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i have finally finished my first full draft for A Fateful Meeting chapter 3!
i had so many ups and downs, n i wrote back to front upside down round and round and now it’s fiNALLY all linked up and makes sOME sense
a few more checks and it’ll be good to go
thorin is finally kinda nice i’m so excited to show u all 🤭
it's love, held with dirty hands | thorin oakenshield.
𑣲⋆synopsis: in the quiet of the night, thorin finds you hiding away from the world. he thinks he'd much rather see you smile, instead.
⤹ requested by anon!
𑣲⋆pairing: thorin oakenshield/reader
𑣲⋆wc: 1,110
𑣲⋆tags: hurt/comfort, pining, thorin is a yearner but he is nonchalant ab it,,, kinda
𑣲⋆ author's note: i was listening to "phantom" by ryan beatty and heard the particular line "it's love, held with dirty hands" – i loved it so much and thought it was fitting for the title... pls give it a listen! it's a beautiful song <3 also sorry if thorin is lowk ooc... gulp. i hope u enjoy and as always, likes + reblogs + comments r appreciated :) beautiful lace divider credits go to cursed-carmine
Thorin was attuned to your emotions. More than he cared to admit.
He couldn't help it. Truthfully, he couldn't tell when it had begun, when he had started watching you so intently that he had memorised familiar tells of your body. His observations of you left him with mental notes he repeated over and over when the nights got quiet, thoughts of you, warm and gentle, mingling with the cold fire of vengeance and loss. Then, he found ways to linger a moment longer than necessary. Holding out his hand for you to take when traversing rough, unsteady terrain, the feel of your softer, much smaller hands resting upon his roughened ones often sent jolts of lightning that lit every nerve within his body. Hovering around you when it was time for a brief rest, insisting that you sit, before you topple over from exhaustion. He thinks he hides it well. He also thinks it's a bit selfish of him, really, to be so demanding of your attention despite having no explanation for why.
(Dwalin and Balin have shared knowing looks, because they know. Thorin glares at them, because of course, they know. Meddling Dwarves.)
Hi! I hope you’re having a fantastic day/night!
I was wondering if you could maybe write something with the hobbit characters comforting an s/o with endometriosis. (Personally) the cramps and pain both before, during and after my periods as well as ovulation has me curled in bed w painkillers and I could use a pick me up :’)
I really hope you’re taking care of yourself, and I love your writing
<3
This request was so polite oh my god, genuinely almost made me cry happy tears.
I am a trans man and I do suffer from horrible periods cramps due to health issues so I hope I'm able to get this pretty accurately!
Notes: Reader is kept gender neutral despite the situation. Personally, because of the setting, I think a few of them wouldn't actually know what endometriosis is specifically but they would understand the concept of a period and horrible cramps so they help as they can. English is not my first language. Feel free to request anything else! (Also this has not been beta read and I've done this while sleep deprived so if there's any typos please point them out so I can fix them)
Characters: Fili, Kili, Thorin, Thranduil, Bofur, Bilbo, Gandalf.
My masterlist
word cout: 1,516
OF THE HEIR OF DURIN|ThorinxReader Part 2
A/N: Sorry I've been gone so long! between the regular shift, and picking up extra jobs, I haven't had much time to myself of any kind. This is the continuation of the twoshot for @3sriracha, This is technically a standalone 2-parter, but greater context can be gathered from the previous 2 part oneshot, HERE.
TAGS & WARNINGS: Fluff/Angst, Thorin x Reader, Fantasy, Marriage issues, Sexual content, mentions of privates/sexual themes, Mutual greiving, Descriptions of a miscarried child, Blood, Death of an elder, Finding solace in eachother, etc.
Now playing: "The World is Ahead"-Howard Shore
The twentieth of April in the year 2941 was cold for spring morning for the time of year, snow still fell from the sky, even in the valleys about the blue mountains. The migrating animals’ prints could be seen clear in the freshly trampled pack. Its not common for them to move in this kind of cold, but still fresh sheds line the ways through the thickets; antlers for handles of dwarven steel, and fresh meat for the dwarven banquet halls.
The bucks are in the rut, the ringing of fresh points raking together as they fight for dominance in a mating dance common to all of beast and man. The does are already nursing their newborns in the thickets, and life in general springs forth from winter and her icy clutch. And as nature so the population below the mountain slopes bring their own infants into the thawing sunlight.
