

Somehow stretching your way through dimensions (and no, you had no idea how you had done so) had left an ache in your muscles, bone-deep, strong enough that you didn’t even notice it at first. And then you did.

Your mark is curled over the left side of your stomach, following the line of one of your ribs. The name is written in a teal blue-green sort of color, light, and reminiscent of a certain shade of sky or sea.

Thranduil, it says in elegant script - calligraphy, really. Your soulmate has excellent handwriting. (And a very unique name too.)

You get a little too distracted with the whole suddenly-being-in-middle-earth thing to worry about it too much, but you don’t forget the name. You know it will be important to you.

---

The thing is, you’re in the middle of nowhere, you quickly realize. The forest around you is large, and you have nothing with which to help you survive. The dread almost swallows you whole, but you start moving - there is nothing else to do but look for a way out. As hours pass, your thoughts become muddled - shadows move in the corners of your eye, but when you look, there is nothing there. There is no wind or birdsong. You can hear creatures scuttling about mere strides away from you, but they never show themselves. You aren’t even sure if they are there.

Thankfully, you are not so far into the wilderness as you had previously thought. An Elven hunting party finds you, and that is when you become certain that you are not on Earth anymore. 

The elves lead you away from the diseased forest and into the palace of the woodland realm. It is beautiful - grand and elegant. The structure bends and twists like trees roots and branches. There are places where the roof opens to an elegant sky, sprawled with stars that almost seem brighter than they were outside. 

You are tired, sore, and you would like to rest. However, the elves are too suspicious of you to house you without making you answer a few questions. You gather very little of what they are saying, (they say most of it in their own language), but you can tell they wonder what a human woman with no supplies or weapons was doing in the middle of a now-haunted forest. Some of them seem to think you may have caused the sickness. Some of them do not seem to think you are capable of that, but even they are unsure. All of them know you could not have survived on your own, in your state. You do not know how to explain. They will surely not believe you if you tell them you come from another world. If they do, they will surely think you more dangerous.

These are the thoughts that surround you as you are taken to the hall of the King of the Woodland Realm himself.

When you enter, he faces away from you. He is tall, lithe, elegant, noble. He carries himself in a way that you have no doubt, he is the leader of this place, though they have told you nothing of him. The way your entire escort swears fealty - all of them bowing, then leaving in silences, proves it further. You see nothing but silver robes with intricate and subtle embroidery, long white-blonde hair so smooth it might as well be silk falling down his back. He is tall, and his form seems to stretch even higher in the way he stands, from your view at the foot of the pedestal his throne stands on. You wonder if you ought to say something. Before you can, he turns, and you lose your breath.

The man is beautiful. He carries regality like it’s written on his skin, in his blood. He is nearly perfect, from the curve of his jaw to the line of his brow. His eyes are a lighter blue than you would think possible, piercing through you, reminding you of ice and snow. Your chest flutters with nerves and maybe something else. His beauty is not just overwhelming, but intimidating - he is as magnetic as he is threatening.

“My people tell me that they found you deep in the Greenwood,” he speaks slowly and fluidly, his voice echoing throughout the hall and a shiver runs down your spine. His voice matches his appearance in beauty and threat - exceeds it, even. Silver-blue eyes pierce you as he steps from his raised dais, taking you apart, searching you for something. You cannot help but feel vulnerable, on display.

“Weaponless,” he continues to speak, and you do your best not to shrink back as he walks straight to you.

“Without supplies,” he says, turning just as he breaches your personal space, circling you like a predator.

“Without a clue of where you were,” He almost sounds amused at that last part, but it’s not the sort of amused that makes you relax. How are you going to get out of this?

“Tell me,” He demands. “How does a woman such as you become lost in the realm of elvenkind?”

You fumble for an answer, but thankfully you have no chance to speak. The door to the hall opens and another elf enters, speaking a word you would not have expected.

“King Thranduil,” She says, and your entire thought process stutters to a halt. “We have a matter of urgency. Dwarves, in the Greenwood.”

The Elvenking raises a polished brow at the words of the messenger before his eyes drift back down to you.

“I suppose you will have to wait, daughter of man.” Thranduil. KING, you think, absolutely wrecked. “I would suggest you take the time to polish your lies if you have them. I am not easily fooled.”

The threat stutters its way through your brain, halted in the force of your realization. Someone grabs your arm, pulling you away and towards the exit. You are halfway out before you finally manage to speak.

“Wait-” You say, far quieter than you had intended. Gathering your courage you speak louder, (“Wait!”), turning in the grasp of the guard to face the Elvenking again. You are certain of very little, but he must know you are his soulmate. But how are you to tell him? . . . Maybe . . . well if he is truly your soulmate, then he must share your mark. Your name would be written on his skin.

“Yes?” Thranduil asks, his brow raised once more.

“ . . . My name,” you say, hoping against all hope. “. . . It’s _____.”

His entire demeanor shifts. The king melts away from him, his gaze softening into a sort of shock. Suddenly he is not so terrifying - he is no more than a person, stunned and in disbelief. This is a part of him, you think, that you could fall in love with. Your heart stutters with realization - his reaction can only mean one thing. Your name is written somewhere on his body - he is your soulmate.

He begins to walk down the steps, though he seems to have made no conscious decision to do so. A small amount of suspicion remains on his face, but you no longer find it threatening. In fact, he seems . . . soft.

