#Dwalin Fundinson

[ichoosechoasandbeingqueer]

Hello again✨ how about some hc's about Thorin, Fili and Dwalin reactions with human reader that they like👀 she offered to climb a tree to check that they weren't followed when suddenly a branch breaks and falls into the arms of them princess style. Would also be nice if he tried to fix her hair and/or beard by the twigs without knowing the detail of how important her hair is 👌

First off, Thank you for your ask! Its so cute and I hope my writing does it justice! For anyone else who wants to submit an ask, check out my post here.

Before we get started, I made the reader from a made up town/culture so don't look to hard into it. Simply enjoy!

Warnings: None

Trees and confessions...

The howls were getting closer. Night after night the gluttonous cries of the beasts grew louder and more terrifying for the small group you traveled with, and while the eagles had giving you quite the head start, Azog was quickly catching up. The last two nights you had slept without the light of the fire in fear that your enemies would find you.

As it was, the group was hidden amount a large cluster of trees, hardly a forest but enough to keep you all out of the open and hidden away from unwanted eyes. The only problem? You couldn’t see your enemies either.

“We could always send Bilbo up a tree?” Kili suggested, his hand scratching at the stubble on his chin, “he is the lightest and it would keep our cover,”

While smart, Thorin practically growled at the suggestion. The King’s eyes glanced at the limping hobbit, his battle scars from the attack still apparent on his tiny form.

“Absolutely not!” The King spoke again, “I will not risk Bilbo doing any more damage to his ankle before it is properly healed. We are already traveling slower then we need to be,”

“I could scale it?” you offered, “I’m no hobbit but I’m lighter than any of you. Unless we want to see Gandalf try?”

The wizards sent you look that made the entire group snicker. You simply battered your eyelashes and smile innocently at your old friend.  

“Off you go then, before I change you into a squirrel to help get you there,” he huffed, sparking another round of giggles and a quiet question of ‘can he really do that?’ from Kili.

Silently wondering the same question as the young dwarf, you dropped your coat to the side and pulled yourself on the first branch.

“Remember lass, quietly, less you give us up,” Thorin warned.

You hummed in agreement, reaching for the next branch, and then the branch after that. You were human, not much taller than Kili, but you were quick and agile. You had to be living with a wondering village off to the East of even the Lonely Mountain. Your descendants had once been settled between Erebor and the Iron Hills, forced to start traveling after the dragon descended and took away the towns most stable trading source. Now your people were scattered around Middle Earth in search of stability. A stability that you would provide to them when you helped the Dwarf’s take back their homeland.

You made it to the top of the tree without problem, seeing no sign of your hunters or their beasts they rode on. With your heart light and a smile on your lips you began to make your way back down, freezing at the sound of a cracking branch beneath you. You vaguely heard Thorin call up to you before you fell.

…

Thorin

The Dwarven King was on edge. So much had happened in the last week he could not wrap his head around it. Azog resurfacing. Their descent toward the elves. His growing feeling for a certain human. It was all too much, and he constantly felt himself gripping the hilt of his weapon in an ill attempt to keep himself on guard despite his wondering mind.

When the sound of snapping caught his ears he spun on his heel, his sword drawn and his eyes scanning the surrounding trees. When he caught the sound of your gasp and the small squeak that left your lips however, he called after you in question. The second snap sounded before you had a chance to reply and before he could blink, he raced forward to catch you in his arms, his sword left lying forgotten in the leaf litter.

You body came falling through the trees hard and fast, making his knees shake as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest before you could hit the ground. He stumbled for a moment, kneeling to the ground to sit you in his lap as his wide blue eyes scanned yours for answers to his unspoken questions. You held a few scrapes and cuts from the branches on your way down, but other than that you looked ok, nothing broken or bent, and he let out a breath of relief.

You had your eyes clenched shut and your hands wrapped around your mouth to hold back your scream, and he smiled at you attempt to heed his warning of quiet. It was something he loved about you, your devotion to others, though sometimes it scared him how far you were willing to risk yourself for those you care about. It was a trait that he also shared, and the reason he had softened his views towards you during the quest.

You were shaking in his arms and he couldn’t help but pull you in further, pressing his head to yours and whispering reassurance that you were ok. He was not a patient dwarf, but with you he always tried. It took a moment before your hands became steady, and he wrapped his thick fingers around yours with care.

“Thorin?” you questioned, your voice a hoarse whisper.

“Aye lass, you’re ok. Your safe,” he cooed, his fingers leaving yours and running through your hair to rid it of the leaves that had settled there.

“I’m sorry! I tried to be quiet and I-”

“Hush now, I know. You were quiet. You did good. Are you ok?”

You gave a nod, “I’m ok. I got to the top and couldn’t- Thorin, what are you doing?” you cut yourself off, freezing in his grip.

He ran his fingers through your hair a few more times before paused, looking down at your burning cheeks in question, “there are leaves in your hair,” he said like it the most obvious thing in the world.

“Le-leaves?”

“Leaves, branches. You came down rather hard. I would not be surprised if I pull out of bird or two,” he chuckled sending you one of his rare grins.

“My ha-hair. You’re touching my hair,”

The dwarf frowned slightly, realising that you were not still shaking with adrenalin, but because you were uncomfortable. He drew his hands back like you had burnt him.

“I- I, forgive me. I did not mean- I had no intentions to- I should have asked,”

“It’s fine,”

“Are you sure?” he glanced over you again. He was terrified he had upset you, but you made no attempt to move from his lap despite not being able to look at him, and that left him confused, “It obviously means something. To darrow, hair is important. It shows one another comfort or friendship to brush or braid. I thought it was this case with your kin as well. I did not mean to offend you or upset you in any way,”

“Oh no, its not that!” you quickly reassured him, the red still tainting your cheeks, “and hair is important to my culture as well, its just seen as… well more so a romantic gesture then a friendly one,”

It took a moment for Thorin to make the connection in his head, but when he did, he blushed furiously. His mouth fell open and he gasped rather like a fish out of water. There were a hundred things he wanted to say, to confess, yet he sat their unable to voice a single one. Your eyes, once curious were now full of hurt and… was that disappointment?

You cleared your throat and wiped your hands on your pants, “I’m going to get off your lap now,”

“Wait,” he blurted not wanting to waist such an opportune moment, his hand shooting out to stop you from leaving, “I would not be inclined to ah, repeat the action? If you would be accepting of course! That is to say I would like to court you, if you felt for me what I do for you…”

He cringed at his words, his mind so rushed in thoughts that he could not thing of anything more poetic. He felt his stomach churn and he wanted to hide his face in his hands until your voice spoke softly.

“You wish to court me?”

Your eyes were back on him and once again full of hope, so beautiful and deep he felt lost in them. Lost in daydreams and fantasies. Lost for words. Again, he sat there, his cheeks burning under his beard and his lips parting while nothing came out.

“Thorin?” you asked hesitantly, the pain starting to seek back into your features.

“Mahal, curse my useless tongue,” he muttered to himself. Giving up on words, he slid a hand around your waist pulling you against him and pressing his lips against yours in frustration and hope. He grinned against your lips as you kissed him back, wrapping your legs around his body to press closer to his chest. You both drew back breathless and smiling.

“I know we still have much to face. Mirkwood, the dragon-” Thorin went on again, his nerves back.

“Yes, Thorin,” you cut him off, kissing him again, “I want to be yours,”

“Then I am the luckiest dwarf in the world,”

You grinned and pressed your forehead against his, content to stay there in his arms as long as you could.  

“Well that was the most awkward proposal I have ever witnessed,”

“Mahal it’s about time,”

“Get some uncle!”

Thorin heard the others around them and was tempted to shoo them all away, but he simply kissed you again, all his worries temporarily gone.

Dwalin

It was instinct, a force of nature, a reflex that he caught you as you came tumbling out of the branches with a cry. The burly warrior had kept his eyes on you the entire way up and back, his heart in his throat as your climbed so far away from him. From his protection.

He knew better than to think you were useless, you had been traveling around Middle Earth alone for years now, but he couldn’t help but to want to keep your safe, hovering where he wasn’t necessarily needed, but willing to help you with even the easiest of your jobs. The others would often tease him over the way his demeaner softened when you got near, or the way he would follow you around like a puppy on a leash, but strangely the comments didn’t bother him. He knew he had it bad for you, and he was happy to be by your side however he could.  

Was he brave enough to admit the feelings he had towards you? Not a chance. But would be there for you regardless? Absolutely. That’s why he caught you with ease, wrapping his thick arms around you and pulling you against his chest with worried eyes.

“Lass, what happened? Are you alright?” he questioned in panic.

You blinked slowly, glancing up at the tree you were in then to the ground, then to Dwalin himself who was still holding you close. One moment you were calm, the next you were wrapping yourself around his shoulders, your body shaking and your fingers clawing at his jacket to hold on and burry your face into the crook of his neck, your panic catching up to you.

Dwalin let you cling onto him wherever you needed to feel calm again and he rubbed soothing circles into your back with his thick fingers. He stayed quiet, no sure what to say to help, be he never let go. After a moment of silence you stopped shaking, Dwalin’s presence calming you in a way no other could.

“Thank you,” you mumbled into his neck, the edge of his beard tickling your cheek as you looked up at him with watery eyes and the scarred old darrow couldn’t help but to melt at the sight.

Holding you up with one arm, he wiped away your tears with a gentle touch, “Hush now dove, none o’ that. Ya’ safe and sound,”

“Safe,” you mumbled back, digging your face deeper.

“What did you see?” Thorin interrupted impatiently, his fingers tapping against the handle of his sword.

Dwalin scoffed, “Give her a second there would ya?”

“We don’t have time,” he glared back, raising a brow to question his best warrior.

“There’s no one out there,” you muttered before they could start bickering, “and if they are, they’re not finding us tonight,”

Thorin gave a nod, giving orders to the dwarfs around you to set up camp for the night. You let out a sigh and wriggled out of your saviour’s grip, Dwalin putting you down carefully.

“Ya alright lass?”  

“Yeah, thank you Dwalin. Don’t know what I’d do without you,” you mumbled that last part more to yourself but the dwarf chuckled and flushed red.

“Don’t have ta be without me. I’ll always be here ta keep ya safe,”

And almost to prove it, he reached up and softly pulled a branch from your hair. You gasped as his fingers brush your hair, and your heart pounded in your chest at the implication. Without a second though, your fingers laced around the collar of his tunic, pulling him in and kissing him.

Caught off guard, Dwalin’s eyes widened before fluttering closed, his body sinking into the sudden kiss. Disappointment weld in his chest when you pulled back to breath but you didn’t let go.

“You just kissed me,” he grinned, pink tinting his cheeks as he squinted at you in question.

You blinked, “Uh, yes. That is what you asked of me, was it not?”

“Asked of you… what?” He tilted his head in confusion, “I didn’t ask- that’s not to say I- It’s just-”

“You don’t wish to court me?”

“No! I mean yes! I mean- Mahal’s balls,”

You took a step away from him, embarrassment written across your face.

“Wait! Wait! I mean I do wish ta court ya, I have for a while now and I would do anything to get you to kiss me like that again. I just don’t understand how I asked ya,”

“Oh,” you frowned taking his words in, “ah, well… in my culture, to touch another’s hair is a rather intimate action. It’s something only lovers would do. When you touched my hair, I guess I jumped at the chance that you might adore me the way I do you,”

Dwalin smiled, a gentle and pure look, “Oh dove I do adore ya, more than ya could imagine,”

“Then kiss me again,”

“Aye, anything for my one,”

And kiss you he did.

Fili

When the first crack sounded, Fili thought it was his brother messing about. He grinned and spun around to smack him playfully when he realised that his brother had wondered off to help set up. When the second crack sounded and you gasped from somewhere above him, his heart froze in his chest as he realised what was happening.

He didn’t have time to call for help, to ask if you were ok, before he spotted your figure falling through the branches of the tree you had climbed. With every piece of strength Mahal had granted him in his creation, he shot through the small campground and held out his hands to catch you, tumbling when his foot hit a root of the great tree.

You squeaked as you came down, falling into the blond dwarf’s arms and bringing you both to the ground with enough force to wind you both.

In a tangle of limbs and soft groans of pain Fili blinked away the discomfort, shooting up straight to check on you. He had been fast enough to twist your bodies so you landed on top of him and now you laid with your head on his chest, you face scrunched in protest of the soreness in your limbs.

“Lass are you ok?” he groaned out in worry, watching your eyes glance around before meeting his.

“Aye, I’m ok. You?”

“I’m fine,” he reassured now his heart had finished pounding in his chest at his panic.

“Next time I’m sending your brother up the tree,” you moaned, resting your head on his chest once more, finding yourself in a rather comfortable position with the dwarf. Fili chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest and making you smile.

For a long moment, the two of you simply laid there like that, covered in leaves and tangled up against one another, relishing in one another’s presence. It was comfortable, despite the hard ground, and you hummed in delight as he raked his fingers delicately through your hair. He worked attentively to get each and every leaf out of your locks and you blushed in guilt of not wanting him to stop.

“Fili, what are you doing?”

He hummed nonchalantly, “Getting rid of the leaves. You can do mine once I’m finished,”

“Fili you- it’s just- well I can’t just-” you spluttered, your face burning red.

“It’s fine, you don’t have to I just thought… I though we were getting close enough too… never mind,”

“You braided Ori’s hair only yesterday,”

“Aye? They are my friend, what of it?”

“Your friend? Is that what that means to you then? What I mean to you?”

Fili paused his fingers and looked down at your face in confusion and hurt, his stomach tensing and his eyes beginning to burn, “Do you not see me as your friend?”

“Of course I see you as my friend!” you reassured, snapping your head up to look at his defeated face, “I would trust and cherish not one else more than you by my side… it’s just-”

“Just?”

“Well, where I’m from, touching and braiding one’s hair is seen as more than just friendliness. It’s ah… more so a romantic or intimate gesture,”

Fili felt his entire body burn under your gaze. He had not meant to disrespect your culture and your explanation made him want to run his fingers through your hair even more, not to mention the way you were gazing at him, almost like you too wanted him to continue. It was true he adored you, was drawn to you in a way he had not felt with any of his other suiters, but he was nervous. What if you didn’t feel the same way? What if this wasn’t a nudge to continue but a warning to back off? He didn’t always understand humans and it was worse with you not knowing much about your culture as it was just a big of a secret as his own culture.

