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joyfullynervouscreator · 7 years

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The Sleeping One

Imagine waking up to Dwalin cuddling you in his sleep (I’m seeing a trend with these cuddle imagines.)

word count: 740

You drifted awake slowly, feeling surprisingly warm and comfortable in the chilly spring morning. Along your back lay a nice warm cushion, and even your nose felt warm, resting on the lovely pillow beneath your head. It was firm but soft and it smelled…woodsy. Why did your pillow smell? You wondered, but your brain drowsily informed you that you were camped in the woods, what else would your pillow smell like besides woods and a hint of smoke? Thus, satisfied that you had made sense of your surroundings you kept drifting.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” someone exclaimed, the words drifting vaguely through your haze. Your pillow rose slightly, in time with the wind that ruffled your hair.

“Should we try to wake him?” someone else asked, beginning to break through your fog. You frowned. Couldn’t these dwarrow see that you were busy sleeping?!

“I don’t see how we can save her,” the first voice whispered. “What if he comes out of it badly?”

“Ssshhh,” you hissed and the voices shut up, letting you fall back into the nice sleepy fog of lying on Dwalin’s chest.

Wait.

Your mind quickly rewound that, growing more alert by the second. Woodsy smell, moving pillow, Dwalin’s chest… oh, Mahal, Sulladad, and Kementari help you.

You blinked slowly. Green met your eyes, your face pressed too closely against Dwalin’s chest to see anything but the colour of his tunic. The warm cushion along your back was obviously his arm, and you blushed fiercely – glad your face was hidden against his chest – when you realised how intimately your legs were tangled with his.

Twisting your neck to peer sideways, you caught sight of Balin’s worried face.

“I’m sorry lass, he was too quick for us,” he admitted sheepishly. You glared. “It’s when the battle-dreams take him, you see, normally he curls up with one of his axes or I have to wake him by tossing my boot at him… but when he started to move that way, one of his arms flopped out and found your hair… and well,” he paused, embarrassed, “I’m not sure it’d be safe for you if we wake him,” Balin whispered, “He tends to wake up… violently.” You shuddered at those words, while Balin grimaced. The only other dwarf awake was Thorin, and you really wished it had been anyone else on watch, feeling more than a little humiliated for the both of you to be caught like this… cuddling… by your King. Your face once more flaming with embarrassment, you returned to your previous position, wondering if it was possible to die of mortification.

“Don’t worry,” Thorin Oakenshield said, his voice a quiet rumble by the fire as he lay down, letting Balin take the last watch. “Dwalin would never hurt you.”

“I know…” but that’s when Dwalin is awake, you didn’t add. Thorin probably knew it anyway, having spent more time in Dwalin’s company than anyone else.

At least I’m not cold, you thought, listing the good sides to your predicament in an effort to stave off panic. Dwalin might never wish to hurt you, you were absolutely sure of that, but his arms would be capable of doing a lot of damage even to a frame as sturdy as yours. He does smell quite nice, you thought, feeling the fog of sleep sneaking up on you once more. Burrowing deeper into Dwalin’s hold without even realising it, you sighed softly.

Dwalin felt comfortable. His arms were wrapped around the most beautiful dam he’d ever had the pleasure of meeting, her little mewl-like snores as adorable as she was. He could feel every curve of her, wedged tightly along the length of him, as though she had been cold and sought his heat for comfort. The thought elicited a smug male pride. She picked me, his heart crowed. Dwalin smiled, sleepily nuzzling against the top of her head as he wondered what it would feel like to braid her hair. A vision came to him then, all her hair unbound, the only covering for her nakedness as she walked to him, letting him touch everything. Dwalin groaned, waking himself up from his lovely dream with the sound.

It was not a dream.

Looking down the length of his body, she was definitely tangled up with him, his personal goddess was in his arms. Dwalin froze, panicked. What in the name of Mahal’s beard had happened last night?

To be continued...

#Dwalin #reader #hobbitimagine #imagine #imaginexhobbit #dwalin/reader

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hyacinthrows · 6 years

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Imagine young Kili! Pt 1

#youngkili thehobbit hobbitimagine imaginekili dwarves

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archieimagines · 7 years

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Masterlist

Discontinued masterlist here!

Game of Thrones masterlist here!

MARVEL masterlist here!

Alice in Borderland

Imagines:

Niragi Suguru | Imagine finding Niragi after the Beach

Criminal Minds

Imagines:

Spencer Reid | “Ho ho ho, bitch.” Spencer Reid | Imagine having a meme war with Spencer

Headcanons:

Spencer Reid | Dating Spencer Reid would include

Game of Thrones Masterlist

Harry Potter

Imagines:

Draco Malfoy | Your hair keeps blowing into my face and it’s annoying but I don’t want to stop talking to you Draco Malfoy | Oh, this isn’t a costume, it’s my natural state of being

Neville Longbottom | I’m not usually scared of things like this but you keep screaming and making me jump

Sirius Black (young) | October ain’t October til someone gets their head stuck in a pumpkin Sirius Black | Imagine adopting a little girl with Sirius Sirius Black | Imagine Sirius helping you during a thunderstorm

One Shots:

Fred Weasley | Fireworks

George Weasley | Dancing Barefoot in the Dark

Remus Lupin (young) | Monthlies

Sirius Black (young) | Good Things Sirius Black | Against My Better Judgement

Headcanons:

Ron Weasley | Dating Ron Weasley would include

Preferences:

Telling them you love them

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them

Imagines:

Credence Barebone | Imagine finding Credence after he escapes from MACUSA Credence Barebone | Imagine Credence being convinced he isn’t good enough for you

Jacob Kowalski | Imagine being a witch working in Jacob's bakery and knowing all the creatures he creates

Percival Graves | Imagine being the only one to notice Graves’ change in behaviour before he’s revealed as Grindelwald Percival Graves | You look like a drowned cat but I think you’re attractive

Newt Scamander | “I’m still sad you won’t be home for Christmas.”

Jurassic Park

Imagines:

Ian Malcolm | Imagine snuggling on a rainy summer’s evening with Ian

Owen Grady | Imagine Owen saving you when you’re being chased in the T-Rex enclosure Owen Grady | Imagine having a crush on Owen Owen Grady | Imagine being scared of Owen when he snaps at you Owen Grady | Imagine going to the beach with Owen

One Shots:

Owen Grady | You Don’t Get To

Headcanons:

Alan Grant | Dating Alan Grant would include

Ian Malcolm | Dating Ian Malcolm would include

Nick Van Owen | Dating Nick Van Owen would include

Owen Grady | Falling in love with Owen Grady would include Owen Grady | Dating Owen Grady would include

Richard Levine | Dating Richard Levine would include

The Lord of the Rings / The Hobbit

Imagines:

Legolas | Imagine being Legolas’ hair stylist Legolas | Imagine Legolas being the only one to beat you in a fight

Thranduil | Imagine Thranduil in modern Earth

M*A*S*H

Imagines:

‘Hawkeye’ Pierce | Imagine Hawkeye performing your appendectomy ‘Hawkeye’ Pierce | Imagine Hawkeye and BJ saving you from being harassed ‘Hawkeye’ Pierce | Imagine always cheering Hawkeye up

One Shots:

‘Hawkeye’ Pierce | Brothers (And Sisters) In Arms

Headcanons:

Father Mulcahy | Being close friends with Father Mulcahy would include

‘Hawkeye’ Pierce | Being in a serious relationship with Hawkeye would include

Marvel Cinematic Universe Masterlist

Narcos / Narcos: Mexico

Imagines:

The Castaño Brothers | Imagine both Fidel and Carlos having a thing for you

Felix Gallardo | Imagine meeting Felix Gallardo as part of the Medellin cartel Felix Gallardo | Imagine Felix taking you to Mexico with him

Javier Peña | Imagine giving Javi a massage after finding out he spent all night at his desk Javier Peña | Imagine confronting Javi about his association with Los Pepes Javier Peña | Imagine being Steve’s sister and dating Javi Javier Peña | Imagine having a secret relationship with Javi and Steve finding out. Javier Peña | “You didn’t think I’d let you spend Christmas alone, did you?” Javier Peña | “Wanna get shit-faced instead?” Javier Peña | “So, I didn’t actually get you anything.” Javier Peña | “I told you you were going to get sick if you stayed in the snow all day.” Javier Peña | Imagine Javi comforting you when the sicario you’re after gets away

La Quica | Imagine La Quica trying to protect you La Quica | Imagine finding out that your boyfriend is La Quica

Headcanons:

Javier Peña | Javi falling in love with you would include

La Quica | Dating La Quica would include

Narnia

Imagines:

Aslan | Imagine Aslan feeling compelled to protect you Aslan | Imagine seeking counsel in Aslan when you're not feeling yourself Aslan | “I hope you break your ass on that ice.”