“Let her go,” He softly orders your escort with a wave of his hand. Your arm is released. He tilts his head at you.

“Show me,” he demands, and blood rushes to your face as you realize what he means.

“I-I can’t. It’s - “ You motion to the location of your mark, high on your ribs. You would have to practically undress to show him.

As if he hadn’t left you breathless enough throughout this encounter, he moves forward to touch your mark through your clothes, his hand gently resting across your ribcage as if he could feel it, somehow. You can see him considering something, weighing it in his eyes. His gaze raises from where his hand lies to you. He tightens his grasp - it does not feel as terrifying as before, but you can sense an underlying threat in the gesture, as though he does not want to harm you, but he must be certain.

“If you lie,” he says, his voice deep and severe, shaking your very soul. “There will be consequences.”

Holding your gaze for a few moments, you can see the promise in his eyes, and you know that he would keep his word. Thankfully, you are not lying. You would be very afraid if you were.

He nods to your escort, who takes you in arm once again, leading you out of the hall. An encounter with him no more than a few minutes long has left you practically shaking. Your mind wanders, filled with wandering thoughts of Thranduil, the Elvenking, your soulmate.

---

You are taken to a beautiful guest room to wait for Thranduil. Silver branches scale through the walls, the floor has a rug that is immensely soft, blue, with intricate designs that echo the embroidery you have seen on Elven clothing. There is a canopy bed with soft pillowy sheets and blankets. You start to break down when you realize there is a chocolate on the pillow. As if this were a hotel or something. It’s the smallest thing, but the stressors of the recent days finally have a chance to catch up as you curl up on the bed with your chocolate. You have left your world and entered another. You spent hours (days?) in the Mirkwood, with that foul disease twisting your mind. You met your soulmate, who you didn’t know you had, and he threatened your life. Also, he is an elf, (those exist), and a king. An elvenking.

You have a lot of time to calm down before your next meeting with your soulmate - in fact, you have all night. The bed is comfortable, but your sleep is not. Your status is not stable - you are unsure how long you can stay here, nervous about your next discussion with Thranduil, and quite hungry.

When you wake in the morning, at least one of these problems is solved. A gentle knock echoes on your door. When you open it, an elf enters with a tray of food for you, fresh fruits and vegetables, cheeses, and little crostinis. They also offer you a mint tea which quickly refreshes you more than you would expect. You are expecting to be invited to a meeting with the king after your breakfast, but you are not. The elf simply leaves you in your room with very little to do. By the time you are beginning to weigh exactly how much you would do in order to have a book or something, another knock sounds at your door. You open it eagerly - an escort stands in the hall, four elves, to take you to the king. You are simultaneously glad for something to do and nervous about what is to come.

You are taken down the same path as before, just as winding and confusing as it had been. The king is in a similar state as yesterday when you enter the hall, turned away from you, his hands crossed behind his back. Unlike yesterday, he turns as soon as he hears you enter with your escort, gracefully stepping down from his dais to meet you in the center platform.

He greets you with your name, and for some reason, you are glad he remembered. (Though he certainly should, being your soulmate.)

“Or are you?” He adds, and your nerves return. You are not sure how you are so anxious about this - you know for a fact that you are not lying, but he unsettles you anyway.

He dismisses your escort with a wave of his hand. They bow and exit, leaving you two alone in the hall. Thranduil moves to stand in front of you, at a polite distance examining you with eyes that are less harsh than before. 

“I realize this is impolite to ask of you. If there were another way, I assure you I would use it. But please, I must know. And therefore you must show me.”

You had been thinking about this too, to be honest. You hadn’t been able to think of a way around it either. Embarrassing as it may be, it is only your stomach, you remind yourself. You may not even have been so embarrassed were you not in the hall of the king - here, it feels like going to court in a crop top. Even if you are in the hall of a king, though, the king himself is asking you to. Somewhat awkwardly, you take the hem of your shirt and lift it enough to bear your mark.

Thranduil’s eyes widen in wonder - he seems to lose the weight of some stressor off his shoulders as he exhales softly. You watch Thranduil’s hand move as if to touch it, before remembering himself and pulling back. Gently, he takes the hem of your shirt in his fingers and lowers it so you are clothed once more. Suddenly, you are very close. If you leaned forward, you could kiss him.

He reaches his right hand forward, tugging his sleeve up on his arm. Your eyes widen as you see it - your name, in your writing, scrawled over the inside of his wrist in a color that reminds you of you. You take his hand in your own, tilting it so you can see the mark more clearly. He grins, following the motion you pull him into. He ends up standing next to you, just so you can see your name written right-side up.

“I want to know everything about you,” he whispers in your ear. Your back is pressed against part of his shoulder. The contact is driving you crazy. He raises his hand to brush over your cheek, fixing your hair. How you have a soulmate as alluring as this, you have no idea. He holds you like you are the first thing he has ever touched, and the last thing he ever will. He seems to have forgotten how to speak, so you speak for him.

“What do you want to know?” You ask, your voice as quiet as his. You twist into his touch until you are facing him again. His eyes flicker to your lips, sending a shiver through you. He looks as though he could and would consume you gently, patiently. Perhaps he is. His hand moves to brush your chin with his thumb as he considers the question.

