I’m 23 yrs old, a woman and I say I’m straight even though I just like fictional man.
I’m an ENFP (I love the MBTI thing) and a Libra (I don’t really believe in zodiac things but I find it interesting).
I write and make stories since I have memory. I started making big plots when I played with my toys, then I started reading when I was like 6 and now I spend 80% of my time daydreaming. Sometimes i write what I imagine and sometimes I just enjoy those stories by myself.
My favorite bands are Imagine Dragons and Queen. But I enjoy every type of music, except metal.
Masterlist
Right now I just have written about AOT and JJK.
I also may start writing shots about characters from other fandoms, like Marvel, DC, Star Wars, etc.
ABOUT REQUESTS
Please if you have a thirst or a request, don’t be shy! It’s for free (and we adore free things here).
I write mostly everything, but if I don’t feel comfortable writing something I would just let you know (without judgment of course)
Obviously I will never say no to a tip, I just put it to see if the bell rings, I don’t expect any monetary reward for my writing, I do it simply for passion 💕.
What I do ask is for interaction because it gives me motivation to keep going!
Please enjoy yourselves here, this is a safe place. ❣️
please read the
i) summary & prologue here
ii) first chapter here
words : 2.2k
warnings : none
thank you and shoutout to @goldenatreides for beta reading this chapter for me !! 💛 pictures used are from pinterest, all rights reserved.
II.
The rest of the week flew by.
That was always the case when you had your hands full, especially now, with not only your divorce settlement to manage but also the man currently living in your house.
On Monday, the morning after your first dinner together, you decided to stay in and teach him how the rest of the house appliances worked. Nothing in the kitchen — aside from the fridge — was electrical so everything was a breeze to get through, since he was also already shown how the stove and oven worked by Alfred. When the Stranger pointed at a picture of braised chicken in one of the cookbooks you’ve turned into coffee table decoration, Alfred looked like he nearly shed a tear, relieved to know that you won’t be gorging on fast food anymore for dinner.
The Stranger turned out to be a decent cook. While it wasn’t the haute cuisine Alfred whips up for breakfast and lunch, it was better than cold pizza and forcing some poor deliveryman to drive three hours up the mountain. Not to mention, he always cleans up after himself, wiping down the tabletop and handwashing the dishes. You were never much of a homemaker, and taking care of yourself became the least of your priorities when you were trying to stay sane while waging a war with a man who made it his life's mission to inconvenience you. So whenever the Stranger neatly arranges the dishes in the cupboards, gently lining them next to one another, you wonder if he noticed you dreamily propping your head against your hand to ogle him.
Unfortunately, the living room was a bit trickier.
The obvious elephant in the room was the TV, which wasn’t anything special, just a big, blocky CRT you decided to keep around and watch whenever you didn’t feel like going to bed. If the Stranger grew up Mormon, or something along those lines, you’d hate to get him addicted to cable TV — never underestimate the power of a dramatic telenovela with over a hundred episodes. So you sat him down and showed him which buttons to press for the news, a few cooking programs, and maybe Sesame Street, still unsure of how he’d take to them. Thankfully, most daytime television was harmless, so you weren’t too worried. But the Stranger looked horrified at even going near the device, brows furrowed, yet too stubborn to ask how it functioned.
You wondered if he thought you were some witch who had little people trapped inside a metal box for your personal enjoyment.
He was, however, curious about the computer.
Again, it wasn’t anything tech-savvy. The old couple who had lived in the cabin before you had left the 1984-Macintosh for you to use, reassuring you that it still worked.
Yet the moment you saw that it still ran on Firefox, you had abandoned all hope of using it. Not interested in turning grey while waiting for each search to load, you’ve stuck to your laptop ever since. The Stranger, however, didn’t seem to mind. If anything, his eyes had turned as wide as saucers, attentively following your movements as you typed into the keypad.
“Just type your question, and give it some time to load. Actually, give it a lot of time to load. And… there ! It should pop up.”
He had scanned the screen, turning back to you with an expression that said : Anything?
“Well, yes. But it doesn’t always have the answers. So don’t type in anything weird or complicated, and if you see any, uh, weird ads of naked women, don’t click those either.”
He hesitated, nodding, experimentally dragging the mouse across the wooden tabletop.
Tuesday evening, out of curiosity, you had decided to check his search history.
W h at fatebefell Erebor ?
What of Fíliand Kíli, sons of Dis andVili?
What is the nameof this realm ?
How do I return gome?
I mispelled. I meant to write How do I return home ?
What of Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror ?
You stared at the screen, wondering what the questions meant. You did your own research and found that none of the people and places he searched existed.
Sighing, you turned off the computer before retreating back to your room.
It was obvious he was still somewhat dazed. Yet despite his own struggles, you couldn’t help but notice how quick a learner he was — determined, crafty.
When Alfred told you he hadn’t given the Stranger any instructions on how to set up the lights for the field, you were surprised, asking him how he managed to figure it out. Nonchalantly looking up from the carrot he was slicing, he gestured at the other cables and sockets in the house. Giving you a shrug that said: seemed simple enough.
You had to swallow the urge to gloat at the cook, happy that you had taken a chance on the Stranger. A lot of the bad decisions you’ve made in life have come back to bite you in the ass as of late, so it felt good to be right about something — someone.
By Thursday, he knew how to use the vacuum, when to take out the trash, and even how to shovel the snow that piled up in your driveway. You’d once caught him from your window, awake early in the morning, clearing a path from your door to your car. Afterward, he quietly set your boots by the doorway — rearranging the entire shoe rack you somehow managed to turn into a warzone by the end of each day — before slipping away to the kitchen.
Leaning against the doorway, ear pressed to the small crack, your heart had fluttered at the smell of your favorite meal being prepared.
The attentiveness was starting to make you grow...nervous. Shy.
You felt like a schoolgirl with a crush, blushing simply because he knew how you liked your tea in the morning and where you last put your keys. Often, you’d have to go into town to work on your laptop, the mountains too high and the trees too thick for a steady signal to make it through. And since it's been storming throughout the night, you’ve taken to answering your Zoom calls there, going in the morning and only coming home at night. Always on the brink of tears from how much of a bully your husband was — who the hell would spend thousands arguing over silverware?
But all of that weight would roll off your shoulders the moment you’d step inside a clean, warm house; something delicious wafting in the air as the Stranger offered to take your coat and hang it.
You saw that he managed to set up an irrigation system for the field, and that night, he slid a piece of paper with a list of tools that you were lacking in the shed. You had to read the list three times, unable to read the clumsy chicken scratch — no doubt from his struggle in using the pen you had left on the table top — and wondering where you could even find some of these things. Yet, you made it your mission to have everything by the end of the week, busying yourself with calls and trips to the hardware store, excited at the idea of flowers and vegetables, blooming in the springtime.
Yet on Friday, disaster struck when you returned home to find the house empty.
“Stranger?” You called out, tossing the keys onto the tabletop. “You there?”
There was a grunt from the laundry room.
You placed a hand over your mouth, unsure of whether to laugh at the sight.
He must have yanked the washing machine open mid-cycle, and the rush of soapy water had exploded, drenching him from the waist down. He stood miserably atop the spreading puddle, visibly embarrassed and annoyed at the same time — shooting the washing machine a glare as it hummed indignantly behind him.
To be fair, it wasn’t the machine’s fault as much as it was yours. You had forgotten to teach him how to use it and had left the laundry running in the morning.
You squatted to help him clean up the mess, passing him a cloth from the kitchen.
“The loud noise gave you a fright, didn’t it? It does that when it's trying to squeeze out the last few drops of water. Sorry, I should’ve given you a heads up. Did you think it was eating my clothes?”
He gave you a look.
You gave a soft laugh. “Thanks for trying to save my underwear.”
The Stranger froze mid-movement, looking down at the article of clothing he had picked up between his hands.
You raised a playful brow, “ What? You’ve never seen a woman’s panties before?”
He paused, as if an image had appeared in his head unprompted. Cheeks turning red as he stared at the black, laced thong.
The flush slowly spread to his neck. He retreated his hands.
“Forgive me. I did not know —”
You laughed, throwing your head back.
His face twisted — flustered, irritated, and oh so adorable all at once.
“Is this funny to you?”
You wiped the tears from the corner of your eyes, straightening. “So you do talk! Gosh, if all it took was my underwear, I would have thrown it at you the moment we met!”
He stiffened, looking away. You tilted your head, following the turn of his face, a smile tugging at your lips as if refusing to let him hide.
“Why? Do you like that idea?”
“Do not patronise me, my Lady.” He said through gritted teeth, blue eyes shining like steel.