Prince Caspian | Imagine Caspian falling in love with you

One Shots:

Prince Caspian | What You Deserve

Star Wars

Imagines:

Cassian Andor | Imagine Cassian surviving to hear about your pregnancy Cassian Andor | Imagine standing up for Cassian’s character on Aldhani Cassian Andor | Imagine Cassian’s kisses before work Cassian Andor | Imagine Cassian helping you through a panic attack on Aldhani

Chewbacca | Imagine Chewie being protective of you

Darth Maul | Imagine Darth Maul knowing that you staying with him is dangerous

Din Djarin | Imagine almost catching Din Djarin without his helmet Din Djarin | Imagine being hurt by a droid in front of Din Djarin Din Djarin | Imagine Din finding you asleep with Grogu Din Djarin | Imagine Din Djarin confessing his feelings before a hunt Din Djarin | Imagine Din Djarin helping with your fear of animals Din Djarin | Imagine ranting to Din while he repairs the Crest Din Djarin | Imagine Din comforting you about your mother

Han Solo | Imagine meeting Han through Dryden Vos Han Solo | Imagine being in flying school with Han Han Solo | Imagine helping Han when he’s injured during a job Han Solo | Imagine catching Han staring at you Han Solo | Imagine Han getting protective of you around Jabba Han Solo | Imagine Han accidentally saying something offensive about your dyslexia

Kylo Ren | Imagine yelling at Kylo Ren Kylo Ren | Imagine persuading Kylo Ren to speak his mind Kylo Ren | Imagine being a follower of Snoke who actually turned to the light and is stuck hiding it from Kylo Ren

Lando Calrissian | Imagine Lando stopping Han from hitting on you Lando Calrissian | Imagine L3 giving you advice about your crush on Lando Lando Calrissian | Imagine Lando catching you trying on his capes Lando Calrissian | Imagine cuddling with Lando Calrissian

Poe Dameron | Imagine trying to talk Poe Dameron out of doing something stupid Poe Dameron | Imagine Poe kissing you to shut you up

One Shots:

Cassian Andor | Finally Cassian Andor | Hold Me through the Storm

Din Djarin | Touching Din

Dryden Vos | Not Obligation

Poe Dameron | Fine

Headcanons:

Lando Calrissian | Dating Lando would include

Luke Skywalker | Dating Luke Skywalker would include

Obi-Wan Kenobi | Dating Obi-Wan would include

Stranger Things

Imagines:

Billy Hargrove | Imagine cuddling up to Billy

Eddie Munson | Imagine Eddie noticing you protect Dustin

Supernatural

Imagines:

Castiel | Can you please help me carry this pumpkin to my apartment it’s like three times my size

Dean Winchester | Imagine taking Dean to a pumpkin patch Dean Winchester | Imagine Dean helping you through a panic attack Dean Winchester | Imagine brushing knuckles with Dean Dean Winchester | Imagine shopping for Christmas decorations with Dean Dean Winchester | Imagine Dean protecting you in a bar

Gabriel | “Are you trying to find your present?”

Sam Winchester | Imagine braiding Sam’s hair Sam Winchester | i can’t believe i got stuck in a lift with you dressed as a clown Sam Winchester | Imagine Dean trying to get you and Sam together

One Shots:

Sam Winchester | Workaholic

Preferences:

How they react to you getting hurt for them

Series:

Dean x daughter!reader | Family Don’t End In Blood Part 1 |

Umbrella Academy

Imagines:

Diego Hargreeves | Imagine Diego saving you

Five Hargreeves | Imagine sensing that Five is coming home

Klaus Hargreeves | Imagine having the same powers as Klaus but enjoying them

Headcanons:

Five Hargreeves | Five being in love with you would include:

The Witcher

Imagines:

Geralt of Rivia | Imagine patching up Geralt after a hunt

#masterlist #imagines #one shots #headcanons #preferences #requests #requests open

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imagineinhobbiton · 9 years

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#the hobbit #hobbit #hobbitimagines #imagines #imagine #fili #kili #durin

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joyfullynervouscreator · 7 years

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The Walkers pt 1

Kind of the prequel for “The Bear’s Lady”

word count: 3443

“Ullrae!” The scream is the last time you hear your mother’s voice, your name the last thing to pass her lips before the Orc’s jagged blade steals her life. The roar of anger as your father throws himself into the fight, shifting into a massive lynx in mid-air and slashing any and all throats he can, before he too is cut down. You can do nothing but watch, bound by some sort of evil that stops you from shifting, stops you from helping, keeps you still and only able to watch in horror as your family is slaughtered.

Later, you will not remember the long journey to the Orc stronghold, lost in a fog of numbness, grieving everyone you have ever known. Your sister’s new-born litter torn to shreds, their parents forced to watch before they were mercifully killed off too. Your brother, dead as he tried to crawl towards you, fury burning in the one eye he had left. The Orc had laughed, you heard, made you watch as every last remnant of life left his amber eyes. The images continue; an unending cycle of grief and horror and impotent fury. Your heart burns. Your eyes remain dry, and you wonder how you cannot even cry for what you have lost, feeling somehow unclean for it, as though your reactions mean that you did not love them all.

You try not to wonder why you alone have been spared, seeing none of your particular clan among the other Skinwalkers in chains around you. You shy away from guessing at the answer, knowing it can only be more horror. The shackles that wrap around your ankles are cold, cold as snow, and force you to walk slowly. Other Walkers have their hands bound, you see, and feel envious. Lynxes are meant to run free, to dance under the moon, to jump and climb with ease, even in human form. You think they must be magic. You know, deep in your bones, that you could shift and slip out of the restraints with little trouble, your paws far more bendable than your human appendages. You might not survive the feat, you know, but you would not care. Better to die free. At most, the Orcs – whose smell you would do anything to forget, feeling that it clings to your skin and your hair – would simply kill you for it, but you would take some of the scum with you. You try, in a wild moment of recklessness, you try; harder than you’ve ever tried before, but your other side does not come, does not take the place of your skin with its fur.

The day you begin to worry if the lynx in you has died too is the day that brings you closest to breaking.

The Stronghold is dirty, grimy, unclean, just like the filth that inhabits it. You see people who must be Walkers put to work, and they are the lucky ones, you realise. Far below, in the depths of the earth, you are told, they’ve enslaved the bigger Walkers, the bears, the horses, who work the mines and bring up the ore that the Orcs make into their crude weapons of torture and death. It is not uncommon for ‘accidents’ to occur down there, you hear, and are told you should praise yourself for being too small for that work.

You do not.

You might be smaller – you’re not even fully grown yet – but you are still faster and stronger than a mortal Man, more graceful too. You move with the surety of the big cat whose skin is also yours, your eyes large and capable of hunting in the dark. Plans swirl in your mind, plans for escape, for death if escape is not possible, but they will not come to fruition for years. You are watched too closely.

