Fic: The Years Between (Chapter 2)
Feb. 11th, 2014 08:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
grav_ityChapter 1 - On The Table
Friendly reminder that this is an M-rated story, and may not be worksafe if you share an office.
Under the Mountain
The nights while he was gone, Sigrid had imagined this. His weight above her, his hands moving rough across her skin. The moment when he takes her, pushing as hard as she will bear. The alternative was to think about the other outcome. The one where he did not come back.
The mountain does not often betray them, but there are still weaknesses in its bones. Smaug had injured it, and its injuries could not be healed, only broken safely if caught in a timely manner. This hurt had almost been, but had shattered instead when Fili led a team to examine the damage, and had buried the lot of them alive in the mountain’s depths.
Three days of frantic excavations, during which time Sigrid had not even been permitted to carry water to the labourers, had been required to free the trapped dwarrows. They had emerged, dust-covered and with minor wounds, and a collective breath had been expelled. Even with dwarvish stone sense, detection of air or life beyond the rubble had been impossible.
When Fili finally comes home, Sigrid’s nerves have frayed beyond reason. A runner had come and told her when the last stones were moved, but after three days of being desperate to see the ruin for herself, she quailed in the face of what she might do once she got there. She does not wrestle with her indecision very long, because right on the heels of the messenger comes her husband, whole and safe and home.
She flies at him, unsure of what she intends to do until he catches her hands mid-strike and gathers her against his chest so tightly she thinks her ribs may break.
“Never,” she squeezes out, though air is rapidly becoming an issue. “Never ever ever ever.”
He silences her mouth with his, not bothering to make promises he can’t keep. The mountain must be made safe, and he must do his part, whether that is shoring up stone or slaying orcs. She knows it, but tonight she almost wishes he would lie.
What he does instead is push her backwards, pulling at her dress. He’s not wearing his coat, she realizes, though whether he left it off in the cave-in or in the infirmary she doesn’t know. She also doesn’t care, because he’s given up with the ties of her bodice and is making as to tear it instead.
She pushes away from him, harder than she means to, and shucks her dress over her head. She hadn’t planned to leave their rooms today, so she’s not wearing a shift underneath it, just her small-clothes. Those he does tear.
His laces are much simpler, and before too much longer she is on her back, her hands twisting into his hair as hard as she can while he drives into her, over and over and over again, with force unlike any that he has ever used before. It hurts, but it also makes her forget that they are still inside the mountain’s grasp, still surrounded by stone. Still buried alive, for all the pretty trappings that decorate the walls.
He doesn’t last very long, and comes with a moan that’s nearly feral. She’s humming with want, still angry and scared, but very aroused, and whimpers when he pulls out and rolls on to his back. That catches his attention, and he turns on his side to look at her.
“Oh,” he says. “Oh, Sigrid.”
The lamps are all lit, so he can see her clearly. She wonders if the bruises are already mottling her skin, or if it’s just the redness that precedes them he sees. She winds her fingers into his.
“I would have stopped you,” she tells him. “If it was too much, I would have stopped you.”
“You could not have.” He flexes his fingers, and she feels the power of even his barest grip.
“You would have stopped,” she says.
He plainly doubts that, so she lies still as he checks her over for broken skin. She almost manages not to squirm when his fingers brush over the marks they’d left earlier on her thighs. Burn or no, she wants them back there, but she lets him lift her, and carry her towards the bath instead.
He carries her down the carved steps and sets her on her feet in the hottest part of the pool. When she first came to live with him, she’d thought the bath a luxury beyond imagining – hot water whenever one wished it – but now that she knows how it works, it seems less extreme. Clean water is brought in, and the old is then cycled out by means of a wheel. The wheel itself is powered by the same system that operates the airflow in that part of Erebor, and is somehow connected all the way back to the main forges themselves. When the Mountain works, it works very well.
The near-scalding water swirls around her waist, and he stands behind her. His touch is soft now, his kisses feather-light across her shoulders and neck. Three day's of worry melt beneath the press of his lips to her skin, and she finds herself suddenly exhausted.
She wilts, as much from the heat as anything else, and he steers her towards the cooler water, and the bench there. He pulls her across his lap once they sit down, and begins to kiss her collar bone as he had her back. She marvels at his dedication. He must be tired as well.
“There wasn’t much to do, except sit and wait,” Fili says eventually, either reading her mind or making conversation. She’s too worn to tell. “We couldn’t touch anything, for fear of bringing more down. We just had to hope aid was coming.”
“They wouldn’t let me help,” she says. He’s kissing her again. Softly, but like he’ll never stop. “All I could do was sit and wait too.”
“Sigrid,” he says.
“It’s all right,” she tells him. “It’s all right. You’re safe. You’re safe.”
She repeats it several more times, and then the tears come. It’s not a storm or a rage, like it might have been earlier in the day if she’d let herself break. It’s quiet and he kisses the salt from her cheeks until she calms.
They crawl under the covers, naked and damp, and cling to one another all night long, while the Mountain keeps its stony blanket wrapped around them.