“Is that how you’ve been calling me in your head? My Lady?” You smirked. “I kind of like the sound of that, my Stranger.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, and you were unsure if he was trying to fight off a smile or if he was at the end of his rope with you. Most likely both.
He got to his feet, extending a hand out for you to take, hand, warm and calloused from what you could only assume were years of work, engulfing your own small fingers.
“Collect the rest of your...smallclothes. I will take care of the rest.”
“You can touch them, you know. The panties.” You grinned. “They don’t bite.”
He looked like he wanted to roll his eyes, ushering you out of the room; the sound of your laughter ringing down the wooden hallways.
----------------
He told you his name was Thorin. Son of Thráin. Son of Thór.
You ignored the strange way he introduced himself, smiling from across the dining table. “Thorin. I like that name. It suits you.”
He picked up your empty plate, seemingly pleased that you had finished what he had cooked for you. “You are full of flattery.”
“I mean it.” You shrugged, “ And where do you come from, Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror ?”
He paused, as if thinking of his answer. “Far from here.”
You thought over your next question carefully, drumming your fingers atop the table.
“Okay. Then why are you here? Why are you so far away from home?”
He placed the dishes on the drying rack, looking out into the window, where the night had plunged the world into darkness.
“I…do not know. I hope to figure out a way to return soon.” He cleared his throat, turning to you. “Thank you for your hospitality. I did not mean to…intrude and stay for so long.”
You shook your head. “Not at all! I mean —” you reeled back at how eager you sounded. “I mean, it’s been nice. Having you around. You’ve been of great help. Actually, I’ve been meaning to give you this.”
Fetching your purse from the couch, you hand him his pay. He dried his hands and gingerly took the brown envelope, looking inside.
“I wanted to give it to you at the end of this week, but you’ve worked so hard lately. Let me take you to town tomorrow so you can treat yourself. You deserve it.”
The realization on his face came a beat late. He shook his head, “I cannot —”
“Take it. Please.” You insisted, suddenly feeling nervous. “And you can stay as long as you like. I mean, until you figure out how to go home. I’ll gladly do my best to help you with that, too.”
The awkwardness in the air began to thin, melting into something warmer.
For the first time, he gave you a full smile. Tilting his head in gratitude. “You have my thanks, my Lady.”
“You’re welcome, Thorin.” You leaned back in your chair. “But seriously, how did you end up in the middle of the road? And you were bleeding, well, at least your clothes were stained with blood.” Your face withered. “Please tell me that was your blood.”
He leaned against the kitchen counter, folding his arms and looking at you in a way that made your spine throb. “You would not believe me if I were to tell you. Yet I swear on my father and his forefathers, I bring no harm to you.”
You narrowed your eyes, placing your chin atop your hands.
A moment passed where the wind outside gently rattled the windows.
Finally, you sighed.
“Okay. I believe you. But you still owe me a story.”
Relief made his shoulders slouch forward, and he turned back to focus his attention on wiping the kitchen counter. “A story for another time. The hour is late.”
It wasn’t a question as much as it was a decision. There was sadness in his voice, a reluctance to dip his hand into an open wound.
So you listened to the weathercaster on the television instead, announcing that a storm was due to arrive next month, sweeping over the mountains. The night outside was eerily dark and empty. Yet you felt strangely hopeful, warm as you gazed at the man before you.
Your Stranger, who came from a far away place, trying to get home.
a/n : its been a while since i updated this story, but i hope you all enjoy how it's going so far !
taglist : @qpiiee, @nelswp, @jumpingmanatee, @scepticaltardigrade, @booksbabes, @jenniferontheblock, @im-a-killer-queen @lilidurin (please let me know if i miss anyone!)
feedback & reblogs are appreciated ! want to be part of my taglist or to be removed ? or to only be tagged in certain works regarding certain characters? let me know through inbox 💌 || masterlist 🌺
— Summary : As much as the Durinsfolk loved their prince, talk has been circulating on what a shame that he was, well, for lack of a gentler word, unattractive.
They said he looked too smooth. Too neat. Not hefty or chubby or sporting a crooked nose. Yet being of the race of Men, you know next to nothing of what a dwarf considers beautiful; all you know is that you've never seen the reclusive prince, and that you’ll be indulging in the rare opportunity to paint him for his coming of age.
Or in which you felt betrayed by half the mountain the moment you laid your eyes on Thorin. It’s either that the mountain has very poor lighting, or they are all blind.
rating : t for teen and up audiences
pairing : thorin oakenshield / fem!reader
tags : fluff, sfw, one shot, pre-smaug, reader is human, minor dwarf & human original characters, thorin is defensive and insecure while reader is trying not to drool all over the palace floors at the mere sight of him
movie : the hobbit trilogy (2012-2014)
disclaimer : based on this headcanon
words : 5.0k
warnings : discussions of beauty standards and body image / shaming that may be unpleasant to some.
You see, the Durinsfolk were a prideful bunch. But not without reason.
With their hands, they have perfected the art of fashioning minerals into magnificent jewels, objects of such great desire that trade in them has singlehandedly transformed Erebor into a vault of fortunes. If you had that in your cards to brag about, you’d be pretty arrogant, too.
Instead, you have less than a pouch full of coins, your landlady is threatening to evict you if you don’t settle up by the end of the month, and you are currently contemplating whether to spend money on dinner or a new paintbrush.
You weren't even from Dale, having only moved here from a small village nearby in hopes of earning a better living. Sadly, the market was difficult to penetrate — harder than you had expected when you were competing with so many people. It didn’t help that the dwarves were also good at art.
And music.
And poetry.
And apparently everything else.
Grey smoke wafted in the air, the smell of pipe-weed mingling with something delicious being grilled. Choruses of laughter continued to shake the tables, cheers and hurrahs echoing through the window and into the cool night air. It was the end of the workweek, and word has it that the mountain's celebrating something on Sunday.
Around you, men chewed on their food loudly, tearing into their meals heartily. Fingers slicked with grease and sauce and —
Your stomach growled, halfway through digesting itself.
Slouching, you gave in and told the barman you wanted what the group next to you was eating. When he told you that your coin wasn’t enough, you begged him for at least half the portion. Scowling in what looked more like pity than ire, he shook his head and shouted something to the cook, before resuming to clean the glasses by the counter.
“Coin’s tight by the end of the month, eh?”
You looked to your left.
You had been too busy staring at their plates to notice the odd mix of faces sitting next to you. While it wasn’t so strange to see dwarves and men side by side, not when Dale sits right across the mountain-gates, it was certainly strange to see dwarves in a human tavern drinking human ale without barking every six seconds about how nothing beats a traditional shargarg.
You ducked to hide the blush on your cheeks.
“Don’t be shy, lass.” One of the men chuckled, blond hair catching the lantern lights as he gestured to his group. “We all know what that’s like.”
"Why d'ya think we're drinkin' here? " A dwarf scoffed, still in his armour, looking around at his friends. Then he raised his tankard, muttering," Though the drink's cheap, it's got too much head. If we had gone inside the mount—"
"Here we go again." His friends said in unison, lighthearted laughter escaping their mouths.
It was then that you noticed all the men were dressed in some kind of uniform — the two men on the right were clearly palace guards, and you assumed the same was true of the other three dwarves, who bore the Durin house crest instead of Dale's.
"He's been on it for hours." The younger of the two men protested. "Maybe if your king hadn’t slapped such a horrid tax on dwarvish beer coming into Dale, we’d all have a proper drink in our hands, eh ?
"Aye, and maybe if your brewers knew what they were doing, we wouldn’t have to export the good stuff at all." Another dwarf retorted, red beard dripping with beer as he took a big swig. "And tax or no tax, lad, dwarvish ale’s worth every coin! Not our fault, your soft bellies can’t handle the real stuff."
You laughed with them, thanking the barmaid when she placed your food in front of you. Your stomach let out another growl, louder this time, alerting the men next to you and earning you a few sad smiles.
"Say, lass." The older of the two human men asked, eyes flicking to the flecks of paint still staining your wrists. "Are you a painter?"
You looked down at your sleeves. "Oh. Uh, yes. I am."
“How good are you?” One of the dwarves asked, and only after hearing her voice did you realise she was a woman — well, you didn’t want to assume. Male and female dwarves look very similar, but she did have a thinner beard and a lighter, softer voice. Though it still boomed with command even under her playful tone.
You straightened your back. “Uh. I’m better than most, I think.”
"'Think'? You've got to be more confident than that," the human man teased, "You see, I was going to offer you a job. Well, he is." He gestured at the dwarf who made a jab at the beer, his eyebrows shooting up to his black mohawk.
"I was?"
"He's talkin' about the painting." The female dwarf said, tapping his shoulder. “The prince!”
