@michedjohnson mentioned Thorin eating french fries in slow motion in an ask, and I just couldn’t help myself. I tried.
Characters: Thorin, Reader, a plate of french fries. Setting: Erebor, after BOTFA. Notes: This takes place a bit after The Long Dark. Words: 535
Thorin had asked you to share a dish from
your childhood. You had vacillated quite a bit before you decided
french fries were the simplest to get right. That assessment had turned
out to be overly optimistic.
Without access to a deep fryer, getting french fries right
had been a challenge, to say the least. You had slaved over those
french fries, growing more frustrated with each attempt. Eventually, you
had realized that the trick was to place them in cold oil and heat them
slowly — easier said than done over an open fire — but not before
destroying several batches and nearly getting burned by hot oil.
The fries you presented to Thorin were perfect — firm and thin and nicely golden, sprinkled with tiny flecks of salt.
Now you watched him with trepidation as he picked one
up and bit carefully into it. He chewed, made an approving humming sound
and then placed the other half into his mouth.
He smiled and took another. “Very nice.”
“Would you tell me if they weren’t?”
The smile grew sheepish. “No.”
“So I don’t know one way or the other, do I?”
“I’m afraid not.” He tugged you into his lap and fed you a fry. “Stop fretting.”
You had tried the fries already but they’d been too hot
then. Now they were just right, crunchy and savory and a little sweet.
“I believe I told you that already,” Thorin said, and nuzzled your neck.
You pushed him away, giggling. “And then you told me I couldn’t trust you!”
“I told you I would always place your feelings before the
well-being of my stomach,” he replied diplomatically. “Which I did not
need to do just now, because these are indeed very nice.”
He fed you another fry, and then you fed him one.
Gradually, the platter emptied. You gave a replete sigh and leaned into
Thorin, rubbing your belly. “That was nice. I should go wash the platter
though, that fat is hard to get off once it’s dried.”
Thorin caught your wrist and brought your fingers to his
mouth. “Stay,” he said, and proceeded to lick the salt off your fingers.
You felt unaccountably warm all of a sudden. “Fries are not generally counted as an erotic food, you know.”
“How fortunate that I do not generally concern myself with
the opinions of others,” Thorin said mildly, and sucked your index
finger into his mouth. You whimpered.
His lips and tongue were hot against your skin, and you
were reminded just how many nerve endings were collected in your hand as he
lavished each finger with careful attention. As he finally moved on to
lick the seam of your lips, tangling your damp fingers with his, you had
been reduced to a boneless heap.
“You mentioned other erotic foods,” he said against your mouth. “What are they?”
You struggled to collect your scattered wits. “Uh… Strawberries. Honey. Wine. The usual.”
“Then I believe I shall have the usual delivered to our chambers this evening. Would you like that?”
You nibbled at his lower lip. “As long as you clean up afterwards.”
He grinned and kissed you deeply. “I believe I shall manage.”