#thorin oakenshield/oc

[esta-elavaris]

Flufftober Day 1: I've Got You ~ Thorin Oakenshield/OC [2,818 words]

My Flufftober '23 masterpost can be found here 💜✨

Erebor was beautiful. Gwen had thought so when they’d first entered – sneaking through the hidden door and doing their best not to wake the dragon slumbering within. Although she’d quickly forgotten all about it thereafter. Not because of the dragon, but because of how she was forced to watch as the Gold sickness claimed the dwarf she’d so reluctantly come to love over the months that had passed between her taking on this ‘job’ and now.

Now, though? Now that Smaug was defeated, the battle thereafter was won, all were alive, and Thorin was himself again? Now she was able to appreciate the splendour of Erebor once again. Save for the damn walkways.

“I don’t know how I feel about your sending everybody out from the Throne Room just for this,” she commented to Thorin where he stood somewhere behind her, the great walkway to the throne stretching before them.

“You said you wished for no witnesses as you overcame this.”

“Because I thought you’d find a quieter walkway to practise on.”

“I am King – and in a moon’s time, after your coronation, you will be Queen. We can order all from the mountain, if we so wish.”

“That’d make for a pretty depressing kingdom,” she said, doing what she could to keep her tone light as he led her to the main walkway that led up to her husband’s throne.

“Did you run out of stone to make railings? Is that it?”

“Dwarves are sure-footed.”

“And hard-headed.”

“I heard that.”

“I did not whisper,” she countered with a smirk that felt much too bold for the fear creeping up through her chest.

While that fear did not show on her face, however, it did in how her hand anxiously sought his where it was pressed over her hip, planting it there as if to make sure his grip remained firmly on her. Her shrewd husband recognised the gesture for what it was immediately.

“You’ve crossed higher paths than this before,” he pointed out. “On Durin’s Day.”

“That was different. I had a dragon snapping at my heels.”

“Well now you’ve your brute of a husband to offer you similar motivation.”

“Yes, well, it should warm you to hear that I much prefer you to dragons.”

Unless he was in a really foul mood.

“This is folly, Gwen.”

Thorin’s humour might have been lighter these days than it was during their quest, but an excess of patience in the face of what he viewed as foolishness was not one of his virtues. It showed now in the edge his voice gained. At least, it did until he moved from behind her back and saw just how pale her face had grown.

“I can’t help it,” she said quietly – too focused on the pit in her stomach to see how his features softened.

It was folly – he was right. If someone draw a chalk outline on a path the same width as this walkway, she could stick to it without so much as thinking about it, laughing all the while at the mere notion of being worried about somehow falling over the edge of that outline. But the mere presence of the unfathomable drop at either side of the walkway raised the stakes, and had her unable to think of anything but. It was instinct – self-preservation, the same sort of in-built thing that would have her thinking twice before she stuck her hand in a fire, or caused a problem with someone twice her size. She was unable to help it.

Nor would she be able to make a life here if she was unable to approach the throne at a speed greater than one foot per hour. The embarrassment only made this all the worse. Thorin had met her when she was a thief in Bree – hardly an occupation without its risks. Now she was paling over the prospect of placing one foot before the other. It hardly did anything to combat the beliefs of the Dwarves here who revelled in shaking their heads and grumbling over their King’s affection for a human. No doubt a Dwarrowdam would have covered the distance a hundred times or more in the span of time she’d stood here faltering like an idiot.

“Do you think I would bring you here if there was any risk of your falling?”

“I don’t think you’d love me if there was any risk of my falling, considering it would take an impressive level of idiocy to manage and you don’t suffer fools. Gladly or otherwise.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he teased. “You would make a very beautiful fool.”

“I don’t know whether to be insulted or flattered.”

He chuckled lowly.

“Whichever you choose, you’re distracted. See? We’ve already covered some distance. That is the key – do not think of it. Simply do it.”

Well, that was the sort of thinking that had gotten her here, wasn’t it? Not only to her shiny new station – regardless of how it had intimidated her, a woman of no birth who had once been a cutpurse far, far west of here – but throughout all of the hardships that had hounded their path to Erebor itself.

“All right,” she sniffed, straightening her shoulders and nodding decidedly. “All right.”

Thorin’s hand remained at her back, all the same…throughout the hundred strides up and down the walkway it took before she finally began breathing properly and trusting the fine stone beneath her feet not to suddenly crack and give way.

She did grow used to it – eventually. Over and over that day they’d strode up and down the walkway to the throne room until fear turned to unease, and unease turned to boredom. Gwen dreaded to think what the folk of Erebor thought they were up to in here that would cause their King to demand privacy for so long, but it did the trick, and she’d no longer spend this walk battling with the temptation to lower herself to the floor and crawl the distance towards the throne next time she had business here. Although that was a sight Thorin might enjoy, depending upon his mood.

Still, as she strode across the walkway not two moons later, shiny new sapphire-laden diadem upon her head, she had a surprise that she knew he’d enjoy a great deal more. And the drop on either side of the walkway was the furthest thing from her mind – a grin on her face, and a spring in her step.

The King was holding court, dealing with a visiting merchant who had seen fit to scam a number of the people, so no doubt he would be in need of a bit of levity once he was finished. She would wait on the sidelines, Gwen decided, until he was finished. Then she would tell him.

“I was not aware, your majesty, that steep prices were a crime.”

The merchant was kicking up a stink so loudly that he could be heard throughout the entirety of the hall.

“Perhaps not, but swindling the honest peoples of Erebor is,” there was a warning note in her husband’s voice. “Your trading permissions have been revoked, so unless you have some other manner of earning a living here, I suggest you leave and take your way of doing things elsewhere – and count yourself lucky that you have not found yourself in the dungeons.”

Was he so unimpressed because of the merchant’s misdeeds, she wondered, or because he was being forced to deal with something so beneath the notice of a monarch? She could hardly fault him for either one, although she suspected it was some combination of the two.

Folk cleared a path automatically to let her by as she neared the throne – something that was still taking some getting used to, even though it had been that way ever since Thorin declared his intentions to take her as his wife – but she seemed to escape the notice of one person. The merchant.

Either he thought the path had been cleared for him, or he simply did not care, whirling and beginning to storm his way down the walkway with a face like thunder – the fury in his eyes blinding him, no doubt. Or perhaps what he did next was an act of pure defiance in the wake of his dressing down. If it was, it was an incredibly stupid one.

When he barrelled into her, she thought little of it. Queening around didn’t come quite so naturally to her as to have her ordering beheadings because somebody shouldered their way past her; but it appeared the merchant himself wasn’t happy to let things lie there.

“Move!” he demanded, one hand planted flat in the centre of her chest so as to shove her backwards.

Which was when things very quickly went pear-shaped. Had she not gone on here stubbornly refusing to swap her sturdy and comfortable boots for the delicate slippers the ladies of the court here favoured, it would have been worse. Had she not had to wear a stupid number of skirts it disguise those boots, it would have been better.

For the grip of her soles stopped her from skidding back right over the edge of the walkway, but the skirts sent her tumbling to the ground, rolling to a halt not so much close to the edge, but at the very edge itself. Indeed, she feared to move at all, her body hanging over the endless drop right down to the bottom of her ribcage, face down. The silence that took over the throne room was unparalleled and stretched on and on…which was what allowed them to head her diadem clatter, and then smash, as it clattered down to the next level below.

Gwen let out a slow, shuddering breath. The angle did not allow for any purchase with which she might pull herself back, but before she could even think of how to best act, strong broad arms wrapped around her middle and pulled her back and up. She did not need to look to know who they belonged to.

“I have you. I've got you,” Thorin said, pulling her back from the edge. “Are you well?”

She took a moment to actually consider the question, rather than nodding automatically in response. Thank the stars she’d fallen on her side, and then rolled from there – her right hip ached something fierce, but her abdomen had taken none of the impact.