“How did you come to be here?” He wonders aloud. “What brought you to the Greenwood?”

You tell him. You tell him everything. To your surprise, he believes you, even as you tell him of your fall into this world. He tells you things about Middle Earth, explaining all you have seen and not understood. He asks you things of your past, and he shares his own with you. He asks you things about yourself - you would never have guessed a king would ask you your favorite color, but here you are.

You end up spending hours in the hall, sharing your time with your new soulmate. He is softer than he was when you first met him, you learn, much softer. He is intelligent and dedicated to his people. He was shy as a child, he informs you, and tells you much besides. When the night begins to grow dark, the open ceiling above you filling with darkness and stars, he tells you something else.

“You are welcome to stay here, of course,” He says, briefly glancing up at the darkening sky. “For as long as you desire it. I will have the servants move you into better quarters.”

“If I want to stay forever?” You ask. His eyes light with a smile.

If the journey was difficult, the war was unspeakable. Unthinkable, even, yet you had been forced to think of it every hour of every day since it ended. Life had gotten worse and worse as you made it to Erebor when it was supposed to get better. You had all suffered through Thorin's gold-sickness, and with battle had come more wounds. Fíli was badly injured. Thorin was worse. With the king and his next-in-line out of commission, the throne fell to Kíli. With the suffering of his uncle and brother on his shoulders and little idea of how to run a kingdom, there was an unspoken agreement throughout the company that your next quest would start with helping Kíli rebuild Erebor, to hold the crown and deal with the consequence of war.

Balin had been the one to find the loophole. Simply put, you, as Thorin's one, had the legal right to the title of acting regent - this would split the responsibility of the crown between you and Kíli. You had not hesitated. You knew you were going to pursue this. You were going to rule by Thorin's side one day. This is more than your right- it's your destiny. You're needed by your people.

You were not greeted with great hope, but great suspicion. The loophole that gave you your title was put under intense scrutiny by Dain's men. You had needed to fill out files of paperwork, Balin had needed to add clauses to the agreement you'd signed at the beginning of your journey, giving you rights to land, citizenship in Erebor. You'd gotten the sense that bit wasn't entirely legal, from the wink Balin had sent your way as he'd done it.

Then they'd asked for braids.

According to dwarven custom, to gain your position as acting regent, you needed two sets of braids - firstly, courting braids, which (thankfully) were allowed to be beadless until Thorin chose to craft them. Secondly, you needed royal braids, with royal clasps. There had been a lot of complicated rules about the beads that you couldn’t really follow, but from what you gathered, someone already of royal blood would have to forge the clasps. Kíli, as third in line for the throne, had been allowed to make both his own and yours. The clasps are gold, emblazoned with matching runes that mark you as royalty of Erebor. There had been a braiding ceremony where the braids had been tied at your temple, the clasps fastened at the ends. You had both been allowed to choose any dwarf to perform the ceremony, except, notably, the two who could not be here. Kíli had asked Balin, leaving you to choose from the rest.

Suffice to say, though your company did their best to make the ceremony a happy one, the effort had fallen flat, the absence of your loved ones all too clear.

And thus, you and Kíli had split the weight of the crown between you as acting regents, doing all you could to help Erebor, and delegating the remainder of your tasks to the rest of the company. It is, quite possibly, one of the most difficult things you have ever had to do.

After a few rigorous weeks of proving yourself as regent, you'd been able to truly set out to fix the damage done in the war and by Thorin himself. By the third week, Fíli is awake and capable of talking, walking short distances. Soon, he too would be able to take the title of acting regent.

Which leaves only one.

The kingdom needs its crown, and you . . . you just need your love. The company had been a family to you, and you appreciated the way Bilbo would make you tea and offer you lunch, or how Balin took the time to guide you in both matters of state and personal life. You and Kíli had spent more time together in the recent days than you had during the entirety of your journey, and yet . . . and yet.

There is a hole in your life that takes the shape of Thorin. You miss him, though he's not even gone - just resting.

You had visited him, more than once, when you had the time. Though bruised and injured, he had been peaceful in his rest. He ran warm when you laid your hand over his cheek. His beard had grown with time, his cheeks gaunt with hunger and fatigue. Months ago, his eyes had been dark with gold-sickness. You cringe to even remember the man he was then. Certainly not your Thorin. None of you knew why, but he had returned to his sanity after his near-death. Yet still, his eyes are shadowed with something heavy.

So are yours. You wonder which one of you is more tired. Thorin, probably. (You, at least, don’t have a hole in your chest.)

The weary pessimism of your thoughts had sent you crumbling over the edge of stress. You had cried into Thorin’s shoulder, hoping so badly that he would wake and run a hand through your hair, say something. He had not moved, as still as a corpse. It had been Dwalin, ever vigilant at Thorin’s side, who had put a hand on your shoulder.

A smile breaks your face as you remember the way he had awkwardly offered to fetch you water.

So yes, you had family, and a gaping hole in it as well, for the absence of Thorin had sent the entire company, the entire kingdom, even, scrambling for purchase.

Almost two months after the war now, and you had still not seen Thorin awake. He had woken, but you had never been able to get there in time to see him. More than once, someone had run to wherever you were to try and fetch you in time. The residents of Erebor had gotten used to seeing you run through the halls toward the Royal Chambers. It is possibly the one thing that you think they will always forgive you for - after all, nothing is more valued now than the bond between Ones (between family).