The Orc leader is called Azog, though the prisoners have named him the Defiler, for deeds you do not dare ask about. Everyone here has dead eyes, you know, just as you do, eyes that cannot even long for the freedom of the hunt anymore, hearts that cannot remember the scent of prey or the feeling of long grass tickling as you prowled through it, being taught the game by your mother and aunts, your sisters showing off for the young lads.

The Defiler seems to like you, dressing you in what is presumably fine clothes for an Orc and having you serve him wine. Then he barks something at you in his own tongue, words that are more like snarls than words and you do not understand. You will learn. The first night, you dance. You dance, so that you might avoid the lick of the whip across the back of your legs, the shackle around your ankle attached to his throne with a long chain. You dance, hearing the tinkle of metal on metal with every move. Azog stares. You would swear he takes pleasure in it, but you do not dare finish the thought.

That night, he chains you to a post in what you presume is his room until he disappears through another door that you cannot reach for the chain. You cannot pry open the shackle, spending hours driving yourself to exhaustion to learn it, and there is little enough in the room to help you make an attempt for freedom. There is a platter of bread, which looks maggoty. You eat it anyway. A small pile of straw gives the illusion of comfort from the cold stone floor, but you do not dare sleep. The water in the bowl seems clear, and you gulp it greedily. You wait.

The first night became many nights. Always, you are left in this room, though not always fed, always accompanied by snarls you begin to recognise as orders – or maybe you just infer their meaning from what happens until you comply with his dark wishes. You would pity those who are brought to him in cages, but there is no room for pity in this place. They always die eventually, anyway, their souls released where you cannot follow.

The bears are the worst to watch, you find, to see such powerful beings brought to the very edge. Azog is getting better. He knows now, knows when to stop, how to extend his sadistic fun by leaving his entertainment on the cusp of life until the next day or the next. If they slip away in the night, you are punished. It takes you a long time to realise that, a lot of scars before you begin to hate those people, a feeling that frightens you with its intensity.

You do not know how Orcs reproduce – it is odd that you can still praise yourself lucky to be untouched, but you’ve decided never to think about such things – but the first time you see the small Orc, you stare. Azog says something, pointing to you, and the little one nods with an evil grin. You have the odd feeling it is his son.

Bolg.

The little orc has grown larger, as tall as his father and as pale. You heard that Orcs were Elves once, twisted by evil and corrupted by darkness, and, in Azog and Bolg, you can see it.

You do not know how many years it has been, but the Walkers are all gone. You have heard stories of fantastical escapes over the years, but they have all been fairy stories to you, unsubstantiated by anything but rumour and often debunked by the hunters who bring back the corpse of those who flee. You have seen enough of those corpses.

You still yearn to escape.

The day you get the chance – the only chance – it is delivered in the guise of Bolg. Impatient, he strikes your chain off, instead dragging you by the hair. But he forgets that he habitually carries knives at his waist and stealing one is a matter of timing alone.

You do not miss the long locks.

You know the hunters will follow, will be ordered to catch Azog’s pet Walker, and you run. You run as a human, because you must, because the shackle still won’t let you shift – you try not to worry whether you will have forgotten how when it is eventually removed.

The hunters ride warg, those aberrations born of the Wolf-Clan being forced to breed with actual wolves. The beasts are intelligent, and born of rage, they are mean and slaver to fill the desires of their dark masters.

The arrows that pierce your flesh are made from dark jagged metal, biting into your back, your side.

You keep running.

Long ago, it was a pact you made with yourself, with the side of you that you fear died on that horrible day in the mountains. Run, and die running, die free. Now, it becomes a mantra, die free, die free, die free, repeating in time with your heart beating, your lungs wheezing.

The roar is distant, and you feel like you should recognize it somehow, but you can do nothing but run, run in the fog of exhaustion and pain, aware that death is coming for you; swifter with each step you take. Your blood stains the ground; an easy trail to follow, though you have tried to obscure it in every body of water you come across. You stumble.

There is only darkness and the last smell of grass in your nose.

“Hush, wild thing,” a voice says, slow and deep, deep like you think you remember your father’s was. The snippet of memory wraps itself around the voice, a dreamy quality entering your fog as warm hands care for the numerous wounds you have sustained. The darkness beckons.

You wake slowly, feeling surprisingly comfortable. You hardly dare open your eyes, instead letting the feeling of softness against your skin suffuse your entire being. You stretch, surprised by the lack of pain. The shackle is still a dead weight around your ankle, and your eyes snap open fearfully.

Wood.

Lots of wood.

Most of it is carved, craftmanship that would be beyond an Orc. Your heart slows as you stare around the room. The soft woollen blanket you are covered by has been stitched with a motif of leaves. The bedposts are carved to resemble bears. You can see a game board, with more bear-shaped pieces on one end, the blocks on the other end only half finished. The room is odd, though it takes you a while to realise why. Everything would fit you. The tables are not ridiculously small, which they would be if this place was owned by a Man. You breathe deeply.

The scent is familiar, though hard to place, but eventually you decide what it must be. Bear. Bear-Walker, to be precise. The tears surprise you, but they are welcome relief. You almost do not notice the hand that lands on your shoulder, but find yourself launching from the bed, wrapping your arms and legs around his body like you never want to let go as you sob into his shoulder, breathing in that comforting smell that is at once wild and home. The arms that fold to embrace you are hesitant, cautious, but you squeeze harder in demand until he is holding you with all his considerable strength.

You’re pretty sure it has been several hours before you stop crying, hiccupping sobs at random still, but no longer wailing. You bury your nose against his skin, where his neck meets his shoulder, corded muscles moving under warm soft skin, browned by the sun. Breathing softly, you don’t even realise when you fall asleep.

You wake with a scream.

The large body in bed with you stiffens.

“Hush now, wild thing,” he murmurs, stroking the jagged hair your escape attempt created. Your eyes snap open, certain that the bear had been no more than a dream. Raising your head cautiously from where you were resting on his strong chest, you see a bushy beard, covering his strong jaw. Travelling further up, you are met by calm eyes.

“Bear,” you whisper, hoarsely, your voice croaky with disuse. Daringly, you trace a finger down his nose, and back up to brush against his long eyebrows. You feel the nervous swallow more than you see it, the rush of air lifting your perch slightly. “My bear.” You smile, for the first time in more years than you remember, feeling that the possessive pleases both of you.

“Who are you?” he asks, almost as hoarsely as you, but you know it is emotion that makes him sound so broken. “A little wild thing I found, chased by Orcs, and more than half dead. Who are you, who knows what I am?” His arms are still tightly wrapped around your body, but he allows you room to stretch. You kiss him. The kiss was simply your joy at not being alone overflowing, but you feel him tense beneath you, see the pain flash in his eyes.

“Ullrae,” you murmur, drawing back. You feel almost giddy, overwhelmed by the smell of him, the sheer familiarity of it. He might not be your kind, but he is your kind. You drag your nose along his jaw, burying your face in the shaggy hair and breathing in his smell. “Can you take it off?” you ask, low enough that he wouldn’t have heard you if he wasn’t a Walker. You thought he was tense before, but suddenly you find yourself tossed onto your back, facing an angry growl. Your first instinct is to whimper in fear, blindly looking for the whip over his shoulder, but when you don’t see the Orc with the hated weapon you relax slightly. The bear seems to have regained his self-control when you flinched away, staring darkly at you from a chair across the room. You return his stare, neither of you blinking. When he makes no move to attack you, you dare to ask again. “Can you take it off?” you plead, almost in tears with hope, moving your leg towards him, where the shackle is still obvious. His eyes flick from your face to where your small movement made the blankets move. You had not realised that you’d used all your strength throwing yourself at him earlier, but it becomes clear when you can barely move the blanket aside. The bear’s large hand stills you, as he moves the blanket, making you realise for the first time that you are wearing one of his own shirts over the bandages. It covers your modesty, but not much more. You blush. Walkers are not generally shy, but it has been so long since you’ve been among the eyes of your own kind that his gaze makes you feel vulnerable in a way that even Azog did not manage. The bear’s warm hand wraps around your calf, sliding down until it reaches the shackle.