“Ah. Thorin.” The dwarf sighed, resting his forehead against his head as if to nurse that headache. “He sent the last painter cryin’ home today! My brother spent ages butterin’ up the poor fella to take the job, and not an hour in, he’s swearin’ off paintin’ for good. A bit of temper never hurt a dwarf, sure, but that boy? I reckon his temper could melt steel, that one.”
“I-I can work with that.” You reassured, nearly choking on a piece of chicken as it slowly dawned to you the amount of coin this commission was probably worth. “I mean —” You swallowed, pushing away your empty plate. I can definitely work with that.”
He looked at you, eying you up and down, “No offense, lass. I’m sure yer a great painter. But the lad’s got too many demands. And he doesn’t ask nicely.”
“He’s not usually like this, though,” the female dwarf hummed. “He’s always so lovely to me whenever he visits his sister. So what’s got him all worked up now?”
The dark-haired dwarf let out a deep sigh, “Not a clue. We’ve gone through five painters now, and since word got ’round that he had old Fluil cursin’ he’ll never touch a brush again, no one’ll take the job.”
“Five painters, none of them human.”
This time, it was the younger of the two men who gestured towards you, looking in your direction. Your heart swelled at the show of kindness, eyes pleading as you turned to the three dwarves.
“The painting’s for Sunday,” the red-haired dwarf reminded his friends, rubbing the back of his neck in consideration. “It’s for his coming of age. Part of the tradition. Not sure Thrain’d take kindly to it bein’ done by someone outside the mountain. No offense, lass.”
Ah, you thought. So that’s what all the banners and drinking are for.
“How big’s the painting? Even if it’s four hand-lengths by three, if I start Saturday morning, you’ll have it before dinner.” You scooted closer, your stool scraping against the floorboards. “Look, there are plenty of masters in Dale with years more experience than me, but they’ve all got egos to match. You don’t fight fire with fire. Unlike those arrogant pomps, I can take a lashing and still have it done before the sun’s down.”
“C’mon, Dwalin,” the older human man joined in, “You’re at the end of your rope here. The girl’s right. I can imagine your prince’s feelin’ a bit… defensive, right about now. Bringing in a master and his entourage of assistants will only cause him to fume. What you need is someone harmless. Unassuming. No offense, lass.”
You raised your hands and shrugged, choosing to feel praised rather than insulted. Your mother always said closed mouths don’t get fed, and you were already thinking about treating yourself to a nice tankard of ale and a pair of new boots after the painting’s done.
Dwalin drummed his fingers against the tabletop, eying you curiously. “How long have you been painting?”
“Five years this spring.”
“Are you trained?”
“I went to study under a master for three years.”
“Three ? Apprenticeships usually take four.”
“We finished a year early because he offered me a permanent spot at his studio, so I wasn’t technically training under him anymore. I only stayed for half a year before choosing to take on the chance and come here instead.”
“A bold decision,” the female dwarf smiled, humming in approval. “I like this one, don’t you agree, Ufrouk?”
The red-haired dwarf beamed, “Aye.”
Finally, as if the noise of the crowd and the weight on his shoulders had finally caught up to him, Dwalin slouched forward and wiped his face. Groaning. “Come by the gates just after sunrise, tell them I sent you.”
You felt like leaping into their arms, grounding yourself onto the stool instead.
“Thank you.Thank you.Thank you! I won’t let you down.”
“There are a few things you need to know about the prince, lass,” the dwarf warned, glancing at his group before leaning in toward you. “Whatever you do, do not make the same mistake as those blubberin’ fools of commentin' on his looks.”
You bristled, “Looks?”
Ufrouk huffed, as if he hated to agree, “It’s not the lad’s fault. He’s hardworking, stubborn, and just as every bit as loyal to the people as his grandfather. But he’s not quite popular with the — ahem, dwarrow dams and lads. Bah ! You tell her, Tatir.”
Tatir rolled her eyes, gesturing for you to join their table to listen better. You glanced at Dwalin, who seemed to have completely removed himself from the conversation, unwilling to join in at whatever they were going to say next and busying himself with the two human guards.
“You see, dear, Prince Thorin is perfectly sensible. He is cleverer than most, takes his duties seriously, and has plenty of ambitions. The only thing stopping dwarves his age from throwing themselves at him is the fact that he is…”
“Is…?” You coaxed.
“Unattractive.” Ufrok finished flatly.
“Unattractive?” You blinked.
“Ugly. Lacking. Whatever you wish to call it.” Tatir pinched the bridge of her nose, “Bless the lad. It's disorienting, really, because he’s perfect at everything else.”
“That’s quite harsh.” You defended, scowling. “No wonder he never steps outside, and no wonder he’s been sending your painters away !”
While Thrain often made public appearances, his son, on the other hand, was known to be reclusive. A faceless figure pulling the ropes on half the city’s trades and commerce, yet never venturing to Dale, even if his father would often be seen mingling with the human councilmen down Market Street.
“We’ve no interest in idle gossip,” Tatir explained. “But I won’t soften the truth. He is a prince, after all, to be a symbol of our people one day. The painting will outlast us all, giving future generations a glimpse of the great line that once led Erebor. And prince is of age, yet he bears naught a battle scar to show for it—”
“And he doesn’t have a belly,” Ufrok added. “Or a full beard. Just a wee braid.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” You asked, bewildered.
“It has to do with everything,” Tatir frowned. “One cannot have it all, of course, but this matter has made life in the palace far from easy for everyone these past couple of weeks. His highnesses and the King have yet to come to terms on how the painting should be completed, and the celebrations will start in less than two days' time. We trust you will not give us cause to regret placing this task in your hands.”
You swallowed, suddenly feeling antsy, and nowhere closer to understanding why it was such a big deal that Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, was ugly.
The Durinsfolk were a prideful bunch; you’ve always known this. You didn’t realise they were also awfully vain, a trait so painfully human you find it hard to believe exists amongst a race who managed to excel in everything else. But maybe that was exactly why looks mattered so much.
Also, what does a dwarf consider attractive? Does a nice, big beard and a round, fat belly mean a dwarf was to die for? What if he’s a bit leaner but has a seductive, bulbous nose? Was he still a hit with the ladies? Or does it have to be crooked a certain way? What about one’s personality ? Surely someone as accomplished as the young Durin prince would rise above the unfortunate fate of his looks?
You supposed everywhere it was all the same: politics, status, and aesthetics, woven into one overly complicated braid. As an artist, you never understood it. Beauty is everywhere for the eyes to see; you’ve yet to be proven wrong.
So you wonder what Thorin looked like to get such a harsh reputation from his people — the question lingering in your mind even after you drifted to sleep at home that night.
----------------
Your boots clicked against the stone floor, ringing down the hallway.
Dwarven footguards were lined down the corridor, eerily still like statues, their metal helmets polished and reflecting the soft morning light across their surfaces.
Dwalin marched ahead with his jaw clenched and head held high, dressed in full armor, with you dragging your wooden crate of materials. One might make the mistake of thinking you both were walking into the den of some dangerous animal.
It made you queasy.
He stopped you right before the double doors. You already knew what he wanted to say before he said it.
“I know. Don’t mention anything about his appearance. Just keep my head down, paint, and leave.”
He closed his mouth, frowning as if to show he didn’t appreciate being interrupted, but said nothing.
He knocked thrice.
A voice answered from inside.
“Enter.”
The doors swung open, revealing a spacious room with a large canvas in the middle, accompanied by a small ladder next to it. You decided to bring your own materials, but it seemed that you wouldn’t have to scrape through your half-dried pots of paint or make do with brittle brushes, since everything from brushes to color grinders was neatly lined around the room for you to use.
Behind it, a replica of what you could only assume of the throne stood tall, lined with silver and green rocks that gleamed. Yet your eyes latched onto the figure standing next to it.
His dark fur pelt pooled like black-water around him, silver armor etched with dwarf runes and gold. In his right hand, he carried a sword. On his left, a shield. It certainly made him look regal, fierce as he voicelessly announced his presence in the room.
Yet you felt something inside you deflate.
He wore a golden helmet that bore a bold ridge down its center like a blade, most of his face obscured.
You could barely see his face.
There were no introductions or formalities. The servants simply exited the room quietly with Dwalin, leaving you alone with Thorin and the silence between you that hung thinly like a veil of frost. You didn’t know what to say, keeping your head down just as you were instructed.
So you threw a towel over your shoulder and rolled up your sleeves, heading towards the crates of paint. The blue of his eyes — flitting from the shadows.
----------------
You were barely halfway through painting when you realised that this wouldn’t do.
Earlier, as he walked you through the endless flight of stairs, Dwalin had briefed you on what the King wanted for the painting.
