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Today's fic for the Writer’s Month 2021 challenge (see @writersmonth for more info) was prompted by @gwen-ever who told me once that there were not enough Dwalin fics in the world. This is my attempt to correct it.
THIS IS FOR YOU, YOU HARD-WORKING WOMAN! 💙💙💙
It’s also my first time with Dwalin as a romantic interest, so forgive me for any errors (also, I was in a hurry) - I hope he’s not too much OOC. Any constructive feedback welcome.
Today's prompt: word: night | setting: tattoo parlor AU
Fandom: The Hobbit
Relationships: Dwalin x Reader
Warnings: grumpy dwarves, 2k words (Mahal help me)
Rating: G/T
Have you ever wondered what would happen if you were a tattoo artist in Erebor (Everyone Lives AU) and Dwalin visited your shop?
As usual, you can read this fic here and on AO3.
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Cookies
The first time that big, angry-looking Dwarf visited your little tattoo parlour, he wanted to touch up some of his tattoos that had faded over time. He had quite a few of them on his body: on his hands, his forearms, even quite a few on top of his head, and you suspected there were more in other places. Being a tattoo artist, you recognized the type easily. For many warriors, it was a way to record their greatest victories and achievements. Judging by the tattoos scattered all over his skin, this one saw many battles.
As you worked on inking the old patterns on his left hand, he sat still, not speaking much; you only managed to drag out of him that he was a warrior, and his name was Dwalin. You did your best when working on his tattoos and even improved their look a bit. After finishing your work, you asked whether he was satisfied with the outcome and were rewarded with a grunt and a nod. Oh well, you thought, perhaps he was just one of those Dwarves of few words.
The second time he visited your little tattoo parlour, he came with a friend, a cheerful Dwarf in a funny hat called Bofur who kept on amusing you with the anecdotes from their travels while you worked on Dwalin’s head tattoos. The warrior would sit still, grunting or chuckling from time to time in all the right places, but that was all he did. After you were done, Dwalin got up from the chair, stretched his impressive body, muttered a few words of thanks pointedly avoiding your eyes, and disappeared through the door as fast as he could. Bofur grinned, made a silly joke, and followed his friend. You sighed. Was Dwalin not happy with your work? Did you take too much of his time and he had a busy schedule? Mahal, have you offended him somehow? Touched his hair by mistake? No, you were sure you didn’t do anything of the sort.
The third time he came, he brought a new and complicated tattoo design that he wanted to add to his existing tattoos and cover his whole arm with the pattern. He agreed on the price at once without any haggling, surprising you completely. A Dwarf that did not haggle was an unusual sight. But perhaps he had a lot on his mind, so you simply shrugged and got on with your work. You couldn’t help but admire his tanned, muscular arm he bared for you, along with his large, calloused hand, but you scolded yourself for unprofessional thoughts. Of course he would have strong arms, a wide chest, and powerful thighs, he was a warrior! You tattooed plenty of those limbs before, but you didn’t know why seeing a piece of this particular Dwarf’s body made your cheeks burn and your heart race.
Starting a friendly conversation with him sounded like a good idea, a welcome distraction, but you completely failed in your efforts. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think there was a huge, hairy bear sitting in your tattoo chair, staring blankly at the wall, and not Dwalin, son of Fundin. And so you worked in silence. When you finished your work for the day, you tried to coax a few words out of him and once again asked whether he liked the results so far. Dwalin looked at you from under his furrowed brow, pulled his bushy moustache, and said:
“Mhmm.”
That was it. You sighed, and then grunted, and groaned. And then you had to stop, worried that you’d turn into a bear yourself. That Dwarf was impossible!
His fourth visit looked exactly the same. And his fifth one. And the sixth one, too. He grunted, huffed, but barely said a word. You tried to ignore the way his muscles played under his skin and worked on the pattern. And when you informed him that you were done for the day, he would nod or pull his moustache again, and leave lightning fast, as if the mountain was crumbling down around him.