“Yes,” she nodded. “I’m all right.”

One hand remained at her hip – her sore hip, though she hadn’t the heart to shrug it off when he appeared just as shaken as she was. Although that worry quickly turned to ire, a positively glacial gaze turning in the direction of the merchant. At first the poor sod looked half-tempted to turn and run, but the guards at his back quickly made their presence known, and he was stuck between them and the King Under the Mountain. An unenviable position for him. The paling of his face told Gwen that he quite agreed, and the hall remained perfectly silent – all gathered dying to hear how Thorin would deal with this.

“The dungeons,” he said flatly. “Until I deem that you’ve had enough time to recall proper courtly manners.”

Which would take months. If not years. Thorin was capable of many things, but swift forgiveness was not one of them.

“Your majesty, I did not mean to-”

“Or the blade. An attempt on my queen’s life is treason.”

The merchant looked to Gwen as though hoping for an intervention. He would not find one, her hand was itching to grasp the hilt of a blade that was now seldom at her hip. In the end, he seemed relieved when the guards stepped between him and Thorin so that they might clamp irons about his wrists.

“How long will you keep him in the cells?”

Gwen asked Thorin as she changed for bed that night. In the end, she’d decided to keep her announcement for tonight, any mood having been well and truly killed stone dead by the merchant and his idiocy.

“For however long that bruise takes to heal, tenfold,” Thorin replied grimly, his eyes fixed on the angry bruise already forming at her hipbone.

She sighed quietly, slipping into the nightgown and hiding the injury from his brooding eye.

“You could have died, Gwen,” he said sharply – misinterpreting her sigh.

“It’s not that,” she shook her head.

“I’ll craft your next diadem myself,” he said. “It will be good – to make something again, rather than sitting on my backside listening to inanities. If I’d crafted the first, it would have survived the fall.”

“It’s not that, either,” she laughed softly, slipping into bed beside him. “But thank you, husband.”

“Husband, now?” he echoed with a smirk. “You seek a favour from your king, then.”

“No,” she pressed a kiss to the side of his jaw, and received one in turn at her brow for her troubles, a broad hand settling itself into the curve of her waist. “Well. Perhaps. I would ask that you don’t lose your temper when I tell you this.”

“My temper? Why?”

The lazy sort of tired humour left his face and he became all King Thorin again, eyes searching her face as if he’d find the answer to his question hidden in the gap between her eyebrows.

“The reason I came to see you today…the reason I was in the Throne Room at all…I was going to wait until you were finished holding court, and then I was going to tell you…”

“Tell me?” he pressed.

Pulling her lower lip between her teeth, she pressed her hand over the top of the one at her waist, and then she brought it around her abdomen until it was pressed flat over the yet-unrounded area just below her navel.

His eyes flickered down in question and then realisation hit him with the impact of an arrow, and he met her gaze with eyes wide in wonder.

“Truly?”

“Truly.”

Any who liked to dismiss Thorin as nothing but grim and dour could only do so if they’d never seen him smile – truly smile, and the way it lit up his entire face, no, the entire mountain. Gwen was powerless to do anything other than grin back, laughing softly as he used that famed Dwarvish strength to draw her up nearer to him as though she were as light as a feather.

He kissed her then – a kiss that they both smiled into – and pulled back swiftly thereafter, unable to contain his joy to an extent that a longer embrace would require.

“Why would I lose my temper over this, my love?” he chuckled. “This is…”

He trailed off as it clicked, and then he looked downright dangerous.

“I’ll have his head, Gwendolyn.”

“Thorin…”

Already, he tried to slip from the bed – but she leapt forward and wrapped her arms around his waist, dragging him bodily back to her. He allowed it, she’d have never managed it otherwise, but he didn’t make it easy for her.

“I shall try not to take it personally that you’re willing to have his life as revenge for our child, but not just for your boring old wife,” she teased, leaning forward to press a kiss to the side of his jaw.

He made a noise caught somewhere between a chuckle and a scoff, and she knew she’d just saved the merchant from being murdered by Erebor’s half-naked king.

“I would have thrown him from the walkway myself, had I not known you wouldn’t wish it. This just makes me less inclined to heed that.”

“I had no idea I had such sway over your decisions,” she planted another kiss on his neck this time, then another on his shoulder. “Perhaps I might use it to tempt you back to bed.”

“You should see a healer – after that fall.”

“I did. I’m well,” her hands trailed across the muscular expanse of his chest, fingers threading through the hair there. “My hip took the impact.”

“That does not please me, either.”

“If you’re looked to be pleased, I can think of a thing or two better than bloodshed.”

“Oh?”

“Unless I’m mistaken,” she sighed. “After all, your husbandly duty is done. Perhaps you see no reason to-”

As she put on her best show of feeling forlorn and neglected (which still was hardly very convincing), she released her grip on him and made to untangle her arms from his body – only for  strong, rough hands to catch hers and keep her where she was.

“Your machinations have lost their subtlety over time, my queen,” he all but rumbled.

“You just know me too well now for them to work,” she laughed. “But I can hardly mourn that fact.”

“Mm. Nor can I,” he said softly – and then he did return to bed.

Links: AO3 -- FF.net -- flufftober masterpost -- dividers by cafekitsune

[tomcat-tapes]

Middle earth ponies; fellowship is magic

More doodles below💚

(The earth ponies are Thorin and Bilbo adjacent)

[rheasforum]

Unspoken Goodbyes (Kili x Y/N)

overview: Kíli’s infatuation with Tauriel jeopardizes his relationship with his partner. During the Battle of the Five Armies, he faces devastating regret as he realizes its too late where his heart truly belongs.

warning: angst?? third-party interference, death

A/N: inaccuracies

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

The forest of Mirkwood loomed around Thorin’s company like a dark omen. You walked beside Kíli, his hand intertwined with yours, feeling the warmth of his presence. Yet, beneath the surface, an unsettling tension brewed. Kíli was captivated by the elves, and it gnawed at your heart like a slow poison.

When the elves appeared, it was as if the vibrant greens of the forest faded, overshadowed by their ethereal beauty. Legolas, tall and regal, commanded with respect, but it was Tauriel who held Kíli’s gaze. You had noticed Kíli's fascination the moment they met, his curiosity did not go noticed. But you hadn’t worried, not at first. After all, you had weathered worse than a fleeting glance, hadn’t you?

Trapped in the cells of the Elvenkings fortress, captured by the elves, you sat beside Fili, the damp stone cold beneath you, exchanging worried glances. The oppressive silence was broken by snippets of conversation from Kíli’s cell, and your breath caught as Tauriel’s melodic voice drifted through the air. You strained to listen as she spoke with Kíli about the rock his mother had given him, a token of comfort he always kept close.

“It reminds me of home,” Kíli said, his voice soft yet filled with an emotion you couldn’t place. “It’s like a piece of her is always with me.”

Your heart dropped at his words. The tenderness in his voice felt like a dagger piercing through your chest. It stung to realize that you had once been the one who brought him comfort, but now it was Tauriel who stood in that place, bright and captivating.

Jealousy and despair swirled within you as Kíli shared memories of his mother, reminiscing with the elf who had captured his attention. You forced yourself to look away, not wanting to hear any more. You had thought the bond you shared was special, that Kíli’s heart was yours, but in that moment, it felt like you were losing him to someone who seemed so much more enchanting.

Fili noticed your distress and placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder, but it did little to ease the heaviness in your heart.

“He doesn’t see you slipping away,” he murmured, his voice a mix of concern and frustration. “He’s lost in the moment.”

But you couldn’t shake the feeling that Kíli was drifting further away with each passing moment. And when Tauriel spoke again, it confirmed your worst fears—he was captivated by her, and you were merely an afterthought.

Day after day, you caught him looking at her. His laughter was lighter in her presence, his eyes sparking with a fascination you hadn’t seen since before this quest began. It was as though the darkness of the journey lifted when Tauriel was near, and the weight of it crushed you instead.