Even with so many failures, you do not tire of this routine - hope keeps you running fast as you burst through the door into Thorin's chambers for the fourth time in as many days. They had been calling you more and more often - he was getting better, they said, and you hope -

The sound of Thorin's voice, rough with disuse, calls your name. Your heart nearly rips itself in half. There he is, looking at you like he had missed you just as much as you had missed him, even in unconsciousness.

"Thorin!"

“Ghivashel,” he rasps softly, smiling as you rush over to him.

You can’t embrace him with the force you want to, not with his wounds, so that energy stays trapped inside you as you kneel by his bedside, taking his hand gently in your own. He lifts his hand from your grasp to run his fingers over the royal braid at your temple.

“You have a royal braid,” He observes. You lean your cheek into his hand laughing through your tears.

“I have a title. Acting regent,” You tell him. He uses his thumb to wipe away your tears before the fatigue clearly catches up to him and he drops his hand back to hold your own.

“I would expect no less of you, lukhudel.” Light of all lights, you translate, and he gazes at you as though you are the very same, like his very one sun. You are sure the same warmth shines through your eyes too. You faintly hear the door close as Balin and Dwalin leave you alone with your lover.

“You look tired,” He tells you, and it is so like him to have worry in his eyes about the state of you as he lies on what very well may have been his death bed that you can’t help but laugh. “Please don’t cry.”

“Don’t get hurt again and I won’t cry.”

“I will do my best, amrâlimê. I swear it.” The intensity of his promise makes you giggle again. It’s just so him. The absence in your heart is suddenly full and familiar.

You are both silent for a few moments as you continue to cry, releasing stress that had been gathering in you since the end of the battle. Before, even. Perhaps the same time you had started seeing symptoms of gold sickness on your love. Thorin seems to gather some strength once more, raising his hand to wipe away your tears again.

“You’re tired,” Thorin repeats. “Come lay with me, love.”

Very carefully, you lift yourself to lay by his side, doing your absolute best not to shake his injuries. Whether you have hurt him or not, he does not say a word, merely pulling you closer, burying a hand in your hair with a desperation that shows how much he cares for you. He buries his nose in your hair and sighs, inhaling and exhaling slowly.

“I have missed you,” he says into your hair. You bury your nose into the crook of his shoulder, breathing him in. He doesn’t smell great, but that’s the least of your concerns right now.

“When was the last time we had a real conversation?” You ask. Even before the battle, you had spoken to a ghost more often than not, a shadow of your love who craved only gold and none of you.

“I don’t know,” He replies as you can hear the regret in his voice. Before he can open his mouth and start spouting unnecessary apologies, you raise your head and put a finger to his lips, shushing him.

“It was not you.” He attempts to say something, so you simply push your finger against his mouth again, prompting him to close his lips.

“It was not you and I will convince you of that,” you continue, “but not today. . . please.”

Thorin’s gaze softens, and he shifts your hand so he can kiss your palm, then takes your hand in his own.

“You are stubborn, I’ll give you that,” he says, fully aware that you will insist until he is old and gray if you must. Your hand suddenly shifts in his grasp, running over his hair. You feel something, suddenly. A small bump in the strands.

“Did you do something different with your hair?” You ask, curious and confused. Surely he wouldn’t have had the time in his sickbed, but you had felt a bead in his hair that hadn’t been there, though you can't find it again with only your touch. You lift up to look as Thorin directs your grasp to a row of three beads - new ones, which you don’t recognize.

“Victory beads,” he tells you. “ For taking back Erebor, surviving the battle, and . . . resisting the sickness.” He spits that word like acid in his mouth. “Balin insisted.”

“Balin is right. You were strong for all of those. And they look beautiful.” They do. They are well crafted, not simple wooden beads, but beads of metal, runed and dyed in different shades of silver. More than that, they’re beautiful because they’re Thorin’s, Thorin’s victories in Thorin’s hair.

“What have I done to deserve you?”

“More than enough, Thorin.”

He sighs, far too tired to argue with you, though it’s clear his self-confidence is lacking. You will need to work on that. You will have time to.

You spend the rest of the few minutes that he is awake curled to his chest, trading little notions of love until he passes out again.

---

Time heals all wounds. By the next month, Fíli is inducted as regent, the third and final until Thorin’s return. Thorin himself is healing too. He can stand, now, and walk. Still, he’s not supposed to go far, so you’re quite surprised when you get a missive calling you to the forges, at your leisure.

He greets you with your name as you enter, and you echo his, curious as to why he has summoned you down here.

“I wasn’t aware you were allowed out yet,” you say in a teasing tone, and he offers a huff of laughter.

“Oin agreed to make an exception,” Thorin replies, and he turns to take something from behind him - it’s a small rock of gold ore, and all of a sudden it makes sense.

“Courting beads,” You say quietly, smiling softly.

“I would be honored . . .” Thorin says, handing the ore to you with a matching smile, “If you would assist me in forging a gift of my affection for my beloved.”

You take the ore from his hands, then meet his eyes.

“Only if you would honor me by doing the same, my love.”