+++
Chapter 3 - Experience
Friendly reminder that this is an M-rated story, and may not be worksafe if you share an office.
Under the Mountain
The nights while he was gone, Sigrid had imagined this. His weight above her, his hands moving rough across her skin. The moment when he takes her, pushing as hard as she will bear. The alternative was to think about the other outcome. The one where he did not come back.
The mountain does not often betray them, but there are still weaknesses in its bones. Smaug had injured it, and its injuries could not be healed, only broken safely if caught in a timely manner. This hurt had almost been, but had shattered instead when Fili led a team to examine the damage, and had buried the lot of them alive in the mountain’s depths.
Three days of frantic excavations, during which time Sigrid had not even been permitted to carry water to the labourers, had been required to free the trapped dwarrows. They had emerged, dust-covered and with minor wounds, and a collective breath had been expelled. Even with dwarvish stone sense, detection of air or life beyond the rubble had been impossible.
When Fili finally comes home, Sigrid’s nerves have frayed beyond reason. A runner had come and told her when the last stones were moved, but after three days of being desperate to see the ruin for herself, she quailed in the face of what she might do once she got there. She does not wrestle with her indecision very long, because right on the heels of the messenger comes her husband, whole and safe and home.
She flies at him, unsure of what she intends to do until he catches her hands mid-strike and gathers her against his chest so tightly she thinks her ribs may break.
“Never,” she squeezes out, though air is rapidly becoming an issue. “Never ever ever ever.”
He silences her mouth with his, not bothering to make promises he can’t keep. The mountain must be made safe, and he must do his part, whether that is shoring up stone or slaying orcs. She knows it, but tonight she almost wishes he would lie.
What he does instead is push her backwards, pulling at her dress. He’s not wearing his coat, she realizes, though whether he left it off in the cave-in or in the infirmary she doesn’t know. She also doesn’t care, because he’s given up with the ties of her bodice and is making as to tear it instead.
She pushes away from him, harder than she means to, and shucks her dress over her head. She hadn’t planned to leave their rooms today, so she’s not wearing a shift underneath it, just her small-clothes. Those he does tear.
His laces are much simpler, and before too much longer she is on her back, her hands twisting into his hair as hard as she can while he drives into her, over and over and over again, with force unlike any that he has ever used before. It hurts, but it also makes her forget that they are still inside the mountain’s grasp, still surrounded by stone. Still buried alive, for all the pretty trappings that decorate the walls.
He doesn’t last very long, and comes with a moan that’s nearly feral. She’s humming with want, still angry and scared, but very aroused, and whimpers when he pulls out and rolls on to his back. That catches his attention, and he turns on his side to look at her.
“Oh,” he says. “Oh, Sigrid.”
The lamps are all lit, so he can see her clearly. She wonders if the bruises are already mottling her skin, or if it’s just the redness that precedes them he sees. She winds her fingers into his.
“I would have stopped you,” she tells him. “If it was too much, I would have stopped you.”
“You could not have.” He flexes his fingers, and she feels the power of even his barest grip.
“You would have stopped,” she says.
He plainly doubts that, so she lies still as he checks her over for broken skin. She almost manages not to squirm when his fingers brush over the marks they’d left earlier on her thighs. Burn or no, she wants them back there, but she lets him lift her, and carry her towards the bath instead.
He carries her down the carved steps and sets her on her feet in the hottest part of the pool. When she first came to live with him, she’d thought the bath a luxury beyond imagining – hot water whenever one wished it – but now that she knows how it works, it seems less extreme. Clean water is brought in, and the old is then cycled out by means of a wheel. The wheel itself is powered by the same system that operates the airflow in that part of Erebor, and is somehow connected all the way back to the main forges themselves. When the Mountain works, it works very well.
The near-scalding water swirls around her waist, and he stands behind her. His touch is soft now, his kisses feather-light across her shoulders and neck. Three day's of worry melt beneath the press of his lips to her skin, and she finds herself suddenly exhausted.
She wilts, as much from the heat as anything else, and he steers her towards the cooler water, and the bench there. He pulls her across his lap once they sit down, and begins to kiss her collar bone as he had her back. She marvels at his dedication. He must be tired as well.
“There wasn’t much to do, except sit and wait,” Fili says eventually, either reading her mind or making conversation. She’s too worn to tell. “We couldn’t touch anything, for fear of bringing more down. We just had to hope aid was coming.”
“They wouldn’t let me help,” she says. He’s kissing her again. Softly, but like he’ll never stop. “All I could do was sit and wait too.”
“Sigrid,” he says.
“It’s all right,” she tells him. “It’s all right. You’re safe. You’re safe.”
She repeats it several more times, and then the tears come. It’s not a storm or a rage, like it might have been earlier in the day if she’d let herself break. It’s quiet and he kisses the salt from her cheeks until she calms.
They crawl under the covers, naked and damp, and cling to one another all night long, while the Mountain keeps its stony blanket wrapped around them.
+++
Chapter 3 - Experience