Fili also had a nasty habit of over thinking everything he did.

“Fo-forgive me, I meant no disrespect,” he swallowed nervously, “To darrow, the gesture of brushing or braid hair is intimate yes, but for any we hold dear to us,”

You watched him carefully, “So I am dear to you?”

“More then you know. In fact, if you feel the same way, the offer to brush my hair remains? In- in the way your culture means it to be? If you wish to remain as we are that is fine too its just- I thought maybe- I really like you, in that way too. And now I’m rambling, and I can’t stop it, words are just coming out and I-”

You cut him off with a kiss, stilling his words but not his tongue. He pulled you closer, one hand around your waist and the other returning to your hair. You both pulled away dazed and giggling.

“I would love to braid your hair Fili,”

[fili-urzudel]

If you don't mind #9 and #7 with Thorin and Dwalin.

7. Sleeping in a dog pile

9. Forehead touches

I was quite honestly immediately inspired by this one, it was just bridging the gaps between every flash of inspiration I had lol. It felt nice to write something platonic, and I hope that this was close to what you had in mind, or if it wasn't, it's still something you enjoy. <3

Word count: 1.1 k

Warnings: Might getcha in your feels idk, old man dwarf Balin POV

Pebbles - Platonic Balin, Thorin, and Dwalin

Dwalin could hardly keep still, hands fidgeting with the head of the wooden axe Adad had gifted him some months ago. "Will you let us stay up as late as we want?"

"No," Balin answered sternly, still feeling a bit strange, entrusted with all this authority. "You will go to sleep when Amad and Her Highness said you need to go to sleep. And you'll eat your dinner."

"I thought brothers were supposed to be fun."

"I thought sons of the advisor to the king were supposed to be well behaved," Balin said, before ruffling his brother's dark hair. He hadn't quite gotten the hang of braiding it yet, so he decided to leave it all out, and it stuck out quite impressively from his head. "And you can have fun, just be mindful. It's not your house. And be gentle with Dis, she's just a little'un."

"Aye, aye," he waved him off.

The older dwarf hoisted his school bag over his shoulder again before knocking on the door to the common quarters of the royal family. "Come in!" The princess's voice rang through, and Balin took a deep breath as he pulled the door open. 

"Dwalin!" Thorin jumped up from whatever it was he was doing at the table to all but tackle his little brother, initiating their special handshake that always ended in a headbutt. 

He had taught them it. 

"And what am I? Chopped liver?" As he spoke, Frerin and Dis came running up, sticking to either side of him and forcing him to drop his bag of schoolbooks on the floor. "Ah, at least someone cares," he joked, a hand on each of their backs.

"Thank you for showing up early, we're about ready to leave," the princess told him with a genuine smile. She was always so warm. "I know you'll all have so much fun!"

"Not too much," Prince Thrain reminded them.

"Of course not, sir."

"I know you're a good lad, Balin," Thrain reassured him. "I'm sure we'll return to clean plates, clean rugs, clean clothes, and no damaged art, right?" He asked, pointedly turning to his eldest son and his best friend, who seemed to be tuning him out.

"Yes, da."

"Yes, sir!" They said at the same time.

After a round of goodbye and another set of reminders for Thorin and Dwalin, the pair were off, and Balin could get started on his homework. Right?

"Dis, you've got to finish your vegetables," Balin encouraged her, though he knew the words would have irked him when he was her age. 

"But I don't like green food," she pouted, blue eyes welling with on-demand tears. 

"Thattagirl," Dwalin praised, and Balin shot him a look that had him shrinking in his seat. 

"They're good, I prom—Frerin, that had better not be drawing clay," he warned as he saw the pebble nearing the wall with a suspiciously clenched fist. "I may not be your ma but I won't let you color the walls either."

After redirecting Frerin's creative energy to parchment, Balin cleaned up after dinner. 

It wasn't much easier after.

"Boys, no wrestling on the furniture," he said exasperatedly, still trying in vain to do his schoolwork at the dinner table. He moved his papers and books haphazardly in his arms to the table in the sitting room, hoping to dissuade them from trying again. 

They continued amusing themselves with tasks of varying volume, and Balin was almost done with his essay on the First Age when it went quiet. Too quiet.

"Boys?"

"Quick, pick it up!"

"Why weren't you watching her?"

"She's your sister!"

"She's your sister too!"

"You're older!"

By that point, Balin had made it to the room at the end of the hall—the master bedroom. Someplace none of them should be.

The scene was simple enough to decipher. A vase of some sort lay on the ground, formerly perched on a table that Dis must've walked into and knocked over. Surprisingly, the noise was not enough to make her cry, but enough to make the other pebbles start panicking.

It wasn't a big deal. Honestly, if it was anyone's fault, it was Balin's, something he would readily admit to when the prince and princess returned.

But the pebbles thought they were in big trouble, with enough anxious energy to keep them up all night. 

"Why, you little goats!" He roared, and the pebbles perked up almost instantly. "You'd better run!"

Dis shrieked and toddled away, the others in hot pursuit. Balin chased them around tables and the kitchen island, catching them and earning more screams every time they hid behind a bed or chair.

He let them get ahead of him just enough to confer among themselves, and when he caught up, they attacked. 

"Get him!" Dis cried in her small voice, and Balin couldn't hide his smile.

Frerin and Thorin each took an arm, and Dwalin bowled them back onto the couch. "My own brother, betraying me!" he shouted, closing his eyes in defeat.

The couch was wide, wide enough for the five of them to spread out as they wished. Dwalin lay on his chest, his untamed hair tickling Balin's chin.

Thorin laid his head on his stomach, his baby sister in his arms and his little brother laid out on his legs.

And finally, they could rest, Balin thought as not-so-quiet snores filled the room.

"Balin?" A small voice asked, and it took a moment for him to realize it was Dwalin's. It had been a while since he sounded so... little. 

"Yeah, nadad?"

"I'm sorry for not being better tonight."

"You were just having fun," he assured him. "It's alright."

"Are you sure?"

Balin touched his forehead to his brother's briefly, patting his back. "Yeah. Go to sleep, nadad."

His brother snuggled back up to his side.

He would clean up the vase later. He would tell the prince and princess when they got home and apologize profusely for not watching them more closely.

But right now, it was nice being right where he was.

My, where did time go?

It had been a long time since then, Balin reminisced. A lot had changed. They were charging to recover the mountain he had lived most of his life in. He had a couple hundred more grey hairs, and all the pebbles had full beards now. The ones that were still alive, at least. Dis had pebbles of her own, and they were on the quest. 

He wasn't sure, but he did know one thing. It was an absolute fact, actually, as Thorin and Dwalin lay snoring on each arm.

Some things didn't change much at all.

[middleearthpixie]

Good Trouble ~ Chapter Ten

Durin’s Garage AU - Good Trouble ~ Part 11 

Modern Spin on The Hobbit

Summary: When your car breaks down, there is only one garage in town - Durin’s Garage and Engine Repairs. And sometimes, they do more than just tune your engine, check your oil, and top off your fluids…

Everyone in town knows Durin’s Garage and Engine Repairs is THE place to go when your car needs work, and everyone knows that Dwalin Fundinson is to be avoided outside of the garage. He’s an ace mechanic, but trouble otherwise.

You and Dwalin attend the opening at the Sternhagen, and Honda Mom almost comes between you…

Pairing: Modern!Dwalin x fem!reader

Warning: None

Word Count: 4,048

Tag List: @tschrist1 @i-did-not-mean-to @lathalea @linasofia @fizzyxcustard @legolasbadass @kibleedibleedoo @xxbyimm @arrthurpendragon @exhausted-humxn-being @rachel1959 @laurfilijames @sketch-and-write-lover @sherala007 @enchantzz @knitastically @notlostgnome @myselfandfantasy @ggfamert @medusas-hairband @guardianofrivendell @jotink78 @ruthoakenshield @frosticenow @the-eternal-sunflower

You looked up as the door to Dwalin’s apartment opened and he walked in. “Is everything okay?”

He nodded, rubbing his eyes with one hand as he strode in. “Everything’s fine. Thorin sent me out on a call about a Jeep here in need of a jump.”

“What?”

“Honda mom.” He moved over to the sofa, tossed his keys on the table, and sank onto it with a sigh of contentment. “She won’t leave me alone.”

“What?” You moved over to the coffee table, sinking onto the edge of it.

One hand covering his eyes, he nodded. “Yeah. She burned out her rear brakes and when she came in to go over the estimate I worked up, she wanted to know what cologne I was wearing and was I sure I didn't want to go to her fucking opening tonight and that she’d make it worth my while if I did, so Thorin made up a bullshit call for me to go out on to get away from her. And here I am. I just wish I could stay here.”

Your stomach did an odd flutter. “Make it worth your while?”

He nodded. “Yeah, but don’t get mad, love. I told her no. I told her when I picked her up, when she asked me the first time if I wanted to go with her, that I was seeing someone.”

You couldn’t resist teasing him. He really was clueless when it came to what he thought women thought when they looked at him. “And you think women are afraid of you.”

His hand slid from his face and when he looked up at you, sympathy surged through you. He really did look exhausted. His eyes were heavy-lidded, and there were dark smudges ringing them. He looked as if he could easily sleep for a week. “She’s a pest. I should take ye to this opening, let her see ye for herself, then she’d probably leave me alone.”

You smiled, shaking your head. “Poor Dwalin. Drowning in women, it would seem.”

That earned you a tired smirk and a dry, “Yeah. Poor me.” He turned toward you. “Do ye want to go to the Sternhagen?”

“What’s the exhibit?”

“Fuck if I know. I have to deal with this woman at least once more. Maybe if she sees what I’ve got, she’ll realize I am not fucking it up for anything.”

Your heart skipped beat at the low growl in his voice, the seriousness in his eyes. Still, you smiled as you said, “But she said she’d make it worth your while.”

“Yeah, she did.” He nodded. “For all the good it did. I don’t care. Still not interested.” His eyes closed and he let out a low, rumbling sigh. “I wish I could just stay right here.”

“Thorin’s expecting you back, though, isn’t he?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I have to order parts for this van and get a few other things taken care of. Good thing is, Junior finally got his CDL, so I’m not the only one who’ll have to go out on run. And I plan on pulling rank if any calls come in today. I’d probably drive right off the fucking road, I’m so tired.”

“Who is Junior?”

“Today, it’s Fíli. Thorin’s older nephew.” He opened his eyes and looked over at you. “I should get back to the shop. She’s got to be gone by now.”

You sighed softly. “Do you really want to go to this exhibit at the Sternhagen?”

A sleepy grin came to his lips. “It could be fun. I like art. I just don’t like women hitting on me.”

“Since when? I thought you all lived for that?”

“Yeah, when we’re single.” With a grunt, he pushed up, swinging his legs over to plant his feet on the floor. He rubbed his eyes with one hand. “I don’t remember the last time I was so fucking tired.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Dinna be sorry,” he looked up at you and grinned, “because it was worth it and I’d do it again tonight if ye wanted.”

“I think maybe tonight we should both just sleep.”

“Thank God,” he growled, letting his head fall back once more. 

You couldn't help but laugh. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone sound more relieved before and I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen a guy be so relieved to get out of sex.”

“Mesmel, much I really do like having sex with ye, I’m dead on my feet and, not for nothing, but my cock’s a little sore as well. Neither one of us has seen this much action in months. Maybe years. Maybe ever.” He turned his head in your direction. “Would ye think me a pussy if I said I just wanted to lay with you in my arms?”

“Not at all.” You shifted from the table to the sofa, curling up against him, and tucked your head in the curve of his shoulder and chest, smiling as his arm draped about you. “I think that sounds like a nice way to spend a quiet evening after being social at an art gallery.”

A sly grin lifted the corners of his mouth. “Yer staking yer claim, aren’t ye?”

“Damn straight I am.”

“Don’t worry,” he told you, giving you a gentle squeeze, “she doesn’t stand a chance against ye.”

You smiled, draping your arm about his stomach to give him a gentle squeeze. A soft sigh wafted across the top of your head, followed by a gentle kiss pressed into it. His phone buzzed then, and he swore softly, then untangled himself to stand. “I’ve been summoned. It must be safe.”

“What time is this exhibit?”

“Fuck if I know.” He drew you up alongside him. 

“I’ll find out and if you want to go…”

He grinned. “Ye’ll be more than happy to go with me?”

“I’ll be more than happy to go with you.”

***

You found out the opening began at seven and spent the rest of your afternoon trying to find the right outfit to wear—sexy enough so Honda Mom knew she didn't stand a chance, but not so sexy that she thought you were obviously a whore. A fine line, because you had the feeling Dwalin wouldn’t complain either way.

Finally, you settled on a wraparound dress in navy silk jersey. Your hair—thank god—behaved. You had a clean pair of thigh highs and you didn't put a run in them as you skimmed first one, than the other, up to your thighs and clipped them in place. They were black silk, cool and lush as you ran your hand along your left calf before easing your four-inch heels on. It was suppose to snow later, but you didn't care. They were your favorite shoes, they were sexy as fuck, and although you were fairly secure in Dwalin’s feeling for you (how many guys told you they loved you, and seemingly meant it, within days of being in a relationship with you?) that didn't mean you didn't want him lusting over you at every turn. Besides, you had no idea how hot Honda Mom was, so…

“Mesmel, can ye help me wi—” Dwalin came into the bedroom, frowning down at the purple on purple tie he had draped about his neck. He caught sight of you and stopped in the doorway, then let out a low whistle, a slow smile creeping over his face as his gaze slid up from your feet to your face. “Damn, woman… I thought I cleaned up nice.”

“You do clean up nicely.” You stood and walked over to him, laying a hand against his chest. He’d chosen a light gray silk gabardine suit to wear, with a lavender shirt and the purple tie and matching pocket square and you almost wished you hadn’t promised him you wouldn’t hold him to sex that night, because he looked good enough to eat. He didn't look at all stiff or uncomfortable in the suit, either, but perfectly at home. 

“Thank ye,” he said softly. “I don’t want to embarrass ye, ye know.”

“Not possible.”