It wasn’t until Kíli had been injured during a skirmish with orcs, poisoned by an arrow, that everything unraveled. You stayed by his side, holding his hand, but his eyes always seemed to drift elsewhere, waiting for someone else. When Tauriel arrived, glowing with the ethereal light of her magic and saving him, your heart shattered. Kíli murmured something to her, his voice soft and raw as if he was confessing, and you knew, deep in your bones, that whatever had bound him to you was slipping away.

You distanced yourself after that. There were no fights, no declarations—just quiet withdrawal. You told yourself you were being silly, that Kíli was just grateful to Tauriel for saving his life. But it didn’t feel like gratitude; it felt like you were being replaced. When Kíli would ask what was wrong, you’d brush him off with a smile that never reached your eyes.

“Nothing’s wrong,” you’d whisper, turning away before your voice could betray you. But Fili noticed, and so did the others.

One evening, as the company sat around a fire, Fili pulled Kíli aside. “You’re blind, brother. You’re so focused on someone who isn’t yours that you’ve forgotten the one who is.”

Kíli scoffed, defensive. “It’s not like that, Fili. Tauriel… she’s just… different.”

“And what about her?” Fili asked, nodding toward you as you sat alone, away from the others, staring into the flames. “Do you see how you’ve hurt her?”

Kíli’s heart tightened as he followed his brother’s gaze. You were different lately—quieter, more distant—but he hadn’t put the pieces together until now. Guilt gnawed at him, but before he could speak, a call to arms rang out.

The Battle of the Five Armies had begun.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

The chaos of battle was overwhelming. Screams echoed across the battlefield, the clashing of metal, and the roars of orcs filled the air. Kíli fought alongside his kin, but a part of him searched for you, needing to talk to you, to apologize. He had been a fool, blinded by something fleeting and neglecting what was real: you.

But you were nowhere to be found. As time passed, his desperation mounted. His strikes grew wilder, fueled by frantic fear for your safety.

When the battle slowed, he found Fili standing over a body, his face ashen. Kíli’s heart dropped into his stomach as he rushed to his brother’s side.

“No…” Fili whispered, his voice shaking.

Kíli followed his brother’s gaze and saw you. Lying there, your once bright eyes now closed, your skin pale beneath the grime of battle. Blood stained your armor and the fallen snow, a fatal wound that had taken you when he hadn’t been there.

“No… no, no, no!” Kíli dropped to his knees beside you, trembling hands cradling your face. “You can’t be… you can’t…” His voice broke, shattered by grief too powerful to contain.

He had lost you. Not to an orc’s blade, not to the chaos of battle, but because he hadn’t been there when you needed him most. He had failed you long before your body had fallen on this battlefield.

Kíli let out a roar, more pain than rage, as his world collapsed around him. The battle, the quest—none of it mattered. Nothing mattered anymore.

Fili knelt beside him, his own tears falling, but Kíli barely noticed. All he saw was you—your face, once full of life, now still. He pulled you into his arms, rocking back and forth, as if he could somehow bring you back by sheer force of will.

“I’m sorry my dove,” Kíli whispered, his voice breaking. “I should’ve… I should’ve been there. I should’ve never let you go.”

But it was too late. The words he should’ve said, the love he should’ve shown, would never reach you now. He had betrayed you long before Tauriel had entered their lives, and now you were gone.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

As the battle’s final moments played out, Kíli fought with a desperation that had nothing to do with winning. He fought because he had nothing left to lose. Tauriel, who had rushed to help him again, found him amidst the carnage, but he barely acknowledged her presence.

She wasn’t who he wanted. She wasn’t who he needed. He realized, too late, that the only person he had ever truly loved was now beyond his reach.

Kíli fell on the battlefield, not from an enemy's blade but from the weight of his own heartbreak. As he closed his eyes, the last thing he saw was your face, the memory of you smiling at him before everything faded into darkness.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

In the end, it wasn’t an orc that took Kíli’s life. It was regret.

[lathalea]

Entangled ch 6: The Forge and The Smith

Relationships: Thorin Oakenshield x Dwarf OFC (The Hobbit)

Rating: T (subject to change)

Warnings: ANGST, Thorin in the Forges 😏

Summary: Arranged marriages are common among the dwarven nobility. After reclaiming the Lonely Mountain, the Kingdom Under the Mountain needs to be rebuilt. Thorin agrees to marry a lady from the Blue Mountains, securing a mutually beneficial alliance with the Broadbeam Dwarves. Lady Mista is said to be a practical and hard-working dwarf-woman, willing to give him an heir who would secure the line of succession. A decent queen material, his advisors say. If only Thorin could let go of his past…

You can find this fic crossposted on AO3 (search for lathalea).

A/N: Thank you, my lovely readers, for your patience! I have finally managed to finish this rather lengthy chapter. I hope its contents will make up for my snail-paced writing. Special thanks to all who supported and motivated me in the recent months, and extra special THANK YOU with a cherry on top to the wonderful and diligent @legolasbadass for betaing this chapter and for all our Thorin-related discussions :) I wouldn't have made it so far without you! 💙💙💙

-*-*-*-

KHUZDUL:

Zabdûna undu ‘Urd - Queen Under the Mountain

‘Urdêk - local name of ‘the Lonely Mountain’ (referring to the dwarven Halls within the mountain), used by its inhabitants

Itkitî! - “Silence!” 

Zabdûna undu ‘Urd - Queen Under the Mountain

Kaminzabdûna - “Earth Queen”, Yavanna

Uzrak - Master, a honorary title given to revered masters of craft (miners, jewellers, smiths, and so on)

Azsâlul'abad - the Lonely Mountain (both the mountain and the dwarven kingdom known among Elves and Men as Erebor)

-*-*-*-

✨ Entangled Masterlist

Mista discreetly stifled a yawn. It was one bell before noon, and her eyes were already drooping. The last few weeks had been filled with intense work. Not only did she have to quickly learn and adjust to her duties as the new Zabdûna undu ‘Urd, but also her days were filled to the brim with countless tasks, each more important than the preceding one. Every morning before the seventh bell, she was already in the royal kitchens, then she would meet her advisors and various officials, then she would plough through the endless paperwork, and after that, a part of her day was spent on organising help for the newcomers. 

Several weeks had passed since they arrived in the Mountain, and some still lacked proper housing or means to fend for themselves. The Lonely Mountain was reclaimed almost a year ago, but the amount of work to make ‘Urdêk a thriving kingdom from the rubble the vile dragon left behind seemed to be gargantuan. Every day was a challenge; a housing quarter would be made livable again, but another one would experience problems with its water supply. The legendary Forges were working at quarter capacity only because the solid fuel conveyor line was malfunctioning and needed modernization — which meant new and complex parts made of steel. The problem was, the only place those parts could be made was… the Forges. There were also various issues with the mines, the geothermal shafts, the air circulation systems, as well as countless damaged walkways, staircases, tunnels, and passages.

It all made Mista’s head spin. She was used to managing her family’s various business ventures; she even knew a thing or two about how a dwarven stronghold like Tumunzagar was governed, but the vastness of the Kingdom Under the Mountain was a constant source of awe to her. That was why her evenings were usually filled with documents, blueprints, manuals, and reports — all of them made for heavy reading and a heavy pillow. Time after time, she would wake up in the middle of the night in complete darkness, with candles burned out, her cheek resting on a pile of parchments, her spectacles skewed.

It was not surprising that Mista found herself stifling yet another of her yawns. Discreetly, she pinched the top of her hand, hoping to keep herself awake for a while longer. She had to — it was the first King’s Council meeting she officially attended as the Queen, and she needed all her wits about her. It was imperative that she took in all the details. The first one she noticed, however, was not some important notion about the state of the kingdom but a piece of dough still stuck under one of her nails. Mista sighed inwardly. She would have to wash her hands more thoroughly when leaving the royal kitchens next time. At least she remembered to take off the apron and change her clothes to something more presentable. The last thing she wanted was to embarrass her lord husband with her ragged appearance, unworthy of a queen. She had to try better next time, she promised herself, stealing a glance at his robust figure at the opposite side of the table.

