A/N: This one is EPILOGUE ONE (THORIN) to Faire and Square. It is here, surprise!... For rating considerations :P It has part two, but after this one I'm planning to post the one for Frerin. Keep an eye for it :D

Thorin drags her out of the cab, she is giggling, and considering the speed with which he rushes through the lobby of the hotel, the concierge manages only 'goo' out of his 'good evening, sir, welcome to Four Seasons.' Wren has given up on walking, she feels like she is parasailing into the room, and here we are!

He pushes her inside and kicks the door closed after him. He is breathing like after that very first fight at the Faire, the sternocostal and clavicular parts of his pectoralis major are pushing at his shirt from inside, and seriously, she is in danger of the buttons popping and taking her eye out. The glacial husky irises are burning, teeth are clenched, and it's almost terrifying.

Nah, she'll be fine. Let's face it, she is properly enjoying this half sane look on his clock. More so, she might be willing to add some petrol into this forest fire. She laughs throatily and makes a step back from him. He is blindly battering the handle, his eyes roaming her body, and she realises he is trying to lock the door. She lifts her right foot as if in vriksasana pose and unclasps her sandal. Battering of his large hand intensifies. She theatrically dangles the silver strappy shoe on her index finger for a mo and then throws it aside, still balancing on another foot. And then she repeats the action. The second sandal flies through the room.

"It locks automatically, love," she purrs, and he sprints ahead, she laughs again and bolts, and she can hear the low growl when instead of her he grabs empty air. She is already turning around the corner of the door between the parlour and the bedroom of the suite. She doesn't manage to give the room proper look, when the scorching hands encircle her waist, he twirls her on one spot and… bam! Jaysus, kissing him is like downing a bottle of whisky! All but one circuit in her brain shorten. The only survivour is yelling very inappropriate suggestions.

OK, Wren loves shag. She has had plenty of it. With time with the same bloke or chick it gets even better for her, she is not liberated enough to enjoy it first time properly, but it doesn't suck. Uhem… Meaning it is decent. Good. With couple exes the first time was even fun.

All that said, she has never in her life thought she'd be that girl that is so shag crazed that she'd grab the collar of a bloke's shirt and jerk, since apparently opening the buttons takes too long. And yet… His buttons fly in all possible directions, she hears one hit something to her right, with a merry 'clink,' and then suddenly she takes to air. What the...?

Oomph! Her bum meets the bed. The plonker threw her across the room and on the bed! Oh, he'll pay for this! She pushes off the mattress, and that is one of the merits of hotel beds, they are very springy, he lunges as if diving into a pool, she jumps on her feet, and his arms are once again hugging the mixture of oxygen and nitrogen. She lands couple inches away from his hands and bounces again. Another growl ensues, she is bouncing and laughing loudly.

He rolls on the bed, it is King size, even he can spread on it in comfort, and she expects to be cut down and caught, but the bloke goes for a low blow. He jerks the shirt of and grabs his belt buckle. Oh no, you are not! Not taking this pleasure from Wrennie Leary! She likes to open her presents herself!

She jumps at him, he probably doesn't even notice the thump of her body into him, god, what a beast! Rock hard too, and she means the muscles, but, nudge nudge wink wink, that too probably! She pushes him back on the bed, pressing her palms into his shoulders. He barks a short laughter.

"Doon, laddie!" She is not very good at Scottish accent, but apparently it was fine with him. He is guffawing, and picking her up under her arms he strategically deposits her on… Oh dear. No wonder her friend from Edinburgh used the word 'banger' both for what she is sitting on and fireworks. That will be quite a bang!

She splays her hands on his chest, there is no better word for what covers it than fur, and oh, she is going to enjoy every square inch of all this, but he is apparently in a hurry. Wow, the scorching palms are on her buttocks, jaysus, it's like she is being ironed by her Nana's linen smoothers, shiver runs through her spine, and then snap! Were that her knickers?! She looks down, one end of the sad looking strip of lace is between his fingers and he pulls it from under her. Firstly, it tickles her fanny. Literally. She gasps and has to lift her pelvis a bit. Secondly, what the hell?!