The cradle of Durin is not so blessed and the wed of Thorin has grown farther from hope as she struggles with her own value as a barren would-be queen. You can often be found walking the halls praying silently to take your mind off of the approach of yet another cycle, another bleeding, and another time you will cry yourself dry in the sinewed arms of your ever supporting husband. You laugh to yourself the tiny consolation that Dís had offered of unlimited careless sexual encounters.
The dwarrow really had an oddly crass way of teasing her brother, and you by proxy. Far from the well-mannered woman she was in public, but perhaps this was her way of showing a vulnerability and a realness to you. Recalling the gentleness she had shown to you the day of your wedding is an assurance to you, and you realize you may be a mite richer than you had initially thought. Not with silver and gold in the ways of the underdwellers, but in love and empathy from those who call you beloved.
A dual pitched tittering alerts you to a small bird perched upon the bulwark of the wall you walk upon; a familiar song to you and every dwarf who knows the old stories. A woodland thrush, a bird that brings luck and good tidings on the winds of springtime. As quickly as it lands it takes flight, rapid wings bringing it into the sunrise of the east.
“An omen… a prophecy of return to our ancestral lands when the thrush takes flight for the east.”
You turn and see the silver bearded Balin walking with his familiar swagger towards the same wall edge from which you gaze after the bird. He rests himself with a great sigh against the battlements, as if he is an elderly man suffering the pains of a long and hard life. He is this way often, appearing like some senior despite being a typical middle aged dwarf.
“The ravens shall return to their home in the mountain, and the thrushes will make nest there; and that is the signal of the end of the dragon’s reign. Or to something of that effect.”
“What does this mean? Would we be moving?”
He takes a long moment as if deciding how to break some particularly bad news to you. The many times Thorin had recounted the story to you flows through your mind, the fall of his people’s ancestral land, the sickness that befell his grandfather in that time and ultimately lead to his death; how he had garnered his namesake at the expense of the pale one.
“He’s going to try to retake it, I can feel his ambition in the very air... it worries me greatly.”
“You mean… from the dragon? Does my own husband desire his destruction for me not having brought him a son?”
“Nay, nay, I wouldn’t think its like that at all, its… his desire to reach his destiny, take back the humiliation the drake wrought upon us on that terrible day, it’s his hereditary pride, one that cost everyone he called ‘father’ and ‘mentor’.”
Realizing how your singleness of mind poisons your every thought and worry you quickly excuse yourself from Balin’s musings and return to your chambers. If you are absolutely honest with yourself, you feel quite useless, the dwarves having no need for any skill you would have, save for organization in your own home. There were not many times you had need to cook or otherwise provide for Thorin, as the Dwarven social network often left meals as an extended family affair.
“And if I bring him no heir, and god forbid that he would be slain in the retaking of such a place, the whole endeavor for the sake of the line of Durin would come to naught.”
The depression brought on by the early miscarriage of the year prior had never quite left you. often your dreams would be filled with the wailing of a needy child, only for you to wake to silence in your dark chambers
“What would become of me then, should I be unable to conceive, shall I be put away if I fail to complete my marital duty?”
Balin seems a little uncomfortable discussing the topic of coitus and pregnancy but he still tries to placate the fears you hold.
“Its not some kind of suicide mission, brought on by a desire for distance; but the culmination of the seer’s prophecies.”
The wind snaps cold and dry across your faces as the breath of an ancient being, carrying the whispers of leaves and the sudden silence of animals that are hidden from predators. Even the trill of the Rock Ravens is nowhere to be heard as the sun is blocked by the overcast of ashen clouds.
“But I must say I have a fear of my own. The sickness that took his grandfather, I see the same spark of it in his eyes. He will not fail you for your sake, but he shall not return the same man.”
“If this is supposed to be a comfort you have not done to well.”
“Comfort is not something that comes to me naturally, I wish I could bring better report but…”
He trails off as far of thunder rocks the peaks. You both look out to see a fine sheet of water falling upon the valley below. Like a barrier the storm cell stands sentinel to the east, as if to ward off any idea of expedition or adventure.