Dressed in his opulent royal robes, with the Raven Crown over his temples, the King Under the Mountain sat in his gilded chair, looking truly majestic. His dark hair flowed down onto his wide shoulders. The black and golden garments he wore somehow emphasized his warrior’s physique instead of giving him a more distinguished air, similar to the statues of the great kings of old Mista had seen in the throne room so many times. Now, there was a frown on Thorin’s face, his brows furrowed, his deep blue gaze set somewhere above everyone’s heads as he listened to his advisors. The strong line of his nose, the sensual curve of his lower lip, and the thicket of his beard made Mista sigh for the millionth time since she arrived at the Lonely Mountain. She still could not believe that Thorin Oakenshield, the handsomest dwarf under the moon, was her husband… and she was his wife. And thus, she had to act like one.

“... combined with the unusually big influx of newcomers, our food stores are far from sufficient, and winter is almost upon us!” A male voice reached Mista’s ears. It was Storemaster Yagrun, a middle-aged dwarf with a long, finely braided chestnut beard.

“Then why don’t you allocate some funds from the Kingdom’s Purse for this purpose?” said an unknown dwarf at the far end of the table. Mista did not recognize his voice, and even with her spectacles, she could not see him clearly.

Master Yagrun chuckled dryly. “Since when is gold edible, Lord Njall? Allow me to remind you that the people of Dale are not able to supply us with more food. They have barely enough for themselves.”

“Aye, and the merchant barges from the South are over three weeks late.” Mista recognized Lord Glóin’s hoarse voice. “There is no way to be certain whether they manage to arrive before the Long Lake freezes over!”

“Fishing is out of the question either…” chimed in Lord Bori, the royal chancellor, with spindly white hair. His words caused everyone to hum or nod in agreement.

“Why is it out of the question?” Mista whispered to Embla, nervously adjusting her glasses on her nose. It was better to ask about such apparently well-known issues discreetly instead of divulging her ignorance publicly.

“Smaug’s carcass poisoned the waters of the Long Lake, killing most of the fish and other water animals and plants. We managed to get rid of the cadaver, but it will take time until there is enough fish in the lake again,” whispered her secretary, and Mista thanked her with a nod.

“Any ideas?” Thorin’s deep voice filled the chamber. Several whispers were heard, but no one spoke up.

“May I?” Mista heard herself say.

The whispering ceased. All eyes in the chamber were set on her.

Her lord husband nodded politely, his right eyebrow raised slightly.

You can do this. She cleared her constricted throat, trying to stop her hands from trembling. The thought of speaking before all those honourable dwarves made Mista feel almost as terrified as on the day of her wedding. And then a recollection came; the words Thorin said to her on that day: 

During straining official functions, I tend to imagine that there are only stone statues around me, carved in amusing poses.

A hint of a smile appeared on Mista’s lips as she cast a glance around the chamber; this noble lord would indeed look quite comical as a statue of a dancing goblin; that guildmaster would make a perfect figurine of a sitting cat with a fashionable cravat around his neck; and that surly lord on the left made her think of a marble sculpture of a fussy little babe. That was what they were — simply amusing statues and not noble lords and a king. The King.

You know what to say. She rested her right hand over the notes she had meticulously prepared with Embla. It trembled a bit less than before.

You rehearsed it all evening yesterday. She took a deep breath. It had to be now or never.  

“With the newcomers arriving to ‘Urdêk, we have more mouths to feed but also more idle hands,” she glanced at the parchments before her and took. “We are able to double our local dairy production. The herds of mountain goats we received from the Iron Hills are large enough. It’s only a matter of training new dairymasters and herders.”

The whispering returned. She swallowed. It was hard to read the room, but this idea did not seem too unusual to meet strong resistance. Not this one.

Mista lowered her eyes, not daring to look at the crowned figure on the other side of the table; her magnificent royal husband.

“That could work, Your Majesty.” Lord Glóin was the first to address her. “Aye, I think we’re on to something here!”

Several other voices joined him, expressing their agreement.

Among their discussions on how to implement their ideas, Mista finally gathered her courage and let her gaze travel across the table. The King was looking straight at her, his frown gone. Instead, he offered her an approving nod. Were her eyes deceiving her, or did his lip curl up slightly? Her heart started beating faster.

He liked her idea! Mahal, he truly did!

Mista wanted to laugh and dance, and maybe even embrace him, if she dared. But it was neither the time nor the place for such frivolities. This was when she was supposed to reveal her big idea. Mista felt a knot in her stomach as she spoke again. 

“In addition,” she paused, “we could begin growing our own food.”

Her heart beat so loudly, Mista was certain that everyone could hear it.

“Your Majesty…?” Lord Njall looked as if he could not comprehend her words. 

And then the others followed; she saw furrowed brows, gritting teeth, clenched fists. One of the council members stood up and exclaimed: “Growing our food? Do we look like Elves?!” “That’s unheard of!”

“Inconceivable!”

Mista clasped her hands together under the table and took another deep breath, seeking comfort in her notes, where she laid out the matter very clearly and logically. Now, the runes seemed to dance in front of her eyes, and her tongue refused to cooperate, as the voices around her grew louder and louder.

“Itkitî!” The King Under the Mountain uttered, this one word slicing through the cacophony of voices like the sharpest of swords.

In the silence that fell after, one could have heard a pin drop. Mista’s breath hitched at her husband’s commanding demeanour.

“Lord Galar,” Thorin Oakenshield addressed the loudest council member, his voice rumbling like distant thunder. “While I understand the urge you feel to address my royal spouse standing up, I believe you can sit down now and listen to all that Zabdûna undu ‘Urd Mista, your Queen, has to say.”

“But… Your Majesty!” Lord Galar protested, shaking his grey mane of hair. “Mahal the Almighty created the Longbeards to be craftsmen, not farmers! Unlike the Broadbeams, we…”

Mista stiffened — both at his insubordination and the way he spat the name of her clan, full of disdain, before his words died on his lips.

“He created the Longbeards to be resourceful and survive.” The King’s voice was now cold as ice, his eyes dark like a winter night. “That is precisely what we did in exile, with the help of the Broadbeam clan, when your family lived in the comforts of the Iron Hills. And that is precisely what the Queen of Longbeards — your Queen — is doing at this very moment. Helping us survive.”

Another wave of whispers washed over the chamber while the King continued.

“But Your Majesty!” Lord Galar added. “It is simply not done!” 

“Not done?” The King did not need to raise his voice. The contempt on his face was unmistakable. “Then pray, enlighten me, what is done? Or even better, what have you done, Lord Galar, while Her Majesty was offering food and shelter to the newcomers?”

Mista could not believe her ears. Immense warmth spilled in her chest; she decided that if she had not loved Thorin before, that would be the exact moment when she would have fallen in love with him instantly.

It took Lord Galar a while to turn to Mista and offer her a stiff bow. 

“Forgive me.”

Only then did he finally sit down.

She decided to play it safe and slightly inclined her head in response. It was not a clear sign of forgiveness, nor did she ignore him — just enough to keep the lord wondering.

That was when King Under the Mountain addressed her.

“May I ask you to continue, Your Majesty? We would like to hear more about this intriguing idea of yours.” His voice was like a sunrise on the first day of spring, and his eyes regarded her with what she hoped was kindness.

Mista was very well aware that the respectful treatment she received from the King served one goal first and foremost: strengthening her position as the Queen. It was not personal; as the wise Dagur Sture wrote, A strong King makes a strong Queen. A strong Queen makes a strong King. It was all about power and securing the royal couple’s ruling position — politics, to put it simply. Yet, Mista was thankful she was sitting down at that moment because Thorin’s words made her knees weak.