“The king and his son want a painting that shows strength. Power.” He had said simply.
“But what does Thorin want?” You asked.
Dwalin had looked at you as if he found it curious that you would ask. Then his face fell, as if he was mortified that he didn’t have the answer to that.
You glanced from behind your canvas and cleared your throat.
Blue eyes, which were fixed in the distance, slid slowly toward you.
“Would you like to take off your helmet, your highness?”
Against the stillness of the room, your voice sounded small. Yet they struck him nonetheless, his pupils widening by a fraction.
“That is not necessary.” He finally said, “Continue as you are.”
You bit the inside of your cheek. “I believe I cannot, your highness.”
His eyes narrowed, his voice like warm gravel.
“And why not?”
“I need to see your face.”
“You see,” you added quickly, cutting him off before he could reply. “I was told that I am to paint a portrait that will be passed down through generations. If I’m to capture the symbol of a great house, then I wish to capture your likeness properly, your grace.”
“I do not see why you cannot capture my likeness as I stand. Or do you find your own skill lacking?”
Ouch, you thought. So this was what Dwalin meant.
“I mean no insult, your highness. I only wish to paint your face. It is a portrait of you, after all.”
As if realising what he had just said, he shifted in place, guilt flashing across his eyes.
You wouldn’t use the word insecure, no, but it was almost as if he was a wounded fox trying his hardest not to bear his teeth.
After a while, he seemed to consider it, weighing his options before finally lowering the props to slowly reach his hands under the helmet.
Your heart raced.
The room had big, open windows that poured in white light. You felt the air escape you as blue eyes seized you. A pair of brilliant gems, unlike anything you've ever seen, gleamed beneath a sweep of raven hair, drawn back by a golden crown. The dark strands cascaded over his shoulders. Your gaze followed the elegant line of his nose—sharp, sculpted, and achingly beautiful—down to the strong cut of his beard-covered jaw.
Your breath caught in your throat, heart squeezing.
He turned his head away upon hearing you gasp. Teeth gritted.
“If there is something you wish to say, painter, speak now.”
“I...”
I think half the people in Erebor ought to have their eyes examined, your highness.
“You wish to comment on my nose, my posture?” He snarled, stalking over to you, anger simmering.
Just as he was about to erupt, you felt the words tumble out of your mouth.
“I-I have never seen a beauty such as yours, your grace.”
He faltered, stopping right in front of you, eyes going wide like saucers.
“I meant —” You stuttered, struggling with your voice. “Y-you are most handsome, my prince. Surely you know this?”
Breathless laughter escaped you, almost dreamy, as you gaze down at him.
The darkness of his hair only sharpened the blue in his eyes, reminding you of the beauty found in storms where the sky danced with the grey clouds. Even as he scowled, he looked formidable, the anger etching his face with a raw intensity that made him impossibly handsome, as if the tempest itself had shaped him, brought him to life.
They said dwarves were born out of forge fires, each one carefully carved by their maker. If that was true, then Mahal must have loved Thorin dearly to have breathed so much beauty into him.
He stepped back, nearly staggering. As if you had struck him.
You raised a hand to your mouth.
You had accidentally said the last part of your thoughts out loud.
Oh no.
Crimson tinted his cheeks, spreading to the tips of his ears as he turned away.
“Flattery will get you nowhere.”
Snapping out of your reverie, you let out a disbelieving laugh. “ I am not merely flattering you, your grace. It is the truth! Anyone with a healthy pair of eyes would think so — should think so!”
“I will hear no more of this! ” He snapped, sounding more flustered than angry, and you had to bite your tongue back in fear of calling him cute.
You dug through your satchel, not caring if the colors stained the leather. Striding over to him, you held out the pouch of coins, dropping it on a nearby table.
“What is this?” He asked.
Pushing the pouch in his direction, you exhaled. “That was the down payment for the portrait.”
He regarded you carefully.
“I will not have it. Not if it makes you think I am paid to flatter you, son of Thrain.”
His gaze drifted to your boots, no doubt to eye the little holes that lined the soles. Then he shifted to the frayed edges of your sleeve, fabric worn by years of use. Something in his expression shifted then.
For a moment, the guarded prince seemed to falter, as though your refusal had reached some quiet place in him he rarely let anyone see.
He placed the helmet on the table, resuming his position across you.
“Will you be able to continue your portrait now, painter?” He asked, softer this time.
“Only if you’ll tell me how you’d wish to be painted, your highness.”
He gave you a soft smile. Your heart skipped.
He was handsome even when he was angry, but now, it was as if the winter had given way to spring — warm and fleeting, a memory to be forever burned to the back of your mind.
And judging from his expression, you didn’t need to say your thoughts out loud for him to guess what you were thinking.
----------------
The sun was just starting to set when you finished.
Even if he was doing a good job trying to hide it, you could tell Thorin was tired, drained from having to sit still for an entire day. Yet he looked more relaxed than at the beginning, sitting and looking lighter without all the bulky props that took attention away from his face.
You weren’t sure if the king would be pleased with the liberties you’ve taken, but if you were being honest, you couldn’t care less, too focused on soaking in the way Thorin gave you something of a half-smile whenever your eyes met — a look that made all rational thought launch itself out the window.
You almost forget that it was the King who would be paying you.
Well, you thought, adding the last stroke. Moving back home doesn’t sound too bad. While, yes, you’ll be doing gruelling work on the farm and spend most of your days knee-deep in mud for only a few shillings, at least you’ll have a muse to paint whenever you come home, already itching to sketch him the moment you come home tonight, so that you won’t forget the details on his face.
“Eager to be done with this?” he asked, watching you rush about.
You wondered what those other cruel painters had said or done to make him so defensive. “Eager to finish, yes. If only to show you the result, so you might see just how magnificent you are.”
His brow arched faintly. “Are you praising me, or yourself, painter?”
You smirked. “Both.”
You shared a chuckle at that.
“I am finished, your highness.” You announced, lowering the brush and wiping your hands against the apron. Suddenly feeling nervous. “Would you like to see it?”
There was a moment’s pause before he curtly nodded, eyes rapt with attention.
The canvas was so big that when you held it out to him, you couldn’t see his reaction. And as the silence stretched on, you began to worry, sweat forming by the base of your neck.
When you lowered the canvas, his lips were slightly parted, eyes shining like glass under the orange glow of the setting sun.
“Your grace?”
“You...” he trailed off, “you painted me as I am.”
You weren’t sure if that was a compliment, “O-of course, your highness. I did not want to change your image, forgive me if —”
“Thank you.” He said, almost in awe.
You didn’t bother hiding your grin.
Just as he was about to say something, the doors swung open, banging against the wall. You whirled around to see the king marching in, blue robes dragging behind him, followed by a handful of guards — among them Dwalin, Ufrouk, and Tatir.
Thorin addressed his grandfather in their language while you scrambled to gingerly place the painting back on the stand and bow.
“Y-your majesty,” you bleated. When you straightened yourself, he was eying the painting, face twisted in a way that gave you the impression that tonight would be the night your landlady finally strikes you out.
“I can expl —”
Thrór’s voice filled the room.
“I thought I made my instructions clear.”
Dwalin stepped forward, yet the king under the mountain raised his hand, stopping the guard in his tracks. You stiffened, thinking of a way to defend yourself without getting yourself tossed over the parapet.
“You did, your majesty. But I believe the helmet obscured too much of his face. A-along with the props.”
Everyone’s eyes went back to the portrait. There was a moment when everyone but Thrór held their breath, and you wondered what Thorin must have felt. This is but a fraction of the scrutiny he’s subjected to every single day, and you cannot begin to imagine the crushing weight of feeling so minuscule, so helpless.
In an ideal world, perhaps, looks didn’t matter. But today, you understood that within the palace walls, how one carries themselves is an armor, and from the corner of your eyes, you saw Thorin trying his best to remain composed. Face schooled through years of practice, despite the obvious tension on his shoulders.
At last, the old dwarf gave a pleased hum.
“This will do. Dwalin, give her the rest of her pay.”
Sighs broke out, followed by satisfied murmurs, sweeping over the room like a merciful breeze in the summer. Your warrior friends all gave you nods of approval as they clapped, listening intently to their king as he announced plans on when and how to present the portrait.
The painting itself wasn’t anything grand. A simple bust portrait of Thorin sitting by the throne — no swords, no shield, no helmet. Just…him.
Poised. Handsome. Kind.
You spent three hours alone trying to find the right shade for his eyes, grinding shards of lapis, copper ,and alkali under the mortar and pestle just to replicate its color under the light. You were already thinking of patenting the accidental combination —
Durin blue. That doesn’t sound bad at all.