“The weather this year has been odd. I feel as if a hand comes to hold us back, it keeps us on the mountain with avalanches in the cold seasons, and great storms come the wet. I have not seen things like this since I was a lad watching the rain callers of the western hills. Their craft is a sinister and archaic thing, an energy I feel now.”
You ponder on his words, the omens, the life you now live as one of comfort, but ever filled with sadness and trial. Perhaps you now bear the same curse as was levied upon the house of Durin having married in yourself. There have been two other stillbirths since the wedding of oakenshield, and the whispers of the people seem to be of you. you are sure of it from the glances they give you as you walk the lofty perches of your confinement.
To them you are the curse, an outsider brought in on good faith by their peerless head, but carrying within her bosom darkness and death. A particularly old crone of a dwarrow had relayed in broken switches of common and dwarven this very thing. You are a dull blackened thing to them, and with none but your currently absent husband for true consolation your heart remains rent.
It’s a much brighter day when the elders of Durin’s rest congregate to the hall of Thorin’s Gate. Or evening rather, the sky is ablaze already in vibrant pinks and reds as the excited chatter is hushed by the great horn on the raised seat of the royals. Thorin extends his hand forward across the throng of men, old and young alike gathered around the seats of the elders. All attention switches to the stalwart leader of the children of Durin, an anticipation building in those gathered.
“You all know the prophecies made to us at the destruction of our ancestral home. As some of us might remember looking back upon the smouldering ruins of the lonely mountain, we were told that once more would the raven return to the crags, and the thrush make her nest in the slope.”
A murmur cascades through the crowd, some unsure but most excited. They are all restless, itching for a fight; too tired of remaining comfortable in the blue mountains while the terrible sleeps in their stolen inheritance. A voice rises from the crowd.
“And ye would betray our safety for what, a horde of gold n’ precious stones?”
A short fiery haired dwarf strides up the center corridor between those gathered. He is stalwart, broad in every way, but not chubby, built like the boar he often rides upon. Dain of the Iron Hills stares down his cousin with challenge burning in his eyes.
“Yer whole line is destroyed, yer grandfather’s own greed took so many lives, and lost the mount in the first place, and then he dies at the hands of a Gundabad Warlord in a shameful display of cowardice!”
Thorin’s Fists clench tight at the words. Even you, from your lofty secret position far up on the gallery balcony overlooking the gathered multitude of beards, can see it. But you cannot intervene, as only the male elders and warriors, along with a select few dwarrow sages were allowed to gather below. It seems Dain is not finished with his rebuke as he follows with scathing remarks of Thorin’s father.
“Even in the fray yer own father was lost, perhaps wandered off like a deserter, or maybe captured s’ well. He was always a poor sensitive old man.”
The Prince, now seething with emotion, seems about to retort, but Dain cuts him off once more.
“And as if a slight to us all, ya take foreign blood, a human girlie as wife. A barren-wombed mayfly who will wither before the dwarvlings of her now kin would see adulthood. Ye people of Durin, sons and daugthers alike: Ye lost yer lives for greed, saw not the rule of a coward in vain to reclaim Moria, and now ye would rally behind a fool to retake what was first lost?”
He sweeps his hand across the elders’ table denoting he now speaks to all those agreeing or at least complicit with Thorin’s recent choices as to the future of his people.
“Methinks ye are all fools here, every one. Cousin, Come’n speak to me in the iron hills when you grow tired of yer madness, and perhaps I may find it in me to aid yer cause.”
Dain carries an uncharacteristic hostility that seems to boil between the two royals. You look on as Thorin surges forward, slamming his fist upon the table before him and upending his seat in the process. Dain does not turn from his leaving, even as his cousin spits anger at his turned back.
“You know nothing of my kingship or destiny, and you go as far as to insert yourself into my marriage bed? For what, your vanity? I called you brother, even before the one I had passed from me. I thought I could trust you with my deepest regrets, and my greatest dreams, but it appears it is you who has been the coward all along.”
Dain stops at the accusation but doesn’t reply, allowing Thorin to emphasize his counter.
“You fear the dragon, the same as you feared the orcs of Moria. Is that why I saw you not upon that bloodied field cousin? Were you then consumed by fear also? So be it, what I must do, I will do alone.”