"That was my favourite pair, brute!" The green lacy nothing sadly flies by an arch trajectory behind him, and she narrows her eyes. "If you ruin my dress, I'll leave this hotel in your shirt. And you will have to go barechested tomorrow." Something changes in his eyes. Bugger. He might actually enjoy that show. What's with men and chicks wearing their clothes? The blue peepers, and seriously, they are mesmerising, shift down on her dress, and she squeals covering her unassuming tits with her hands. "No jerking! No!" She tries to sound authoritative, but she is shaking from laughter, and it comes out rather shrieky. He sits up, and wow, she is herself in a good shape, but the external oblique, second and third transverse lines shift, the bulging long muscles move under the tanned skin with black hair covering the chest and going down in a wide strip, and she gasps. Long massive arms go around her. But she wanted to explore!.. To touch, taste, kiss, and she wanted to run the tip of her finger along the eyebrow! She's wanted it for like three chapters!

"Love, you need to nash," he purrs into her lips, long strong fingers already unzipping her dress. Is he seriously asking her to hurry up?!

"I am a woman, you plonker, I need foreplay! Compliments! Where is the seduction part?!" She can't keep the straight face and snorts at the end. One black eyebrow crawls up, he clearly didn't buy into a single word she was saying, and he hooks the index fingers on the straps of her dress and pulls it gently down. It falls and pools around her waist. The scorching palms lie on her shoulder blades, he starts inclining her backwards, and then his lips are on her collarbones. Her head drops back, probably the last pins are falling out of her mad hair, and then he somehow shifts, from his demanding mouth and hot breath her cognitive abilities are properly impaled, and she suddenly finds herself on her back, legs spread, and he is… Oh go sábhála Dia sinn! She twists and rolls from under his mouth on her… lady parts.

"Kecks off, Durinson!" She is kneeling in front of him, his eyes are roaming her body, and she is twisting to unclasp her bra. He jerks, probably wanting to offer assistance, but she hisses at him. She wants him inside of her! Now! He smirks, falls on his back and the black trousers following her dress are tossed aside. She is disappointed. He is wearing pants. Yeah, it makes sense, he had fancy trousers on, but still… And then she is quickly not disappointed at all, because the aforementioned offending item of clothing flies after the rest of them… She forgets her bra that is still on. Yeah, that is quite a 'muckle feck' we are having in here…

Half of her pizzazz deflates in terror. No way in hell this will fit! The awe she is experiencing is probably reflected on her face, because he opens his arms, and she crawls up to him.

"I'm not complaining, don't get me wrong," she is mumbling, trying not to stare. Impossible task, as you can imagine. "But that is… alarming..." Some daft curiosity pushes her to tap it with the tip of her index finger. The imposing appendage twitches, and she squeaks somewhere deep inside. "No, seriously, I'm okay… Um… Maybe you should lie down… I might need a wee bit more control here." She keeps the thought of 'no way in hell she is letting him poke her with that on his terms' to herself.

He rolls on his back, she climbs on him again. She is rapidly sobering up from the giddiness and properly regrets she doesn't drink. A shot of 'bad choices' would be ace right now. The hands lie on her waist, and he strokes her skin with his thumbs. She meets his eyes and gives him a shaky smile. And then she plants her hands on his chest and oh god, oh god, oh god…

Somehow her barmy noggin chooses this moment to remind her of that joke that Bri told her last week. It has to do with the length of a Scotman's… kilt. If it's short, ye call 'im a laddie. If it's to the knees, he's m'lord. And if it's below the knees, ye call 'im a braggart! So, should she start addressing him 'm'lord' on regular basis now?