His seventh visit was a literal catastrophe. Dwalin came a bit earlier than usual, in the late afternoon, while you were still working on another customer. The large warrior sat down in a chair nearby and just stared at you, his gaze bright and piercing. You welcomed him as always and offered a plate of cookies that lay on the table beside him. A nod was all you got. You returned to your work, feeling Dwalin’s heavy gaze on you.
And then he grunted. Your other customer, a red-haired miner, shifted nervously in the tattoo chair.
Dwalin growled. The customer cleared his throat and you noticed how his muscles tensed as you worked on a tattoo on his chest.
Dwalin huffed. That was enough for your other customer. He asked you to interrupt your work and informed you he had just recalled an urgent business in the merchants’ quarter that he had to attend to.
When the customer left your tattoo parlour, you met Dwalin’s intent gaze, resting your hands on your hips. You couldn’t believe your eyes. Not only were there a few cookie crumbs in his beard, but also a small smirk of triumph danced on his lips! You had enough!
“What does that supposed to mean?! How dare you scare away my other customers?! Do you think that being a big warrior gives you the right to barge in here and throw angry looks at everyone? How am I even supposed to focus on work with your constant grunting and growling?! Don’t you have better things to do?!”
Dwalin took a step towards you, folded his arms across his chest, and simply said, “No.”
Silence filled the room. You suddenly noticed that his tunic was new, his hair was freshly washed and combed, and his boots were newly polished. He smelled like some exotic spices.
You shook your head, “Is that what you have for me?! A frown and a one-syllable word?!”
When the ground shook beneath your feet, you first thought it was your anger, but then the realization came. A mountain quake. It intensified quickly, making you fall to the ground. Everything went dark while the tremors grew. You heard the low rumbling of the rock beneath you, some shouts and noises, objects crashing against each other. Something heavy pressed you to the ground, perhaps a piece of furniture, at the same moment as big chunks of the ceiling started falling to the floor. You tried to move, but you couldn’t. The only thing you could do was cough, the stone dust filling your lungs.
The tremors stopped as unexpectedly as they started. Once again you tried to move and the heavy object above you grunted. Of course. It wasn’t a table nor a chair. It was Dwalin.
“Get… off…” you muttered. “I need to breathe!”
Another grunt followed, but he lifted his weight from you. Your shop was now as dark as night, but your eyes adjusted to the surroundings quickly. You realized that he was now staring at your face, sitting beside you.
“Are you well, lass?” he asked. Four words. Impressive.
“I… I think so,” you sat up, relieved that you haven’t been injured.
“Thank Mahal,” he muttered, staring at you intently.
At that moment, you weren’t too happy that Dwarves could see quite well in the dark. From what you could observe, your tattoo parlour seemed to be ruined. There was broken furniture, your tools and inks crushed by large pieces of stone - you could only hope that your backroom with all the supplies remained intact.
You turned to Dwalin and then you realized that something glistened on his cheek.
“You are wounded!” you gasped.
“‘Tis but a scratch, lass,” he protested.
“No, it’s not! You’re bleeding!” You moved towards him anyway, tearing off a piece of fabric from your tunic.
“It is nothing,” he started, but then your hand touched his face. As you felt the softness of his beard under your hand, he stiffened, closing his eyes for a moment longer than usual.
“It doesn’t look like nothing to me! Let me help.”
You received a grunt in reply and proceeded to take care of his face. He simply sat there, unmoving, as you gently dabbed his temple.
“I saw that huge stone over there. If not for you, I...” you spoke quietly. “Thank you for saving me, Dwalin.”
“Think nothing of it, lass. I would never forgive myself if anything happened to you,” he lowered his face towards yours.
Not believing your ears, you retorted, attempting to joke to mask your feelings, “It is because... I haven’t finished your tattoo yet, isn’t it?”
His eyes shone in the darkness like two diamonds when his hand covered yours and pressed it against his cheek.
“No,” he spoke huskily.
Dwalin’s nose brushed against yours, and then somehow your lips met his, or perhaps it was the other way around. His moustache was surprisingly soft against your skin and his lips gently caressed yours, sending a myriad of shivers down your spine. He tasted like molten dark chocolate and went to your head like good whiskey. Strong and intoxicating. Who would have thought there was so much tenderness hidden behind that scary warrior’s facade?
