A/N: Are they kidding me with this word?! :)
Polyphiloprogenitive, adjective
Extremely prolific; producing offspring, young, fruit, etc., abundantly.
The King's lips are sliding on the back of your neck, you feel the touch of the hot tongue to your nape and shiver. The beard tickles you and after so many years you recognise the sensation as the sign that he is smiling into your skin. His hand picks up the braids from your back and tosses them gently aside. You are stretched on the bed on your stomach, and he is half covering you with his weight. Supporting himself on his elbow, he presses you down with his bent leg, the palm of his other hand stroking your buttocks.
He is kissing behind your ear, his intentions quite clear. "Thorin…" He hums to show that he is listening, busy bunching up your skirt. "We need to talk about some pressing matter." "Can't it wait?" You feel his scorching palm on the naked skin of your thigh below the drawers. "I am very sorry, my King, but no," you twist out of the entrapment of his extremities and sit on your knees in front of him. He drops his head back on the bed with a groan. And then peeks from a corner of his eye to see if you are overwhelmed with compassion towards him. You lift a brow.
He sighs and sits up. "I do realize since this matter seems to distract you from you favorite pastime, my Queen, it must be of great importance." Oh, the nerve in this Dwarf! On the other hand, he is right. And that is exactly what got you into this aggravation in the first place.
You look at your hands. He is waiting and a tender smile is playing on his lips. He is such a beautiful man. The years spent with him do not seem to dull your appreciation for the King's appearance and allure. In the recent years the silver in his mane and beard is more prominent, he is reaching the second decade of his third century, but you predict him to have an exceptionally long life for a Dwarf. He is virile, ample and spirited. And endlessly appetizing.
He picks up a strand of your hair and twists it around is finger. "How does it happen that your hair is the same colour that the day we met?" You are surprised by his seeming ability to read your thoughts. Years of marriage tend to bear unexpected fruit. "All the silver is concealed at the bottom, my Lord." You pick up the mass of your hair and lift it. And indeed, there is plenty of sterling hiding in there. He pushes you into the sheets. "Nonsense, you look exactly the same as that quarrelsome healer I found sneaking around my halls." "I was lost!" He lowers his lips to your ear and murmurs, "I didn't believe you then, and do not believe you now. You were looking for me."
You laugh and suddenly wrap your legs around him. For the next few minutes it is all lips caressing and hands stroking. You feel the King getting impatient and you have to halt him. "Thorin, we still have not discussed the matters we need to attend to." He is kissing your collarbone. "Hurry up then, my Queen. I am starved," his tone is suggestive. "Your hunger, my Lord, is what got us into this predicament. Again."
He manages to place two more short kisses on your skin before the understanding comes. He freezes and then slowly lifts his eyes at you. You are waiting for a reaction. He blinks, then again, opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. He coughs and tries again, "How?" His voice is raspy.
"I would assume by now you should know, my Lord." "You are still nursing!" After being in this situation thrice, the King is rather knowledgeable in the matter. "It happens." "You are over four decades old!" "Are you reminding a woman of her age, my Lord?" Your tone is haughty. "Dwarves do not have more than two children!" "Well, you have already exceeded the expectations with the previous one."
He sits up and presses his palm to his forehead. You start chuckling. The gesture is melodramatic and unbecoming a proud Dwarven warrior, but amusingly familiar. That is how the news were met the very first time. You know what follows. A prolonged stupour, with occasional blinking and then overbearing but still endearing protectiveness and meddling in all your affairs, including what you eat and where you are allowed to go till the joyous day.
The King sighs and lowers his head in acceptance. "A boy?" His tone is still bewildered but hopeful. "Yes," you smile. He smiles back. Then he pulls you closer and kisses you passionately. "Let us hope for one thing, my Queen." "Which is?.." "That this one will not be moving his cot around the room with his magic." As they say, hope for the best, but prepare for the worst.
A THOUGHT FOR TODAY:
In a library we are surrounded by many hundreds of dear friends imprisoned by an enchanter in paper and leathern boxes.
-Ralph Waldo Emerson, writer and philosopher (1803-1882)