Also, why is she thinking about it?! There is a large, wide, hot, mind-blowing, and so very beautiful… Scot under her, she needs to concentrate. OK, where were we? Oh right. Common, Miss Fanny, you wanted it for so long, chivvy on! Just to remind herself the point of this laborious task, she rubs her sensitive parts along the length, and he closes his eyes. God, he is so beautiful… Shut up, Leary, no soppiness! Fit him in first, you can ogle him later. She quickly rolls a durex on him, she had some in her clutch, and no, she wasn't planning to end up here, and here we go.

"OK, here we go. Let's see if all that tantra yoga pays off." The blue eyes fly open, there is keen interest burning in them, and she twists her pelvis, and… Faugh a Ballagh!

Yeah, she is also a screamer. She has tried meditation, mindful breathing, and even biting into a pillow. Nothing ever works. She is so loud she suspects there were some banshees among her ancestors. His hips jump up, apparently he doesn't mind, and she sinks her nails into his sternocostal muscles.

"Don't you move!" She is hissing through her teeth, and he freezes. "I will already have to cancel my class tomorrow. Do not impale me for a week. I need a jiffy..." She is pranayama breathing through the sensation of being skewered with a massive… claymore, and he is softly stroking her hips. She opens her eyes and meets his.

"OK, I think I'm OK..." She shifts her hips, he makes a soft groaning sound. Yeah, she knows it's tight for him. What did he expect?! She sits up straight and draws a lemniscate with her hips. Her sister taught her this word, basically it's an eight. Or an infinity. Depending on the angle. The angle by the way is quite peculiar, his claymore has a curve. Wait, that wouldn't be a claymore then?

"What is the name of a curved sword?" Oh poop.

She did not just say that. Oh god, oh god, oh god. She is shagging with the bloke for the first time, his penis literally just entered her vagina for the first time, and she just asked him how they call a curved sword.

"Sabre. Or scimitar in Middle East." He is studying her face, her cheeks are burning like Bri's cast iron skillet. And did she mention, swoon? All these terms, pronounced in his voice… She'd be fawning if she wasn't panicking. OK, OK, it's not that bad. Maybe if she starts moving he'll forget this mishap.

"I blabber when I am nervous." Is that her talking? Sounds like her. Oh bugger. "And I'm very nervous right now. And now I'm more nervous because I am blabbering. And you are literally poking some back wall there, and I might come just now, and it'll be daft because we literally just started, and I have had three years of training in Maithuna, which is a ritual of sexual union, and I'm supposed to be an expert in postponing orgasm." Oh kill her now. He is listening very attentively. Yeah, from a random observer's point of view neither of them would look like they are mid-bonk for sure. Then she has another thought and rushes to reassure him, "It was a solo training! I didn't have a partner! It's a spiritual practice, purely through mind. No penetration." Yeah, she might as well just climb off his majestic cock and go jump into the rock jetty. Quick though painful death, and her tombstone will say Blame her gob.

"You are a gabby one." No shit, Sherlock. That much is obvious by now, the question is how to get out of this aggro. "And bonnie." His brushes the tips of his fingers on her stomach, and she gasps. Do you know why diamonds are so dear? Exactly, because they are rare. So are apparently his compliments. Cut through the heart no less effectively.

Oh sod it all. She grinds her hips to him, and hello, kriya nishpatti, 'mature cleansing,' when he, as Shiva, and her, as Shakti, become the one divine being, and their spiritual and physical union is consecrated. Or maybe she is just performing a proper cowgirl. It is open to interpretation, but seriously, it never felt so good! Up, up, up, and each time she is surprised that there is still some length left inside her, and with a loud wail down, his hips buck up to meet her, and Éirinn go Brách! Ireland forever!

She falls on him, every single out of 640 to 850, depending on the source you consult, muscles in her body is shaking. She is also making some mental mewling sounds, she has never heard anything of the sort before, but she has never had an orgasm like that either, and she also feels like her arms and legs have rebelled and in the independence referendum there were more aye's than no-thank-you's.