---

Thorin clearly knows what he’s doing, and though his injury adds a level of difficulty, he guides you well as you forge your beads together, first forming a square of metal with a hole through the center, and then emblazoning the bead with runes - on one side, the mark of courting and love, and the other, a rune that represents something that makes you love each other. You help Thorin emblazon your beads with the runes for kindness and strength, and he helps you emblazon his with whichever virtues you choose.

Hours later, your poor injured beau is far more exhausted than you would like him to be, but you have four beautiful courting beads, handmade, ready to braid into each other’s hair.

“Let’s get you back to bed, love,” you tell him, gently guiding him toward the door. He groans loudly, exasperated at the idea of houserest, and your answering laugh echoes throughout the forge.

---

Despite his irritation, it’s clear that by the time Thorin returns to his room, he is in dire need of rest. You’ve waited for your beads more than long enough to wait a little more, so you gently kiss his forehead, intending on leaving him to sleep. Instead, he pulls you forward, insisting that you’ve slept apart for long enough. No amount of worrying over accidentally harming his injuries will sway him, and eventually, you find you are doomed to the terrible fate of spending the night cuddling with your beloved.

You do not wake in the middle of the night due to any pained grunts from him, so you take it as a sign that you hadn’t accidentally punched his wound in your sleep or something. Instead, you wake to a gently snoring Thorin, his arm wrapped around you, holding you close, his face tucked into you, hidden amongst all the hair. He doesn’t even shift as you wake, clearly exhausted from yesterday. He doesn’t loosen his grasp to allow you to go, and you aren’t sure you would even want to with the aura of absolute comfort he is exuding.

Some amount of time later, perhaps minutes or perhaps closer to an hour, Thorin finally stirs, a sleepy noise emanating into your chest where his face is still buried.

“Morning,” You greet quietly, smiling gently. A few seconds pass then Thorin stretches, a long groan escaping from him as his injured muscles pull. He rolls onto his back so you can actually see his face, though still buried in strands of hair. You take it upon yourself to guide the hair out of his face. He finally opens his eyes, blinking blearily up at you.

“Good morning,” He says, his voice deep and rough. You kiss him gently. His mouth lazily accepts your own. When you part, he looks a little more conscious, blue eyes shining up at you.

“. . . You look lovely in the morning,” He tells you. It catches you off guard and leads a blush to your cheeks.

“Thank you. But I’m not sure it beats my view.”

He smiles gently at your comment, bringing a hand around the back of your neck to pull you down and kiss you again. As you part, his hand stays in your hair, gently caressing.

“May I braid your hair, amrâlimê?”

“I thought you would never ask.”

You carefully help Thorin out of bed - he would never tell, but his injury is most sore in the mornings. He shifts to sit at the edge of your mattress as you bring over the box in which you’d stored your courting beads. You sit next to him and quietly admire the beads while Thorin seems to do the same.

“I do not want to touch gold ever again,” Thorin says in that voice he uses that makes him sound like he is making a promise on the very worth of his soul.

“But you, kidhuzurâl,” Golden one, you think, and he reaches out to gently brush a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Ghivashel.” He adds, treasure of all treasures. His hand lies on your cheek, his eyes lost in yours, and you know this is a promise he will carry to the Halls of Mandos and beyond.

“You, I would have with me forever.”

You really can’t help but kiss him after that declaration, and he can’t help but chuckle as you do so, smiling into the press of your lips.

“Who first, amrâlimê?” He asks. You take his beads into your hands in answer. He sets the box aside, shifting so that you have full access to his hair.

You brush it first. His hair would be immensely unruly if it were not so well taken care of - the waves become tangles overnight, you have learned, and you must brush the ends first, then carry on towards the roots. Thorin hums as you begin the process, always pleased to have your hands in his hair. More than once you have to shift to continue this steady process due to Thorin, calmed and warmed by your presence, continually trying to lean his weight towards you, to move closer. You’re not sure he’s doing it on purpose, even.

By the time his hair is properly untangled, the occasional humming in his chest has shifted to a song that you are unfamiliar with, something soft and dreamlike. He is thinking, you gather. You begin to part his hair into the proper parts to begin his braids when he speaks up.

“Do you love me, ghivashel?” He asks, with the confidence of someone who knows the answer.

“Yes,” You answer.

“Would you spend the rest of your life with me, given the chance?” Less confident, and more of a question, but you are quick to assure him.

“Of course, my love.”

“When we wake in the morning,” You have to tilt his head back into position - he’d started leaning his weight into you again, and this time you catch the glimpse of a smile on his face as you do so.

“Every morning,” He clarifies, and you wonder what he is building towards.

“Obviously,” You agree, and now you can’t resist a smile of your own.

“Will you braid my hair?”

You dissolve into giggles, nearly losing your place in his braids as he tilts his head to try and look at you.

“What?” He asks, grinning. “I am serious, darling.”

“Of course you are. You’re like a grumpy old cat. Hissing at everyone until someone nice decides to come along and pet you.”

His expression falls into a disapproving glare, and if you didn’t know him better, you might think he was actually upset, but the slight upward tilt to his lips is telling.

“You are!” You defend, laughter still evident in your voice. “Turn back around, I’ve got to finish the braid!”

He hums and shifts back to where he was. He’s never calmer than he is with his braids in your hands, and you gather that the special occasion is making him even softer than usual.