“This?” he asks, you nod, the tears spilling over once more.

“It stops me,” you admit, the loss of your other self as raw now as on the day you were captured, the longing to be free clear in your voice. The bear looks horrified, his hand tightening involuntarily. You realise that his own wrist is also encircled by dark iron, but it is not like yours, you know.

“I will take it off,” he says, and the vow follows you into exhausted sleep.

The next time you wake, you’re being lifted, carried along with the blanket. You recognize his smell and relax into his hold.

“Wake up, Ullrae,” his voice wraps around your name, a deep caress of sound, making your name sound dark and a little husky on his tongue. You blink your eyes sleepily open. You are outside, beneath the full moon and the bear is rigging up a seat at the same height as the anvil beside you. You allow him to move you, stretching your leg along the cold iron with a shiver. You are still weak. A steaming cup is handed to you, the warmth seeping into your hands. You sip at it. Warm milk with honey and spices flood your mouth, making you sigh in pleasure. You’re so lost in the food that you don’t even notice the bear’s work, the quick way he strikes off the manacle, breaking it apart until only the knowledge that it was once a shackle reveals it as such.

You close your eyes, the empty cup falling from your hands to shatter on the ground a distant sound.

Freedom.

You breathe heavily, almost scared at the thought that there might be nothing to answer the call… and then you are the other you, the large cat prowling around the anvil, testing your limbs. You are weak, but not so weak that you could not hunt. Rubbing your body along the bear’s legs, you hear him chuckle at the way you mark him with your scent but he doesn’t stop you. You yawn. It’s been so long… above you, the moon shines, its glow bring back long-forgotten memories. Feeling like your Clan is with you, you break into a run, roaring happily as you shatter the night with your joy. Jumping the gate in the fence is a simple feat, and you barely hear the bear calling for you to come back. Instead, you lope off into the long grass, knowing instinctively how to move, old lessons coming back to you with the sound of your mother’s voice, the laughs of your sisters and brothers.

You don’t know how far you’ve gone when you catch the scent. It is an elk, a small one and your belly growls.

The kill is messy; inexperienced, but successful. The fresh meat steams in the night, blood soaking into your muzzle as you feast, gorging yourself on the warm meal.

You hear a growl. You look up, seeing the bear, but he simply stands there, watching, and so you shrug, returning to your feast.

When you feel full at last, you offer him the remains of your kill, licking yourself clean. You watch as he makes quick work of what you couldn’t finish. Instinct makes you stand to lick the blood off his fur before you turn back in the direction you think is home. The change catches you by surprise, but you’re asleep before your human self hits the grass.

You wake feeling stronger. Warm fur keeps the chill off your naked skin and you burrow into the bear’s side, murmuring a sleepy greeting. He growls, nosing your shoulder as he gets up. You try to follow, but your limbs have not regained their strength, leaving you to struggle weakly. The bear huffs. You glare blearily at him as he gives you what can only be called a grin. Almost despite yourself, you return it.

“I think I overdid it a little,” you admit, and the bear turns decidedly smug. You scowl. He moves back beside you, making your cheeks heat slightly at the way your smell has mingled with his during the night. He huffs again, nudging you with his nose. You groan, but surrender. When he lies down, you use the shaggy fur to help you climb onto his back. The bear carries you home through the early morning sunlight.

You wake to the sound of wood being chopped. The rhythmic thuds are oddly soothing as you get up, wrapping the blanket around your naked body. The shirt you had borrowed is probably either torn apart by the change or dirtied by spending a night on the ground; you think you remember it rained at one point. Walking slowly through the house, you step outside for the first time in what feels like forever, blinking blearily against the powerful sun.

“Wild thing,” the bear mumbles as a greeting, but it is fond and you relax against the doorpost, watching him chop a few more blocks.

“Bear,” you eventually say, pleased with the way your voice affects him. Moving towards him, you trail your hand down his shoulder, along the shaggy mane that follows his spine and back up to trace a scar on his arm. “Have you a name, my bear?” you ask, feeling a little foolish not to have done so before.

“Beorn.” You almost want to giggle, but it is very him.

“Suits you,” you whisper, leaning against his side as a spell of fatigue hits you. “Breakfast, Beorn?”

Abandoning the axe for the moment, he swings you into his arms with no greater effort and carries you into the house.

You smile against his shoulder.

Part 2

#beorn/reader #Beorn #azog the defiler #reader #hobbitimagine #reader-insert #angst #some fluff at the end #The Skinchanger Chronicles

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joyfullynervouscreator · 7 years

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Renewed Hope

‘Imagine being left behind with Beorn as the Company leave for Erebor’ combined with ‘Imagine being a dwarf-skinchanger’

“I want to leave Hallbera here,” Thorin said, looking torn as he stared at your broken leg. The injury was a result of a warg getting close enough to attempt to pull you from the tree you had climbed, and the massive teeth had been less than a finger’s breadth from severing major blood vessels. The powerful jaws had broken your leg, however, before Fíli had managed to pull you to relative safety. The Company had carried you down from the Carrock, and all the way to the sanctuary of Beorn’s, but you knew you would never be able to keep up with them even as the leg had been set and splinted, wrapped tightly in bandages to keep the bones from fusing wrong.

“I understand,” you whispered, though you wanted to rail at his suggestion, protest with your very last breath. You knew he was doing what was best for you, asking for the skinchanger’s hospitality. Óin had dosed you with something for the pain, but you felt weak from the loss of blood and heart-broken that you wouldn’t get to see them reclaim the Mountain. Seeing the same realisation in his blue eyes, you wanted to weep, though you also wanted to remain strong; leave all of your friends with the memory of your smile, rather than tears.

“The Lady will be safe here,” Beorn replied. You leaned back in the large chair where they had put you, infinitely careful of your injuries, and enjoyed the comforting smell of the blanket he had wrapped around you. It smelled like home.

Waving goodbye to the Company was the hardest thing you’d ever done, fearing what they might encounter in the dark forest.

As you waited for the bear’s return, you considered your options. Staying here was necessary, but when you were no longer surrounded by your kin, you feared Beorn’s reaction. Technically, you had invaded the territory of another bear, even if he was a Skinwalking Man. You wanted to whine pitifully, and had you been in your other skin, you would have, but shifting with broken bones was not advisable. You healed faster than Dwarrow in general, but you’d still need to stay here for a month at least. The soft nose of a dog against your palm startled you out of your morose thinking, the small animal giving you a small whuff and handing you the large mug of milk it carried.

“No use fretting, eh?” The animals had all smelled it, you thought, the parts of your scent that were different, but Beorn had not been near you in his bear form and his human nose was probably less keen, you thought.

Days later, the giant man – twice your height, or near to – returned. He found you outside his house, enjoying the sunshine as you mended a few tears in one of his shirts.

“You need not work for me,” he rumbled. Then his eyes widened, staring at you. A snarl ripped from his throat.

“Perhaps not, kinsman,” you replied quietly, having decided to come clean immediately. “It seemed the least I could do to repay your hospitality.” In a move swifter than the eye could follow, Beorn had picked you up, pressing his nose against your skin where your neck met your shoulder. He breathed heavily, and you could feel tears splashing into your warm skin. Wrapping your arms around his shoulders, you scratched your hands through his shaggy mane, just like you did to your brothers at home. “You’re not the last one, Beorn, I promise,” you whispered softly, hearing his breath hitch.

“But… how?” he asked, plaintive. Your feet were still dangling far above the ground, but you had no fear that Beorn would drop you.

“The Skinwalkers may have been the first to live in the Mountains… but not under them. My line is old, very old, and we no longer remember when the first Changer was born.” You whispered, keeping up the soothing touch of your hands in his hair.

“Your family?” he asked, almost pleading.