Some say it was strange to paint a dwarf smiling, but you thought the decision helped smooth out his hard edges. A leader cannot always be sombre, the way a mountain is always tough; they can both be gentle, and you didn’t see this trait in Thorin as a weakness to be hidden.
Which was maybe why, for the first time, you saw relief wash over Thorin’s face like a curtain, azure eyes carrying an unbearable lightness. Perhaps previous painters had tried to draw him differently, changing him into someone he wasn’t, painting over his nose and his beard so that he looked rougher, more dwarf.
But you decided then that Thorin looked most beautiful when he was himself — when he was happy and smiling and thought no one was watching him.
----------------
“I never doubted you, lass.” Ufrouk beamed, patting you on the back that you nearly stumbled forward.
“Don't believe a thing he says. He just lost half a month’s worth of pay for betting against you.” Tatir scoffed.
“Not true!”
As they bickered with one another, Dwalin continued to walk you to the gates, rolling his eyes at the pair even if it was evident that he was in a better mood now that he had one less problem to worry his head about.
“You did good,” he said. “This time, get yerself a proper plate to eat. And warmer clothes. At this rate, you’ll waste away to skin and bone, for Mahal’s sake.”
The sky was starting to darken, the road ahead crowded with weary workers heading toward the port, eager to catch the last boat back to Dale.
Just as you were about to leave, a voice called out from behind.
“Halt!”
Thorin was making his way toward you. Big, hurried strides. Those who spotted him by the gates did double-takes at the sight of their prince, stumbling into clumsy bows as whispers rippled through the air.
Dwalin stepped aside, startled as Thorin faced you.
“Would…”He trailed off, as if trying to straighten his thoughts. “Would you like to stay?”
You felt your jaw go slack.
“Your grace?”
“It is my name day, tomorrow. We are having a celebratory dinner this evening.”
You pointed lamely ahead, “T-that’s the last boat.”
“There are plenty of guest rooms in the palace,” Dwalin added, swooping in with a poorly hidden smile across his face.
Your heart threatened to leap out of your throat.
“I am not dressed for dinner,” you mumbled, “N-not to sound like I am making excuses ! Because I would be honored, Prince Thorin.”
In the distance, lanterns were being lit along the docks, their light flickering over crates half-unloaded and birds circling above. Yet all the commotion seemed so far away, faint, as they began to disappear under the red curtain of dusk that bathed Thorin in an otherworldly glow; his eyes burning like flames over the sea.
“Do not concern yourself with such things. They will be provided for you. Consider them a part of your payment.”
You ducked, “That is too much for the service I have done today. Then I believe it is only fair if you receive another painting, your grace. If you wish it.”
You wonder if he could see right through you, right through your excitement and your desire to spend more time with him.
He smiled softly — beautiful, like dawn slowly breaking over the valley.
“Very well.”
Dwalin cleared his throat, as if to remind you both that he was still there, looking back and forth between the two of you as if he was witnessing the most amusing thing in the world.
You ignored him and the fellow passersby who stopped in their tracks to eavesdrop, letting the world fade away as Thorin walked you back to the castle — your paint-stained hands, brushing against his arm.
reader when she saw thorin's face :
a/n : lol had so much fun writing this. i've always been curious about pre-smaug thorin, so i hope you enjoy my characterisation of a young, grumpy prince hihi
taglist : @lathalea, @fizzyxcustard, @qpiiee, @nelswp, @mrsdurin, @booksbabes, @goldenatreides
feedback & reblogs are appreciated ! want to be part of my taglist or to be removed ? or to only be tagged in certain works regarding certain characters? let me know through inbox 💌 || masterlist 🌺
please read the summary & prologue beforehand here.
pictures used are from pinterest.
words : 2.5k
I.
He didn’t speak the entire drive home.
You weren't expecting a conversation, but you thought he’d at least give you a name. Despite your best efforts to get to know the man who’ll be living under the same roof as you for the foreseeable future, every question you asked went unanswered. So, you turned on the radio to drown out the sound of the wind whistling outside.
He flinched, looking around before settling his eyes on the dashboard.
“Too loud?” You asked, turning the volume down.
He blinked, brows furrowed.
You thought back to his initial refusal to enter the car, apprehension written all over his face as you told him to get in the passenger seat. Eventually, he followed your lead—clumsy, tense—lowering himself onto the cushion before gently closing the door. Judging by his expression, you might’ve thought you’d asked him to step into the jaws of a hungry animal instead of a perfectly vehicle.
He flinched when you started the engine, eyes wildly darting around.
“Look. After what happened tonight, you may think I’m a bad driver.” You chuckled, shaking your head. “But I’m really not. This is the first time I’ve ever hit someone. And that was your fault for wandering off. So buckle up.”
He stared at you.
Oh, you thought. “Is this your — is this your first time in a car?”
He looked away, trying to hide his expression.
You leaned over to his side.
His breath hitched, body tensing as if expecting an attack.
Stopping in your tracks, you gestured to your own belt. “It’s for safety.”
He cocked a brow.
Catching his meaning, you rolled your eyes.
“I am a good driver. But accidents can happen to anyone. So may I?”
He glanced at the seatbelt across your chest and finally nodded. You pulled the strap and clicked it in place, adjusting it so it wasn’t too tight. As you did this, you had to lean close, the tip of his nose brushing against your ear.
When you started the engine, you noticed his hand flying to grip the side door.
You wondered how long he’d been off-grid, if he had perhaps been raised in a secluded community that refused to integrate with technology. Although it seemed unlikely to have any of those settlements nearby. You knew small towns were known to be a bit…odd, but even with their quirks, everyone knew everybody. This meant the police would have kept tabs on any new arrivals, regardless of how reclusive and isolated they were.
“So,” you asked, “How did you end up in the middle of the road?”
When he refused to answer, you moved on to another question. Then another. And another. Where did you come from? Who are you? What’s your name? You kept going until the sound of your own voice started to grate, echoing back at you as you drove into the night.
Which led you to turn on the radio, soft jazz drifting into the space between you like the slow rush of water pouring in to fill the gaps. His expression remained unreadable, and he seemed to dislike the music at first, nose scrunched at the whirlwind of sounds. The unpredictable rhythm of piano, drums, and saxophone colliding, fusing, rising and falling like tides pulled by the moon. But after a while, he seemed to tolerate it, his body finally relaxing and no longer jittery each time you made a turn on the road.
You wondered what kind of music he likes, deciding to let the question die in your throat rather than to have it swallowed up by the silence.
Time seemed to stretch on, the black asphalt ahead curling like a serpent up the mountain. Your headlights, two circular beams piercing into the shadows. By the second hour, the Stranger was trying to discreetly stay awake despite his drooping eyelids. Shocking himself awake each time, face crumpling as he looked around.
As if he desperately wanted all of this to be a dream.
The next morning, you were awake when dusk was just starting to break. Deep, blue lines filtering past your curtains. You were about to drift back to sleep when memories from the previous night began to surface, forcing you out of bed.
It was past midnight when you arrived at the cabin, and only when you opened the door did you realize that you had left the place a mess — empty takeout boxes strewn everywhere, the trash can filled to the brim, the television still on and playing the latest episode of the cheap telenovela you’d taken a liking to.
You told him to wait by the porch, your feet skidding against the floor as you ran to make the place look decent, quickly shoving everything into a big, black trash bag. Thankfully, the guest room was neat, untouched since you first came, but made ready in case your lawyer ever decides to stop by and speak to you in person. (She never took you up on the offer, probably because she’d seen the state of your cabin too many times through your Zoom camera.)
When you finally let him in, he looked somewhat relieved. You figured it was because the cabin felt familiar to him—warm timber with a rustic charm, nothing like the cold, sleek metal of the car or the strange hum of the radio.
You had wanted out of the noise and rush of metropolitan life, and the moment you saw the mismatched furniture in the listing, you bought the place without hesitation. It wasn’t modern by any stretch, but with the faint scent of old pine and woodsmoke lingering in the air, it felt like the perfect escape from the chaos of the city.
For good measure, you walked him through everything.
The cabin had two stories. The main floor held two bedrooms—yours, and the guest room. The latter was simple: a double bed, a vanity, a wardrobe, and a bedside table. There was only one bathroom in the cabin, which the two of you had to share, and you had to wrestle with the awkwardness of showing him how to use the showerhead, the sink, and the toilet.
Knowing that he was probably itching to wash the grime off his skin, you made a quick trip to the attic to fetch him some of your husband’s old clothes. You couldn’t help but notice the Stranger’s strong arms and shoulders — which you may or may not have spent a few good minutes ogling when he was in his cell — unsure if your husband's crisp white button-ups and suits would even fit. But new clothes would have to wait until morning, and thankfully, there was a pair of loose-fitting shirts and cotton trousers lying around, which made you feel good about yourself and your decision not to burn all of his things during your fit of rage.