“Can ye help with this? My fingers don’t wish to behave and the knot looks wrong no matter how I tie it.”

“I can, absolutely.” You carefully knotted the sleek tie and smoothed it down over his chest. “It’s not too tight, is it?”

“It’s fine, mesmel,” he said with a smile. “Thank ye.”

“Of course.” You looked over at the clock. “We should think about going. It’s almost seven. You don’t want to disappoint Honda Mom.”

He rolled his eyes. “Honda Mom can kiss my ass.”

“Uh, I think she might be angling for that, you know.”

He grinned. “Not going to happen. Not tonight. Not tomorrow night. Not ever.”

“Good answer.”

“I thought it would be. Are ye sure ye still want to go?” He let his gaze wander over you slowly and you’d swear you could actually feel the heat from it as he did. “Because remember what I said about just wanting to cuddle tonight? Forget I ever said it.”

“We both need a night off,” you told him softly, tucking your arm through his. “Remember, you were afraid you’d drive off the road before?”

“Yeah, but I’ve got a second wind now and I want to see ye in those shoes, the garter belt I know you’re wearing, and nothing else.”

“And you can, any time you wish,” you told him softly, giving his arm a squeeze. “But not tonight.”

“Damn. I was afraid ye’d say that.”

The Sternhagen Art Gallery was right smack in the middle of the arts block of Davenport Street. It was closed to motor vehicle traffic and the art gallery was tucked between a tattoo studio (you wondered if Dwalin had gotten any ink there) and an arcade that specialized in video games from the last quarter of the previous century. There was also a photography studio, a gourmet bake shop, several antique shops, and an Indian restaurant tucked along the thoroughfare.

You didn't miss the way heads swirled in your direction as you and Dwalin stepped into the brightly light gallery. It specialized in modern art, which you neither knew nor liked, and to you, all of the pieces looked like they’d been done by someone’s three year old amidst a temper tantrum. 

But, all around you, others oohed and ahhhed over the art. Of course, those oohs and ahhs went quiet as they looked up and saw Dwalin. You didn't miss the eyes that widened as they took in the ink across the top of his bald head, or the tattoos on his hands. You bit back a smile, wondering if those eyes would pop clean from their sockets if they saw the tattoo on his cock.

To his credit, he didn’t scowl. Didn’t glower. But instead, he offered up something of a smile as he pointed to a white square of canvas with angry red, orange, and yellow splashes of paint covering it and said, “Evening. That’s an interesting piece.”

“It symbolizes life and death,” a man in a charcoal gray suit replied, gesturing toward the painting with his champagne flute.

“Really? Looks more like anger and hatred to me,” Dwalin said with a shrug. “And I’m pretty sure the artist said as much when he was interviewed by the New York Times.”

You twisted toward him. “You’ve heard of Pierre Edmonds?”

Dwalin nodded. “I’ve heard of him. He lives over in West Windsor. Broke down here once and I towed him back to the shop. Nice guy, but not a big believe in hygiene. It took me the rest of the afternoon to get his funk out of my cab.”

“You’re a truck driver?” Charcoal Suit said, lifting the flute to his lips.

“I’m a mechanic who drives a tow truck.” He smiled as a woman bearing a tray laden with champagne approached them. “Thank ye, love,” he said, snagging two flutes, one of which he passed to you. 

“Do you know of any of his other work?” Charcoal asked.

Dwalin took a swallow of champagne and nodded. “Aye, I know a bit of it. He smelled odd, but he was nice enough and we got to talking on our way back to the shop. I was curious, so I looked him up. I have a book of his works on my bookshelves. I prefer his earlier work, to be honest. Before his wife left, when he was still happy.”

“Really? I found those works tedious.”

You looked from Charcoal to Dwalin, who shrugged and said, “I prefer tranquility over fury. I’ve seen enough fury to last me a lifetime.”

“On the roadside? Here?”

“No.” Dwalin’s smile faded as he met Charcoal’s smug grin. “When I was in the service. I’ll take happiness, thank ye very much.”

Charcoal looked back at the painting in question. “I understand that. I did two tours in the Middle East—Iraq and Afghanistan. What was the name of that book? I think I might like to see it.”

“It’s just called Edmonds. Amazon has it for about thirty bucks.”

“Thanks. Tell me what do you—”

“Dwalin!” The hairs along the back of your neck prickled to life at the velvety purr of a woman’s voice coming from behind you. “I was hoping you’d come! How are you?”

Dwalin met your gaze and winked, easing his free arm about your waist as he stepped closer to you. “I’m fine, thank ye.”

Honda Mom came around and her smile faded as her gaze alit on you. “Oh, hello there. I’m Heather McCallum. Welcome to the Sternhagen.”

“Thank you.” You managed to smile. “And thank you for the invitation.”

“Of course.” Heather looked from you to Dwalin and back. “I had no idea you knew about Edmonds, Dwalin. What is your favorite piece of his?”

Dwalin’s fingers pressed gently against you as he said, “My favorite? Probably Lightning. It’s chaotic, but there’s plenty of truth in it.”

You sipped your champagne, which was light and dry, and realized that you had absolutely no idea what the fuck he was talking about. You preferred Monet to just about anything, and as he and Heather went on about this piece and that, you felt your eyes glaze over. 

Finally, Dwalin said, “I’m being rude to my lady. I’m sorry, mesmel.”

You looked up at him. “It’s fine. I learned all about Pierre Edmonds.”

He winced. “Ye want to look around a bit?”

“Who is the opening for?” You directed this at Heather. 

She smiled. “It’s for me, actually. I do a bit of painting myself and since I know the owner, he thought he’d give me a showing.”

With that, she tucked her arm through Dwalin’s free one and said, “I’d love you to meet him. He’s a big fan of Edmonds as well.”

“Thanks, but I—”

She tugged. “It won’t take but a minute and your girlfriend will understand,” Heather’s blue eyes weren’t nearly as warm as her smile, almost challenging you to protest.

Dwalin looked over at you. “Come with us.”

“No, that’s okay. I’ll just look around.” You forced a smile to your lips as Heather’s phony-ass smile grew genuine and triumphant as she managed to pull Dwalin away from you and they disappeared around the corner. 

“So, you don’t care for Edmonds?”

You turned at the sound of Charcoal’s voice and shook your head. “Not really, no. And I know I’m not supposed to say that, but I’m not a big fan on modern art. It all looks like preschool finger-painting to me.”

He grinned. “Yeah, I’m not crazy about it either.” He glanced at your empty champagne flute. “Can I get you another?”

You started to say no, but then heard Dwalin laugh at something Heather said, and your no became a smile as you said, “I’d love one, thank you.”

Charcoal Suit’s name was Derek. He was a stockbroker with a gift for storytelling and you had no idea how long Dwalin had been gone for, only that it was enough time for you to sip your way through three flutes of champagne and you could no longer feel the tip of your nose. You had no idea where Heather dragged Dwalin off to, and at that moment, you were too irritated to care.

“So, you’re with that guy? The one with all the tats?”

You nodded. “I am, yeah.”

“So, why is he all the way across the room with her instead of making sure no one else waltzes off with you?” Derek asked with a slow smile. “If I were him, you wouldn’t be out of my sight for a moment.”

A slight shiver rippled down your spine. Why did some guys think that was a romantic thing to say? To you, it sounded more possessive than anything else, and in your experience, that was exactly what it meant as well. It wasn’t romantic. It was suffocating. 

“I’m not glued to him.”

“Still,” Derek’s dark eyes seemed to darken further, “pretty woman like you…? I bet you know how to get into all kinds of trouble, don’t you?”

You swallowed hard, the champagne making you feel as if your head was wrapped in layers of cotton. “I don’t think so, actually.”

“We should find out.”

“No,” you shook your head and stepped back, “we shouldn’t. I came here with Dwalin and I am leaving here with him and thank you for the conversation, but I should be getting back to him.”

“Why? He didn't think twice about leaving you right here.”

“He likes this art. He gets it. I don’t and I don’t and—”

“I’ll be more than happy to explain it to you.”

“Am I interrupting?”

Your entire body clenched at the low, menacing growl that was Dwalin’s voice as he came up behind you. “Oh, so you remembered you brought me?” you asked without turning around.

“Did I forget?”

“You tell me. I’ve been standing over here for the last forty minutes while you were off admiring Baby’s First Painting or whatever the mess was called.”

“You know, I can see her home, if you’d rather stay here,” Derek broke in smoothly.

“See her home? She lives wi’ me, Junior,” Dwalin growled, the fingers on her hips biting into her. “So if it’s all the same ta ye? I’ll see her home.”

“You know what?” You pulled away from him. “Neither one of you needs to see me home. I’m more than capable of seeing myself home.”

With that, you strode off, setting your champagne flute on the base of an iron and marble blob that someone passed off as a sculpture, and without looking back, you left the gallery and stepped out into the freezing cold night. 

You made it to the end of the block before you twisted your ankle and as you hobbled to the lamppost to lean against it, Dwalin strode toward you. “What the deuce are ye doing?”

Tears of pain stung your eyes, your ankle throbbing hotly, swelling against the satiny ankle strap. “What do you care? Honda Mom seemed to have a firm grip on you.”

“Honda Mom has a—do ye even hear yerself?”

“Do I—are you fucking kidding me?” You slammed both hands into his chest to knock him back two steps. “She dragged you off and left me there with Derek the Stockbroker for company and I swear, if we’d been in a bar, he’d have roofied my fucking drink! Meanwhile, you and Honda Mom were getting all cozy talking about Edmonds’ jizz-art with the fucking owner of that place.”

He just stared at you. “Jizz art?”

“That’s what those paintings remind me of. Like if a crime scene unit black-lights a motel room and all you see are cum stains everywhere. That’s not how I wanted to spend tonight. You just left me standing there like a jerk, Dwalin. And now, I’m buzzed, I’m upset, and my ankle might be broken.”

“Yer ankle?”

“I twisted it in these stupid fuck-me shoes.”

Without hesitation, he hitched up his trouser legs and crouched to lift your foot, cradling your sore ankle in his gentle hands. “Can ye move it?”

You slowly rotated it to the left, to the right, flexed and pointed, all the while trying to ignore the heat from his hands sinking into your chilled skin. “I can, yeah.”

“Can ye put weight on it?”

“You saw me standing here, didn't you?”

He looked up then, the fire gone from his pale eyes. “It’s not broken, then.”

“Good. Something went my way tonight.”

“Ye could’ve joined us.”

“I’d rather take my chances with Derek the Stockbroker.” You sighed softly, a dull headache taking root behind your eyes to remind you of why you usually avoided champagne. “You just left me there, Dwalin.”

“I’m sorry, mesmel,” he replied softly as he straightened up. “It was not my intention.”

“And do you really like this kind of art?”

He thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah, actually. I do. I find it interesting how artists think. How they see things. And I kinda like it when guys like Derek the Stockbroker try to pull that superiority shit on me and I can put them right the fuck back in their place.”

“Did you really have that jizz guy in your truck?”

“I really had that jizz guy in my truck.” He closed the space between you, easing an arm about your waist to draw you flush against him. “And he really did smell like ass. And I’m sorry, amrâlimê. I was a dick to leave ye to fend off Derek the Stockbroker.”

As he spoke, he leaned in and nuzzled you, adding, “Ye want me to go let him know how much I appreciate his hitting on ye?”

Your eyes closed of their own volition at the soft caress of his lips along the side of your neck. “No, but can we just go home?”

“Can ye walk to my car or ye want to wait here?”

“I can walk.” You smiled up at him. “But I might need you to keep an arm around me, just for support.”

He winked and slid his arm about your was it once more. “As ye wish.”

The room was cool and dark and you were cozy, snuggling closer to Dwalin, your head on his chest, your arm about his waist, your fingers slipping through the soft dark hair across his belly. “Dwalin?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you going to be working on Honda Mom’s van?”

“Probably. Unless I get called out of the shop, anyway. Why?”

“Ugh.”

“Ugh?” 

You heard the smile in his voice. “You know what I mean.”

“Ye’ve nothing to worry about,” he murmured sleepily, his fingers stroking lightly along her arm. “She’s not even close to being as hot as ye, ye know.”

“Oh, but if she was?”

“Well, that’s a different story.”

“Dwalin?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re an ass.”

His laugh floated into the darkness and he tightened his arm about you. “I love ye, mesmel. She does nothing for me and her kid is weird.”

“Her kid?”

“Yeah. She has a daughter. And said daughter apparently tries to fix mom up with every man they cross paths with. She thinks I should marry Honda Mom so I can buy her Christmas presents because as stepdaughter is almost as good as a biological one.”

You shook your head. “How old is this kid?”

“Six, I think? Anyway, she was weird. Most kids are weird.”

“You don’t like kids?”

“I like some just fine. Thorin’s daughter, for one. She’s five and not nearly as weird as Honda Mom’s sprog.”

“Sprog?”

“Yeah.” He gave you another squeeze. “They make me uncomfortable. With the exception of Bella.”

“Bella?”

“Thorin’s wee one.” He kissed the top of your head. “Ye’ll meet her one of these days.”

You smiled, snuggling closer. “Sprog.”

“Go to sleep, mesmel. It’s late and we both have to work tomorrow.”

You sighed softly, letting your eyes close as his fingers moved lightly along your arm, slowing and a few minutes later, you drifted off to the sound of Dwalin’s soft snores. 

[swordoaths]

@fundinson​ wrote:  “It’s a drinking game then?”

    There was a lilt to his stance-- a rise of his shoulders that seemed to tug his lip into a smirk. A deep exhale through the nose, and the smile widened, dimpling his cheeks underneath a growing beard. True, their days were long and filled with making ends meet until the call came to go eastward. Life was that of work-- of survival (or death in an attempt, like his father)-- and of perseverance, despite all odds. But precious little could rival that of the rare bits of mirth amongst kin. This moment was one such allowance, for they did not just come together to lift as one; they also came together to raise a pint in verse known only to them. 

     “Reckon we can make it one,”  Fíli offered, twisting the sword in his grip after some undisclosed time had passed in sparring with Dwalin. They had been in the surrounding forest so long that even the sun could not remain with them--- its last light slipping away to nothing. The call to warmer halls and warmer company was now in their minds, it seemed. “With enough ale, a drinking game’s bound to follow.” He sheathed his sword,  initiating the start of Dwalin’s proposed game. “It can start with last one to the halls must drink two pints of ale.”