“The trait seems to run true in our blood,” you mused, “we do not yet know if my youngest brother will Change, he was born in the skin of a Dwarf, but my brother and I both have a second skin.”

“Your companions did not know.” He stated, setting you down carefully once more, sinking down to sit beside you, his big shaggy head resting in your lap.

“No,” you said, “we rarely tell those not of the blood what we are. The King knows what I am, but I believe he is the only one.” You fell silent, still scratching through his hair as Beorn rumbled a purr in response.

“But you marry Dwarrow who are not walkers,” he finally whispered, seemingly confused.

“The blood is strong, Beorn,” you murmured. “I think you will find that any child of yours would be more than likely to share your form.” ¨

“I could…” he nearly choked on the words.

“You could have a family, yes,” you whispered. Silence fell between you once more, lasting until the last rays of afternoon sun disappeared behind the Mountains.

Beorn had picked you up, ignoring your protests – it seemed male Walkers were just as protective of females whether the other skin belonged to Dwarf or Man, you groused, but smiled at him when he sat you down at the large table.

“I will make a better chair for you,” he said, earning himself another smile as you set to preparing supper in companionable silence. If not for the size difference, you might have been home, your brother working beside you, you mused, a light smile on your face.

“Will you show me?” Beorn asked, weeks later, looking at you hungrily. Putting down the large bowl of peas you had been shelling, you looked up at him.

“My form?” you asked, pondering. Your bones were almost mended, you knew, there should be little difficulty in the shift and part of you longed to change, to cast aside one form for another without worrying who would see. Beorn nodded. With a shrug, you began to undress, unsurprised when he followed suit. Nudity among walkers was quite acceptable, after all; in a people who regularly changed shape and body mass, clothes would not have lasted long when you shifted inside them, and so modesty and shyness were almost foreign concepts among yourselves. You had seen Beorn naked more than once during your stay, and he had seen your bared form too, bringing you down to the lake for a swim. With a shudder and a body-wracking tremble, you shifted, staring up at the large man who now stood even larger before you. Beorn’s face was cycling so rapidly through his emotions that you found it hard to keep up, seeing excitement, joy, and a touch of longing cross it.

“You are beautiful… but so small,” he whispered. Shaking your furry head, the russet fur a match to your other skin’s hair colour, your large ears pricked. Your leg did not hurt you, when you tried a few careful steps, and giving him a bear-grin, your smaller shape ambled towards the lake, wanting to swim. Halfway there, you were overtaken by the massive black bear that was Beorn, giving the bear equivalent of a laugh as he threw himself into the water.

Weeks later, you met Radagast the wizard once more, bringing a warning of a large orc army led by Azog. Looking at Beorn, you snarled, matching his dark expression. You would go to fight, help those you called kin and avenging those who had been lost to the Defiler’s dark amusements.

After the battle, the Dwarrow and Elves caught sight of a large bear, black as night and wrapped around a smaller shape, russet hair obscuring the small body.

“Hallbera?” Bofur asked, staring at the large bear. Beorn shook his head, nosing her shoulder with a pitiful whine. Shuddering through his own change, he looked up at the Company who had come running in response to Bofur’s scream.

“She fought… but the Orcs were too many for her,” he whispered, picking up the small body that no longer held life.

“Why is she naked?” Glóin asked, staring at Beorn as though he suspected the Skinchanger of nefarious deeds.

“Because she was… like me,” Beorn replied, cradling the small dwarf body in his strong arms and staring down at Glóin. “She told me your King was the only one of you who knew she was more than she seemed.”

“She’ll be given a burial befitting one of the Company, Master Beorn,” Balin promised solemnly.

“No.” The Man who was a bear stated with finality. “She will be taken back to her kin. I will take her back, give her body to her brothers.” Behind him, an Eagle screeched.

“Gwaihir has offered to bring you – and her – home,” Radagast said kindly. Beorn nodded woodenly. Still holding the small corpse, he climbed onto the back of the Eagle and let it bear him west. On the ground, the Company was left reeling, staring after the quickly diminishing shape of the Giant Eagle.

Himalayan Brown Bear.

Quite distinctive physically, as it possess a reddish-brown or sandy coat color and relatively large ears. This bear is smaller than most other brown bears found on the Asian continent. Prefers high altitude forest and alpine meadow.

#Beorn #beornings #reader-insert #hobbitimagine

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joyfullynervouscreator · 7 years

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Nori’s little secret pt 5

Imagine telling Nori he’s stolen your heart and he refuses to give it back, but instead tells you he’ll give you his in return.

word count: 1495

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

“I think I know when it started,” Thorin interjected suddenly, startling you as you hadn’t been aware that the audience had swelled to include most of the Company. “Nori was your ‘secret’,” he chuckled, “at my Ball.”

“Oooh, were you gossiping about me, you naughty thing?” Nori whispered, pinching your bum. You glared at him.

“I’m telling the story, Nori!” you hissed, but allowed him to divert your ire with a kiss. Blasted sneaky Dwarf always knew how to ameliorate your righteous anger, you grumbled, but kissed him back sweetly. “Well, yes, Thorin is right, it was the day of his Nameday Ball in 2936, five years ago.”

…

“Nori!” you complained, only just stopping yourself from stomping your foot like a toddler throwing a tantrum. “Give me back my hair clasps! I need them for the Ball!” Oh, the Ball. Dowager Queen Frís was throwing a ball in honour of Prince Thorin’s 190th Nameday, and all eligible ladies in Ered Luin were hoping to catch the Prince’s eye. Except you. However, you also knew that Amad would be more than disappointed if you did not show up – not that she expected you to fall for the darkhaired Prince-who-was-King, of course, but envoys had to appear at official occasions and that included their pretty daughters, you’d been told ever since you could remember. Knowing better than to test her Firebeard temper, you had ordered a new gown, in a lush dark green that went well with your mahogany tresses and fair skin. Nori had been a great help there, claiming that his brother was the finest tailor in Thorinuldûm and you could only agree that Master Dori had created a fantastic frock. Your hair was piled on top of your head, several stilettos disguised as hair pins in easy reach and a few other important items such as lockpicks – Adad didn’t expect you to be kidnapped, it wasn’t Red Peak after all, where diplomacy and blackmail had walked hand in hand for centuries – that you’d never leave the house without. You were ready to go… as soon as Nori gave you back the pearl and emerald clasps he had nicked from your dresser while you got the dress on. Looking at yourself in the small mirror, you smiled, feeling pretty.

“Let me do it, Bryn,” Nori said quietly, popping in through the window behind you. His hands held the clasps, but it was the look in his eyes that made you turn around.

“Nori?” you asked, staring into his eyes, he looked oddly tortured.

“Let me do your hair, zarkhûna[1],” he repeated, holding the three clasps towards your hair. You blushed. It wasn’t as bad as letting him braid it all, but it was still more of a statement than you’d thought he’d be comfortable making – even if you would be the only one who knew. Sinking down onto the seat before your vanity, you waved at him to go ahead, almost holding your breath as you felt his sure touch against the spire on top of your head. “You are beautiful,” he whispered, taking a step back. You thought your heart skipped a beat, but Nori was gone before you could turn around and ask him. Touching the fine clasps he had added to your hair, you smiled softly.

You floated through the ball, not even realising that you were dancing with Thorin until he asked you why you were so uncoordinated tonight – you were usually one of the few he didn’t mind partnering with, as you’ve never been prone to fawning over him or stepping excessively on his toes.

“What’s wrong, Lady Brynhilda? You seem out of sorts.” He frowned at you when you just smiled widely in return.

“I have a secret,” you told him, smirking. It was a look you’d learned from Nori, though he made it look sharper, more fox-like.

“Ahh, then I shall not pry.” Thorin replied gallantly. He’s a decent diplomat when he bothered; he often bothered with you, being a friend to Dís, and someone wholly uninterested in his crown. “If my sister has taught me aught, it is that a Lady’s secrets are her own until she chooses to share them.”