Too tired to explain to him how the kitchen and living room worked, you decided everything else could wait until the morning. Fixing him a simple sandwich — “Do you eat meat ? Yes? Okay.” — and a glass of water, you had sent him off into his room before locking yourself in yours, exhaustion creeping its way beneath your skin as the events of the day began to catch up.
You drifted into sleep to the sound of the shower turning on and the howl of the blizzard as it began to stir once more.
Now it was morning. Outside, the world was suspended in an otherworldly light. Basking in the calm after the storm.
Wrapping yourself in your sleeping robe, you tiptoed toward the bedroom door.
Cracking it open, you found him sitting by the fireplace window, staring into the endless expanse of white snow. You couldn’t help but notice the longing in his gaze, how his eyes roamed through the cluster of pine trees — searching, waiting.
You gently closed your door and retreated back to bed.
-----
“You brought in a stray.”
Lowering the newspaper, you turned to the Stranger, who was silently eating his breakfast, fingers smeared with grease from ignoring his utensils and digging straight into the plate of eggs and toast, before finally looking back at the man standing in the doorway.
“Meet your new co-worker.” You announced, finishing the last of your pastry. "Stranger. This is Alfred —"
"That is not my real name,” Alfred interjected, “Though she has taken quite the liking to calling me that."
The elderly man sighed, fluttering his eyes shut as if to nurse a headache. He wore the same brown three-piece suit he always wears when he came to visit you. Shoes polished. Grey hair neatly combed back.
You faced the Stranger.
"You know, Alfred ? From Batman and Robin? No? Right. Well, he’s the cook. And the only one to side with me when I faced the evil, gold-hoarding dragon.”
The Stranger’s eyes widened.
“She meant her husband.” Alfred clarified, heaving out a sigh, “I used to work for him. Now, I work for her. Please pardon her for the theatrics."
At that, the Stranger's jaw unclenched, tension draining from his posture.
The Cook turned his attention back on you, “How are the proceedings going, dear?”
You downed your tea, “Terrible.”
Alfred scrutinized the Stranger, clearly displeased, though doing his best to remain courteous.
"You may call me Alfred, if you like. I come here every weekday morning to make sure she doesn’t die from all the garbage she stuffs herself with over the weekend."
“Hey!” You protested.
“Do you have a name? Or have you allowed her to impose one of her many nicknames onto you, too?”
The Stranger gave a half-hearted shrug, listening to the next few conversations with little to no interest, focused on finishing what was left of his food. You had a feeling he was still hungry, eyes following the crate of groceries Alfred had brought inside.
After fixing him another plate of breakfast, you decided to leave the two men alone, with Alfred promising to teach him the ins and outs of the place and to show him the field that he was to work on.
(You’d told Alfred to treat the Stranger like an amnesiac who had no clue how the modern world worked. It wasn’t exactly a lie, more like a precaution, born from a creeping fear you might’ve given him a brain aneurysm by running him over. Naturally, you left that part out for Alfred.)
Whereas you made it your mission to restock on the supplies you were currently low on, including the additional necessities now that you have a man living with you.
It was only by the dining table did you realised his height. He was at best, around 4'10, somewhere closer to your shoulders than your chin. But you hadn’t even noticed; his presence was so imposing that it didn’t cross your mind that he wouldn’t be able to reach the top shelves without a step stool. You swallowed your amusement, thoughts drifting to the rest of his appearance.
He was, for a fact, handsome. You may be sick at the thought of dating anyone at the moment, but you weren’t blind; you knew a handsome man when you saw one. Dark eyes, firm jaw, wide shoulders — broad shoulders. You spent a good hour at the department store making sure they had shirts in the right size, well, a part of your mind teased, it wouldn’t do anyone harm if they were a little tight.
Five hours later—after pushing past a crowd of nosy townsfolk who’d caught wind of your little incident at the police station —you finally managed to load everything into the car. And that wasn’t even the most exhausting part. On the way home, you had to call your lawyer to deal with the latest headache your husband had emailed over. He wants the coffee table. You want your time back. The call ended with no resolution, of course, and by the time you were climbing the steps to your patio, you felt like you'd aged a decade.
"I'm home," you called, collapsing by the door as your shopping bags spilled around you.
But the strong, savory smell of stew hit you, coaxing you off the floor. You’d expected to see Alfred at the stove — instead, it was the Stranger, hair still damp from the shower, dressed in the other set of clean clothes.
He spared you a glance before turning his attention back to the pot, stirring it carefully. Then he proceeded to turn the stove off, calmly turning the knob and using the ladle to take two servings.
You sat down in one of the chairs, where the placemats and utensils had been neatly set for two. He placed a bowl in front of you, then took the seat across the table.
The broth was rich and steaming, and your stomach gave a quiet, eager growl.
He watched you, silently gesturing toward the spoon.
You took a sip—eyes fluttering shut. Then another spoonful, and another, savoring the tender meat, a hum of approval slipping out before you could stop it. Only then did he start eating, still watching you between bites.
“Did Alfred teach you?”
He shook his head.
“You made this? All on your own?”
He nodded.
You figured Alfred must’ve at least shown him how to use the kitchen appliances and tasked him with making dinner. To be fair, you only hired the man to handle breakfast and prep lunch—didn’t seem right to make him drive all the way back to town at night. That’s what late-night takeout was for. But if this was going to become a regular thing, the local pizza joint could kiss their favorite customer goodbye.
From the window, you could see that work has been done on the field. Gone were the patches of overgrown weeds, their remnants piled at the edges. You could feel the relief of the earth, the soil now able to breathe just before the frost sets in. A few string lights stretched between wooden posts, flickering gently in the cold evening air.
The field wasn't anywhere near perfect or ready, but you used to think that the soil had hardened beyond saving, which was partly why the previous owners had put it up for sale.
But looking at the quality of his work, come spring, it might just bloom.
You imagined his hands, calloused and thick, digging into the ground. Kneading, pulling, breaking their way through the rough surface. The sight of his boots by the door, caked in mud, stirred something deep in your chest.
Your husband was never much of a hard worker; he was clever and coy, but he was never earnest in anything. He had never had to work, to struggle, and he for sure had never cooked you anything in your life.
Something caught in your throat, and you suddenly felt overwhelmed, cared for in a way you hadn’t been for a very, very long time.
“Thank you.” You croaked out, pushing the empty bowl aside. When you raised your head, the look he gave you was uncharacteristically gentle, kind. The ice had begun to thaw, giving way into something warmer — trust, gratitude, curiosity.
There, under the glow of the kitchen lights, you could sense something stirring between you.
Not yet fierce, but waking.
a/n : manning the kitchen may be an easy feat for thorin, but let's wait and see how he'll fair against other household appliances hahah. hope you all enjoyed the first chapter ! thanks for the positive feedback on the prologue !!
feedback & reblogs are appreciated ! want to be part of my taglist or to be removed ? or to only be tagged in certain works regarding certain characters? let me know through inbox 💌 || masterlist 🌺
Date : 07.05.2014
Used : 4H, F, B, 6B, mechanical pencils (0,3&0,5mm), fineliners (0,2&0,5mm), blending stick, white gel pen, gel pen, A4 paper
Time : 5h 06min
i hate it when you're heating something up in the microwave and it starts to go snap crackle pop so you take it out but it's still completely cold. shut up then??
·˚ ꒰ ℬ𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐕𝐄𝐈𝐍𝐒 ˖ ࣪ა ࣪˖ 𓂃 ⭒ bad boy!suguru x good girl!reader :: ۶ৎ
⤿ ꒰ could you really get over the man who ruined you for everyone else? :: so much sex :: toxic situationship :: college au :: ac. @/koguredesu ꒱
A punk and a princess. Seems like the recipe for a love story, doesn't it?
Whatever you and Suguru had was far from a Romeo and Juliet tale.
On and off. Fire — no, dynamite. That's what you were. The second you both stepped into a room the thethers of your souls trembled, set ablaze.
You could never get enough of Suguru Geto. No matter how many times you blocked him, threw out the gifts he bought you, plucked every petal from the roses he always brought when he came crawling back — you loved him. Devastatingly. Endlessly.
And Suguru? He's none the better. Blocked his number? He switched cards. Throw out his gifts? He's wearing yours. If you didn't like the roses you should have just said, princess. Would you prefer pink instead of red? Maybe black, to remember him?
He was the black to your pink. The cigarette to your glitter pen. You should have known from the day you saw him propped against the locker with more piercings than you knew the name of— devilishly handsome, danger, and where were those slithered eyes?