He rolls her underneath him, she might have an idiotic smile on her face, she doesn't give a shite, and he snogs all sense out of her. While she is still playing scabbard to his longsword. And the sword twitches. Blimey, does he fancy himself a Kapellmeister? She carefully shifts, listening to her muscles, there is soreness, but nothing criminal so far, and she wraps her legs around his hips. Some time ago Bri told her about an Irish brigade that fought in the Civil War, and Wren decides to use the saying on their banners, Riamh Nar Dhruid O Sbairn, as her motto. "Never retreat from the clash of spears."

He starts slowly, gradual measured roll on his hips into her, and at the apex of his movement she raspily moans, feeling the latissimus dorsi under her palms, she is pulling him into her tighter, her hands are roaming his back, and his lips close around her earlobe. She gasps, clenches him inside, and he growls. The rhythm is stable though, he is in full control of his body, no wonder, how many hours a day does he practise with his sword? Ooops, no puns intended.

It's too late, her own daft joke makes her giggle, and she tries to suppress it, but when has she ever succeeded to? He is supporting himself on his elbows and slightly shifts to look into her face. She has sunk her teeth into the bottom lip, but his calm inquisitive expression is her undoing. She snorts and feels mortified. Oh god, how does one let a bloke know that the shag is mind-blowingly good and she is not laughing at his skill?

"Um… I have puns swirling in my head… Sword and swording… And longsword… And… I'm sorry," the last phrase is a squeak, and he slightly tilts his head. He doesn't seem dischuffed though, just curious, and she exhales through rounded lips. "Please, go on." Oh why not just stuff a sock into her mouth or something?

"You are funny," he seems really chill. Is his ego that giant that a bird chin wagging while he is literally between her legs doesn't phase him out?

"I really like you." Oh sure, tell him what you think straight away, Wrennie, don't keep anything down! Seriously, the sock option is becoming increasingly more attractive. "And I want it to go well. And I'm never like this!" She is really trying to convince him here, "I mean I'm good at this! And quiet! Yes, I can keep my god shut! It's just some mental reaction..." He doesn't let her finish, warm lips press to hers, his hips rock into her, and she instinctively sinks her nails in his back. Both moan, and he starts moving. This time the thrusts are deeper and more forceful, she quickly starts lifting her pelvis off the bed to meet him, one of his knees is sliding on the sheets, he is bending his leg, so each time the angle is slightly different, and it make her wail each time, because if he has just invented it, he needs to bloody patent it! It is like you have a pet at home and every day it's a new exotic animal, like platypus or an aye-aye lemur! He is so bloody huge, and somehow his curve is a great match to her inner curve, and mamma mia!

And then his knee slides basically under her bum, pushing it up, and the overall rolling movements prop her backside higher and higher, the second knee joins, he is rising on his straight arms, smoothly and gradually, without stuttering his measured rhythm, and god, for a bloke who claims he doesn't date he surely knows what he is doing! Her legs go up and onto her shoulders, he rolls her even more, it's like he is making hosomaki, and after arranging her the way he apparently wanted, he slides his legs back straightening them, and if she is not wrong, and her cognitive activity is mighty affected at the moment, this pose is called the Snail! She is basically folded in two, he is supporting his weight on straight arms and is pounding all those ten inches plus some into her. Very considerately by the way, making sure that loud hollering she is emitting is actually the cries of pleasure and not pain in spine, not a danger with her flexibility, and also in nether regions, also not a danger, the regions have just voted for this treatment to be repeated every day, please and thank you. She has no control over the sounds she is making, but then she hears her own 'yes, yes, more, more,' apparently her subconscious, or id, or whatever it is called, basically all the layers of her consciousness are in agreement over what's happening.