“Wise words to live by,” you remarked with a wry laugh, fully aware of Dís’ temper and strong opinions. Thorin joined you, twirling you easily across the floor. When the dance ended, he bowed, kissing your hand and handing you over to Dís, who seemed to be bursting with the need to gossip.

When you left the Ball that evening, Nori was outside, falling in step with you before you’d even left the lights of the doorway.

“Enjoyed yourself?” he asked, seeming a little subdued. You smiled.

“I did, yes,” you smiled, twirling around in the middle of the street, but Nori did not laugh like he usually did. “Thorin is a lovely dancer and Princess Dís is a good friend. The young princes managed not to spill something sticky and/or colourful on my dress, so yes, I’d consider it a successful ball.” You didn’t say that you would have enjoyed it more if you could have danced with him, and Nori just grunted darkly in return. He did offer you his arm, an oddly gallant move you accepted with a light laugh.

“I told you that you were beautiful tonight,” he whispered; you nearly didn’t catch his words, “more beautiful than any of the other ladies, in fact.”

“Thank you, thatr-zantûn,” you laughed, buoyed by a night of joyful dancing and music. Unlocking your door, you waved him inside, intending to offer a cup of tea or something.

“It looked like you caught the Prince’s eye, at least,” Nori continued quietly, his odd mood finally breaking through your bubble. You turned away from the fire you’d been poking.

“Who, Thorin?” you asked dumbly. He nodded. You caught a flash of something in his grey eyes before he hid it. Waving it off, you laughed at the thought that for a moment he had looked…jealous. “He’s my friend, Nori, nothing more.”

“I’m your friend, too,” he replied, accepting the cup of tea in silence. You did not know what to say, busying yourself with your own cup.

When the tea was finished, Nori helped you undo the laces he had done up earlier – there were no lady’s maids in Thorinuldûm, and you didn’t actually need the help, but it had become tradition somehow over the past decade or so that Nori helped you undo laces while you babbled about whatever function you’d been at, feeding him titbits of gossip. When you began to yawn, he’d excuse himself and leave through your window; an old habit from the years that you had lived with your parents. Tonight, however, he had a distinct air of impatience, though he was always careful not to damage your clothes and you were silent and thoughtful. You didn’t feel like telling him about Lord This-and-that dancing with the married Lady what’s-her-face. Instead, you were trying to make sense of Nori himself, something never easy on the best of days and certainly no easier when you were still slightly tipsy from the drink at the Ball. When he had finished with the laces, Nori’s hands lingered at your waist, not close enough to touch, but close enough you felt the warmth of his palms hovering just out of reach. There was a sort of thrumming undercurrent in the room, you thought, staring at his shadowed face in your mirror. Nori sighed, turning to leave.

“Nori?” you asked, stopping him just before he reached your window. “Why do you always steal my things?”

“I like to see you all flustered,” he smirked, his eyes losing the haunted look for a moment as you glared at him.

“You always give them back.” You said, taking a step towards him, feeling suddenly bold. Perhaps it was the wine, or perhaps it was the way his eyes widened.

“I do,” he agreed, his back now against the window frame. You put your hands on either side of his hips, trapping him there. The reckless boldness continued urging you on.

“And my heart?” you asked, stepping up on tiptoes to press a kiss against his lips. “Will you give me back the heart you stole too?” He stared at you, speechless, for more than a minute.

“No!” he said, a bit too loudly, but your wince was lost as his mouth slanted across yours once more, his arms wrapping around your middle in a possessive hold. The kiss left you breathless, your hands travelling up from Nori’s shoulders to bury themselves in his soft hair. “But…” he darted in to peck your mouth again, before climbing up to sit in the window. “I will give you mine in return,” he said, winking at you and dropping into the darkness. You could hear him whistle a jaunty tune as he walked down the street.

[1] Spire-lady

#nori #nori/reader #hobbit #hobbitimagine #drabble

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joyfullynervouscreator · 7 years

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Nori’s little secret pt 2

Imagine helping Nori with his hair after the barrel ride.

Part 1

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

word count 1053

Laketown was dingy. The general griminess and fish smell, however, matched the general state of the Company. After riding in barrels down rapids, being covered in fish, and making your way into a house through an actual toilet, you looked more than a little grubby and probably smelled as good as you looked. Silently bemoaning the state of your hair, the usual soft brown waves and careful plaits horribly tangled and half-undone; a project that would take ages to sort out. Sharing a glance of commiseration with Nori, whose hair was just as elaborate as yours, you accepted the offer of a comb and brush from Bard’s daughter.

“You do mine, I’ll do yours?” you offered, holding the comb towards the Thief. Only looking at Nori, who had long-since mastered his facial reactions, you missed the astonishment on the faces of the Company who heard your low words. Nori just nodded, turning his back and taking a seat on the bench beside you. With a shrug, you straddled the bench, beginning to brush out the drooping peak on his right side. Nori’s swift fingers were carefully undoing the plaits that kept his long locks manageable, undoing the braids in his beard too. Starting at the bottom, you carefully brushed out the bottom length, working your way slowly up Nori’s red-brown hair, trying not to tug too hard. Around you, the Company were watching in silence, even the Men had stopped asking questions, suddenly aware that something was going on. When Nori began to comb out his beard, you moved to his other side, finally catching sight of Dori’s scandalized face. Giving him a mischievous smirk in return, you went back to your work, pressing your knee firmly against Nori’s thigh. The Thief patted it gently, smiling at you before he returned to his untangling task.

“All done,” you smiled, leaning in to kiss his cheek. Nori turned his head, catching your lips with his own. Dori made a peculiar sound at the sight. Nori grinned at you.

“Your turn, amrâlimê,” he said, twirling his finger to make you turn. Giving him your back, you smiled at the Company who were collectively staring at the two of you. Dori was slowly turning beet red.

“I suppose this is where we tell you we got married more than a year ago?” you asked, smirking at Bilbo’s baffled expression.

“Married?!” Dori shrieked. You winced, the sound making Nori pull on your hair. Dwalin was collapsing in paroxysms of laughter against Thorin, who actually managed a small smile in response. You raised an eyebrow at Dori. Behind you, Nori smirked at his brother. Ori burst into tears, falling into your arms and sobbing against your shoulder.

“Ori?” you asked, a little concerned. Nori reached around you, wrapping his arm around Ori’s shaking shoulders. Ori kept bawling, and, honestly, you were beginning to feel quite unwelcomed by Nori’s brothers. Not telling them had been your idea, wanting to get to know Ori and Dori for yourself – and for them to know you as a person, rather than a sometimes-customer and noble lady. Now, you were beginning to regret that choice.

“You got married… and you didn’t tell us?” Dori asked, sounding devastated. You hugged Ori, who was muttering something into your shoulder that slowly became a repetition of the Khuzdul word for ‘sister’. You relaxed slightly, patting his back. At least Ori still liked you.

“Dori, I-” Your Nori began, but Dori silenced him with a hand.

“You got married, Nori…” he repeated, still looking like someone died, “and you never told us.”

“I told him not to!” you blurted, making Dori swivel his mithril head towards you.

“I agreed,” Nori replied calmly, kissing your nose when you turned to scowl at him. This was exactly what you didn’t want: creating a rift between the brothers, a rift Nori had only just managed to repair after staying away from Dori and Ori for five long years. “I wanted you to know Brynhilda for herself, Dori, I wanted you to like her, without thinking you had to because she was my wife.” Dori did not reply, turning on his heel and marching into the other room. You stared after him, silently.

“That…could have gone better,” you mumbled. Nori hummed agreement, but made no effort to move to follow him, instead taking your hair in his deft hands once more, skilfully re-plaiting your hair in an easy-to-undo braid that would keep it out of your way until you could wash your hair properly, get the fish smell out.