Trying to pry your skirt away.
"My eyes are up here." You sneered, readily spinning around with rustled feathers and a tempered huff.
The bastard only grinned. Tilted his head and arched a pierced brow.
"Wasn't looking for them, princess. But I'll admit, they're pretty."
And he had the audacity to tap your nose.
He was a leech, you were the vein. You were a vampire, he was the pulse. Your fate was written in the stars and stained in the flower beds the second your fingers tangled in his messy hair and he got his hands on your thighs. That fateful day back in senior year. Flushed against a gym locker, rustled that perfect skirt and ruined your pretty makeup. Fucked into a whimpering, whining mess of his.
"I need you," he croaked into your ear that day. Endlessly humping into your warm cunt as if he'd starve without it.
Messy hair, messy voice, messy heart. You took it as love. Foolishly. Maybe he did too. Spurred by an entire highschool career of tension and yearning.
He was electric. Poison. The venom in your blood. It didn't matter how much you pushed him away— he always found a way back. On top of you. Under you. Behind you. Against you. You were made for him.
Made to ride him in his backseat after he caught you outside of the bar you frequented with some useless frats. Fingers full of rings squeezing on your thighs as he guided your clenching pussy on the cock she missed so much. Gruff in his praises and sweet degradations. "Other guys don't know how to treat her like sugu does huh princess?"
Made to hump on his fingers in the college library after you tried to get smart with him at the shelves. Belt chains flushed into your ass. His lip piercing draggging on your neck— to your ear. "Like that? Yeah? Made for my fucking fingers, pretty." As he curled them into spots he remembered more than your 'anniversary date'.
Made to go dumb on his dick as he pounded you into the mattress you swore you wouldn't leave another strand in. Cunt squeezing, begging, drooling. Like your teary eyes and open mouth. He'd lean over you with that same lazy grin. "Uhuh? What's that? Aww, you missed me baby?"
You hated admitting it. He always found a way to get it out of you.
"C'mon princess," his groan rumbled into your thigh. Even now, you're made for him. Just like he's made to be on his knees. Face up in your skirt. You clung to the podium behind. Your professor would kill you if he came back early and saw this.
"Don't you miss me? Don't you miss my tongue?" It certainly missed you. Teasing bastard. It traced on your clothed clit then slid down your slit. He languidly sucks on a fold.
You stiffled a moan, he chuckled into your musk. "Mhhm, there she is. There's the girl who loves me."
How quickly you become that girl once your thighs are over his shoulder. Leaned back on the podium with hands fisting his hair. What a familiar position. What an ever deadly tongue. Lies weren't the only thing it's good at.
"Sugu," you whined.
"Lay it on me pretty," he panted.
Calloused thumbs rubbed into you inner thighs. His lips worked along your slit. Tongue doubling efforts. Slow, tentative. In all the ways that made you miss him and hate him all the same.
Saliva and slick lathered you whole. You bathed in need. For more. For him. "Sugu," you pleaded.
"Say it." He ushered.
Those callouses did well on your clit. Working your mind to nothingness. Still, stubbornness clung. Pesky like your release that's right there but so far away.
You knew what he wanted. To tell him that you missed him. That you love him. Loved him. He's not in luck. Not today. All he'll get is slick and a glare.
"In your— in your dreams," you huffed. Whined. His face shoved into your pussy. Nose grinding up into your clit as he delved into your sickness. Sucking. Panting. He tripled his efforts until your release burst at the seams. . .
Then faded altogether.
"Sugu!"
"Go back to Geto," he chuckled. So elegantly, his fingers slid your panties back over your throbbing cunt with two pats of his large hand for good measure. "Since that's all I am to you, right?"
He's at his full height again. You're trapped. The leech, the vampire. The vein, the pulse.
He traced a thumb on your chin. Pulled you in. Dangled the dream, traced your lips, then murmured.
"Just a stranger, right?"
Maybe he's better off as one. That's what you tell yourself as he walks away, but you know better. He'll be back, he always is.
somebody wanna recommend some satosugu x reader fics where reader is insecure and doesn’t think stsg actually likes them/believes stsg values each other more than reader? like reader just assumes they’re there for convenience or fun and not bc stsg genuinely loves them so they pull away and stsg realizes and they’re shocked and horrified and convinces reader otherwise? PLSPLSPLS happy ending only. Stsg x reader endgame ofc.
Growing up, my brother and I deeply dreaded going shoe shopping. It took hours, especially if it was for winter boots. My dad would examine the stitching, the brand reliability, the temperature recommendations, every piece of information he could get his hands on, and then when he'd finally found the right brand, it was on to making absolutely dead sure they fit properly - he had a particular way of poking the toe of the boot to ensure our foot was where it was supposed to be that always drove me nuts. This was always on a weekend, and it was about the worst punishment we could imagine.
Years later, I found out that he'd spent his entire childhood on the Canadian prairies with cold feet. My grandmother just bought whatever boots looked like the best value, regardless of whether they'd keep anyone warm. They'd kept him from frostbite, probably, but never, ever comfortable.
The reason my grandmother never had a thought about this was because she was buying her kids real boots. There was a sort of magical quality about real, purpose-made boots that meant that of course they'd work, because when she was growing up on the Canadian prairies, they had the kind of no money that meant you just stuffed some newspaper into your shoes and soldiered on.
The last pair of winter boots my dad bought for me was 15 years ago, in preparation for a three-month stint living in northern Quebec in midwinter. They cost $200 then, or something like it. I've worn them every year since, driving out to the remotest locations on the Canadian prairies and never once thinking about my feet.
When I read the Vimes Boots Theory for the first time, it rang a bell that reverberated back three generations.
୨୧ — "Where is she?" Sukuna demanded, crimson eyes scanning your floral shop with predatory focus.
You glanced up from where you were arranging a vase, not bothering to hide your smile at his agitation. Five years together had taught you when his rage was genuinely dangerous and when it was… well, this…
"Good morning to you too," you replied calmly, tucking a spring of baby’s breath into the arrangement.
As he moved past you, you noticed a small splotch of blood on his cheek. Without a word, you reached out, catching his sleeve to stop him momentarily- his eyes flashed down at you, but he allowed it. He watched as you dabbed at the smeared mark with a wet cloth you’d been using to wipe up the counter… Wiping away the evidence of whatever or whoever he’d encountered before coming home.
Releasing his sleeve once his face was clean, you pressed a sweet kiss to the corner of his lips, "Last I saw her, she was out in the back garden counting butterflies."
"She called me," he growled, "Said she needed me for 'urgent business."
Your chuckle only darkened his scowl, "I told her, not to use your emergency number unless it was an actual emergency."
"But this IS an emergency!!" A tiny voice piped up from the garden doorway.
There she stood, his five year old daughter, a miniature mirror of himself. Even at her young age, she commanded attention with the same natural authority as her father, though her methods relied more on charm than intimidation.
"Someone stepped on Mr. Squiggles…" she announced, crimson eyes -identical to Sukuna’s- already brimming with tears.
Your heart broke at the sight, and you instinctively moved towards her. However she completely dodged your approaching form, instead running straight to her father, her small flip-flops slapping against the wooden floor.
Sukuna's brow furrowed as he looked down at her, towering over her tiny frame, "Who the fuck is Mr. Squiggles?"
"Language," you murmured, though the truth is you accepted long ago that battling Sukuna’s vocabulary was a losing war.
"My caterpillar!" She whined, grabbing her father’s much larger hand and tugging with surprising strength, "You have to fix him!"
Sukuna’s eye twitched at the fact he was called from what he was doing to come home to this, but still he allowed himself to be led through the kitchen and into the garden. He shot you a look over his shoulder that clearly said, This is what constitutes an emergency?
You merely smiled, following them outside where the morning sun warmed the small garden.
"There!!" She pointed dramatically to a small patch of milkweed where, upon closer inspection, a slightly squashed monarch caterpillar lay motionless…
Sukuna crouched down, his massive frame folding with surprising grace as he examined the tiny creature. His hands -those same hands capable of unspeakable violence, hands that had broken bones and drawn blood without hesitation- hovered with unexpected gentleness over the crushed caterpillar.
"Who stepped on him?" He asked, voice deceptively calm in a way that made you tense slightly.
"It was mama’s helper," she sniffled, wiping a tear from her cheek...
"Mama's helper, huh?" Sukuna growled, his eyes sliding towards you, a dark glint in his gaze, "I'll have a nice little chat with them later, sweetheart."
Sweetheart. The endearment rolled off his tongue in a way that seemed to go against his very nature, but that's precisely how you knew he was serious. When Sukuna used terms of endearment, it meant he would make sure this person paid for making his little girl cry.