“You’re so much softer on the inside,” You say. You get no verbal reply, but a warm hand lands on your knee, offering a gentle squeeze.

In no time at all, Thorin’s braids, royal and other are all complete, and all that’s left are the courting braids.

You take the first bead, thinking about the virtue you’ve written in gold as you braid it into Thorin’s hair. This was the first thing, you think, the thing that drew you in. As you braid in the second bead, you think about that too. This virtue is what kept you, what will keep you, come what may. There are so many virtues that you love of Thorin, but these . . . well, they’re forged now. Permanent marks of history. Centuries from this day, people will look at these beads, ancient marks of the old dwarven kingdom, and people will remember Thorin, its king, and you, the one who loved him.

The emotion of it all nearly overwhelms you and you have to pause.

It doesn’t take long for Thorin to notice your hesitation. He calls your name gently, tilting his head as if to hear your reply better.

“Is something wrong?” He asks, and you shake your head before remembering that he can’t see you.

“No, Thorin. I’m just thinking about . . . how people will remember us. Our love is written in stone, now,” You laugh a little as you finish the braid. Thorin waits for you to be done, then turns to face you fully, a unique sort of emotion in his eyes, echoing yours. He kisses you deeply, his tongue licking into your mouth, and you’re overwhelmed with the taste of him. Both of you are breathing heavily as you part, though Thorin barely pulls away, keeping his forehead titled to yours in a dwarven sign of affection, your breath intermingled. You don’t need to say anything at all. You both feel it.

You hover there for a minute, two, until eventually, Thorin mutters - “Your turn.”

You twist in his arms, and in no time at all, Thorin is gently running a brush through your hair, detangling knots with the sort of care that any who only just met him would never expect, but you’ve come to know well. He’s tough, your Thorin, but he could never be gentler with you.

Soon enough, his hands are in your hair instead, and all of a sudden you realize why he kept leaning his weight into you. The gentle sensation makes you want to curl up in his arms, and you find yourself struggling to resist the urge just as much as he had, if not more.

“Thorin?”

“Yes, _____?”

“Remember that question I just made fun of you for?”

Thorin ducks forward to bury his laugh in your hair, gently nuzzling against you while he’s there.

“Hypocrite,” He lovingly accuses, offering a kiss to the top of your head. “I’ll braid your hair whenever you like.” You smile and echo his previous maneuver by putting a hand on his knee and giving it a gentle squeeze.

His skill with braiding is better than yours, and he has your royal braids done in no time at all, moving to the courting beads. He lifts the one marked ‘kindness’ first, braiding it into the left side of your hair, whilst the ‘strength’ rune is braided on your right. He joins both braids in the middle, giving you a crown much softer than the one you will bear for the kingdom.

The silence hovers as you both sink into the full reality of what it means for you, for the kingdom, for forever.

You tilt your head to look back at him just as Thorin leans in to plant a kiss on your cheek, leaving him to halt instinctively mere centimeters from your lips. A quarter of a moment later, he smiles and tilts forward to offer the kiss anyway, brushing your lips together softly, sweetly.

“I am glad I still have you, Thorin.”

“You will have me forever, ____.”

“I’d better.”

“I’m on my way, just let me get a snack, mami!” Camilo skips into your temporary bedroom, noticing you passed out on the counter, and absolutely ignoring you as he grabs an apple from the fruit bowl that Julieta always has out on the counter. It’s only on his second pass by you, apple halfway in his mouth that he slows down to actually look at you.

You look . . . dead. Your hair is mussed, the way you’re sprawled on the table makes it seem like you kinda . . . collapsed.

A short thrill of anxiety rushes through Camilo’s chest as he drops his apple to his side, moving forward to poke your arm.

He softly whispers your name, giving you about ⅓ of a second to respond before he says it louder, more insistent. Suddenly he’s hopping in place anxiously, looking around the kitchen as though he’ll figure out what to do in the tiling. He’s got to get tía Julieta, right? But she’s out of earshot, so he’s just gotta . . .

He shifts into the strongest person in town he can think of - Luisa, of course - and abruptly sweeps you out of your chair.

You wake with a yelp.

Camilo yelps too, shifting into at least three different people in surprise, though you only catch Agustín, because the changing heights and sizes in bumping you around in his arms like nobody’s business. You’re surprised you didn’t fall.

“Camilo!” You accuse, absolutely flustered. “What are you doing?!”

“____! You’re okay!”

“Of course, I’m- okay, what?”

“I thought you were dying or something,” Camilo says, chuckling and curse him for already having recovered from the surprise. He sets you back on your feet. “You were all passed out like blergh and tía Julieta is across town so I thought I would carry you there!”

“Why didn’t you just call Dolores?”

“Didn’t think of that.” Camilo shrugs, taking a bite out of his apple. “Sorry for waking you.”

You hear Pepa shout from outside.

“Coming, mami!”

“Camilo!” 

“Eh?” Camilo slides to a stop from where he’d started jogging for the door.

“You just scared the crap out of me!” You accuse.

“I said I was sorry.” Another shrug and he’s out the door, leaving you flustering over some kind of response, which quickly devolves into a huff. This family moves faster than lightning, for real. Before you can consider returning to work, the tiles under your feet raise up in a wave that knocks you off your feet and back into your chair (“Oof!”) The table does a little jump that somehow manages to send the tablecloth into the air so it floats down over top of you like a little blanket. Casita clearly wants you to get some rest.