She comes again, this one is met with a stream of Gaelic swears from her and a loud groan from him. Once she can think, a feeble question floats in her endorphin flooded brain how he even fits in there, she is probably cutting off his blood circulation, and then she comes again. She is so surprised that she yells, "What the hell?"

He stops. Is he bonkers?! And then she realises he is being considerate. The whole massive body is shaking from restrain, she can actually hear the teeth gritting, he opens his eyes, and asks, "Awright?" Awww, he is such a darling!

"Yes, yes, don't stop! Common! Common!" She sounds like she is cheering some competitive sport game, and he shakes his head, he apparently is a bit ticked off. Wasn't her fault! Where did the third one come from?!

He pulls his legs again, and now he is kneeling in front of her, cock still snuggly in her by the way, his hands lie on her buttocks, she is on a shoulder stand, and thank goodness for her flexibility. Which is still not the solution of all her problems, because his cock is… well, hard, and with this angle it is poking her in such an unexpected and thrilling way, that his first thrust sends her in space like Neil Armstrong could only dream of.

In case he doubts whether this battle cry was a sign of her approval, her subconsciousness decides to go all in. Which she only finds out a very long time later after, when he finally comes, growling and swearing in Scottish Gaelic, good to know she is not the only one with Shag-Tourette.

He is kneeling to the side, she pushes from his shoulders with her feet, because he might have just finished, but his sword hasn't lost its will for fight, and if this giant body falls while they are still attached, he will probably dislocate something in her pelvis. She rolls from under him, he makes a low moan like sound and falls ahead, first on his straight arms, then elbows, and then he presses his forehead into the pillows. That is a very impressive spectacle, and she is sitting on the bed staring at him. Her whole body is vibrating, she might have had orgasm number four sometime there, but she honestly can't feel some of her extremities at this stage, so she just doesn't know anymore. He doesn't seem to plan to move anytime soon, the sides and back rise in heavy ragged breaths, and she suddenly feels all mushy and enamoured, and wants to take care of the poor lambkin.

She presses knees into the bed and palms into his side and pushes him. He drops on her side, not without swiftly wrapping one long arm around her, and with a squeak she ends up on him. After a small clean up and a bit of shuffling and reorganizing limbs, she finds out that she now knows the best possible position one can have in bed. She is on top of him, like a slice of salmon on rice in nigiri, and her arms and legs are dangling off his sides. There is nice furry chest under her nose, and she nuzzles it with dedication.

"You said you loved me," his voice is lazy and rumbles underneath her. She freezes, her nose still buried into his coarse black chest hair, and the idiotic smile she had on her face is becoming permanent and probably very alarming looking. Joker would love it. Good thing the man underneath her can't see it, her nose is still pressed to his sternum.

She wonders if she suddenly starts pushing her hands and knees off the bed and crawling off him backwards like a lobster whether she'll have enough time to reach the parlour of the suite before he realises she is gone. Shite, shite, shite! How did that happen?! She assumes, it was probably after the third orgasm, when she wanted to reassure him she was enjoying what was happening. Oh god, what is she to do now?

One thing for sure, the valid options of proceeding do not include asking the next question that leaves her mouth.

"Was it in English or Gaelic?" What the sodding sod is wrong with her?! He is quiet, and she slowly peeks with one eye. He is pensively staring at the ceiling. God, he is so beautiful! If only she hadn't cocked everything up just about now... Suddenly he starts shaking, and she realises he is laughing quietly. She has never seen him laugh like that. It is a gorgeous spectacle, he has a full body laugh, and she can't see the blue irises behind the fluffy lashes.

"I don't know," he rubs his face with one large hand, the second one lies on the back of her head, and he scratches it couple times in an affectionate lazy gesture.