Dwalin swallowed, pressing his forehead against yours, and then words started spilling out of his mouth, like a sudden mountain avalanche.
“Lass… I need to tell ye somethin’ I wanted to tell ye for a while. When I saw that stone fallin’, I could only think of how I never told ye that…” his voice trailed off and he grunted. “Ye must think me a grump with no manners, and ye’ll be right. Ye’re so talented and quick-witted, and as pretty as a summer day! I forget my tongue every time I see ye.”
Your eyes widened. This silent warrior had just spoken not only a full sentence, but quite a few of them.
“Dwalin…?” you whispered, still dizzy from the kiss, not quite comprehending.
“Aye, ye barely know me, but I’d like to change it. Will you allow me to court you?” his hopeful gaze rested on your face.
This bear of a Dwarf was the grumpiest person you have ever known, and his grunts could scare away a rabid warg, but you’d always liked a challenge. No words were necessary; you simply kissed Dwalin, showing him how much you liked this idea.
A few moments after your lips parted, he murmured, a hint of disbelief in his voice, “So... ye’re not scared of me, are ye, lass?”
“Scared?! I’ve been annoyed with you, that’s what I was, you… You oaf!”
Dwalin opened his mouth and started laughing. As surprising as it was, you had to admit to yourself that he had a pleasant laughter.
“What’s so funny about that?!” you demanded.
“Ye’re a fiery lass. There is no one else who would dare to say it to my face.”
“Well, I do and prepare to hear more of such things in future if you ever return to communicating with me by grunts!” you warned him, stifling a giggle.
“Then I’ll be lookin’ forward to our little sparrings,” he chuckled and kissed your cheek tenderly. “But before that, I have one more question for you before we try to find our way out from here.”
“What is it?” You tilted your head.
“Are there any more of those cookies left?”
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P.S. If you liked "Blame It on Cider", I have good news for you: Thorin and Yrsa are going to come back tomorrow!
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Here is my masterlist for the Writer's Month 2021 event.
WARNING: This has some seriously DARK THEMES. Mentions of kidnapping, human trafficking, trauma, child neglect, alcohol abuse.
But i do promise a happy ending.
INSP.: The game Fragile and Little Misfortune.
Song mentioned is Shiny Happy People - Reuben and the Dark x AG cover
It’s rare for someone to have a very unfortunate life yet see the good in everything.
It takes a lot for someone to find light in the darkness but takes an even more special kind of person to create light in the darkness.
The cold raindrops ran down your face.
The rain was bad that day, clouds smothering every bit of the sky. It was the middle of the afternoon, yet it looked like it was approaching nightfall by the minute. You didn’t mind the rain too much, it was the cold. You walked alone down the street, blending with others surrounding you. Some hurrying to get out of the rain, some disgruntled being outside for whatever reason and then there was the few who didn’t seem to care about the rain. You didn’t leave with a suitable jacket and therefore it took no time for you to become drenched.
You hadn’t noticed someone watching you from across the street. Nor had you noticed when they headed in the same direction. No one else seemed to notice the person either, all too busy wrapped in their own thoughts and lives to take notice. You crossed the road, moving to the opposite street before descending the stairs that lead to under the bridge.
A shortcut for you to get home, the stream below the bridge had been drained leaving a dirt path.
Keeping your eyes to the ground, you hadn’t noticed the man standing under the bridge until he moved further into your path, straightening up from leaning under the bridge. You met his gaze, but before you could step back, you heard footsteps behind you.
You turned around and with seconds, the man previously in front of you lifted you, covering your mouth.
Days later, you were added to the streets that were covered in papers of pictures the names of missing children. One of many children who were yet to be found. You were fifteen years old and last seen on school grounds. All surrounding towns and cities were notified, your face littered along with many other children’s faces on almost every street and every public property.
So many missing children was starting to get much more media attention. Especially as all disappeared under mysterious circumstances.
As far as police investigation, the same people were likely responsible for these disappearances but each case was growing cold by the day.