[midearthwritings]

Day 19: Fishing

You follow Dwalin along as he goes to fish in the frozen lake.

Paring: Dwalin x Reader

Warning: None

Author's Note : I'm in love with Dwalin, that's all I have to say.

Standing quietly, you watched him cut a circle in the thick ice, his arms muscles working with each movement. Dwalin probably felt you staring because he stopped to glance up at you. 

“Ye can sit here while I do that,” he mumbled, pointing at the wooden stool he had brought along.  

Without a word, you obliged. You knew Dwalin was not happy to have you here. Not because he did not want to have you around, but because he cared too much about your wellbeing. 

“Oh for the Love of Mahal!” you had pleaded, “let me come along!”

“Yer stayin’ home.” Dwalin had replied, putting several tools into his backpack. “Tis too cold outside.”

It had been a heated, long-lasting arguing session, and you both had raised your voice at each other. But in the end, you had won, and here you were, sitting in the middle of a frozen lake, wrapped up in one of his thickest coats. 

Once he was done digging a hole large and deep enough, Dwalin picked up his fishing rod and sat down next to you, onto the iced surface. Guilt washed over you as you watched him do so. His garments would end up soaked and he would be the one getting sick.

While he plunged the line of the rod into the cold water, you reached out and gently caressed his cheek with the back of your hand. 

“Are you still angry at me?” you asked. He did not flinch away from you, but he did not lean into your touch either. With a quiet sigh, you buried your hand back into the coat’s pocket. 

“Yeh,” he simply replied, absentmindedly scratching the wooden part of his rod with his thumbnail. “Yer gonna get sick.” 

You bit your bottom lip. You hated fighting with him. Mostly because you were both stubborn and some of your arguments had lasted for days on end. 

Slowly, as if not to startle him, you stood up. The ice creaked under your boots, but you were not worried in the least. You plopped down between his legs, letting out a suprised hiss when the ice bit through your pants, and nestled yourself against his chest.

Through his several layers of clothing, you could hear the soft whispers of his heart. You could remember perfectly the first time you had listened to his heartbeat. It had been surprisingly quiet and shy when you had been expecting the sound of a hammer working in the forge. Yet, your warrior’s heart had been beating gently, conveying all the love he had for you. 

“I’m sorry, Dwalin,” you said as you closed your eyes, breaking the silence. ‘I should not have yelled at you, nor should I have pressured you to take me with you.”

Above you, Dwalin huffed, amused. Yet, he pressed a kiss to the top of your head, and you knew he forgave you. You smiled and silently prayed to Mahal that you would catch a large fish today so you would be able to cook Dwalin a nice dinner as a thank you for putting up with your tantrums.  

----

Winter Taglist: @shethereadinghobbit @laurfilijames @i-did-not-mean-to @enchantzz @shalinizhara @blairsanne @thespiritoflife @aidhwvqhkcnsnz @acupnoodle @emrfangirl

[tea2go]

Thankful (Dwalin x reader)

Summary: When your husband is once again victim of a prank it is your duty to help him out.

Note: This is a small spin-off of my Fili x Reader Story Familiar Faces, if you haven’t already, check it out here.  This has gotten too long and sentimental. Certainly wasn’t intended. I apologise for those that have been waiting.

Words:  2717

Warnings: A bit sentimental, fluff, mentions of death, nudity 

tag list: @red608 @perseny-blog @sweeticedtea 

Thankful (Dwalin x Reader)

From the moment you heard the loud stomping sound of steps outside your front door you guessed something had happened. The moment you heard the heavy oaken door be opened and closed with such a force that made your wedding portrait fall from the mantelpiece of the fireplace in the sitting room of your shared home, you knew your husband was upset.

Usually his behaviour would have made anyone seated rise by now, but you barely shifted in the big armchair positioned in front of the comfortably crackling fire. His temper never meant threat to you, you had known him long enough to be absolutely confident to say he would never harm you or anyone (without a reason that is), his loud manner simply being the way he expressed himself, thus you only looked up from the axes Ukhlat and Umraz -  whose names you had carved into the blades in runes yourself as a courting gift a long time ago and which had become his favourites  ever since- you had been polishing,when you heard him enter the room.

You did not know what you expected to see when you looked at Dwalin, you were used to see him covered in mud or even blood occasionally, which by far did not frighten you as much as it should be anymore, but you definitely weren’t expecting…  this.

What was standing there certainly resembled him in frame and size, but not in colour. His entire form was veiled by something white, and as you placed down the axes and got up to get a better look, you saw that his skin, beard and clothes were coated completely as if he had gotten into a heavy snowstorm. However, apart from the fact that there hadn’t been one recently, the substance was too powdery and dry to be snow.

Regardless of what it was, the way it made Dwalin look and hold himself, the way his face twisted in a weird mixture of anger and the unpleasantness of being thoroughly coated was so comical, you tried hard to fight back the laughter slowly rising from your stomach.

“Go ahead, lass”, He muttered behind gritted teeth. “Laugh.”

On cue your tightly sealed lips curled, then split up, your face crinkling with laughter he couldn’t even blame you for.

Although Dwalin Fundinson was noone to be laughed at, at least not if it was not intended by him, your voice, the way your shoulders shook with amusement, could not upset or humiliate him the slightest, no, it actually managed to make a tight-lipped smile appear on his own face as well, while he watched you. It took you a while to catch your breath and stifle the last few laughs behind your hand, tears hiding in the corner of your eyes.

“Amrâlimê, what happened?” You managed to ask, silent snorts still erupting here and there as  you walked up to him in a few quick steps, raising your hands to carefully push some of the white powder out of his face. You had a rough idea that it involved two young princes, but you needed to hear the entire story from him.

“Fili and Kili”, He confirmed your suspicion, “Those little bastards have gone too far this time.” Since this was what he had said million times before, you didn’t take him too seriously, but nevertheless urged him to continue.

He told you about how he had been inspecting the weapons in the armory - out of duty, not pleasure of course - when he somehow launched some mechanism when he took one of the heavy axes you , and obviously the prankster as well, knew he was so very fond of. Next thing he knew was that he was covered in flour, a heavy bucket on his head. Apparently he had still been able to perceive someone, who he insisted must have been the princes, hurrying of, thus he took chase after them, but unfortunately - or rather fortunate for them as he kept illustrating the various intended punishments- did not manage to get his hands on them.  You found the story very delightful, but knew you had better think of a way to calm your beloved down, or at least distract him so he wouldn’t be too hard on the youngsters.

“If you plan to keep stomping into our new home the way you did just now, in the future, then I suggest we find another way to display our wedding portrait or might just get rid of it completely.” You told him with a fake stern expression, gesturing to the framed paper, lying face down on the elaborately embroidered carpet, your brother in law had given you on the day the picture had been drawn.

Appearing somewhat bashful at your comment, Dwalin made a movement to walk over and pick it up, but before he had even taken a step you stopped him, placing a hand on his flour dusted chest. “What do you think you are doing? Look what you’ve done to the entry already”, you scolded, pointing at the patches of flour he had left on the stone floor on his way into the room.” Dare stain my rug and I promise you, Dwalin, Son of Fundin,  Fili and Kili won’t be the only ones in trouble!”

You locked eyes with him, staring him down a moment until your mock angry facade broke, you smiled, “You are aware that you have to clean up the mess you made yourself” a low rumbling sigh escaped his lips. He crossed his massive forearms in front of his chest , then looking down on you with a curious twinkle in his eyes, he smirked.

“Stop pretending to be angry, givashel”, he mumbled, leaning down to give you a kiss. This way he of course intended to transfer some of the white powder onto you as well, but was surprised by your quick reaction, ducking away, then shoving him towards the bathroom. “This applies to me as well!”, you laughed “No kisses until you’re cleaned up! ….Don’t give me that look. I’ll draw you a bath, alright? Go ahead and get undressed, I’ll be there in a minute!” “Ye are the death on me, woman!” , uttered he, but your offer seemed to convince him for he left for the bathroom with a way too smug expression for your opinion, that made you shake your head in amusement.

When he had left, you walked over and bend to pick up the picture from the floor. It showed you and Dwalin, both much younger than you were now, on your wedding day. He had his arm tightly around your waist, you being smaller than him, but perfectly fitting against his frame, as he looked at you with such a tender gaze, it appeared somewhat out of place in contrast to his ruff form. Given his age, the Dwalin in the picture was a bit less wide and more muscular than the one that had just left the room, but the eyes…his eyes definitely were still the same. The you in the picture naturally didn’t look the same anymore as well, you couldn’t recall if there had been a time in your life you had felt more beautiful than on your wedding day, which wasn’t just the pretty gown’s doing. At once all the fond memories of the day came back to you, your families, the food, the good music and most importantly him standing there in front of you vowing to love and protect you, flashing in front of your inward eye. A smile grazed your lips when you carefully placed the portrait back onto the mantelpiece.

When you heard your name be called from the bathroom you quickly fetched a set of small bottles of bathing solutions, before you joined your husband. He was undressed to his breeches, everything else discarded on a pile in the corner, leaning over the big tub starting the water, when you entered the room.

“Thought ye wouldn’t come" He teasingly muttered the moment he turned around and noticed you standing there. His upper body was bare,but from his neck upwards and his forearms that hadn’t been protected by clothes before, he was still covered in white, the two areas separated by a curiously clear edge.

“I waited an entire year for you to return and you complain about a few minutes?” Although it was teasing the notion of it felt bitter on your tongue, which he noticed,but remained silent. But it didn’t do to dwell on things,he was here with you now and that was all that mattered, thus you placed the bottles on the nearest counter, then stepped up to him, taking his right hand. It was bigger than yours, so much stronger and more calloused from all the heavy weapons he wielded that one had trouble believing how tender and soft they were able to treat you.

Lovingly you pressed a kiss to his knuckles, looking up to see him staring at you with a soft expression. He returned your love by squeezing your hand because he took your threat from before not to stain your clothes seriously.

In comfortable silence you helped him remove the last bit of clothing, then let him over to the tub that had meanwhile been filled almost halfway with water. He exhaled a deep rumbling sound when he sank into the hot water that felt heavenly on his strained body.

Silently you took one of the bottles and poured some of its content into the running water. Sure enough bubbles formed and the room slowly filled with the calming fragrance of lavender.

In order to strip off the first layers of flour you had him submerge below the water line, coming to stand behind him at the head of the tub when arose again.

You let your hands run over his calloused shoulders, pressing down firmly before letting them linger over especially deep scars on his massive shoulder plates.  

Being a warrior, Dwalin had always been marked, his skin a map of valleys cut into his flesh by the numeral battles he had fought and won. It had never bothered you much, on the contrary, you always used to compare it to carved wood for the carvings had formed him also, and even though the other had always mockingly raised his eyebrow in return, you knew he approved of the comparison, seeing the thin lines on his body not only as trophies of his victories, but as memorial of those he had left behind. Beside the usual playful boasting about it, you had never really discussed the matter much, except for the one time right after the battle of Moria. You had both still been younger then, his hair and your lips still fuller, when the mountain of a man had crumbled down in your arms and wept. You had held him in silence then, listening to his words as you soothingly ran your fingers over his head that you had held cradled against your neck. This had also been the night he had finally asked what you had been waiting for since the day he had first set step into your father’s smithy, it was the night he had confessed his love and asked to court you. It might have been the ale that had finally made his stronghold collapse back then or the way you had comforted him in a way no one else could, but neither of you had cared,  in fact you were thankful for it as it had not only sealed your tender feelings for one another, but also brought you onto an entirely different level of intimacy. It had also been the night you had first made love, vulnerable, raw love to the sound of thunder roaring outside the window.

His heavy hand suddenly on top of your fingers brought you back from your thoughts and you found his eyes as you tore yours from the gash on his back. The face that had been tensed in anger only minutes before seemed relaxed, but there was love and worry in his gaze questioning why you were so absent minded. The corners of your lips tugged upwards in response, gifting him with  his oh so beloved smile of yours that never failed to make the old gruff warrior feel giddy,like a foolish young dwarf again. For now this feeling seemed to satisfy him because he turned around again, sinking a bit deeper into the tub. Neither of you pried the other for information as you trusted to confide in one another when needed and beside that mostly sharing your feelings nonverbally. This occasional quiet intimacy mixed with the boldness you shared in feasts and stories was the beauty of your relationship both of you were more than grateful for.

You got back to your task of cleaning your beloved by taking the washing cloth from the rim of the tub, infusing it with your favourite bathing oil before gently running it over his upper body, starting at his wide chest, making sure to clean the fur-like hair that grew there, completely. Over his collar bones you reached his tight neck, receiving a comfortable hum as the hot cloth rested there. Ever since you could remember this was the place he was most prone to be tense due to his physical occupation, thus you discarded the cloth for now to give him some release. The firm penetration of his neck as you skillfully worked on the knots with your hands, drew low delighted growls of your name from his lips that made you giggle in response. Once you found all of the knots in his neck somewhat released your hands wandered to his shoulder plates again, stopping at the especially deep and still very unfamiliar scar that had made you stop only moments prior. You knew where it came from, the battle almost a year ago they now called The Battle of The Five Armies, that many had paid with their life for, but yet all of the company had miraculously survived.

You knew the line of Durin had only escaped death by chance, some claimed they had in fact been dead already, but Dwalin had yet to talk about it with you. You knew how much he blamed himself that he hadn’t been able to prevent their harm, you knew how hard he was on himself for being so much less injured, so whole especially in contrast to his king, his best friend he had vowed to protect with his life, but you did not share these emotions the slightest. Although you knew you could not challenge the deep devotion and connection Dwalin felt for Thorin you couldn’t help but be joyful about the outcome for you would give ten Thorin Oakenshields for the life of your beloved which you weren’t even ashamed for. But everyone was alive and you thanked the gods that they had brought Dwalin back to you in a physical state so much more whole than his cousin’s, his mental state you could work on.

You then placed a loving kiss on the scar you had been eyeing, thinking of what had brought you into the current situation in the first place, the way he had stomped into your home covered in flour, fuming about Fili and Kili’s prank. And you were thankful. Thankful that after everything that had happened to them there was still some normality returning. Thankful that the two brothers were still there to prank people but most of all thankful that Dwalin was still there to get angry over being their target. You laughed softly thinking about the silly face he had made.