“That is how ye shall be Thorin, son of Thrain. Alone. And there ye shall die, as y’choke on the same sickness that took your Grandfather before ya.”
“I AM NOT MY GRANDFATHER!”
Even from your vantage point you can see the spittle fly as the prince’s temper boils over. In his rage he upends the table before him, the hide map and all the parchments and paraphernalia on it cascading in a clatter to the stone floor.
“I will have my revenge, and I will have my kingdom. When I take that mountain I shall send to you the raven, and you will then know i have broken the curse of my forefathers that failed before me.”
Instead of a returned anger on Dain’s face, thereupon is written a profound sadness, as if some great sorrow has been confirmed to him. He merely shakes his head before leaving, inhaling deep as if trying to supress any external evidence of sorrow within him. He speaks no more for what is there to say at a time as this?
The whole mood of the hall seems to sour from there, from their head leaving, the smaller clans of the iron hills and diverse families from the dwarven abroad grow in murmuring amongst themselves. The clans leave one by one, Thorin at first attempting to rally them back to him, but they merely ignore his words. Even the elders, and those of homes in Ered Luin shamefully leave the presence of their would be king. By the time the filtering flow of bodies subsides, only a handful remain, a small group of eclectic dwarves, not looking at all the warrior type, more of merchants and craftsmen.
But resolute they stand, a look of hope and expectation palpable. A single white haired dwarf remains seated behind your husband at the elder’s table, a face you know well as Balin, who although appears more aged than Thorin, is actually his junior. Seeing the small band before him, Thorin composes himself and speaks his native tongue to those gathered
“Anthâan zahar menun ghabil tharkûn; Khazâd rakhâs udnud uzbad-zâram! Armanah adrân sigin, rayyud Durin, Inkhi igjijê rabriki baruk!”
“The omens choose few, so few shall take back our home! We have waited a long time, heirs of Durin, now come! Let us break steel!”
With the words still strange to your ears the few that remain grow rowdy with shouts and cheers before the hall doors burst open and two young faces rush in. Fili and Kili, the sons of the lady Dis, Shouting at those gathered enthusiastically in Khazdul befroe slipping into the common tongue.
“Is it true uncle that the retaking has come to us? The prophecies are fulfilled?”
Balin steps down to the young men and with a hand on each’s shoulder turns the two around.
“Perhaps, but it is a time not for the young men like yourself. It would not do well for the entire remaining line of Durin to pass beyond the gate in a ragtag band like this.”
“We wish to fight as well uncle, can we not prove ourselves as men of mettle like any of the sons of the deep?”
There is no time to argue farther as Dis herself strides into the hall cursing her sons for desiring to be a part of such a foolhardy endeavor. The three devolve into a stout screaming match, voices overlapping attempting to cut each other off and speak over one another. The few still gathered look quite uncomfortable until Thorin asserts himself loudly and silence once more prevails in the quite empty meeting hall.
“Your boys are now men dear sister. I cannot control their destiny anymore than you can. Let them choose nobility over safety if that is their wish. I shall lay down my life before theirs should anything happen.”
Dis relents, a move so uncharacteristic compared to her usual stubbornness that it takes even her sons a moment to register. She is taken by worry as most mothers would be, turning from an self-assured dwarrow to a blubbering pitiful mother in naught a second.
“Mother, mother, we must prepare, would not leave for another few months. Stop acting like we have perished already!”
Now playing:"Farewell Old Friend"-Marcin Przybylowicz
It was more than a few months, Preparations for such a small group, in light of the abysmal support the other members that called the blue mountains home had garnered took much longer than anticipated. Long enough for Thorin to get over the brooding that plagued him in the days following his cousin’s denouncing. The action must have cut him deeply, for even the comfort of your bosom, or the warming primal love of your loins could not appease him to come in to you those first days.
You knew it was a sacred and private matter to dwarves, not a tool, or a recess, or something to be paraded like it was in human culture. Yet that did not stop you from desiring him, desiring more. In truth you hoped that you might have a piece of him to hold with you before he would depart for the lonely mountain, such was your fear that you too might lose something priceless to the jaws of the dragon.