Your story was a sad one for you were an easier target than some of the kids. Your father was gone, he had been for days and it wasn’t any new behaviour. Your father often went away for days at a time.
Your mother was an alcoholic. It took a phone call from your school for her to notice she hadn’t seen you since the previous morning. Whilst the school claimed you hadn’t turned up for school the next day and asking why your mother hadn’t called you in sick. It took further questioning from the police when she filed your missing persons report for her to face that she was more than negligent to her only child. The alcohol being her one priority.
Carlisle and a few others of the Cullen’s couldn’t help but grimace hearing about the condition of your parents. It only got worse when your neighbours were eager to call out your parents. Some were determined you were dead, your mother probably killing you. Some feeling sympathy for you but not your mother. Others weren’t surprised you were gone, hoping you had simply ran away. By that point the darkest of secrets were arising and no one was sure if it were rumour or fact.
Your mother had made it clear that she had never wanted children. She wasn’t maternal and didn’t particularly like them to begin with. Her child was no different. She partied and enjoyed the party life. Being a parent, forced her out of that lifestyle and every bottle reminded her of what she was missing. She chased every drink like it was her lifeline and perhaps in her eyes, it was.
She was in a relationship with your father who wasn’t supposed to be anything but a night of fun.
Your grandparents insisted she kept the baby and therefore sealing your mother’s fate.
Your father was an angry man who didn’t want to be tied down to anything. He’d always come back the moment where ever he was at would no longer extend it’s welcome.
With both parents at home, it was no place for a child.
It’s impact upon you was evident but not necessarily in a negative way.
You were fifteen but you could be quite child-like with even the simplest of things such as the way you talked. Much like a young child, you saw the best in everyone and everything. The world was beautiful and everyone had good intentions deep down- even if they didn’t show it. Whilst you had the intelligence of the average fifteen year old, you were slower at learning. Therefore, required a little more patience. Most would get the impression that you were naive and that was correct. Little did people know that you displayed such behaviour because you had taught yourself.
Your parents giving up by the time you had learned manners.
The only real learning of positive attributes came from your teachers. That being said, you were outcast from your class mates and others your age. You were just a little too different, lost in your own head for anyone to really want to bond with you. Some going as far to think you were a little kid in a teenage body.
However it was worth mentioning how kind you were, treating everyone like gold. Even if someone was mean to you, you rarely retaliated.
Carlisle could barely believe his eyes when he saw you nine months later.
You were stood in an alleyway, no one seemed notice you.
Once again, the rain was pouring down. He couldn’t feel it, but Carlisle knew it was cold outside. Your hands were latched onto one another, tugging your sleeves down on a hoodie that was simply too small. It clung to your body much like your hair did. You looked lost and Carlisle caught on immediately what you were doing. You were waiting for someone.
Carlisle had no doubt whoever you were waiting on was bad news.
Especially given the cuts, scrapes and bruises littered around your face. He knew he had to do something since no one else would. No one had seen him make his way to that alley, nor did anyone notice when you were suddenly gone.
The Cullen’s were stunned when Carlisle returned home with you.
One of the many missing kids. You had been gone for nine months and the investigation was narrowing down the possibility that you were taken into human trafficking or you were dead. Both terrible fates.
Esme was the first to jump into action with Carlisle, as you shook violently from the cold, your soaking clothes sticking to you. You didn’t seem even surprised that you had been taken by Carlisle. You weren’t even afraid.
“I’m a doctor. I can help you.” Carlisle said, tilting your head to look at him as Esme grabbed multiple towels.
“(Y/N)? Isn’t that your name?"
How interesting and dramatic! I loved to read it, it's so sad and happy at the same time. I can't even describe the feeling I had, they're pure inspiration and emotion! Beautiful work, as you always did! 🥰
When I first read the description of the reader personality I couldn't resist to imagine they as Luna Lovegood. So adorable!
Jake Gyllenhaal and Paul Dano attend the ‘Okja’ Photocall during the 70th annual Cannes Film Festival at Palais des Festivals on May 19, 2017 in Cannes, France.
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