“What are ye laughing about?”

“I was just thinking…. let’s be glad that the lads are still here to prank you”, you shared your thoughts and he once again turned to look at you, his expression blank.

“I am”, you continued softly.” But mostly because you are still here to be pranked.”

You smiled, your eyes getting a bit watery. The corners of Dwalin’s mouth curved upwards as he softly cupped your neck with his big wet hand, drawing you in for a kiss. “Aye, lass, so am I”

I hope you enjoyed it! Pls comment your impressions/share if you did! 

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Okay I haven’t seen you write for this character so if you’re not comfortable with it let me know and I’ll try again! I just thought Dwalin would be perfect for “The Dork and the Jock” 😏

Alright, alright, alright...

Only for you, I've tried my hand at some light Dwori...

(And there might be more in it...who knows? Might be a bit cliff-hangery otherwise lol)

Words: 1,2 k

Characters : Dwalin x Ori

Modern!AU

Enjoy!

“Fundinson,” the teacher roared, “if you don’t get your grades up by the end of the semester, I’ll make damn sure that your academic career at this college is over.”

Dwalin frowned – the iron mask of disdain actually hiding despair – and threw a quick glance at Thorin, his best and oldest friend, who merely shrugged.

Unlike his brother Balin, Dwalin was a slow learner; he was far from dumb, but he just couldn’t sit down in a chair and stare at pages for hours on end.

Every single time, the letters and numbers started to blur and – frustrated by his own incompetence - he would throw the book into a corner and go out to run or to hack something to pieces for all the good that did him.

“Dude,” Thorin muttered after the class was dismissed, “’man sounded fucking serious about this. Do you have a plan?”

Dwalin knew that Thorin got the help of his little sister as well as of some of the best tutors there were, he was kept on a tight leash which prevented him from straying off the right path.

Dwalin was not that lucky.

“I’m just a dumb brute,” Dwalin shrugged, but his own words sounded bitter and poisonous in his mouth, leaving an aftertaste of gall and ashes as Thorin merely shook his head in regret.

Dwalin had thought that he would make it through college by being an accomplished athlete; he had been so motivated to make old Fundin and stern Balin proud of him, but his prospects were bleak.

“Why don’t you ask Ori for help?” Thorin gave him a cautious side-glance; as Dwalin’s best friend he knew that the bulky, boisterous, belligerent youth had a softer side that he painstakingly tried to hide from the world.

One of the biggest weaknesses of that secret facet of his oldest friend was – undeniably – sweet creatures, be they women or men.

“Ori?” Dwalin whirled around, piercing Thorin with a look so profoundly incredulous and senselessly angry that the other young man took a step back.

“He is the best student in the man’s class,” Thorin shrugged, “and he’d be glad to help you, I’m sure, he’s kind like that.”

Didn’t Dwalin know that?

Ori had let him copy his homework more than once and – equally as often – he had offered to tutor him, a shy but warm smile on those pale lips.

Every time, Dwalin had longed to say ‘yes’, but he knew that the presence of that tantalisingly ambiguous siren would only make studying all the harder; easily distracted and deeply physical by nature, Dwalin felt the irresistible pull of that white skin begging to be touched tenderly.

“’was just an idea, you know?” Thorin huffed and took off with a short nod when he saw his sister waiting for him at the crossroads. “See you tomorrow.”

Dwalin was not motivated to go home yet; he didn’t know how to face his family when that threat hung like a dark cloud over his head.

“Hey,” Ori stepped out of the shadow of the wall surrounding the parking lot where Dwalin was kicking an empty energy drink can from one corner to the next, “how are you feeling?”

As per usual, Ori did not pretend to side with anyone in a conflict; he merely expressed loyalty and solidarity by cutting right to the chase.

“Like a hare in a trap,” Dwalin admitted grumpily.

“It’s really not that big a deal,” Ori said softly, “if you want to, I’ll go over the stuff with you?”

“I have an important match coming up,” Dwalin deflected, humiliated by how obvious it was to everyone that he was unable to manage his academic shortcomings on his own.

“Alright,” Ori breathed quietly; he had never been anywhere competent enough in a sport to make the faculty team, let alone get a scholarship or make friends through it.

Dori was working himself to the bone and Nori was skating along the edges of legality to keep him enrolled, Ori knew, and he had to disappoint their hopes by bringing home good grades but no news of the dazzling social life they had thought he might have one day.

“I didn’t mean to dismiss you,” Dwalin grumbled; would he do anything right today? Was his grip on something as basic as courteous communication so poor that he couldn’t even talk to a co-student without being brash and offensive?

“I…” How to express the pain and the shame of being ‘unsatisfactory’?

“You’ve not grasped the stuff seen in class; there’s no shame in that, he’s a terrible teacher! Thorin and a bunch of others have tutors and I – for one – have spent at least 50 hours in the library trying to ferret out all the elements he’s forgotten to explain,” Ori smiled up at him, a strand of hair falling into his face in a charming display of almost bucolic innocence.

There he stood, between the court and the parking lot, between the afternoon sun and the evening pinkish violet velvet, between heaven and earth, looking like a fairy, like a mythological ruler, like a dream come true.

The weight crushing Dwalin’s heart got ever heavier but – as Ori’s smile bloomed into a grin – it slowly shifted and started rolling downhill into his feet to keep him from levitating with a dizzy kind of joy that never made its way onto his face.

“What are you still doing here?” he then asked for – while he had been aimlessly kicking things – Ori apparently had spent his time hunkering down in the sheltering shadows of the building.

“If I don’t go home immediately, I can make my family believe that I have found some friends,” Ori admitted, blushing a little upon having to confess that white lie.

“Listen…if you are willing to share your notes and your meticulous research with me – in hopes that it will make me understand something at least – I…no,” Dwalin stopped, his brow furrowed, "no, that is wrong.”

Shaking his head and clearing his throat, he started again: “I’ll be your friend. Do you want to come to the court with me? Instead of sitting here alone, you can sit in the shade over there and – if your offer still stands – you could tell me about the class?”

“I’d be delighted to,” Ori scrambled to retrieve his bookbag and followed Dwalin’s quick stride as well as he could, “you’re more of an active type anyway, huh?”

Dwalin turned around, surprised and curious, waiting for the other man to expand on his question.

“It might be easier for you to understand if I give you practical examples…and if you can move while listening to me?”

Oh Dwalin knew exactly how and where he would have liked to move while listening to that soft, mellow voice, but he pulled himself back into reality almost violently.

“You might have a point there, nerd,” he chuckled – a sound like a rockslide – and slung his arm casually around Ori’s shoulders, much to the blushing astonishment of the self-same man.

“I guess we’ll find out soon enough…jock,” Ori shot back, just a second too late and just a smidgen too gently for it to be considered a successful comeback.

Thankfully, Ori was not a competitive man; he believed in hard work, dedication, and persistence.

In time, he was sure, he would pierce the shell of deep-rooted shame and ferocious potential yet to be unbridled and find the man underneath.

Ori was almost certain that he’d like that very man and so, diligent as ever, he got to work.

This one was really hard for me, so if you liked this and/or wanted to see more of this story, do not hesitate to let me know!

If you hated it, just...tell me kindly to keep my paws away from M/M! :D

Love you!

[omgkatsudonplease]

[ficlet, bagginshield] thorin and messrs fundinson (bridgerton au)

After the ball at Long Cleeve Hall, Thorin returns to the smial he has rented in Bywater. It is one of the few bigger-folk-sized smials available in this part of the Shire, for although the numerous cultures of Middle-earth are largely at peace and happy to intermingle, the Shire is still known to be less hospitable to long-term foreign residents.

Even Erebor is a little more accommodating, and that is saying something considering the entire kingdom is within a Mountain. 

He is greeted, upon his return, by his valet Dwalin. Dwalin takes his coat and gloves, and Thorin immediately wraps himself in his favourite blue brocade robe before heading to the parlour for a glass of brandy. 

“How was the dance?” wonders a voice from behind one of the fireplace screens. Smials, like the halls of Erebor themselves, are rather cool due to the insulation from the earthen walls, which means an old Dwarf like his advisor Balin needs to spend a great deal of time in front of the fireplace warming up his joints.

Thorin chuckles, taking a seat on the settee opposite his advisor and old friend. “Eventful,” he says. “A couple announced their engagement, and someone fell into the punch.”

“How in Mahal’s halls did that happen?” wonders Balin, swirling around his own brandy in its glass. Thorin takes a sip of his, smiling. 

“I was not there to witness it,” he admits. “I spent a good deal of the dance out in the gardens. The flowers were incredible, though I could not begin to tell you what any of them are.”

“I thought the point of going to a Shire dance was to dance,” remarks Dwalin as he enters the parlour as well, this time with tea for the three of them. Thorin removes the stock and cravat at his neck with a relieved sigh. 

“I did dance,” he says. “Eventually.” 

“Oh?” Balin raises an eyebrow, his gaze sliding to the latest copy of Lord Stormcrow’s Society Digest on the table beside him. Thorin resists the urge to seize the gossip-rag and toss it into the fire.

Dwalin asks the question on behalf of his brother. “With who?”

“With Mr Baggins,” replies Thorin. Unwittingly, he remembers their first meeting at the Party Field Dance, as well as their second meeting at Bag End with Gandalf chaperoning the two of them. Mr Baggins had looked wonderful at both events in his fashionably-cut coats and brocade waistcoats with golden buttons. And at this latest ball in Long Cleeve he had looked quite dashing in red and gold. 

“The Golden Hare?” wonders Balin, tapping the gossip pamphlet with a knowing twinkle in his eye. “And how did you secure yourself such a treasure?”

“Brother, you speak as if our King is incapable of finding a spouse,” teases Dwalin as he pours the two of them their tea. Not as well or as gracefully as how Mr Rison pours tea back in Erebor, of course, but Thorin isn’t going to complain about that.

“I daresay the two of you have that much in common,” muses Balin as he lightly fans himself with the pamphlet. Dwalin moves to add another screen between him and the fire. “Lord Stormcrow has noted that Mr Baggins has rejected several potential matches in the past. Not unlike our King.”

“Thank Mahal for Dwarvish sensibilities,” remarks Thorin drily. “The last thing I would want is to accept a proposal out of pity rather than love.”

“Or alliance rather than love,” chips in Balin. “Speaking of alliance, the House of Ur is offering a separate mansion in the Blue Mountains for the hunt, since they know Dís will be joining you there with Fíli and Kíli.”

In these long years of peace and prosperity, the roads between the Kingdoms of Middle-earth have grown strong and well-travelled. The trip between Erebor and the Blue Mountains, a journey that used to take several months and was fraught with danger from Orc bandits in mountain passes and Spider ambushes in Greenwood, now takes but a month or two on the Great East Road in one’s fastest coach.

“I presume Prime Minister Dáin will handle Erebor in our absence,” says Thorin, with another sip of brandy. 

“He will, though he urges your safe and speedy return before the snows come,” says Balin. “I’ve been replying to his ravens with reports of your movements, of course, but these days I find my job has been taken from me somewhat by Lord Stormcrow.”

Thorin scowls. “Do not send such pernicious lies to him.”

Balin chuckles. “Stormcrow doesn’t know you, Thorin,” he points out. “But he does pass judgement on your actions. So if you don’t act so cold...”

“I have a plan for that,” replies Thorin. “In fact, that is where Mr Baggins comes in. We have an agreement to spend this season in each other’s company.”

Dwalin’s brows furrow. “Odd way to say that you are courting him,” he remarks.

“We are not courting,” replies Thorin. “Rather, we are only giving others the appearance of a courtship.”

“To what end?” wonders Dwalin.

“To the softening of my image for my goodwill trip through Eriador?”

“And what’s in it for Mr Baggins?” asks Balin.

“To ward off unworthy suitors.”

Both of the Fundinson brothers snort at that. “I fear you may have just doomed the Golden Hare to another failed social season, Your Majesty,” remarks Balin drily. “No suitors would dare rival a King.”

“Mr Baggins’s One may,” replies Thorin.

Balin and Dwalin exchange a glance. “Thorin,” says Balin after a moment, his advisor voice pointedly soft and gentle. “I know your intentions are good, but... matters of the heart often hang upon a knife’s edge. If you stray but a little...”

“I will not fall,” insists Thorin. “Love is a madness that I cannot afford to experience.”

“Cannot afford to, or are scared of?” wonders Balin. 

Thorin does not dignify that with an answer. “All that is required of me is to send flowers to Mr Baggins’s residence, walk with him every day, and dance with him twice at every ball. It is completely doable without feelings becoming entangled in it. Doubly so when Mr Baggins has a chaperone present.”

Balin sighs at that, looking over at his brother. Dwalin says nothing, only refilling his own cup of tea. Thorin pours the contents of his own teacup into his brandy, and downs the whole thing without a second thought. 

“I can only advise you on your actions, Your Majesty,” says Balin after a moment. “So all I can say to this is... be careful.”

[ragsweas]

7, 15 & 33 for the writing ask 🥰

Thanks yous !!! <3 (I had forgotten about it almost oops!

7- When are you most likely to kill a character?

How about, never?? *slowly gathers my babies and backs into the shadows*

Okay, on a serious level, there are only two ways I am killing a character- either there is no escape for them at all or they have lived a long life and are ready to move on. There is no other way any of my babies are going away.

15- Describe a wip of yours in 20 words

Bilbo goes to meet Thorin’s parents only to find out he is not yet out and his family is a clusterfuck.

(The Season of Love (and Drama), inspired by Happiest Season but with happier endings)

33- Write a 1 paragraph wip and post it

Okay, so I didn’t exactly write it for this but this is a WIP I am hoping to post soon! So here we go:

“Hold me cloooose and hold me faaaaast! The magic spelllll you caaast! This is La vie en Roooosssesss!”

“Shut up! Shut up! Shuut up!”

The car went silent, the windows drawn up close. The driver, Dwalin Fundinson, tall, bald, with an impressive mustache and beard and an equally unique tattooed head looked at the person on the front seat. Ori Ri, some five years younger than him was looking as if someone had torn apart his final thesis and sent it in flames. His hair, usually smoothed out, looked ruffled out and he was trying to hide inside his scarf for some reason.