She is chewing on her bottom lip to keep her gob shut. Because if she opens it, that's the end. She will start blabbering, and then there is no stopping her. She will start with that it was an obvious reaction to the mind-blowing shag and the unnatural amount of orgasms she went through, and then she will say she obviously didn't mean it, that would be too early, but she really likes him, and on, and on, and then she will continue digging this verbal grave, and it'll end with her either running, or proposing to him. Probably the latter. Considering how she suddenly envisions herself in a white dress, church bells ringing, and him in a kilt, Prince Charlie jacket and a bowtie, and no, she didn't research on Pinterest what Scots wear at their weddings.

"Do all Scots wear bow ties to their wedding or normal ties too?" What. The. Sodding. Hell. Is. Wrong. With. Her?! There is a pause, and she presses her hands into the sheets. OK, she will slowly slide from under his hand, the fingers are still tangled into her hair, and then she will roll off the bed…

"My family traditionally wears burgundy cravats to match the tartan." The tone is still even and warm, and she gulps loudly.

OK, that is unacceptable. Either he is OK with her humiliating mishaps, and then he really should let her know. That would be a nice thing to do! You know, reassure the bird who is properly mortified here! Or he thinks she is a daft cow and is actually enjoying her torment, and then he might be a bit of a prick. Please, please, in the name of Rassilon and the High Council of Gallifrey, let him not be a prick! He is so perfect in everything else! She takes a deep breath in and jerkily sits up on him. He looks completely relaxed. But not his typical Easter island dummy stone face like before, he looks very chuffed. He might be smiling a bit. Yeah, it's definitely a small hint of a shadow of a glimpse of a smile. God, she is in love with him!

"I am very uncomfortable." Right, good girl Wrennie, assert your position.

"Is it the bra?" He asks politely. What?! Well, she is still wearing it, but that's not what she was talking about!

"No! It's me having no control over my gob!" He is looking at the bra. What is she supposed to do with this plonker?! "I can't shut it with you. I'm terrified here! That I'm saying all the wrong things, and you either will bolt, or you think I'm a mental overattached bint!" The glacial blue eyes finally lift from her bra and meet hers.

"I will'nae, and you ar'na." Seriously, five words?! Two contractions?! Oh bugger!

"Thorin Durinson, listen to me! I'm freaking out here!" She presses her palms into his chest and is giving him a firm stare. Not much to lose, let's face it, after she used him as Google to research swording terms mid shag and then managed to profess her feelings for him, she might as well just jump into the grave she has dug up. "You need to start using your words just a bit, or I will have a panic attack!"

He sharply sits up, blimey, his hip flexors, rectus abdominus and iliopsoas, together with tensor fasciae latae and rectus femoris must really be sterling, he is fluid and she feels like whimpering from arousal from this spectacle, and the long arms go around her. She sees a long nose in front of her, and he is seemingly studying her freckles.

"That's awright with me, eonan." The voice is triple fudge chocolate syrup, and she knows that moniker means "little bird."

"My middle name is Einin, same meaning but in Irish Gaeilge," she sounds squeaky, but her hysterics have slightly ebbed. He is kissing her shoulder, that is bloody distracting, and then she observes her bra aviate across the room behind him. What... how? Whatever.

"OK, give me something here, so I don't feel like a massive idiot, and that I might have..."

"I am happy tonight." Oh! Oh… Ohhh… OK, yeah, that works. She grabs his ears and pulls him to her lips. Sod it all, she is as well. He twists his massive body, and she is underneath him again. Fine with her. And oh, dear me, again already?!

Another durex is rolled on, and she flips him on his back. OK, this time she is going to savour her pudding. Yes, last time it was all getting to know each other, trying not to dislocate something in her while sheathing his sword, and then holding on to her dear life while he has granted her with four orgasms in a row, thank you very much, but now Wrennie wants her fun. And her way.