“I’m glad,” Ori said, smiling sunnily. You couldn’t help but return his happy expression. “I was telling Nori to court you weeks ago, when we were at Beorn’s,” he laughed. You blushed.

“Really?” You glanced back at your husband, who gave you that heart-stopping unrepentant trademark grin of his.

“Well, I was trying to make it look like I fancied you,” he admitted with a casual shrug, “I didn’t think Dori would let me get away with hugging you like that again,” Nori continued, slightly sheepish.

“No, Dori probably wouldn’t,” you sighed, remembering the way he had held you on the Carrock, both of you trembling with relief that you were alive. Leaning back against Nori’s strong frame, you kissed his cheek gently, wrinkling your nose at the pungent odour of fish that clung to his beard.

“Dori likes you,” Ori swore, trying to cheer you up. You smiled.

“I know. He just doesn’t like it that we lied to him,” you sighed.

“Honestly, it’s probably more the fact that he didn’t get to plan the ceremony or be a part of the whole thing,” Nori replied pragmatically. “Maybe we’ll do it properly when we reclaim Erebor,” he laughed, wrapping his arms around you in a tight hug. “We could actually invite more than two people…”

“You’d marry the ‘evil dam’ all over again?” you laughed, clearly recalling him calling you that at one point in the Mirkwood cells – you might have been whispering naughty fantasies in his ear at the time, your cells next to each other, but it had still happened!

“Masmûnayê, I’d marry you ten times over,” Nori promised, sealing it with a kiss that made you blush when you heard Kíli and Bofur stage-whispering ‘Awww’s at each other.

#Nori/reader #hobbitimagine #nori

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joyfullynervouscreator · 7 years

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Growth

Part of ‘Motorcycle Club’!

Strength - Original imagine for @hiccuplovver

School’s Out & Lazy Sunday

word count 2729

Dwalin was being distant – had been for weeks, actually, ever since you got back from your teaching seminar – and you were tired of it, tired of him hiding out at the garage; leaving early and coming home late, too tired to do much more than peck your cheek and head to bed. You were worried. Not just for him, for yourself too, now, staring at the friendly face on the other side of the table.

“I need to speak with my husband,” you croaked, barely hearing the ‘Of course, I understand, Mrs. Fundinul, have a good day.’ chirped at your back.

Driving out to the garage required all your attention. Half-way hysterically, you wondered what Balin would say if you got arrested for reckless driving. Dwalin’s brother was a lawyer, and his quick wit had saved the Club from more than one legal kerfuffle.

Walking into the shop, you saw only Thorin, who looked up at you with a strained smile.

“Look, I don’t know everything that’s going on between you but…” he said, grabbing your arm as you made to pass. The pained voice made you stop, looking up at the man who was closer than a brother to your husband. Thorin’s dark blue eyes were hooded. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it, shaking his head, something like sadness in his eyes. “Just… he’s a good man,” he said, lamely, scowling at himself more than you as he let go, nearly fleeing outside into the light drizzle. Your puzzlement didn’t last long, overpowered by the loud clamour of your thoughts returning.

“Dwalin?” you asked, wincing when the sound startled him, hearing his curse as he banged his head against the underside of the car he was working on. Sliding out from underneath the vehicle, he looked up at you with something like apprehension, looking like he’d rather be anywhere but with you.

“What’s ye doin here, then?” he asked, his voice gruff. You noticed the lack of his customary endearment, and in your heightened emotional state it was enough to make you burst into tears, sobbing loudly into your hands. Dwalin panicked. “No, please, lass, you know I don’t like it when ye cry,” he babbled, running his hands up and down your arms, trying to soothe you. “Please, amrâlimê,” he pleaded, but you didn’t hear the ancient word, only felt the way he wasn’t wrapping his arms around you, holding you tight and safe. You cried harder. Dwalin cursed. You vaguely heard the sound of fabric tearing and then his strong arms were wrapped around you, pressing your trembling body against his broad hairy chest. “Please, elskling, stop crying,” he murmured, pressing his face into your hair. Feeling marginally comforted, you hiccupped against his skin, but continued to weep. “Stop crying and tell me,” he ordered, though his voice was soft, strained somehow.

“I took a pregnancy test,” you sobbed, burrowing against his warmth.

“I know,” he whispered, and the devastation in his voice made you look up. He knew? And he wasn’t happy. You stared at him, tears spilling down your cheeks. Dwalin looked close to crying himself. “Please, elskling, I need… even if it’s not true,” he took a deep breath, while you stared at him, utterly confused, “please don’t tell me you decided to have an abortion.” At first, his words didn’t even register through your shock. Dwalin began babbling again. “I know you always said the school was more than enough children, you never wanted to have your own, and I never really cared, I know, but…” As you watched, Dwalin seemed to crumble before your eyes. “I just… please…” You could count the times the great Dwalin Fundinul had begged for anything on your hand – he was not so proud as Thorin, but pride definitely ran deep in the clan of Durin, you’d learned – but Dwalin was begging now. “Please don’t tell me you want to kill our baby…”

Dwalin’s words finally registered, making your eyes widen in shock. “You… you want to have children?” you asked with a sniffle, feeling small and insecure. Your hand unconsciously went to your stomach, staring at Dwalin as you bit your lip.

“I never thought I did,” he admitted, “but… aye… I do.” You couldn’t hold back the tears that began rolling down your face. Dwalin looked chagrined. “I’m sorry!” he cried, picking you up and hugging you even tighter this time. It hadn’t been an easy realisation.

10 days earlier:

“I think Anna’s pregnant,” Dwalin said, staring at the fire in their small camp. Thorin startled; neither of them had said a word since Fíli and Kíli had been put to bed, hours ago.

“Congratulations,” he said, when he found his voice, picking up a stick and poking the fire awkwardly.

“We’ve never wanted children,” Dwalin admitted. “I don’t know if…” Thorin hummed.

“I think you’d be a good father,” he said, decisively. Dwalin reared back as though struck, staring at him.

“Thorin!” he exclaimed.

“What?” Thorin smirked. “Dís said so just last week, watching you teach Fíli about tying knots.” The words made a small ball of warmth appear in Dwalin’s gut, as proud embarrassment coloured his ears. “What did Anna say?” Thorin continued. The ball of warm goo was replaced with icy lead in an instant.

“She didn’t tell me,” he admitted. “I found the test wrapper in the bathroom trashcan, but not the test itself, last weekend when she went to that teachers’ seminar.”

“That’s why you’ve been walking around like a moody bear all week?” Thorin asked, glad to have a reason for Dwalin’s odd mood at last. He’d been half worried that they were having actual problems, considering saying anything even remotely related to the topic of Dwalin’s wife had been a sure way to get his head bitten off. It was the impetus behind this weekend’s camping trip in fact – as well as getting in his sister’s good books by taking the two hellions off her hands and tiring them out in the forest. Dwalin grumbled something monosyllabic; a sound Thorin had always just called ‘The Scottish noise’ which was a versatile communication tool – capable of expressing anything from incredulity over boredom to joy or anger. He had tried to copy it – his grandfather’s people were from Scotland – but he’d never managed. Dwalin had the unfair advantage of being the son of a Scotswoman, of course, who had fallen in love with his father when she was on holiday, while his own mother was Canadian.

“I don’t know what to do, Thorin,” Dwalin admitted, shocking his cousin. Dwalin was never uncertain about anything, look how he’d gone after Anna in the first place, after all, getting her to move halfway across the globe to marry him.

“You don’t know?” Thorin asked dumbly. “Don’t know if you want the child?”

“I don’t know anything!” Dwalin roared, losing his temper. “I don’t even know if there IS a child!” Throwing his stick into the fire, he paced around the small clearing. “Anna said nothing about it when she got back, and I’ve been too much of a coward to bloody ask her!” Thorin gaped. Coward was another word which Dwalin embodied the antonym for; the man was a decorated war hero, for crying out loud, with the medals and scars to prove it. “And if there IS a child, and Anna doesn’t,” he paused, swallowing heavily, “doesn’t want it… what then? I’m scared to find out whether I want it… I don’t want to lose my wife, Thorin, my Anna.”