Hope you liked that!

[middleearthpixie]

Good Trouble ~ Chapter One

A/N: Connected to the Durin's Garage Series started by the amazing @laurfilijames. I'm revising and re-posting this fic, since I plan on (hopefully) getting back into it in full swing.

Also, I've changed my tag list a bit - if you'd like to be added (for this fic or for all of them) or removed, please let me know! 💜

Summary: When your car breaks down, there is only one garage in town - Durin’s Garage and Engine Repairs. And sometimes, they do more than just tune your engine, check your oil, and top off your fluids…

Everyone in town knows Durin’s Garage and Engine Repairs is THE place to go when your car needs work, and everyone knows that Dwalin Fundinson is to be avoided outside of the garage. He’s an ace mechanic, but trouble otherwise.

But then again, there is such a thing as good trouble, as you are about to discover…

Pairing: Modern!Dwalin x reader

Warning: Rated E, NSFW 18+ ~ Minor violence, oral sex (F receiving,) unprotected intercourse (m/f)

Word Count: 6,399

Tag List: @tschrist1 @i-did-not-mean-to @lathalea @linasofia @fizzyxcustard @legolasbadass @kibleedibleedoo @xxbyimm @arrthurpendragon @exhausted-humxn-being @rachel1959 @laurfilijames @sketch-and-write-lover @sherala007 @enchantzz @knitastically @notlostgnome @myselfandfantasy @ggfamert @medusas-hairband @guardianofrivendell @jotink78

Snow swirled past the front windows. The first snow of the year. Well, it was December. The year was coming to a close and you were no closer to your goal of doing something with your life beyond pulling beers and fending off overeager frat boys from the nearby university.

Not that there was anything wrong with bartending. There wasn’t. You loved your job and where you spent most of your waking hours. For the most part, the Dunraven Pub was one of the best jobs you’d ever had. Money was decent. Tips were good. Drunks and those overeager frat boys really were the only downside.

Still… sometimes you wondered if there wasn’t more to be found, somewhere outside the town where you were born and raised. Something was missing from your life. Trouble was, you couldn’t figure out what that something might be. All you knew was things were’t right, and to make matters worse. your father had been growing more and more insistent that you come home. And home was to be avoided at all costs.

The door opened, the gust of frigid wind carrying snow into the pub, and you looked up to see Dwalin Fundinson brushing more snow off the top of his bald head. Actually, would bald even be the right term? Because while the top of his head had no hair (his long, dark hair began somewhere around the middle of his head) it instead was quite intricately tattooed instead, as were the backs of his hands, his forearms, and probably at least up to his shoulders. If the rumor mill was to be believed, even his junk was inked, but you could neither confirm nor deny that little tidbit. You knew better than to get to close to Mr. Fundinson. Everyone knew he was trouble. Always ready for a fight. Not one to mince words. Niceties weren’t necessary his strong suit. He scared the shit out of old ladies, probably. 

He was, however, a damn fine mechanic, as seemed to be the case with everyone over at Durin’s Garage and Engine Repairs. They’d been in business since at least the last century and while other garages opened up here and there, none managed to remain in business. Durin drove them all out over time. 

He looked to be in a particularly dark mood as he sank onto a barstool at the end of the bar. You walked over, menu in hand, and smiled. “Evening, Mr. Dwalin, what can I get for you?”

He looked up and in the low light, it was difficult to tell that his eyes were blue, but you knew they were. A pale blue, almost gray, really. Pale and cold. You had the feeling he’d seen some things that haunted him. Perhaps that was why he always seemed to be spoiling for a fight. But, you didn’t know him well enough to pry.

“What’s on tap tonight? Anything new?”

You shook your head. “Bobby knows the regulars aren’t interested in any fads, so same thing every week. So, what’re you in the mood for?”

“Ye have Yuengling Dark Brewed?”

“You know we do.” You took a pint glass from the rack, and moved to the tap to fill it, then set a napkin before him, and the glass atop it. “Am I starting a tab or is this your only one?”

“Tab.”

You knew he’d say that, although his tabs never ran more than three drinks of any sort. He wasn’t a big drinker and you’d actually seen him nurse a pint more often than not, especially if he came in with the men he worked with. While they could be loud and raucous, the Durin men—Thorin, and his nephews, Fili and Kili—were not rowdy. They weren’t obnoxious. They just kept to themselves, and when they showed up, every woman in the Dunraven lusted after them, no matter how old or young said woman might be. The entire lot of them were too handsome for their own good. And even Dwalin wasn’t the exception to that rule. Plenty of women eyed him up like a side of beef as well, but he rarely returned the sentiment. You’d never seen him leave the pub with any woman, and you knew plenty of them tried to coax him out.

And that left you curious.

He nursed his beer and you moved further down the bar as two college boys stepped up. One smiled, showing off way too many teeth that were too white and too lupine. “Hey, honey,” he said, “can I get two shots of Jägermeister?”

You ignored the honey, and looked up at him. “Do you have any ID?” 

“Sure.” He tugged his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans and then flipped it open. “See?”

“Take it out please.”

“Why?”

“Because I asked you to.”

He sighed, but worked his license free and slapped it on the bar. Out of state. You picked it up and as sweetly as you could manage, asked, “Do you have a second form of ID to go with this?”

“A second form of—are you fucking kidding me?” His eyes narrowed. “I’m twenty-one. It says it right there.”

“State law requires a second form of ID with an out of state license.” You handed it back to him. “So, if you have any other ID, hand it over. If not, have a nice evening.”

“You stupid—are you kidding me?“

You folded your arms, staring at him as if he was a toddler you’d caught being fresh. He thought he was a tough-guy, but you dealt with guys like him almost every night of the week and if he thought he’d win the battle, he was sorely mistaken. “What was that?”

“You want more ID?” He rifled through his wallet, yanking out credit cards and store rewards cards to scatter across the bar. “There, more ID. Now can I get my goddamn shot of Jäger?”

“No. We’re done and you need to go.” You gestured toward the door with one hand, and swept the pile of plastic cards at him with the other. 

He scowled. “You’re refusing to serve me?”

“Are ye deaf?” Dwalin broke in, glaring at him. “Ye don’t have the ID, ye don’t get the shots. It’s no’ a difficult concept.”

“Did anyone ask you?”

You sighed. “Tony?” 

Tony was the bouncer and he was there in a moment, grabbing the kid by the arm. “Time for you to go, tiger.”

“Tiger? What the fuck? What am I? Twelve? Get your goddamned hands off me!”

You looked over at Dwalin as Tony tossed the frat boy out of the bar. “Thank you. Next one’s on me.”

He held up a hand. “Don’t mention it. Can’t stand snot-nosed kids who think they know everything. He’s been legal all of five minutes, little shit.”

You couldn’t hold back your smile. “Well, thank you, just the same. Are you hungry? The kitchen’s still open.”

“No, thanks. It’s just been a long day.”

You leaned your elbow against the bar. “Want to talk about it?”

He lifted the bottle of porter to his lips and shook his head, rumbling, “Not particularly,” before he took a pull.

“If you change your mind,” you winked, “I’ll be right over there.”

That got you something of a smile and a wry, “I’ll try to remember that.”

You moved down to the far end to wait on a couple of soccer moms and by the time you were finished with them, Dwalin was gone, a twenty tucked under the bottle. The tip was more than the total of the bill. You smiled as you cleared away the bottle and tucked the tip into your jar. 

By the time your shift was over, it was nearly two AM and you were dead tired. But, you were also off tomorrow, so at least you had that going for you. You bid Tony and Bobby goodnight, and made your way out into the cold and the snow. Your car was parked in the far corner of the lot, under the only streetlight. You figured you broke even on danger scale that way—well lit, but far away.

It was still snowing, and the breeze had picked up to sift the powder this way and that. It also muffled footsteps, which was why you never heard the college boy come up behind you until his hands planted firmly against your shoulder blades and he shoved.

You reeled forward, stumbled over your own boots, and went down hard against the pavement. He grabbed a handful of your hair to twist. “Not so high and mighty now, are you, bitch?”

You didn’t hear the second set of footfalls, but then frat boy yelped and let go of you and you flipped onto your back in time to see Dwalin throw a punch that dropped the kid like a sack of sand. No whimper. No yelp. Just a fist meeting his face, followed by a dull thud. 

“Dwalin?” You stared up at him, oblivious to the snow soaking into your jeans, and only just noticed the cold that bit into you. “What are you doing here this late? You left hours ago.”

He reached down to catch you by the wrist and tugged you to your feet. “I had a bad feeling about this snot-nosed punk.” He nudged the frat boy with a booted foot, then turned back to you. “Are ye okay?”

“I’m a little shaken up, but okay otherwise.” You looked up at him as you brushed the snow off your ass, from the backs of your legs. Frat boy must’ve gotten a lick in, for a bruise was forming under his right eye, and below that, a small cut. “Did he hit you?”

“Aye, if ye can call it a hit. I’ve been hit harder by my own kin.” He jerked back. “Ah, don’t touch it!”

“Oh, don’t be a baby. Come on, you’ve got a cut under your eye. There’s a first aid kit under the bar, let’s just—”

You started back toward the bar, only to have him refuse to move and stopped you short as he growled, “It’s fine and I don’t need first aid.”

“You’re bleeding.”

He probed at the small cut beneath his eye with a fingertip. “It’s fine. Barely a cut and more like a scratch.”

“Oh my god, you are a stubborn mule.” You crouched to scoop up your purse and the book you read when the bar was slow. As you stood, you faced him again. “Thank you. I don’t know why you were loitering around here so late, even if you did have a bad feeling, but I’m glad you were.” 

“Well, as long as yer all right. Ye should go before he wakes up.”

“What if he presses charges?”

“I’ll remind him that he assaulted ye first.”

You looked down at the slide mark in the snow, made by you when you fell, and a shiver ran along your spine. If Dwalin hadn’t been there… it could have been so much worse. It probably would have been so much worse. 

You shivered again, which did not go unnoticed. 

He shrugged out of his leather jacket and moved to drop it around your shoulders. “Ye aren’t wearing a coat, lass. Are ye mad? It’s nearly freezing out here.”

“I don’t like driving in a jacket and I didn’t think I’d need it to go from the car to the bar and vice versa.” Your stomach tossed suddenly and without thinking, you leaned into him. He was warm. He smelled nice—like the snow itself, crisp and clean. And when he drew an arm around you, you felt safe.

He draped the jacket over his arm. “Let me see ye to yer car.”

“It’s the Jeep in the corner.”

“Ye shouldn’t be parking out here. Yer too far from, the building.”

“Employees aren’t allow to park closer. Those spaces are for customers.”

“Bobby is a jackass.”

You managed a small laugh. “I won’t argue that.” 

At your red Jeep Wrangler, you said, “Where is your car?”

“I don’t take my car out on nights like this. And it’s no weather for a bike, so I’m on foot.”

“A bike? As in a motorcycle?”

He nodded. “Yes, as in a motorcycle.”

That didn’t surprise you as all. He definitely looked like the motorcycle sort, and you could easily see him astride one. “Isn’t a little cold out for being on a bike?”

He shrugged. “I don’t feel the cold so much, so no. I guess not. But,” he looked up, holding out a hand palm up to catch the silent flakes drifting around them, “like I said, too dangerous to be on my bike on a night like tonight, so I’m on foot instead.”

“On foot? How far do you live from here?”

“Not far. A mile or so that way,” he pointed toward the center of town. 

“You walked here?”

“I took an Uber.”

You bit back a smile, picturing the look on his driver’s face when said driver got a good look at him. “You must have made him wet his pants.”

To her surprise, he grinned. “He did look a wee bit nervous, now that ye mention it.”

“Get in.” You beeped off the alarm. “The least I can do is give you a ride home. Although,” you looked over at frat boy, “think we should at least nudge him?”

“Fuck him.” Dwalin tugged open the passenger door and climbed in. “It’d serve him right to freeze his nuts off out here.”

You couldn’t argue with that, so you didn’t. You climbed into the driver’s seat, kicked over the ignition, and backed out of the space. 

Dwalin directed you through town to a small apartment complex not far from Durin���s Garage. You pulled into a guest space and put the engine in neutral, tugging the emergency brake up to engage it. Two slots over, a tarp draped what you assumed was probably his motorcycle and you wondered what kind of bike he owned. A Harley, no doubt. Something jet black and shiny, with a throaty-sounding engine. 

“Are ye sure yer okay?”

You nodded. “I’m fine. Really. Thank you again, though. You have no idea how much I appreciate it.”

“Yer welcome.” He looked over at you, and when he smiled, it was like being hit with something heavy—like a cast-iron frying pan—only there was no pain following the blow. “Like I said, I had a feeling he was trouble.”

“Well, people say that about you, too, you know.”

He nodded. “I know.”

“So, why did you really come back?”

“I told ye—”

“You left two hours ago. Where were you?”

“I came home and the more I thought about it, the more I worried. The more I worried, the less I could sleep. So, I caught an Uber and came back.”

“You were worried about me?”

“Yeah. I like ye.”

“You like me.”

He nodded. “I like ye. Ye don’t really think it takes me two hours to finish one silly porter, do ye?”

“I thought you were a lightweight.” You couldn’t resist teasing him. It was a gamble, and you held your breath for a moment. 

But then, he chuckled. “I can drink any one of those boys under the table, ye know.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“I can. I just choose not to because someone’s got to look out for them.” He looked up and met your gaze again and you felt the air crackle around you. Without thinking, you leaned across, over the console, and kissed him.

He looked so fierce and frightening, with his long, dark hair and heavy dark beard and mustache, and all of his ink, but the second your lips met, his hands came up to cradle your face. His thumbs moved along your cheeks in soft, sweeping motions. His lips were just as soft, almost surprisingly so, and they moved against your with a gentleness you never would have taken him to possess. His lips parted, his tongue brushed along the edges of your lips, then slid between them to caress yours. He released your face, his arms snaking about your waist and, with almost no effort, he pulled you astride him. 

Your knees sank into the perforated leather seat on either side of his hips, and you wrapped your arms about his neck, pressing yourself flush against him. His body was firm and hard, muscles lay thick across his shoulders, down his upper back. 