“T-thank you,” she whispered, unclenching her hands, and then repeated louder, “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

With a very slightly trembling hand, she adjusted her spectacles and began speaking, trying not to mind all the eyes set on her.

“I understand that this idea may seem controversial to some, but I can assure you that underground cultivation of certain plants, highly nutritious lichen, and fungi, was a traditional way of living among our people in the old days,” she allowed herself a quick glance at Lord Galar, his lips pressed into a thin line. “And when I say our people, I mean both the Broadbeams and Longbeards.” 

Mista noticed Balin smiling at her after she delivered that slightest of jabs. Feeling encouraged, she responded with a quick smile and continued. 

“In Tumunzahar, we — they — still produce some food this way. There are no nearby settlements of Men, like Dale here, so the people of Tumunzahar are unable to rely on food from external sources,” she explained. “But even the inhabitants of the Lonely Mountain used to grow their food, centuries before Dale or Esgaroth were established. A quick study of some of the historical records found in the Royal Library revealed that there were food farms deep in the bowels of the Mountain. The Longbeards of old called them ‘Kaminzabdûna’s Gardens’. According to one chronicler’s account in The Golden Age of Azsâlul'abad, the food from those ‘Gardens’ saved our people from starvation during a lengthy Orc siege. Mahal the Almighty gifted us with craft, but his spouse gave us an equally important gift. It is up to us whether we make use of it.” As soon as she finished speaking, Mista swept her gaze around the chamber. Every single Dwarf was staring at her, but she had her eyes only for one of them — their King, Thorin. One glance at her lord husband’s face was all that she needed. Now he was clearly smiling at her. Her heart made a silly flip. His smile was not meant for the Queen, but for her, Mista. 

Or at least that was what she chose to believe in.

“We can’t allow our people to face hunger this winter. This idea is indeed worth researching, Your Majesty,” Thorin Oakenshield announced and added, “Thank you.” “It was my pleasure, my… Your Majesty,” she felt heat creeping up on her cheeks. “I will be happy to develop it further.”

“The Great Library should contain more detailed written accounts on this subject matter,” Balin said. “Unless they were destroyed by the dragon.”

Mista nodded, hoping for the best. It was to be expected: she had already heard that the famous Library Under the Mountain could be in a bad shape after Smaug’s lengthy “visit” in their kingdom. Checking its current state was yet another thing to add to her agenda.

The next part of the meeting consisted of discussions on the specifics of food farming. Mista could not help but feel pride; against her expectations, as she explained the details of food production in Tumunzahar, the concept slowly turned out to be a matter of “when” and not “if”. Perhaps she could truly make a difference here and help the people of the Lonely Mountain, and then maybe, just maybe, Thorin would smile at her again.

Mista had completely forgotten about her sleepiness, eagerly taking part in the discussions, and noticing the sudden respect and deference she was treated with now, especially by Lord Galar. His sudden ostentatiousness was not to her liking, but she needed all the support for this project she could get. Master Yagrun’s calculations clearly showed that if the food issue wasn’t solved quickly enough, half of the current population of the Mountain would have to find a different place to live if they wanted to survive the winter.

The King’s Council’s meeting was coming to an end when Mista noticed Lord Balin giving a discreet sign to a guard standing by the entrance to the chamber. A moment later, the door was opened and a Dwarf entered, approaching the table with a slight limp. Concern was visible on his weathered face, and even though he seemed tired, his black hair and beard were neatly braided. The grey garments he wore looked plain and simple, a stark contrast with the robes of the council members.

“Your Majesties, my lords and ladies,” Lord Balin rose from his chair, gesturing to the Dwarf to come closer. “Allow me to introduce Uzrak Hrothgar, the leader of the miners who recently arrived from the southernmost peaks of the Misty Mountains. He brings news this Council needs to hear.”

Uzrak Hrothgar bowed towards the King and began speaking.

“I am honoured to stand before the King Under the Mountain’s Council. Thank you for allowing me to speak.”

“We are eager to hear you out, Uzrak Hrothgar,” King Thorin II offered. “We welcome you and your people in Azsâlul'abad with open arms. May I ask what made you leave the legendary Silvervein Mines?” 

Uzrak Hrothgar bowed once again before speaking, “I say this with great sadness, but neither the mines nor our settlement are safe any longer. For a while now, we have been enduring an endless streak of orc attacks. At first, we managed to fend them off, but they grew stronger with time. Soon, it was no longer safe to hunt in the mountains and to work in our mines. Merchants stopped arriving to us for the usual trails have become too dangerous. And so, with heavy hearts, we decided to abandon our homes, and seek refuge in the safest place we knew — the Lonely Mountain, if Your Majesty allows.”

“Consider this place your home now. Mahal knows there is more than enough space for everyone here. Besides, our mines need skilled miners like yourselves.”

The leader of the Silvervein miners bowed even deeper, but before he spoke more, he was asked to report all he knew about the current strength and locations of the orc forces in the area. A map was placed on the table, and Captain Dwalin and several other dwarves began asking detailed questions about the threat. Uzrak Hrothgar’s replies were short but precise, and from what Mista was able to make out, it seemed that the orc raids began intensifying in the Misty Mountains. The Silvervein miners were not the only ones affected. This explained why there were more newcomers under the Mountain than anyone expected. The reason for the orc attacks was unknown, but there were rumours — and sightings — of a new orc chieftain. His warbands wore the mark of three red claws. They took no prisoners, killing their enemies on the spot. They knew no mercy.

This matter, the King announced, would be discussed further at a later date. The previous smile was gone from his face, and an even deeper frown marked his features, so that his eyebrows made Mista think of a raven in flight, an impression emphasized by the shape of his crown. While her lord husband was giving a few quick orders to his advisors, she let her gaze linger on his face, fascinated by the way his expression slightly softened as he spoke to Dróri, one of his assistants, only to harden into the stern mask of the King Under the Mountain a moment later. He addressed Lord Galar curtly. She did not know exactly what was said; the only thing she could hear through the murmur of voices around her was the steady rumble of his voice: decisive, commanding, cold. It was enough to make Lord Galar and a few other dwarves lower their heads in agreement — manifesting obedience to their ruler’s orders. The King did not resemble her Thorin — the one who had danced with her long ago in Tumunzahar — but she was certain that this courteous, thoughtful, and honourable prince was still deep inside him, behind that stone-like mask of the ruler of the Lonely Mountain.

When the King’s Council meeting had finally adjourned and everyone began leaving the chamber, Mista directed her steps towards her lord husband, who had just stood up from his chair. His tall silhouette towered over the majority of the council members as he talked with Dwalin and Glóin. She needed to talk to him, too. In her mind, Mista was already putting together all the right words she wanted to say to Thorin, to thank him for giving her the opportunity to speak at her very first King’s Council meeting, for supporting her, and for making her heard. She wanted him to know how grateful she was for what he did.

“Your Majesty?” Her words sounded shamefully quiet as she tilted her head up, trying to catch Thorin Oakenshield’s gaze.

“Your Majesty,” he acknowledged her with a slight inclination of his head.

Seeing Thorin’s handsome face so close before her made Mista’s breath hitch. His eyes were as blue as an afternoon sky, their depth emphasized by the golden sheen of the crown on his head. He was looking straight into her eyes, and she completely forgot what she was supposed to say.

“Thank you for attending the meeting,” he continued in his impossibly low voice, which made her think of the murmur of the winter sea. “I do hope you did not find it too boring.”

“Not at all, Your Majesty.” She shook her head, struggling to find the right words. “Not too boring. It was… good. A very good meeting. Productive.”

“I am glad you think so, Your Majesty. We all appreciated your input. Now, if you will forgive me, I hear there is an urgent matter I have to attend to in the Forges.” The King bowed courteously. “If there is anything you need, my lady, Balin is at your service.”