“Well, then you do know one thing,” Thorin said, trying for levity and falling short. “Look, did you never talk about the possibility?” he wondered, remembering the debacle about birth control a few years back. Anna had not been on the pill when they married, having had very little experience before Dwalin, and having bad experiences with the drug in the past. After four months of a lethargic and disinterested wife, Dwalin had nearly begged her to get off the pill again, feeling that getting anything was preferable to a moody nothing – even if that meant condoms purchased in bulk. Thorin had laughed at the predicament at the time, though he had not enjoyed working beside Dwalin for the four months it took his brother-in-all-but-blood to realise – something that required an intervention by Dís armed with a bunch of statistics as well as a far too teary and whisky-soaked conversation that Thorin had done his utmost to forget afterwards – that it was the pills that had killed his vixen’s drive, not some elaborate punishment she had devised for something he’d done without knowing.

“Not as such,” Dwalin frowned, slumping down on the log next to Thorin. “Anna always claimed she had enough children in her life, with the school and playing aunt for Dís’ two rascals.” Thorin nodded slowly. Dwalin blushed slightly. “The way she said it though, I kinda always assumed she thought she couldn’t, ye ken.”

“And you’ve never cared,” Thorin replied, knowing the truth of that. Before he met Anna, Dwalin had pretty much only cared about his bike, Thorin, Balin, and Dís, along with Fíli, who was little more than a toddler at the time. Dwalin shook his head.

“Still don’t know that I do,” he said softly, “but the idea of watching her… watching my Anna, round with my child… there’s something about that image that won’t let me go.”

“And the idea of a child…?” Thorin probed. “A small face with your eyes and Anna’s nose, maybe,” he could picture it, actually, and the sappy smile on Dwalin’s face told him he was picturing it too. “Hopefully not your nose… at least if it’s a girl,” Thorin teased, startling a laugh from his companion. An owl screeched somewhere in the woods.

“Aye,” Dwalin said, when the fire had burned down to nothing but a few stray embers. “I think I’d like to have a child. With Anna’s nose.” Thorin just nodded, relieved that this conversation had not involved enough whiskey to kill lesser men nor a teary-eyed Dwalin wondering if he was so bad at sex his new wife would divorce him. All in all, a weekend with his nephews in the woods was better for both of them physically – and mentally, Thorin ruefully admitted, still carrying the scars of watching his sister give an in-depth explanation of female anatomy, complete with charts – dragging Dwalin away from the ashes of their fire and pushing him towards the tent.

“You- you want to have a baby with me?” you asked, feeling ten tons lighter all of a sudden. Dwalin had always been indifferent to the idea the few times it had come up in conversation, and though you had watched him with his pseudo-nephews, he’d never expressed real desire to be a father – much like you’d never truly wanted to be a mother. Being the mother of Dwalin’s child, however… you felt like crying all over again when he nodded, kissing your forehead as he put you back on the floor.

“Aye, amrâlimê, I do,” he said, hoarsely. For the first time, you noticed the tired circles beneath his eyes, the strain he couldn’t quite hide when you were this close. You cupped his face, kissing him gently.

“Dwalin, I’m pregnant,” you whispered, the smile breaking through your resurgent tears. “You’re going to be a father.”

“Anna,” he whispered, suffusing your name with so much love it broke your heart. “Tell me again that you want to keep my child.” His hand had slid down, closing around yours and pressing against your abdomen lightly, even if there was nothing much to feel at all; hardly even a bump yet. “Tell me.”

“Our child,” you whispered, pulling your hand away so his rested against your soon-to-be-growing belly. “Our child is in there, my love.” You weren’t surprised when you felt his arm wrap around your back, though you had not expected him to fall to his knees, burying his face against your middle and the outright sobbing nearly scared you. Humming softly, you scratched your fingers through the hair at the back of his head, stroking the shiny dome with its intricate ink gently. Dwalin’s sobs abated, giving way to tiny kisses all over your stomach, his beard tickling through your shirt. Feeling buoyed by his positive reaction, you reached into your bag, pulling out a small piece of paper. There was little enough to see, but you’d needed proof, somehow, and the technician had been kind enough to circle the small blobs you needed to show him. Stuffing the paper underneath his palm, you waited for his reaction.

“What’s this?” Dwalin asked, staring confusedly at the small black-and-white printout. The blue ink from the technician’s pen did not seem to make sense to him.

“This is the reason I hope your cousins will be willing to help us redo the spare room as a nursery,” you whispered. “This is the first picture of our children.”

“…” Dwalin stared up at you for a few seconds, his eyes wide. “THORIN!!” he bellowed. You jumped, which instantly made Dwalin look contrite, rising from his position with one last bristly kiss on your belly to claim your lips in a blazing kiss, his hand rubbing lightly across your abdomen, the picture clenched tightly in his fist.

“Aye?” Thorin asked, popping his head through the door – apparently, he had returned once you’d disappeared into the garage. Dwalin grinned.

“Come see what my Anna brought me,” he crowed, holding out the printout. You grinned.

“Ah, a whatsit… sonogram!” Thorin replied, proud that he’d remembered the term. You laughed, joy filling your veins with bubbles as Dwalin picked you up and spun you around, reclaiming your lips once more. “Congratulations, both of you,” he smiled, clapping Dwalin on the shoulder. His eyes returned to studying the small picture. “Err, what’s the markings?”

“Twins,” Dwalin exclaimed, kissing you breathless. “We’re having twins.” Thorin sat down heavily, staring from the picture to you to the picture a few times, lost for words. “You’re going to be an Uncle to my twins!” Dwalin laughed

“I’m still hoping for girls… with Anna’s nose,” Thorin remarked faintly. You chuckled, kissing Dwalin’s nose and making it twitch – much like another protrusion currently digging into your belly, in fact.

“Nothing’s wrong with Dwalin’s nose,” you said. Thorin laughed. Digging in one of the toolboxes, he uncovered a magnet, tacking the sonogram picture to the notice board.

“It’s a fine nose… on Dwalin.” With a wink, Thorin turned back to you, kissing your forehead. “Congratulations, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Now take Dwalin away and make sure he gets some sleep tonight. He’s been a mess for weeks!” Looking up at your powerfully built husband, you knew Thorin was right; even if Dwalin’s smile was currently as powerful as the sun, he looked tired.

“I’ll take good care of him,” you promised. “He’s only got 6 more months to stockpile sleep, after all.” With a wink at Thorin, who chuckled good-naturedly, you dragged Dwalin out of the garage. He shivered lightly.

“Let me get my jacket, woman,” he grumbled, but the smile never left his face.

“Why are you half-naked?” you wondered, enjoying the view as he rooted through his locker, looking for a shirt but finding only his leather jacket.

“Engine grease on my shirt,” he said sheepishly. “I wasn’t about to hug you like that.” He gestured to your white shirt, “Though perhaps it was a waste,” he sighed. “I didn’t think about wiping off my hands,” he continued guiltily, while you stared at the large black smudges that marred your white shirt.

“I just bought this last month!” you complained, glaring at him half-heartedly.

“I’ll buy you another,” he promised, sealing it with a kiss. “Now let’s go home and I’ll try to make up for ruining your shirt.” Wrapping his arms around you, he kissed your temple. “Perhaps you should just take it off,” he suggested, fingering the top button. You felt your nipples perk up against the fabric of your bra. Smirking lasciviously, he licked his lips. You suddenly had a very good idea of what was going through his mind. “I wonder if you taste differently now,” he whispered, stealing your mouth and pressing his erection against your hip.

#Dwalin/reader #dwalin #reader #imagine #hobbitimagine #reader-insert #Motorcycle Club #imaginexhobbit #hobbit imagine

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