“Gracias, casita,” You sigh, wondering how long it will take before you get woken up. Your question is answered just as you cross your arms, curling back up to finish your nap. Camilo runs back into the kitchen, sliding a pillow beneath your head, giving you very little time to react. He’s already back at the door by the time you look up.

“Buenas noches!” Camilo waves his apple at you, winks, and disappears behind the doorway.

You’ve started wearing more layers to make up for it. A few days ago, you’d received a gift - well-made, warm woolen clothing, well suited to your form. They’re nothing too fancy, but you can tell there was Dwarven skill involved.

The interesting thing is that there hadn’t been a name attached. They’d simply been left in front of your door at night.

After the journey you’ve been through, you’re almost inclined not to take the clothes, purely out of suspicion, but they’re nice and warm and clothes, what could possibly be dangerous about clothes?

So you aren’t shivering your way around the palace now, but your fingers are still cold (ungloved) as you make your way back towards your room at the end of the day. It had certainly been better but you find yourself missing the days when you could feel the warmth of the sun on your skin as you traveled with the Company.

Hell, you sort of just missed traveling with the Company. It’s good, to make Erebor a home again, but there are so many lost moments. The Company is spread to the winds, all throughout the mountain. Some days you don’t see any of them. Some of the Company you haven’t seen at all for at least a week. It’s just so different from when you were all piled up together in bedrolls, curled around a single fire. Being able to hear the others breathe, or even snore, as you fell asleep. Curling closer to someone and pretending it’s mere coincidence, but you’d actually been seeking more warmth. When others from the Company would do the same to you, and you wordlessly pretended not to notice.

Gosh, you miss cuddles. You weren’t even cuddling really, it’s not like you spooned anyone, but it was sharing space, and it was warm. You could seriously go for some warmth right about now.

You walk straight into a dwarf.

You abruptly apologize, struggling to get your brain back in your head and out of your thoughts, but when you realize who you ran into, your mind flies out the window.

It’s Thorin. The King, the man you miss most after all this. The one who’s given the most time to the kingdom, and lost all the moments he’d spent with you. It aches, how much you want to just sit beside him again, sharing space, sharing warmth.

“My apologies,” he says, then glances down. “You have new clothes,” You’d kind of been wondering if they had been from him, but apparently not. Or maybe he’s just pretending he didn’t send them? Regardless, it’s nice to hear his voice.

“Yes,” you reply. “They were a gift.”

“Do they fit you well?” He asks, and that’s the sort of thing someone would say if they bought you the gift, so now you think he might be lying, but you can’t be sure.

“They do. Very well. They’re warm.”

“Good.”

You both fall into a silence that may or may not be awkward, but the halls of Erebor suddenly feel colder as you realize the distance that has grown between you. You pull your coat around yourself, tucking your hands under your arms. Maybe you ought to move and not just stand here, but you would rather stay with Thorin, even if it’s awkward and cold.

“I’ve missed . . .” Thorin’s voice nearly startles you after the silence you’d fallen into, and you look back at him to find him staring at the wall, the same intense gaze he always has, as though he’s looking straight through the structure and into something else. 

“ . . . our travels,” he says, and that gaze falls onto you, seeing through you like it always does, setting you alight.

“I miss sleeping together,” you say before you can even process what you’ve said. Thorin raised an eyebrow - your embarrassment suddenly piques.

“I mean,” you rush to explain, “Not like that, obviously. It’s just . . . It’s cold. In Erebor. And it was always stuffed and maybe a little too familiar while we were traveling, but it was always warm.” 

You decide to leave out the part where Erebor feels lonelier too, though, from the way Thorin’s gaze has softened, you’d guess he feels it too.

You expect Thorin to say something along the lines of ‘I’ll get a fireplace built in your room’ because that’s what he does now, as king. He’s kind, and devoted, as always, but he’s distant. Busy.

“Stay with me,” he says.

What?

“What?”

“Stay with me,” he repeats. “ . . .You are by no means required to. I would think no lesser of you if you did not, and I will not ask anything of you that you do not desire to give.” To your surprise, he takes your hands in his own. His grip is different, you think. He has a strong grip, he always has. Most of the time when he’d held you on your journey, it had been to pull you out of harm’s way, so yes, a strong grip, maybe even a little desperate, even. Now, though, his hold is gentle. His thumb runs circles in your palm as though he’d forgotten what it felt like.

“Stay with me,” He repeats, emphasizes, and you realize he might as well be begging. He wants this as much as you do.

“Of course,” you say. Of course.

He loses tension in his posture as you reply. 

“I had thought the clothing would solve the problem,” he admits, his voice lost in a little chuckle. “I saw you shivering.”

So that had been him.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

He pulls you, gently, more of a suggestion, really, towards his quarters. You follow. Suddenly, you’re walking down the halls of Erebor, holding hands with the King.

Not the king. Thorin. You can see the crown in his posture even when he isn’t wearing it, but today, he looks like the man you followed across half of Middle-earth. His hands are calloused, but he holds yours gently.

You start to talk, mindlessly, about your adventure. About all of the things you miss, and moments you had along the way. You’d missed his laugh. (He’d missed yours.)

