browngirl

Title: Kiss Me Now or Never
Fandom: The Hobbit movie verse (The Desolation of Smaug, etc)
Rating: NC-17 with warnings.
Pairing: Beryl/Thorin (fem!Bilbo/Thorin)
Summary: Beryl wakes Thorin on the morning of Durin's Day
Content Advisory: gender swap, sizekink, size difference issues
All Thanks To: / Acknowledgements: The anon who requested this prompt long ago, and

oxoniensis for the Porn Battle.
Disclaimer: This fanwork has been created for pleasure only and not for profit.
Title from "The Lark in the Morning", the sort of lusty folksong hobbits would sing.

Beryl wakes to soft predawn, Thorin's hair rough warmth beneath her cheek, and thinks on how she may be dead before tomorrow's sunrise. Six months ago, she would have panicked utterly. Now, after facing death some half dozen times, the panic at least isn't complete.

Heart pounding, she looks to Thorin peaceful beside her, his brow clear under his magnificent tumbled hair. As the house breathes around them Beryl recalls asking Gandalf if she would come back, and his arch answer. If she went home this moment, she would already not be the same.

Rolling closer, she tucks herself to Thorin's square chest. Truly, if she went back now, she would be sore disappointed. Stroking down his deep-muscled belly, over his warm pelt, she wonders how often she's wished for a bed and sheets, proper comfort. Yet she found such comfort in the littlest things, his broad fingers on her shoulder, his rare smiles. In his Mirkwood cell he whispered a wish to court her, 'as a king seeks his queen's hand', and her head spun so that she flung herself upon him, all unladylike.

Hang ladylikeness, Beryl thinks, stroking through thickening hair. Hang it up with doilies and drapes. Thorin shifts, prick waking beneath her hand; how she gasped the first time she opened his breeches, how his smirk challenged her even as heat crested his cheeks. It wasn't on a featherbed or a sturdy mattress like this, nor even amidst long warm grass upon soft earth, but on a thin cot over cold stone that they first tried their fit, pillowed on his redolent fur cape, the dark catching fire as he rumbled into her hair and pressed immensely within her. She blushes to remember her whimpered "Lawks, you're huge," his low deep laugh, his lips parting against her brow as he moved in her so patiently, so carefully.

So she writhed like the Took she half is till he loosed his self-held reins. His broad palm muffled her scream past a whisper, she ached ecstatically around him surging to his peak, and when he laid his head on her breast she delighted in sweet soreness, smiling into his hair.

Beryl smiles now as Thorin's flame-blue eyes open. "Good morning," she chirps, trailing intent fingers over his prickhead; he twitches, shivering all through as his eyes flicker.

She's too much a Took not to grin triumphantly, he's far too stubborn not to growl back. "Bright morning, my jewel. The Mountain awaits."

"The day's not quite begun." She leans in, nose to nose. "A bit of cheer first?"

Thorin blinks like a startled cat. Then he smiles so beautifully, shining in the dawn, and her answering joy flings her upon him; he smiles over her mouth, she winds her arms round his neck, his hair streams over her skin as his solid warmth blankets her.

Last night they burned a full candle exploring each other, Beryl kissing every scar, Thorin tasting all her skin. This morning he scoops her knee up and hilts himself within her so fiercely she bites her fist. The flare of hot delightsome ache quite steals her breath, and he won't let her catch it, bouncing her mightily. "My beauty, my shining gem." He tugs her hand away, pressing her wrists down so she gasps over his heart. "Would you wake the house?"

"Let me -- oh!" He speeds, the bed creaking round them. "Let me, let me!" She bites her lip on a cry, he chuckles through his groan. "Oh, you!"

"You, sweet you," he sighs, and that's it; she arches and shrieks from her quivering depths outward, flame flicking over her skin. Thorin groans long and low, and Beryl gasps with his every judder as with her own peak.

Then he tugs from her and slumps sideways, grasps her waist and shifts her to rest his raw-silk cheek on her breast. Still shuddering, Beryl tugs a silvered lock, grumbling wordlessly over her thrill that Thorin can so effortlessly toss her about. Unfooled, he rumbles a laugh, and they breathe together as footsteps and voices fill the hallway, for a stolen moment more.

At the other end of a long full day, entering Erebor at last, Beryl's heart swells at seeing Thorin exalted and Balin near weeping for joy. She asks on the Arkenstone and Thorin's rumbled, "That, Mistress Burglar, is why you're here," echoes within her, setting sweet soreness flaring, a swallowed star burning low in her belly as she goes to dare the dragon.