Before she could reply, her lord husband was already on the way out of the chamber, with a few advisors hurrying behind him, his heavy cloak following him like a dark cloud.

“How may I help you, Your Majesty?” Balin asked, interrupting the silence that fell over the now empty chamber. To Mista it seemed as if some kind of magic spell sucked the air out of the room.

She felt cold.

***

The Great Library of the Lonely Mountain was a pile of rubble. When Balin showed it to Mista, she could not believe her eyes.

“Aye, it’s not a pretty sight,” Balin admitted, shaking his head, and then pointed to the left. “The dragon tore that wall down at some point. The main entrance is buried under those stone blocks.”

“Is there a different way to enter the library?” Mista asked with a sinking feeling in her stomach.

“If my memory serves me right…” Balin began, and Mista smiled to herself. He was known for his legendary knowledge of the old Kingdom Under the Mountain, and she took every opportunity she could to learn from him about her new home. 

“There were several entrances to the Great Library but they met a similar fate, I’m afraid,” Balin continued. “Me and a handful of other Dwarves tried finding a way inside in the first weeks after the Kingdom was reclaimed, but we had no luck, My Lady.”

“There is so much knowledge behind those rocks. We can’t afford to lose it.” In her mind’s eye, Mista saw rows and rows of ancient tomes waiting in darkness for someone to open them again after over 170 years of solitude. She could not believe that all of them were destroyed. Some of the books had to have survived the dragon’s destructive frenzy.

“Aye,” Balin nodded. “If we only had more time and volunteers…” Mista agreed, feeling disappointed. Every able-bodied Dwarf was busy with the most crucial matters: repairing their realm and making it livable again. The Great Library simply had to wait. Unless…

“I could write to my Father,” she said hesitantly. That was one of the last things she was willing to do — asking her Father for a favour. “He would be able to hire experienced Stone Masters for us in the Blue Mountains. But it would take time until they arrive.” “At least several months,” Balin agreed.

They did not have that much time.

Embla cleared her throat, “May I, My Lady?”

Mista nodded.

“It so happens that my husband, Sindri, is a Stone Master, and he will be willing to help,” Embla said, giving her one of her vibrant smiles.

“That’s wonderful news but what about his other duties? Will he truly have time for this?” Mista glanced at the nearest heap of large, cracked rocks.

“Of course! He’s only recently arrived from the Iron Hills with all of our belongings — as you know, My Lady, I came here first with my parents and our little Nàli — and Sindri is yet to join a workshop that suits him best.” She grinned again. “And as he doesn’t like to stay idle, he…”

“Mommyyyy!” something squeaked nearby. Mista looked around to see a chubby pebble — a boy of no more than ten years with a tangle of copper curls on his head — running straight into Embla’s outstretched arms.

“What are you doing here, Nugget?” Embla kissed her son on the top of his head. “Daddy taught me how to ride a pony today!” Nàli exclaimed with a huge smile that closely resembled his mother’s, and Mista could not help but smile at his enthusiasm.

His prattling continued until his father approached them as well. Sindri was a big, sturdy Dwarf with kind brown eyes, several thick golden braids and a bushy moustache.

“Your Majesty,” Embla turned to her. “Allow me to introduce my husband Sindri, son of Sigurd, and my son, Nàli.”

“It is an honour to meet you both,” Mista greeted them, but when her eyes rested on the boy, who immediately hid behind his mother’s skirts. “Nàli, where did you go?” chuckled Embla. “There is no need to be afraid of the queen!” Mista gathered her skirts and crouched before him. For a moment, his curious gaze searched her face just before he hid once again behind the flowing fabric. “I’m sure a brave little warrior like you is not afraid of anything,” she spoke encouragingly. “Are you?” Nàli peeked out from behind his mother again, “No!” “That’s the spirit!” said Balin.

“Are you really a queen?” Nàli asked suspiciously.

“Yes, I am,” Mista nodded.

“Then where is your crown?” Nàli’s eyes narrowed.

Trying not to chuckle, Mista looked around conspiratorially and then whispered, “It’s hidden in a very secret place, so no one can find it!” “Why?”

“So I don’t have to wear it. It is very heavy, you know,” Mista replied. 

Nàli contemplated this answer for a moment, nodded slowly and then took a step towards her.

“But then how do people know that you’re the Queen?” “I usually have the King with me. He always wears a crown,” she said. In the corner of her eye, she saw Embla stifling a chuckle. The boy looked around. “So where is he now?”

As far from me as possible, Mista thought wryly, but instead, she replied: “He is working very hard to rebuild our kingdom.”

“Does he like to ride ponies? Because I do!” Nàli stated proudly. Does he? Mista glanced at Balin hesitantly. Thorin was her husband, and yet she could not say. She tried to ignore the sudden lump in her throat.

“He does, laddie,” Balin stated. “His favourite pony is called Cobalt.” While the boy bombarded him with questions about Cobalt, his father addressed Mista. “Forgive us, Your Majesty, for this intrusion. We were on our way home when Nàli heard his mother’s voice.” When Sindri spoke, his eyes rested warmly on his wife, and as their gazes met, it was enough for Mista to be certain of one thing. This is how a loving marriage looks like, she thought, quickly looking away.

Before Embla’s husband and son left, Sindri confirmed his interest in helping out with gaining access to the Great Library and offered the assistance of a group of stone masters who arrived from the Iron Hills with him. Mista could not curb her enthusiasm — it looked like there was still hope to recover some of those precious tomes, and maybe even learn more about Kaminzabdûna’s Gardens. 

When she turned to Embla to speak to her about it, Mista saw that her secretary’s gaze followed Sindri. He carried their giggling son on his back as they walked away.

“You have a son you can be proud of,” Mista said. “And a caring husband. It has to feel good to be reunited with him.”

“Thank you, My Lady,” Embla replied with joy. “It does. I could not ask for a better spouse, and a great father to my son. It took me a bit of work to convince him to marry me, but it was worth it.”

“Don’t tell me that he was not interested in you! I saw the way he looks at you,” Mista said.

Embla giggled, “You are correct, My Lady! And one of his glances was enough to melt my heart like butter. At first, he did not think he was good enough for me, that silly Dwarf. He was too shy to ask me to court him!” “I find it hard to believe,” admitted Mista, trying to imagine the brawny Sindri acting like a shy maid.

“But that’s how it was! I was at my wits’ end when my granny had a talk with me. She told me: ‘Em, Dwarf-men are sometimes as blind as cave bats when it comes to the matters of the heart, so it’s up to us to show them the way.’ So I listened to my granny, and showed him…” Embla giggled again. “…and asked him to court me instead!”

Mista gasped in surprise. She was not certain about the customs of the Iron Hills Longbeards, but if they were similar to the traditions of her people, a Dwarf-woman would never be expected to offer such a thing. It was a Dwarf’s duty to woo the lady of his heart, not the other way around. And certainly not by showing them… things.

“Truly?” she managed to ask.

“Aye,” Embla nodded vigorously and grinned. “And it worked quite well! I was expecting Nàli before the customary courting period ended… We had a very quick wedding!” Now it was Mista’s turn to giggle.

“Then let me offer a belated — but very sincere — congratulations on your successful courting!” Their giggles echoed against the stone walls of the cavern until Balin cleared his throat. “About the library, My Lady, I believe this part seems quite intact…” He began. Mista hoped that he did not overhear much of their scandalous conversation. That was certainly not a decent topic for such a refined Dwarf as Lord Balin.