Since it has already been established he can last long, she starts with the very thorough cowgirl, rolling her hips and drawing letters of Hindi alphabet with them, and yeah, she can go on for hours, and inner muscles do get a lot of work out from her yoga, and he is bucking his hips and fighting for some control for a while, but then finally gives in and starts panting, and there is this delicious low hum in him, that is probably how tigers purr, if they do at all, and then she picks up her legs and crosses them in the air. There is a growl from him, and she rocks her body. Cosmo would tell you it requires strength, balance and is called the Balancing Act Position, but Wren decides from now on it's going to be called Finish Your Scot! His hands fly up, and ta, that is actually very helpful. He intertwines their fingers, she takes a deep breath, and a pair of very strong arms rocking her really makes it ace! The angle is mind blowing, and would you look at that, a simultaneous one! Ka-boom!

She slid backwards, the last glimpse of consciousness reminded her not to bend... the claymore backwards, he hummed with somewhat grateful intonation, and now she is lying on the bed, there is a hairy leg on each side of her head, and her feet are on his chest. He picks up one, and a thumb strokes the round bone on her ankle. She rubs the sole of the other one to the furry chest.

"Never had a woman like you." She freezes mid chest rubbing, and he presses a soft kiss to the heel of her foot. What the actual…? As in amazingly flexible and breathtakingly sexy? Or slightly odd and annoyingly chatty?

"Please, feel free to elaborate on this statement," that would have been her sarcastic tone if she wasn't still all breathy and trembly after the tsunami of 'O' that just stampeded through every cell in her body.

He hums noncommittally, he is kissing her toes now, and she gives him a gentle kick into his hooter. It is a bloody sexy hooter, by the way, and then she rolls on her stomach, keeping the foot in his hand, and propping her cheek on another hand she runs her fingers along the side of his calf. Tick the box, Wren. Since that mental day, when she saw him in the tent for the first time, she made The List. Item one is half fulfilled. She is not done with the calves, she might never be, but at least she can tip-top her fingers on it, mimicking walking. There is a long white scar on it, and she runs the tip of her finger along it.

"What's it from?" Her noggin is full of some jousting, whatever it is, longswords, maybe a dramatic accident in the forge, some red hot iron bar burn, or something.

"Bike." Bugger, that is disappointing. Wait, what?! As in 'I was ten and was finally ready to give up training wheels,' or as in 'I'm even sexier than you thought because I have a motorcycle and a leather jacket.' She looks back at him over her shoulder, his eyes are squinted like a cat's, he is kissing her big toe. There are pink polka dots on purple varnish there, she made an effort.

"What brand?"

"Harley." Oh. My. God. Her ovaries might have just voted for ravishing him one more time in some complicated position! And he is tenderly biting her heel now, which sort of tells her he might be all for it too.

This time, they end up in the Butter Churner, which is somehow very much favoured in porn, but is bloody uncomfortable and plain dangerous for a chick's cervical vertebrae if the bloke isn't careful or doesn't know what he is doing. This one does, and he is very careful. She is on the shoulder stand, her legs suspended above her head parallel to the floor, and yes, the mattress would be too bouncy, and rolling off the bed in active attempts to grope and taste every inch of each other was what landed them on the floor, and he is pounding in her, his legs half bent in the knees, and you'd think a massive six foot five bloke would be a terrifying option for this position, but Wren comes again, and him considerately waiting for her to finish her a capella and drawing some tender swirls on her ankle with his tongue sort of makes her maybe a little bit more in love with him.

They are lying on the floor, she is curled into him, and she is starting to nod off. He is stroking her hair, long fingers lazily dancing in her curls, and then he shifts, everything is nicely fuzzy, and she feels him picking her up, and then she is in a warm cocoon, and the whole world is nice fresh sheets, and a feather light duvet... and Thorin. The whole world is Thorin.

"Oidhche mhath leat," he murmurs and kisses the top of her head.

"Hm?" She can hardly speak, she is not sure they are even having this conversation or it's already a dream.

"Good night, mo gràdh," that she knows. It is close enough to her native 'grà' for her to know that he apparently might be in love with her too.