He did come around, a little cold at first, but then enthusiastic and passionate as the prospect of retaking his homeland drew nearer to him. Sometimes you ruefully thought he loved the lonely mountain more than you, but time and time again, he would assuage your fears, worshiping at your altar more and more frequently as the day drew near.
It was another cold day, after another period of sickness, and of holding on to hope for you as Thorin’s company loaded their horses for travel, thirteen strong. You watched from your window high above the courtyard, the weather that seemed to plague you as a reflection of your emotions. Wet, melancholy, and void of hope as your beloved saddled to ride from you, perhaps to his very end.
A knock at the door to your room signals the arrival of the aging midwife, riding within a metal chair pushed by your now dear acquaintance Thaelin.
“Im so sorry m’lady Oakenshield, but she did insist I bring her here posthaste, she has some urgent thing to tell ye.”
You rise somewhat painfully and approach the aged dwarrow, her eyes unseeing as ever they were, yet her aura sharp and focused.
“My child…”
“I’m here Irak’amad”
She runs a leathery and feeble hand up your torso feeling her way to your cheek. The poor old woman had suffered a fall on running to try to save you from your miscarriage and her health had greatly declined from there to her being bound by the chair. She breathes shallowly, labored like an old woman on the brink of permanent exhaustion.
“My child, I had dreamed many a time that I would see the future of Durin safe, free from the curse set upon it by the pale orc. I shall not see death before I see an heir to the line, of that I am convinced. Yet here I am, old and of my final days…”
She pauses either for effect, or to compose herself
“Do not think me a fool for hoping my child, and do not be consumed by this thing. There is yet time, and providence for us all. I will leave you not with sorrow and the cynicism of so many of my people but with that hope.”
Her sagely words being said, she runs her hands back down your body her eyes closing as her hands cup your belly just below the navel. Her eyes shoot open, cataracted but full of spiritual clarity as they brim with tears of joy withheld for decades. Her hands press harder, gripping the bodice of your garments as her mouth quivers into a wrinkled smile. She gasps ever so silently;
“An… an heir to Durin…”
Thaelin calls her, but she remains still, one hand locked in a grip of your clothing, the other rested upon your womb. She does not answer the second time, nor the third. Upon feeling her neck there is no pulse, the only thing remaining of life is the serene and satisfied smile on her cracked lips and the tears that still fall from those blind eyes. She has gone.
Even as Thaelin Cries out in grief, desperate to wake the dwarrow form her eternal sleep, you feel the gravity of her words sink in as the feeble hands slip free from you. the rain really does mirror you, your face wet with joy before the drops of the sky above have a chance strike your rosy cheeks.
Your feet carry you to your beloved, tripping and falling before him in the mud and water of the flagstone courtyard. He catches you as uncontrollable sobs rock your body in his arms. He tries to ask you what the matter is, and if he should stay one more night but you shake your head at him, only grabbing one of his hands and placing it upon your belly as the midwife had.
There is nothing to feel, no kick for it is to early, and his quizzical expression reflects his inability to sense as the midwife had only moments before. You only manage to gasp out one word between sobs, so close to his face that only a breath is necessary to convey the message;
“Pregnant.”
I wish there was more Thorin x Male!reader fics.
I also wish there were more BilboxMale!reader fics.
Hell, put me between the two of them.
requests r open for thorin (*･ω･)ﾉ !!
Hey all! I know I've been so slow to update this fic. I've really appreciated all your messages and comments of interest and enthusiasm. As I've mentioned, I have every intention of both continuing and finishing this fic. Life has just made it really hard to find time to work on it lately. To make up for the incredibly long wait, I wanted to post a little tidbit I've had in my drafts for a while. It's part of a prologue/flashback that I haven't been able to incorporate into any of my planned chapters yet. I hope y'all enjoy!
“Dragon!” Thorin’s voice boomed from across the halls of Erebor. You drop the book you’re holding in alarm. Looking around as people start to scream and scatter in panic. Through the chaos, you can see Thorin, standing at the gates. Across the vast hall, your eyes meet. And even from this far away, you can see the fear in his eyes.
Never had you seen anything frighten your closest friend like the firedrake roaring outside the walls of Erebor. Your first instinct is to run to him, but the hordes of people clambering over each other block your path.
Getting to him now would be nearly impossible, especially when you and all your kin are minutes away from being set aflame.