***

A week later, Mista clutched a bundle of parchments in her hand as she stepped into the Forges. It took her quite a while to find her way there; she had visited the place only once, during her first week as the queen, and now she had to rely only on her own memory. The king’s secretary, the stern Mistress Vigga, assured her that His Majesty was to be found in the Forges. Furthermore, Mistress Vigga insisted that if Her Majesty truly had an urgent matter to take up with the king, Her Majesty should consider having at least two royal guardsmen accompany her, as the fastest route was quite treacherous on account of not being fully renovated yet. Apart from that, the guardsmen would shield her from any dangers Her Majesty might encounter in the Forges: immense heat that would surely ruin her hair, open fire and fumes — disastrous to health, sparks flying everywhere — catastrophic to any lady’s skin, and those rivers of molten metal, and then there was that constant risk of an explosion or even exposure to the Forge Masters’ crude language. It was clear that the Forges weren’t Mistress Vigga’s favourite place.

Mista, however, needed to see Thorin. King Thorin. There was a delicate political issue she wanted to discuss with him, but first, they had to meet. It had been over five days since she saw His Majesty. Every day, he hurried out of his rooms shortly after dawn, before Mista could catch even a glimpse of her lord husband, only to return to the royal chambers when she was already asleep. Today, she waited for the King in his study at lunchtime, but he never arrived, busying himself in the Forges instead, and no one could tell her when His Majesty would return. Something told her it would be late, conveniently past her bedtime, as always. That was, however, not the time to dwell upon his tendency to avoid her, Mista reminded herself. Perhaps she was a bookish, unalluring girl from the Blue Mountains who did not rouse the interest of her husband, but — what was more important — she was the Queen, and she had her duties to fulfil. One of those duties was securing enough food for the coming winter for their people, and that was why she needed to have a talk with the King before the next King’s Council meeting that was to happen the next day. 

As an ancient Dwarvish saying went, if the forge will not come to the smith, then the smith must come to the forge. Or, in this case, the Forges.

Standing at the threshold of the legendary Great Forges of the Lonely Mountain, Mista felt like an ant in a ballroom. The spacious cavern felt like a kingdom of its own. It was filled with the hustle and bustle of massive machinery and countless Dwarves alike, the clanking of metal against metal intertwining with raised voices that echoed against the walls, and the constant hum of the fire in several working furnaces. Dozens and dozens of metalworkers, engineers and Forge Masters busied themselves around the cavern, shouting orders, warnings or curses, carrying or pulling various loads, forging, casting, hammering, smelting, shaping, and doing other mysterious things one was supposed to do at a place like this. Mista did not even try to understand or recognize them. Her knowledge of this craft was mostly non-existent. One thing was certain to her, though. Mistress Vigga was right: this place was hot and dirty, and the air was thick with fumes. Mista looked down at her elegant, opulent, and completely impractical dress and sighed, wishing she could take off at least one layer of her clothes. Unfortunately, as the Queen, she was expected to dress in a proper way and not parade in her chemise across the Kingdom.

It did not take her long to notice Thorin. Or rather, his lush, wavy hair, dark brown with streaks of mithril, gathered into a thick ponytail on his back — his bare back.

Mahal, be merciful.

He was working alongside the other Dwarves, sorting large pieces of metal and rock, and chunks of some ore. Like his companions, he wore only plain work trousers and thick leather gloves, which was not surprising, judging by the heat emitted by the gigantic furnaces. Shamelessly, Mista could not keep her eyes off Thorin, or rather his back, as he lifted yet another heavy-looking piece, his muscles playing under his skin that seemed to glow like molten gold as the layer of perspiration reflected the firelight from the nearest furnace. 

When the king straightened, the muscles on his powerful shoulders and arms bulged, and Mista’s throat suddenly felt very dry. She had never been able to admire his figure in such detail before, as his royal garments usually consisted of layers and layers of fabric. Now, her eyes followed the lines of that strong neck, those broad shoulders, and the wide, wide chest that narrowed down to his trim waist. Many Dwarves his age were proud of their rotund shapes, a welcome sign of prosperity, but she knew by now that Thorin led an active life, and his body reflected it. Mista’s gaze curiously rested on his shoulder blades — there was a tattoo there, partially covered by his hair, but she recognized its shape at once. It was the Durin’s Crown, seven stars etched in black ink, the unmistakable symbol of the King’s royal ancestry. There were other tattoos on his back and arms, too, each of those patterns telling a story of its own. As every Dwarf clan used its own unique symbols, Mista was unable to decipher the meaning of all of them, but she believed she recognized one of the warrior’s marks for valour and something like a symbol of a… swordsmith? Was the King Under the Mountain a Master Swordsmith? Mista promised herself to check this new piece of information later. It was fascinating — as everything that concerned Thorin. She wanted to learn as much about him as she could, to know him better and perhaps find something in common between them, or at least use that knowledge to become a better wife to him. A wife he would talk with, exchange jests with, and spend time with just like he did with his work companions at this very moment as they all tried to move an exceptionally large piece of metal from the pile of rubble before them.

Mista told herself that now, before she completely melted from the heat, was the right time to approach the King. That was why she came here in the first place — but somehow she could not peel her eyes away from his strong back, his powerful thighs, and… his firm buttocks. 

Mahal, why is it so very hot in here? 

She kept on staring indecently at his behind, feeling her cheeks burn, when a male voice said: “M’lady? Yer Majesty?”

“Captain Dwalin!” She almost jumped. “How nice to see you.”

“And the same to ye!” He grinned, his white teeth contrasting with the streaks of dust on his face. “What brings ye here, M’lady?”

“I… I wish to see His Majesty,” she faltered as this mountain of a Dwarf folded his impressive arms — his very bare and very muscular arms — against the thick leather of his apron that covered his chest.

Thank Mahal for the apron.

“His Majesty? Thorin? Now?” Frowning, Dwalin cast a glance towards the King, who was still busying himself with that stubborn chunk of metal.

Mista took a deep breath, trying to keep her eyes away from her lord husband’s glistening back.

“I see he is busy. I had a matter to discuss. But it can wait. I will wait. Here,” she mumbled, looking around, searching for a place to sit. She felt a bit dizzy, perhaps because of that overwhelming heat. Sadly, among the smoking furnaces, pieces of rubble and soaring columns, there was nothing that resembled a bench even slightly.

“Yer Majesty,” Dwalin began, shaking his head vigorously. “That won’t do, ye won’t be waitin’, not here! Gundi! Come ‘ere, there’s a good lad! Run to Thorin — His Majesty — and tell ‘im the Queen requests his presence.”

A young, lanky dwarf with a short chestnut beard nodded, made a wide-eyed, clumsy bow when he saw Mista, and then hurried away. 

“Oh no, Captain Dwalin, not now, I don’t want to disturb…” she began faintly when a screeching sound filled her ears.

Suddenly, Dwalin’s hand closed over her arm and pulled her unceremoniously to the side.

“Sorry, M’lady,” he offered just as a group of forge workers whooshed past them with a screech, dangerously close, wheeling a large cauldron filled with some smelly, fumy substance.

“I’m sorry, I did not see them!” Mista adjusted her glasses nervously, trying to regain her composure.

“When ye’re in the Forges, ye have to have yer eyes around yer head,” Dwalin said.

“INCOMING!” a shout echoed from a distance, and something heavy thudded, making the floor tremble under her feet.

Mista gasped, quickly looking around.

“Nothin’ to worry about, M’lady,” Dwalin explained. “Ye can say we’re remodellin’ the place after Smaug. That slug didn’t have even a shred of good taste.”

She chuckled nervously, trying to calm herself down.

“My Lady Mista!” A familiar rumbly voice reached her ears. Her heart fluttered.

She lifted her gaze towards the King. Thorin was approaching her fast, taking off his gloves. His brow was furrowed, and he kept staring straight at her with those piercing blue eyes of his. A few unruly strands of his hair stuck to his face, and his lips were parted as he took a deep breath. His chest rose and — oh, Mahal — Mista caught a very good glimpse of its full bare glory. The well-defined pectoral muscles dusted with dark hair, the — Mahal, was that a piercing?! — geometric tattoos, strong core muscles, and that stripe of hair trailing all the way down to… Mista swallowed.