His attention turned back to the caterpillar, and he gingerly poked it.
"Can you help him, daddy?" She pleaded, with complete faith in her father’s abilities shining in her bright little eyes, "Make him all better?"
"He’s pretty fucked up" he said bluntly…
"But-" She looked up at him, little hands clutching his sleeve, wrinkling the fabric, "You fix everything… mama told me lots of times how you make everything better!"
Something tightened in Sukuna's chest- that familiar, uncomfortable squeeze that happened whenever his daughter looked at him like he hung the fucking moon. Like he wasn't the same man whose name made certain parts of the city go silent with terror.
"Not everything can be fixed, kid," he said, gentler than most would believe him capable of.
"Mr. Squiggles is hurt pretty badly, sweetie." Your voice was soft as you kneeled beside the two of them, the grass cool against your knees.
Her eyes started to well up again, tears spilling over, "B-but… Daddy makes us better when we get sick… an- and when my tooth fell out… an- an-"
Sukuna gave you a look that asked for backup, but you merely smiled sympathetically, leaving him to navigate this particular minefield alone.
Traitor.
Sukuna's jaw tightened the moment he looked back at his daughter, "Fuck," he whispered under his breath, a muscle working in his cheek as he carefully scooped up the flattened caterpillar onto a leaf, "I’ll try... No promises though."
It was a strange sight, watching Sukuna- this feared and powerful man, gently cradling this little creature in his hand. His expression was stern, yet focused as he brought it close to his face, examining it intently.
"Ah! Thank you, daddy!!" his little girl threw her arms around his neck, nearly toppling him backwards.
"Yeah...," Sukuna murmured, "No problem." His large scarred hand came up to steady her, patting her back with affection that had become less awkward over the years, "Now go get me a box, brat."
She beamed at him, eyes practically sparkling at the use of her favorite nickname before darting off, her footsteps quick and excited.
Sukuna remained crouched over the very much dead caterpillar, feeling rather foolish.
"How's the patient?" You asked, wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders, kissing the nape of his neck.
"You told her I make everything better?" his tone almost accusatory.
"I mean, you do~" you replied sweetly, and he snorted, turning his head just enough to give you a warning look, which only made you giggle. "Think of all the things you fix and make better. My life is significantly better with you in it,” he rolled his eyes as you continued, “and you fixed that leaky faucet, broken toys, scraped knees… Your motorc-"
"Not dead bugs."
"Mm… Yeah… Well, maybe Mr. Squiggles is just stunned…" You glanced at the small green body still unmoving on the leaf, "I'm sure if anyone can wake him up, it's you."
"It's fucking flattened," he muttered, examining the leaf in his palm.
Your daughter returned with a small pink box lined with fresh leaves, her face scrunched in concentration as she focused on not tripping, "Here, daddy!! The bug hospital!"
She leaned in close, her small hands braced on her father's knee as she watched him place Mr. Squiggles in the box. The contrast between them was striking- his hands scarred and powerful, hers tiny and unmarked. Yet there was no fear in how she pressed against him, no hesitation in how she invaded his space.
"Is he going to be okay?" she asked, voice ever so small and hopeful.
Sukuna's eyes remained fixed on the container, his mouth set in a hard line, "Don't know. Might take him a while to recover."
"So we have to wait?" she sighed, and you smiled at the familiar sound.
Sukuna nodded, and you felt a rush of affection at how patiently he was trying to deal with this.
"Oh..."
Then, without any kind of warning, she looked up at him, "Daddy," she asked with the sudden, left field logic that only children possess, "would you still love me if I was a worm?"
Sukuna went absolutely still, his entire body tensing... The leaf he'd been adjusting tore slightly under the sudden pressure of his fingers. He turned his head slowly to look at his daughter, eyes narrowing as if she'd just asked him a trick question.
"The fuck kind of question is that?" his voice was rough, but his tone lacked any real bite.
She didn't flinch at his harsh tone- she never did. Instead, she just blinked those crimson eyes -so like his own- and repeated herself with the stubborn persistence only a five year old could muster, "If I was like Mr. Squiggles… I- If I got stepped on and turned into a worm. Would you still be my daddy?" her little eyebrows scrunching up in worry.
Shit… It was a serious question.
He ran a hand over his face and then back through his hair, a gesture you recognized all too well… he was thinking, very hard. You'd never seen him so thrown off, and you couldn't help but hide a smile behind your hand.
"Listen," he said finally, setting the box aside and turning to face his daughter fully.
"B-Because, maybe you wouldn't-" a small hiccup interrupted her, "maybe you wouldn't l-love me anymore."
You moved to step in, but Sukuna held up a hand, stopping you. His eyes never leaving his daughter's face, "Look at me," he commanded, his voice low but steady as he dropped to one knee, brining himself to her level.
It was a position he would allow with no one else, an exception he only made for her. "Listen carefully, because i'm only saying this once," his finger hooked under her chin, tilting her face up, "You're mine. My blood. You don't get to escape from that." his tone was deadly serious, the same tone he used when making promises that would be kept regardless of cost. "So," he continued, thumb swiping across her cheek to wipe away a stray tear, "worm or not, you're still my brat. That clear?"
Her red rimmed eyes widened, "Really?"
"Really." taking his thumb from her cheek he lightly flicked her forehead, making her giggle, "And if anyone tried to step on you…"
"You'd protect me?" she leaned against him, arms coming up around his neck, hugging him tightly, "Just like always, right?"
Over her head, his eyes met yours, and something passed between you… "I’d burn this whole damn city to the ground," his words carrying the unmistakable weight of truth, "Anyone who touched you would die screaming."
What should have been horrifying was instead comforting- the absolute certainty that this man, this monster who had chosen to be your protector, the father of your child, would tear apart the world to keep his daughter safe. To keep you both safe.
"I knew it," her tiny voice was muffled against him, "Mama says your heart is bigger than you pretend…" nuzzling into him, she added those three little words that made his throat visibly tighten, "I love you, Daddy." and you saw the moment Sukuna's eyes softened as they did only for you and her.
"Yeah well… Your mother talks too much," he grumbled, his hands moving to throw her over his shoulder.
"Daaaaadddyyyyy" she squealed, tiny legs kicking playfully against him, but there was no real resistance, no fear when he was the one holding her.
Sukuna turned to leave the garden, pausing by your side. His large hand reached out, grabbing a handful of your hair to draw you in with controlled force for a rough kiss. It was his habit- the physical equivalent of an ‘I love you.’
"Love you too," you whispered against his lips.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Later that night, after Sukuna had tucked his daughter in bed, you found him sitting out in the garden, nursing a glass of alcohol and staring at the pink bug hospital.
You slid onto the bench beside him, and he lifted his arm automatically, allowing you to tuck yourself against his side. For a long moment, neither of you spoke, content in the quiet and each other's warmth.
"I replaced it," he broke the silence first, his voice rumbling in his chest against your ear.
You blinked in confusion as you looked up at him, "Replaced what?"
"The flattened bug. What else? It was dead as shit. Found another on a bush at the edge of the garden."
A small laughed escaped you, "Of course you did."
He shot you a look that was both irritated and slightly embarrassed, "Don't start with me."
You trailed your fingers along the tattoos marking his chest, feeling his heart beat steady beneath your touch. "You know," you murmured, "for someone who claims to care about nothing, you’ve gotten awfully good at caring for everything that’s yours." You pressed your lips to the hollow of his throat, feeling his pulse quicken.
"Tch," he clicked his tongue, "fucking ridiculous." he grunted, but his arm tightened around you, "This is what i've been reduced to. Hunting a replacement bug for a five year old..." His expression sobered, "You ever regret it? This life?"
The question surprised you, Sukuna never voiced uncertainty about your relation, ever... "Not for a second," reaching up to caress the mark beneath his eye, "I knew what I was getting into."
He caught your hand, pressing a rare, gentle kiss to your palm, "No you didn't."
"I knew enough," you insisted, "I knew I was in good hands when it came to you, and that's all that mattered."
His eyes, crimson and sharp, searched yours, finding nothing but absolute certainty and trust, "And you're still not afraid?"
"Not of you. Never of you."
He made a sound low in his throat, pulling you into his lap with an ease that still thrilled you to this day. His hands -the same hands that cupped his daughter's face with tenderness, the same hands that would come home time to time stained with blood- framed your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones.
You smiled, leaning into his touch, "And I’ll always be yours, even if you turned into a worm."
A startled laugh escaped him, genuine and unguarded, before he captured your mouth in a kiss, deep and possessive- promising things no words could quite capture and a lifetime of protection.