No, Thorin is a very capable warrior, and has an entire dwarven army at his back. He’ll be alright. But your parents…
Hiking up your skirts, you take off down the vast hallways in a manner your mother would consider most unladylike. Shouldering past others looking for their own loved ones, you skid to a halt outside your family’s quarters.
“Ma!” you cry out, “da?”
Your mother rushes out of her bed chambers. “Darling,” she pants, “I heard the alarms. What’s wrong?”
“A dragon is coming; we have to get somewhere safe! Now!”
“Your father is in the library; we’ll go to him.” The library is even deeper within Erebor. If an attack truly is coming, it’s one of the safest places to hole up until danger passes. If it passes.
Never in the history of the dwarven kingdom have you ever heard of a dragon attack. No dwarven made weapon can defeat an enemy made of flames. And Thorin is about to take the beast head on.
Your mother heads for the crowded hallway, pulling you along behind.
“Wait!” You stop her. “You go to the library; I’ll meet you there.”
Your mother tilts her head at you with a knowing look, “Thorin will be fine, my love."
“And if he’s not?” You yank your arm from her grasp.
“What do you imagine you can do about it? You are no warrior, my child. You are a lady, and we have to go.”
“No!”
Your mother gives you an exasperated look. Of all the times for you to revisit this same argument.
“You could be killed!”
“Better to die unladylike than survive a coward. You go to father; I will meet the two of you there once the danger has passed.”
You pull out the dagger concealed in your skirts. Your mother’s eyes widen, not knowing of the blade's existence until then. It had been a gift from Thorin several years ago on your birthday. The intricately jeweled hilt he had forged himself, not that he would ever admit to it. But you’d recognize his handiwork anywhere, and the hilt fits into your palm so perfectly it could only have been made by someone who has spent years and years holding your hand to pull you down darkened corridors in secret.
Tightening your grip on the handle. Your mother looks between the secret weapon and the determined look on your face.
The cries of your kin continue outside, and your mother sighs, bringing up a hand to brush your hair out of your face. “I know that look,” she whispers, “you are every bit your father’s stubborn daughter.”
She reaches around and unclasps her necklace. The very necklace your father gifted her on their wedding day. She hadn’t removed it since.
“I know it is not in your nature,” she says, fastening the necklace around you, “but do try to be careful, my darling.” You nod silently, placing your hands over hers as she cups your face and gently kisses the top of your head.
“I’ll see you soon,” you whisper, giving her hand a gentle squeeze before hurrying out the door to Thorin’s aide.
Taglist: @kellynickelsgirl00 @shadowfoxx5 @lilsleepybear1029 @iminyourceiling @favourites-loved-by-heart @localcoffeeshops-blog @feral-wildlife-scientist @luna-kait @the1cardsion @winterklls @kiyoko18 @alexakeyloveloki
Warnings ⚠️: Canon typical violence, author attempts elvish, author attempts khuzdul, suggestive content, alcohol consumption, angst, blood, medical care, feelings of despair, themes of hope, found family, multiverse/time travel, cussing, angst, fluff, eventual smut, weapon use, realities of battle, tolkein monster encounters, fish out of water, injury to main characters, long fic, slowburn x reader.
Part 2 | Part 3
Of Crowns & Mountains
C.1: What Falls From the Sky
The city moved around you the way cities always did—indifferent, relentless, and slightly too loud. You'd long since stopped noticing any of it. The pigeons on the window ledges, the bus that groaned past every twelve minutes, the particular smell of warmed pavement mixing with coffee cart exhaust—it was all furniture now, backdrop, the unremarkable texture of an average workday.
Your lunch break had gifted you exactly forty-five minutes of escape from your desk, and you were spending it the way you spent most things, slightly distracted by thoughts you couldn't quite pin down.
You had a paper bag folded under one arm sandwich, crisps, something chocolate and entirely one third melted—your handbag hitched up on your shoulder, and your eyes were fixed somewhere in the middle distance in that unfocused way you had when you were thinking without really meaning to, whether you'd remembered to reply to your manager's email, and whether it was worth stopping for coffee on the way back even though it would probably keep you up until two in the morning again.
You could always do decaf ? You thought idly before a full body shudder rolled through you, Ugh—Decaf—what you really needed was a holiday.