Little by little, the Jeep’s windows fogged up and the heat seemed to work too well. It made your clothes heavy and uncomfortable. His fingers curled into the bottom of your navy blue Dunraven Pub tee shirt, tugged it from the waist of your jeans, and when his hands lay flat against your bare skin, you actually shivered. His fingertips were warm and rough, dragging up along the valley of your spine. They snagged in your bra strap. A flick of one wrist, and the band opened and you sucked in a deep breath as—

“Ohhh…” The sigh leaked from you as those rough fingertips swept along the outer curve of your breasts. His thumbs dragged teasingly about your nipples, sending ripples of icy pleasure spiking through you with each achingly slow turn. Your nipples puckered into taut beads beneath his touch and as they did, a silky heat began to pool between your legs. You rocked slightly forward, and when you met the very firm bulge of his cock straining against his jeans, you smiled and shivered at the same time. It had been a while since you’d fooled around with anyone, never mind that you were fooling around with Dwalin, who reeked of danger and sex and everything your mother always warned you away from, all the while fearing it was exactly what would attract you.

And attract you it did. You’d spent so many nights wondering about him, watching him interact with his friends, how he seemed especially protective toward Thorin Durin. Perhaps the rumors were lies and he wasn’t nearly as frightening as those rumors wanted you to believe.

And then there was the rumor about his ink…

You shivered. This was like being a teenager all over again, hoping like hell you didn’t get caught by the cops because a nosy neighbor saw or heard you. The Jeep’s interior grew warmer by the minute and the only light came from a streetlight on the opposite side of the parking lot. More shadow than light filled the Jeep’s interior, but you didn’t need light to see. You knew what he looked like—trouble. Good trouble. 

He pushed your tee shirt higher, his beard tickled your skin as he shifted just enough and his lips replaced his thumb, his tongue slowly swirling about one aching nipple now. Your back arched of its own, your eyes closing as his hands skimmed up your back, then down, his thumbs hooking in the waist of your jeans.The air grew heavy with arousal, with your sighs as he coaxed even more heat from you. Knots seemed to form just below your belly, dropping into your core to spread that fire. You bit down hard on your bottom lip as he caught your nipple in gentle, teasing teeth and flicked just the tip of his tongue over it. 

Your fingers wound in the dark hair falling below his shoulders, which was far softer than you’d thought it would be. Your hips rolled toward him, the skim of your thong against your increasingly achy folds offered only slight relief. 

He tried to whisk your tee shirt over your head and when you shifted to let him—

Thunk.

Your head met the roof. “Ow.”

“Sorry, love,” he whispered, letting your tee shirt flutter back down. “Are ye okay?”

You rubbed the small bump on your head. Just touching it sent pain zinging along your scalp, but you didn’t really care all that much as you smiled down at him. “I’m fine.”

His hands came to rest on your hips as another car swung into the lot and for a moment, you felt like a spotlight shone on you. Dwalin cleared his throat. “I should probably let ye go.”

“No,” you said without thinking, “you shouldn’t.”

Those fingers on your hips tightened and the slight smile playing at his lips made your belly flutter with butterflies. “Are ye sure?”

His voice was barely a whisper, a hint of disbelief woven into those three words. He seemed so surprised that you might actually want to be with him,  and it made you think back to the rumors that floated around regarding this man, both flattering and unflattering, made you think about how you always thought him cute, but were afraid the unflattering things were truth and so never made mention of your crush.

Maybe they weren’t true at all.

And, to be totally honest, you really were curious about that tattoo…

Catching his face between your palms, you smiled and nodded. “I’m positive.”

He smiled and tugged you back to him for a gentle kiss. Then, you vaulted back into the driver’s seat, killed the engine, and pushed open the door. The frigid air bit into you and you were thankful that his building was apparently the one closest to the lot. He thrust open the main door. “I’m up the stairs, first door on the left.”

Your heart beat faster now. This wasn’t something you made a habit of, but sometimes exceptions had to be made. This was one of those times.

He came up behind you, his heavy leather boots thudding dully on the stair treads. Under the bright hallway lights it was easy to see why people were actually afraid of him. He did look like a cross between a Hell’s Angel and a… Hell’s Angel. You would not have been at all surprised to find out he did time for killing someone. He looked that fierce. But you also saw hints of that ferocity tempered by the gentle side you had the feeling he didn’t show to many people.

He held a key-laden carabiner in one hand and as he flipped through his keys, you studied those massive hands, trying to figure out what exactly he’d had inked into his skin. But, try as you might, the pictures made no sense to you.

The keys rattled softly as he unlocked the door and pushed it open, then gestured for you to go ahead of him. You stepped into the warm front hallway, and squinted as he threw the switch and the overhead light blazed brightly. A hint of cinnamon and nutmeg hung in the air, along with a whisper of fried onions, which made you smile because you just couldn’t imagine him cooking. Stupid, really. He certainly had to eat, didn’t he?

Besides, the tiny kitchen was just to your right and you saw for yourself the dishes in the drying rack. Dwalin Fundinson was a regular guy after all.

The door closed softly behind them, the lock tumblers falling into place as he re-locked the door. “So, this is my place. It’s not much, but it’s home.”

You smiled at him over one shoulder then turned back toward the small, square living room. It was spotless, the walls dark gray, the trim bright white. The coffee and end tables were chrome and glass. The furniture had clean lines and fit in with the color scheme. The sofa was dark brown, the armchair cobalt blue. The carpeting was dark blue and looked as if it’d been recently vacuumed. It wasn’t at all how you’d picture his apartment to be at all. This was far homier, even if the chrome didn’t do it for you.

“Not much? It’s fine.”

“Not what ye pictured, is it?” A grin teased at his lips. “Ye can admit it.”

“It’s not, no. And that’s really shitty of me to say, because it’s so terribly judgmental.”

“Don’t worry about it. I know what people think when they see me. I count on it.”

“Well, it’s wrong, whether you expect it or not.” You turned toward him. “And I apologize for it.”

He closed the gap between you, looming over you, all broad shoulders and wide chest. Then, he caught your face in his hands, tilted it to his. “Ye don’t have anything to apologize for, love,” he whispered, then bent to just very lightly brush his lips against yours. 

That light, teasing kiss sent chills through you. Your eyes closed. You gave into the urge to lean into him. And when you did, the hand on your left cheek slid down, along your arm, his thumb brushing the outer curve of your breast. His fingers grazed your waist, then he slid that hand back up up to cup your left breast. Your back arched of its own, pressing that breast deeper into his hand. He offered up a gentle squeeze, even gentler kneading. 

He teased you a few minutes, then pulled back and with a heavy-lidded, seductive smile, whisked your tee shirt over your head. 

“Pretty,” he rumbled, tracing a forefinger along the satiny strap of your shimmering blue lace bra. His eyes visibly darkened as his gaze lowered to the nearly-sheer bra. The lace only just barely hid your breasts, but offered up enough of a view to be enticing. You had chosen wisely when you tugged it from the lingerie drawer this morning. 

Wisely, indeed. 

The cups were unlined, just naked, stiff lace that aided in his caress when his thumb brushed over your nipple. It was rough against you, pebbling your nipple with only one pass. You bit down on your bottom lip, fire swirling through you, heat pooling between your legs once more. His free hand slid down along your belly. He popped the snap on your jeans. 

You bit down hard on your bottom lip as he tugged open the fly and his fingers eased beneath the lacy thong that matched your bra, into your curls.

Into that heat. 

He glided easily through your wet folds, his thumb just barely skimming over your clit, his fingers teasing every bit of slick flesh as he moved closer to your entrance. A thick finger slid inside you, thrusting to reach the small swelling that, when he found it, had you moaning softly into the fragrant air as you clenched about that finger moving so slowly inside you. 

Your eyes closed at the sensations running riot through you from a single finger teasing you, bringing you to the brink of insanity. His voice was a gravelly purr, his lips brushing your ear as he whispered, “I’ve been waiting for you for so long…”

“Why…” Damn it! Your thoughts were like fat, lazy slugs, refusing to form into any sort of coherent pattern. “Why didn’t you say—say anything?”

He slid his finger from you, slid it through your slickness, over your clit once more, and then moved to plunge it back inside you. “A girl like you would never want a guy like me, that’s why.”

“You—you’re wrong. Because I absolutely do want you…” Your head spun so badly, you almost felt faint. He found that swelling again, stroked it to send fire radiating through you. Your orgasm came swift and hot and hard and you gushed over him, your voice a hoarse whisper as you throbbed and clenched about that finger, as you arched and writhed against him. “Oh… holy… oh, yes…”

He teased you mercilessly, finger working inside you, thumb working your clit as you exploded around him. He held you tight, even as your knees buckled from the force of your climax. And when you went limp in his arms, he slid free and bent to slash his mouth over yours. 

You wrapped yourself around him, tugging at his dark gray henley to drag it up toward his shoulders. He pulled free just long enough to sweep it over his head, and then he was back, his lips seizing yours. 

The rest of your clothing got in the way, tugged off and tossed aside as quickly as possible and when no more remained, you let your hands wander over his solid body, from the bulging muscle of his upper arms and shoulders, down to the thick slabs of muscle along his thighs and calves, you explored him with your hands, your lips, your tongue until he trembled against you. 

But, as you moved to kneel before him, he caught you. “No, love,” he growled, “I’m no’ finished with ye.”

He maneuvered you around him, backed you toward the sofa. You sank into the soft cushions, cradled by them as he sank to his knees before you and bent to press a hot kiss into your belly. The cushion shifted beneath you as you gripped a corner when he moved lower. Your eyelids were so fucking heavy, but you would not let them close. Oh, no. You wanted to watch him, wanted to see what he did to you, wanted to see him being so gentle, so loving, with you.

His first stroke came lightly, the tip of his tongue darting against you, but then..

Oh, but then… He shifted and went from short, teasing flicks to long, silky strokes, his heat melding with yours. He swirled his tongue about your clit, down along it, teased you slowly up to the very tip of the aching bead, then down along the opposite side. And with each leisurely pass, your body trembled a bit more. A second orgasm took root, softer at first, but as he applied more pressure, that softness grew into tingly hot fire. He didn’t let up, even as you writhed beneath him. You couldn’t help it. It just felt so fucking good… Everything inside you pulsed in time to his strokes, to his swirls, your hips rocked to meet each velvety caress. You couldn’t hold back your moan as the wave rushed toward you, rising and cresting until—

“Dwalin!” You came in a fiery flash, gushing over his tongue as he continued his sensual torture of your aching flesh. And when he finally eased up, you could barely breathe, convinced you were about to melt into a small puddle on his amazingly comfortable sofa, and you were perfectly fine with that.

He pressed a gentle kiss into the curve of your inner thigh, his beard soft as a whisper against your overly sensitive skin. Another kiss over your hip. Your belly. Up between your breasts, and when his mouth found yours, you felt it through to the center of your being.

You had never realized just how hot he was until now. The ferocity factor always seemed to temper everything else. But the reality was, he was so very handsome, in a rough and tumble sort of way. His upper body lay heavy with muscle that came from hard work and not from a gym, and his left arm was sleeved in black and gray ink that stretched over across his chest as well. Some of the ink was hidden behind a spread of dark hair interspersed with silver, but you could still see it, even if it was a little difficult. 

And that ink also stretched down into his flat belly, more visible because the silver-tipped dark hair thinned into a trail running down the middle of his stomach to his navel, then resumed below, where it joined a thicker, coarser spread of dark hair. You reached out to trace one of the thick black ink lines down along his ribs, down to his hip, where it angled toward that thatch.

He caught your hand in his, snaked his free arm about your waist, and gently drew you up from the sofa. He bent to you, his mouth finding yours and as he deepened his kiss, he swung you up into his arms. 

His bedroom was the end of the narrow hallway, across from the bath. Your belly whooshed as he set you on his very comfortable bed without breaking that same kiss. When he did draw back and his gaze fell completely on you as you lay naked before him, those pale eyes darkened and he growled, “Damn, yer fucking beautiful.”

He bent over you, hands on either side of your shoulders, looming over you to block out all that was around you as he came gently against you. The crisp hair on his chest teased your nipples back into stiff peaks, the thigh he eased between yours pressed just right into your folds to get your arousal flowing once more. You ached to explore his body, to let your hands run over his skin, over the rounded curve of his ass, along the length of his muscled thighs.

You reached for him, curled your fingers about his hard, hot, utterly impressive cock, then smiled when he exhaled with a low, “Ohhh…”

He arched into your touch, into your grasp, and more than anything, you wanted to look to see if the tattoo rumor was true, but it was too dark even if you could get yourself into the right position. The hallway light offered up just enough to make out his silhouette, to see how his eyes glittered as his gaze locked with yours, but that was about it. The question would remain unanswered for now. 

A car alarm sounded in the distance. A door slammed somewhere below you. He shifted just a fraction of an inch to settle between your legs, which parted of their own to accommodate his hips. 

He slid through your folds, your slickness making him simply glide through them. A low growl rumbled from him. He arched away from you, reached a hand between you, and then you felt him press against you. 

He breached you, his thick cock stretching you as he fit it inside you, and you shivered at the sensations he sent scorching through you. He teased you, filled you inch by slow, delicious inch, until you were ready to simply melt around him without his offering up even a single thrust yet.

“Oh, love…” His burr thickened as he whispered your name and moved slowly inside you. “Ah, ye feel so very good…”

You wrapped yourself around him, meeting each thrust with a tilt of your hips. He kissed you, slowly. Deeply. His tongue moved in sync with his hips, teased you, drew yours back into the welcoming heat of his mouth. With each thrust, pleasure spiked thorough you, stronger and sweeter, your climax already building. 

“I’ve thought about this for so long,” he murmured, his lips brushing yours.

“What?”

He nodded, offering up another lazy, deep thrust. “I have, love. Ye have no idea what I’d be thinking, watching ye, night after night…”

The thought of him sitting on his barstool, watching you sent a delicious shiver through you. You bent your legs, pressed your knees into his sides and smiled as he let out plaintive moan. “So tell me now,” you whispered, as he thrust harder now. 

Another deep, hard thrust had you trembling around him. Dear god, his control amazed you. Those thrusts were so powerful, and yet, he managed to maintain his steady pace when the fire within you built so quickly, you were ready for him to just jackhammer both of you into oblivion.