By the time you reach his room, your fingers don’t feel stiff anymore. Thorin’s warmed them with his hands, and now you’re in front of the king’s quarters, and minutes ago, he’d asked you to cuddle.

Thorin simply nods to his guards and they close the door behind the both of you. You’re alone.

“I’ve missed -” You’ve both started talking at the same time. You’d both said the same thing.

“-You,” you finish.

“I’ve missed you,” He says, the corner of his mouth twitching into a hint of a smile. The words send flutters through your chest. He turns to face you, takes your hands in his own again, looking down at where he holds them. 

“I wish I was not so needed as king. If Erebor were not being rebuilt, if the elves had gone, if I had more time . . .” He raises your hand to his lips and kisses your knuckles. “ . . . I would give you the attention you deserve. I would spend all my days with you.”

The way his lips hover over your knuckles makes it easier to unfurl your hand, to bring your fingers to his face and brush them over his cheek. It’s stubbled and unfamiliar. He tilts his head into your touch, looking at you a though you’ve just taken his breath away. Perhaps you have.

“Stay with me tonight,” you offer when you’ve regained control of your voice.

He does not answer but turns his head to kiss your palm, and that may as well have been a ‘yes, please’. He proves it twice by laying his hand over your own, sliding it from your cheek, and pulling you towards his bed. You’re giggling all of a sudden, and he’s smiling. At you. 

“I don’t have anything to sleep in,” you tell him.

“You may borrow something from me,” he tells you. He turns away, for the first time since you’ve entered his quarters, to go into his closet. He gathers something for you to sleep in, hands it over. You find yourself pleased as he unceremoniously chucks off his shirt. He’d done this more than once, during your travels, and it had sent you into a tizzy every time. It does so now, but more than that you’re just pleased to have him back.

“What?” he asks, and you realize you’ve been staring at his bare back. “Do I have something . . . ?” He turns as though he should check, though he clearly can’t see his own back, and you laugh.

“No, no, I was thinking. Sorry,” you apologize, turning around so you can get dressed too. You know you can trust him to stay on his side and not look.

You get dressed in silence. The quiet feels more peaceful than it has in months.

Thorin’s clothes are made of warm, heavy wool, and they smell like him. You’re wondering if you can somehow manage to steal the sweater he’s given you by the time you turn around. Thorin is already finished dressing, and he is staring politely at his own bed, giving you privacy just as you’d known he would. You clear your throat, and he turns around.

You watch him get caught on the image of you in his clothes. (You are pretty sure you can find a way to keep this sweater if he’s going to look at you like that while you wear it.)

He clears his own throat, averting his gaze as though he’d forgotten he was staring.

“If you can’t even look at me, then this cuddling thing is going to be difficult.”

Thorin chuckles, his gaze still averted for a moment more before he looks back to you. He’s still smiling. (You haven’t seen him smile so much in so long.)

“Come here,” Thorin says, followed by your name. He might say words like ‘love’ or ‘darling’ with the same tone of voice. He holds a hand out to you - you take it. He falls backward onto his bed and takes you with him, letting you roll to lay by his side. The brief moment that you’d been directly on top of his chest was nice, you think, so you arrange yourself to be there again. Thorin happily allows you to sprawl directly on top of him - encourages it, even, pulling you closer with an arm around your waist, nudging a foot in between yours to tangle your legs together.

All of a sudden, you’re surrounded by a warm dwarf, clothed in soft wool, and - hey, Thorin just grabbed the blankets and pulled it over the two of you, so now you are fully cocooned. You snuggle further into the warm spot you’ve made for yourself on top of the king of Erebor. Thorin hums, pleased, and you feel the rumble in his chest. Hesitantly, his fingers brush your hair, and when you don’t stop him, he starts to stroke, far gentler than you would ever imagine he would be capable of.

You hadn’t realized your muscles were so tense, but they relax as you melt into him. Thorin seems to be melting a little bit too, his breaths drawing longer and slower as he relaxes as well.

You’re both silent for a few minutes. Each of you shifts a few times, adjusting to cuddling, and eventually, you find yourselves perfectly fit together, warm and content.

“What does this mean for us?” You hear him whisper, his voice rough, his hands having moved from your hair to gently massage your shoulders. It’s a big question. You consider it.

“What do you want it to mean?” Your voice loose with the pleasure of the massage that Thorin is apparently way too good at giving.

He stiffens, just slightly, at the idea of having to speak first, to risk rejection. He exhales slowly.

“I am fond of you,” He admits, and his hand moves to gently brush over your cheek. “ . . . I should like to do this more often.”

“I’m agreeable to that.”

He hums, pleased once more. His hands keep shifting from your hair to your shoulders, anywhere he can touch, as if he can’t seem to get enough. You shift your head so you can look up at him, relaxed and sleepy.

“I’m tired,” You admit, and Thorin smiles. He had noticed. (You are sprawled across his lap with muscles the consistency of soft butter).

“Rest, amrâlimê. We can discuss in the morning.”

“Only if you do too,” You insist. You can tell he’s been exhausted with his duties. Even half-asleep, you would not let him exert himself.

“I could not be anything but content with you.” There he goes again, saying your name like it’s a prayer. You like hearing it, you’ve decided. Your eyelids start to droop and you nuzzle into his chest. He hums again. You like that, too.