He sped up, arching hard against you as he growled, “This, love. This is what I’d be thinking.”

As he spoke, his thrusts came swifter, more powerful, and that was the end of any conversation as you felt the first tingles of another orgasm. You clenched around him, squeezed him as he neared the end. His breath came in harsh gasps, his fingers curled into the dark blue comforter beneath you as he fought for leverage. 

You rocked your hips, meeting each thrust as he surged deep. He sucked in a rough breath, his eyes closed. You melted around him, and as you shattered, he came at the same time. He arched hard, his body jerking with each pulse, and when he finished, he sank against you, his head on your breast. He trembled in your arms, his lips gazing the curve of your right breast as he whispered, “I’ve wanted to do this since the day I met ye, love…”

You smiled into the darkness, letting your fingers smooth over his dark hair, which was cool and silky to the touch. “You should’ve spoken up sooner.”

“I didn’t think I stood a chance with ye.”

“Why?”

He lifted his head to regard you with sleepy eyes. “Look at ye and look at me. Why would I think otherwise?”

With a low groan, he pulled free of you and rose to pad into the adjoining bathroom, where he emerged with a hand towel. “Girls like ye don’t look at guys like me.”

“Nonsense.” You took the towel to clean yourself up. “Of course we do, but we’re also afraid of you to a certain extent.”

“Afraid of me?” He flopped onto his back alongside you.

“Dwalin, you are terrifying and you know it. You have to know that.”

He looked over at you and grinned. “I count on that, actually.”

With a sigh, you finished cleaning up and then rose to take the towel back into the bathroom. When you came back out, you stretched out alongside him. “So, then why would I think you’ve been lusting after me, especially if you don’t say anything?”

He looked over at you, his eyes soft, his expression somewhat guarded. “So, if I asked ye out?”

“I would probably say yes.”

“Want to go out sometime? Dinner, maybe? A movie?”

“I’d love to, Dwalin. As long as you promise we can do this again.”

He chuckled, reaching for you. “Do I look fool enough to turn ye away?”

You didn’t resist as he drew you atop him. He felt very nice so tightly pressed against you. Thank God you had tomorrow off because he started kissing your neck so very nicely and it didn’t take long before you wanted only to claw open his back while he fucked you but good again. 

[blushingpeach20]

I just found this picture of Dwalin Fundinson(Graham Mctavish) and I'm literally dead. This is my new lockscreen, that intense look in his eyes killed me. And I'm fucking asexual. Please help me.

[swordoaths]

@fundinson​ wrote:  “Where do you think you are going?”

    And this would be his story: to be born in the wake of grief and exile-- never to know the home others had known, never to know kin he ought to have known, and, as a result of exile and making ends meet, to become fatherless not long after his brother’s first cries. But his story is not unique amongst his kin. Aye, far worse sufferings of others had embedded deep within Fíli’s bones, the vibrations of stories in bass and baritone sounding off in the core of his heart. It was a reminder of what had passed, a call to honour those they had lost, and a map to go back. And with every strike of a hammer in the forges, or every bargain made in trade--- all to make ends meet--- there was an echo of the cries that spilled from the mountain that day. Cries he never heard, and yet... could still somehow feel in the deepest parts of his soul.

   They were there in all things since Fíli’s birth. It had been there behind the loving gaze of his mother, the guidance from his uncle, and the teachings of distant kin in the line of Durin. All his life, they did not turn their backs on raising him, even with that ache. And so, it should come as no surprise that he would not turn his back on kin--- not when he could do something for them.

    Eldest son. Heir. Fatherless lad. And so, between picking up a sword and throwing axes, Fíli had picked up a hammer. He went to the forges--- made what they could trade for things they lived without. He lit the fires and swung--- the metallic clank soon giving way to the shape of some weapon or piece of armour. If it would help his mother, take a load off Kíli’s back so that he might spend more hours in training, and stop his uncle from carrying it all, Fíli would do it. 

   And it’s why Fíli had loaded the goods he had made upon his back, ready to embark beyond the Blue Mountains. Other races would pay a decent price for Dwarvish blade and ingenuity. Why should he not try to get something more for them?

    But Dwalin stood nearby: ‘Where do you think you are going?’

    Fíli turned ‘round, catching Dwalin’s gaze. 

    “Wherever I can get a better bargain,” he answered. It it what my father did. Now, it is my turn. “Give me five days, and I’ll return.” 

[nazghoulz]

Emo abt the hackneyed state of my writing BUT !!! i carry on, like a plague over the earth, thinking about middle earth's biggest thembo thorin oakenshield, and his two beautiful husbands, bilbo baggins and dwalin fundinson

[fundinsson]

hey guys! i changed my username!

bluebellcotton -> fundinsson

because of course, i had to dedicate this to my one and only love, dwalin.

(also fundinson was already taken so i had to put in an extra s dksjsk)

[i-did-not-mean-to]

For all the tight spots Dwalin Fundinson found himself in, this was by far the tightest—and that wasn't necessarily a bad thing.

The love of his life was a brilliant painter but customarily overestimated spaces and distances.

Maybe, it was also because of her own tiny stature, but either way, sliding under the couch to hide – after not having quite made it to the bedroom before undressing – had not been a stroke of genius, at least at first glance.

He stifled a fit of booming laughter when his – entirely decent and thoroughly innocent – brother sunk down on the piece of furniture, effectively pressing her warm, soft body against his.

Might as well, he thought and slipped inside of her where he stayed while she was being rocked rhythmically by Balin twitching upon reading a particularly exciting report of the latest council meeting.

Sometimes, Dwalin knew that being taciturn was a blessing and when he saw her flushed face and her wide eyes – rolling in barely contained frenzy – he patted himself on the back, because this was one of these times.

[omgkatsudonplease]

[ficlet, bagginshield] shock and delight, pt 1 (bridgerton au)

The banks of the Brandywine River are packed with strolling couples on the day of the promenade, their chaperones following shortly behind. Thorin and the Fundinson brothers arrive exactly on time, Thorin carrying a bottle of Old Winyards. According to the sommelier in the shop at Bucklebury, this particular bottle was their last vintage one.

Bilbo and his chaperone Mr Greyhame show up a couple minutes late, the Hobbit fretting and dabbing at his brows with a monogrammed handkerchief. “I’m so terribly sorry for my lateness,” he flusters, hopping on one foot to the other like a nervous rabbit as he peers up at Thorin with a sheepish grin. “I forgot my pocket-handkerchief and had to go back for it.”

Thorin is caught between the absolute adorableness of Bilbo’s contrite pout and the absolute absurdity of the reason for his tardiness. 

“You are forgiven,” he declares instead. Bilbo’s pout smooths into a heart-melting smile.

The two of them begin to head down the path alongside the river, their pace leisurely. Other promenaders pass them by, as well as several open carriages pulled by unprotesting ponies. Thorin finds his gaze oddly drawn to the way the spring sunlight seems to burnish Bilbo’s curls into gold. Probably where Lord Stormcrow got the Golden Hare moniker, he thinks, before forcibly looking away towards a young Hobbit family having a picnic by the river. 

It’s a picture-perfect image of marital bliss. Thorin supposes something like that is what Bilbo is looking for, which Thorin himself obviously could not provide. Though he has yet to hear of any pushback against what must be an odd coupling by both Dwarvish and Hobbit standards, he is sure opposition will make itself known eventually. A marriage of true minds often lacks the productivity factor of a standard marriage, something which would be keenly felt in the family of a gentleman as distinguished as Bilbo Baggins’s. 

He, on the other hand, has already named his sister-children as his heirs. So it didn’t matter whether or not he married at all, nor did it matter whether or not his One (wherever they may be) possessed the physical apparatus or mental inclination for childbearing. 

“I have a question,” says Bilbo after a moment, breaking through Thorin’s thoughts like sunlight through stormclouds. “How do you know Gandalf? He’s an old family friend of mine, and apparently my cousin Fortinbras was the one who suggested he watch over me this season, but I don’t know how he would know you.” He looks thoughtful, hazel eyes peering inquisitively into Thorin’s face. 

In spite of himself, Thorin feels exposed, almost vulnerable. 

“I suppose Gandalf does have a lot of fingers in a lot of pies, though,” muses Bilbo after a moment, before laughing and shrugging it off. “So? How do you know Gandalf?”

“To use your phrasing, Mr Greyhame has a finger in Erebor’s pie,” replies Thorin simply, not wanting to discuss how, years upon years ago, the Wizard had found his father in the depths of the Greenwood lost in enchantments and his own memories. King Thráin had, as the story went, finally succumbed to his grief about the deaths of his father and son, and had gotten lost in the Greenwood on his way to Azanulbizar to mourn them. 

He half suspects that telling Bilbo all of that would just make the poor Hobbit run off screaming in the opposite direction. So instead he bites his tongue, folding his hands behind his back. 

“I see,” says Bilbo, fiddling nervously with one of his cuff-links. “I’ve never been to Erebor. I’ve barely even left the Shire as-is.”

Thorin arches an eyebrow, remembering the abundance of maps and walking-sticks in Bag End the first time he’d gone over for dinner. The smial, though grand in size and luxurious in room variety, didn’t have the same cold ostentation as the mansions of Dwarves or Men. It felt homey, well-loved. A testament to lives well-lived.

No wonder Bilbo was so picky about the search for his One. If Thorin were not king, he would have wanted his halls just as cosy and warm, and he would have wanted to share it with only those who would brighten its nooks and crannies. 

“You certainly give the appearance of being well-travelled,” he says neutrally, still thinking of the maps and walking-sticks.

“Within the Shire,” demurs Bilbo. “I have had to go to Annúminas on business, of course, and once I went to Fornost with my parents on holiday, but Hobbits as a rule try to stick within the four farthings of the Shire. After all, why go out to see the rest of the world when the world comes to us every year?” 

His last question is both rhetorical and bitter. Thorin’s heart aches a little just hearing it. 

“So it is a matter of respectability?” he wonders wryly. Bilbo raises an eyebrow, so Thorin explains. “There is not much stopping you from running out of your front door and into the Blue, after all.”

Bilbo chuckles ruefully. “No,” he agrees. “But every time the side of me that craves adventures begins to make plans, the other side of me protests mightily, saying I’ll miss my books and my armchair and having six regular meals a day.”

Thorin has, indeed, noticed that restaurants and tea shops in the Shire have a more constant cycle of meals than anywhere else in Middle-earth. He’s honestly not complaining. 

“Speaking of meals,” he says, nodding towards the basket that Mr Greyhame is carrying, “I brought Old Winyards. Shall we find somewhere to sit?”

Bilbo checks his pocket-watch. “It’s halfway between elevensies and luncheon,” he remarks. 

“Yes,” says Thorin. “Consider it ‘lunchensies’.”

Bilbo bursts out in laughter at that, a bright joyful sound that rings through Thorin like one of the golden bells of Dale. His own stomach flutters a bit, and it takes all of his self-control to simply gesture for Balin and Dwalin to come help them set up their picnic on the banks of the Brandywine River. 

~~

Lunchensies is a success. Bilbo immediately takes a liking to Balin the moment they all sit down on the blanket together, happily chatting with him about books and history in between bites of his sandwich. Thorin watches them, unable to stop the smile on his face as he watches the way his old friend brightens under the Hobbit’s genuine inquisitiveness. 

“Yes, the road between here and Erebor was not as arduous as it used to be,” Balin is saying. “There is, of course, the stray highway robbery within Orc territory, but rumour has it that after the Shadow was broken at the end of the last Age, the majority of the Enemy’s armies have fallen out of its thrall and prefer to keep to themselves within the Mountains.”

“Occupying the ancestral halls of Khazad-dûm,” growls Dwalin. Thorin, too, feels the cold resentment deep in his stomach, but he tempers it by watching Bilbo chew thoughtfully at his sandwich, his nose twitching like a rabbit’s.

“While Durin’s Bane continues to live, Khazad-dûm cannot be retaken,” he reminds Dwalin. 

“If it continues to live,” muses Balin, before hastily switching the topic. “On the other hand, we are fortunate not to have awoken anything similar within Erebor. Though we did almost lose it to the firedrake Smaug.”

Thorin remembers the flames, remembers the lives lost to the dragon. The tragedy had seemed insurmountable at the time, but now he supposes rebuilding a Kingdom within the ashes of dragonfire was not as bad as being forced to flee for a new home like what had happened to his ancestors in Khazad-dûm.

“Almost?” echoes Bilbo, his eyes wide. Dwalin hands him and Thorin both glasses of the Old Winyards. Mr Greyhame, too, is helping himself to a liberal portion of the wine. 

“The Lady Mika, wife of the Lord of Dale, requited her husband’s death upon the dragon by shooting him with a black arrow,” explains Thorin as he pops a strawberry into his mouth. The fruit’s juices spill over his fingers; he hastily licks it off before wiping his fingers with the handkerchief.

Bilbo’s cheeks are dusted light pink when Thorin looks up again, and Thorin can feel his own cheeks heating in response.

“Well,” flounders the Hobbit, “that must have been terrible to go through. We haven’t had anything quite like that in the Shire, save for long and fell winters and the odd plague outbreak. But enough talk of dark and grim things! What is your favourite part of Erebor?”

The question throws Thorin for a moment. “Everything,” he says, but Bilbo raises a doubtful eyebrow at that. “All of Erebor is connected,” explains Thorin. “From the mines to the forges to the crafting halls, every part serves the whole.”

“Cogs in a machine,” muses Bilbo. “But what about a location? If you’ve grown up there all your life, surely you must have a favourite place. Secret hideouts from childhood, all of that.”

Thorin considers the question again, and this time the answer comes almost as if he had always meant to say it: “My mother’s garden,” he replies. “She kept a well-tended terrace beside the Royal apartments. We still take care of it, of course, and in the spring the cherry and apple blossoms blanket the grass like petalled snow.”

Bilbo’s expression lights up. “That sounds incredible,” he says.

“In the summer, the entire terrace is flooded with fireflies. I remember thinking once as a child that they were stars come down to play with us.” 

Bilbo’s hands tighten against the stem of his wineglass. “I should very much like to see that,” he says quietly. Thorin smiles, before noticing the knowing glint in their companions’ eyes.

He glares at them until they subside.