Suddenly, her knees felt very weak.

The King closed the distance between them in two brisk strides. Somehow, he seemed even taller than usual, dominating the space around her, so very close, emanating a strange kind of heat, heady and powerful. Mista felt like a defenseless hare facing a wolf on the prowl. Instinctively, she took a step back, stumbled over something, and lost her balance, sending her parchments flying in the air. 

In the blink of an eye before she fell to the ground, a pair of strong arms — strong bare arms — caught her and held her in place. The grip was steady and reassuring, but there was a deep frown on the King’s face. “By dragon’s breath, what brought you here, My Lady?” Her royal husband’s words resembled a growl in Mista’s ears as he stared her down. “Y-your Majesty,” she mumbled, lowering her gaze, still overwhelmed by his intense closeness and the fact that the King was holding her firmly. “There is… there is a matter I wish to discuss, it’s…”

“INCOMING!” Yet another shout rang out somewhere in the Forges, and another loud thud was heard. The ground shook. She stiffened.

“Cursed supports! This is not a safe place for you, Lady Mista,” His Majesty’s gaze darkened. “Come, let us leave. Where is your escort?”

He took Mista under her arm and began leading her towards the entrance to the Forges.

“But… My parchments!” She turned back, staring at the documents scattered all over the floor.

“Dwalin?” Thorin glanced between his Captain and the parchments.

Dwalin simply nodded and moved to gather them.

Only then did Mista notice that the hard object she stumbled upon earlier was the edge of a furnace chute used for smelted ore. She refused to imagine what would have happened if she fell into it.

“Where did you leave your guards, My Lady?” Thorin repeated, looking around impatiently.

“I came here by myself, My Lord,” she admitted, trying to match his fast pace on the way out of the Forges, still feeling the warm shadow of his touch on her skin.

“By yourself?!” The King’s frown deepened further as he raised his voice. “Lady Mista, this is one of the most dangerous places in the whole Kingdom on an average day — and today it’s twice as much! You cannot venture out here alone!” “I didn’t want to bother anyone, I simply wanted to…”

“Bother? Mahal, you are the Queen, My Lady! Can you not see what would have happened if an accident befell you? What would it mean for the Kingdom, for all of us here, if you were injured, or worse? And shortly after ascending the throne? How would it look to your family?”

Mista lowered her gaze, deciding to study a tiny crack in the stone floor. She felt utterly stupid. The first thing that her family would do if anything serious happened to her would be to break off the marriage contract and all the accompanying agreements. And if things looked bad, they would demand a sizeable compensation, break off diplomatic relations between both clans or maybe even choose a more hostile path. Not because she was that precious to them; it was all about riches and power. They invested too much into the grand plan of putting a Broadbeam on the throne of the Lonely Mountain to forfeit it. Her mother made certain that Mista remembered it quite well.

As for the Kingdom Under the Mountain and its King, a seriously injured or even dead Queen meant fewer allies and no heir to the throne. And no heir to the throne, according to Dís, meant a possible rebellion and a rift within the Longbeard clan.

Perhaps another Dwarf-woman in her place would enjoy this level of importance, but Mista was a realist. She understood that she was useful to everyone as long as she was healthy, alive, and doing what she was expected to do. Like the pawn on a chessboard — yet again. 

“Forgive me, My Lord. I… I was unaware,” she said when they stopped in the outside corridor, away from the prying eyes in the Forges. “It’s just…”

“Yes?” the King said. She felt his intense gaze on her face, but she did not feel brave enough to look up.

“I simply wanted to talk… I did not know you were that busy,” Mista began, realising how foolish she sounded, suddenly very much aware of how close the King was, how her abundant skirts brushed against his legs, how she felt the heat and the masculine power his body radiated. His scent reached her nostrils: hot fire, ash, and leather, dizzying with its raw intensity. And then there was his bare torso in front of her, his glistening skin, his pectorals rising and falling, and a pale scar across his shoulder. Her fingertips tingled; one small move of her hand and she could learn how it felt to run her fingers along the ridges and hollows of his chest. The fluttering deep inside her intensified, and she clasped her hands nervously.

Mahal help her.

“What did you wish to talk about with me, My Lady?” The King’s voice softened slightly.

“It’s a delicate matter of state, an urgent one,” she explained hesitantly. “Coming here was my last resort.”

“Your last resort?” the King replied.

“You see… I have been trying to meet you in our rooms for a few days now,” she whispered, still not daring to raise her gaze above the scar on his shoulder, bracing herself for a fiery response.

Instead, there was a long silence. And something akin to a sigh. Mista wondered whether she would now hear yet another excuse and a polite but reserved dismissal.

The King spoke, “My Lady Mista, I would be honoured to discuss this matter now.”

“You… You would?” Mista’s head snapped up. Her eyes met the deep blue sapphires of his gaze. At that moment, he somehow resembled the Thorin she remembered, at least a bit. “Truly?”

“Of course,” The King nodded, gesturing with his hand.

“Oh, thank you, My Lord.” She beamed at him, warmth spilling in her chest. He wanted to speak with her. There were no excuses this time. And he did not leave, still standing so very close to her. Without thinking, she grasped his open palm with both her hands, so large and warm, and slightly coarse against her skin.

And then his fingers stiffened under her touch, accompanied by a startled expression on his face as the King glanced at their joined hands. 

With a gasp, Mista let go of him. Feeling her cheeks burn, her heart galloping in her chest, she heard herself speak through her clenched throat.

“I- I’m sorry, My Lord,” she muttered, taking a hasty step back. “I did not mean to…”

The vertical wrinkle between the King’s brows deepened.

“My Lady…”

“Yer documents, M’lady,” Dwalin appeared beside them with a roll of parchments in his outstretched hand.

“Thank you, Dwalin!” Mista blurted out, grabbing the papers as fast as she could. Her hands were trembling, and her head was spinning. “T-thank you for your time, Your Majesty, I- I have to go!”

“What about this urgent matter?” His Majesty Thorin II Oakenshield tilted his head slightly.

The thought of her latest blunder and then facing the King — her husband — alone, his chest bare, his eyes so very blue she would drown in them within a heartbeat, made Mista dizzy, and definitely not in any shape to have a logical discussion. She would mumble like a silly goose and make him think he married a halfwit. Yes, that was it, she needed a clear mind, and her current befuddlement had absolutely nothing to do with the state of his undress or the feeling of his scorching skin against hers; it was just this awful humid heat. She embarrassed herself enough for one day. She needed to leave this place at once.

“I… just recalled that I have an important meeting,” Mista said quickly, rumpling the parchments in her hands. “May we meet in the evening? Over… over supper?”

“If you are certain that it can wait until then,” the King spoke, his right eyebrow rising.

“I am, yes!” she mumbled. “It can!”

“Very well, then. Until the evening, My Lady.” He lowered his head in farewell.

Mista turned, fleeing the Forges, feeling utterly humiliated by her own silliness. What on Mahal’s beard had she been thinking? What made her grab his hand? What would the King think of her? She was supposed to be a queen and act like one, and not a mawkish lass who could not even spend a moment alone with her own husband without embarrassing herself because of her stupid feelings.

“Would you mind escorting Her Majesty back to the royal wing, Dwalin?” The King’s voice echoed in the corridor behind her, and she thought she heard a lighter note in his words. “It turns out my royal spouse can be surprisingly energetic.”

“Just what ye need in yer dotage, ye lucky goat,” Dwalin chuckled, making her cheeks burn. Deep down she disagreed; first of all, His Majesty was far from senility, and besides, the last thing he needed was an embarrassingly lovestruck wife.

Mista did not hear the King’s reply — if there was any. The loud stomping of the Captain’s boots as he approached her drowned out all the other sounds.

✨ Entangled Masterlist

💙💙💙 Read it? Like it? Spread the love and reblog it! 💙💙💙

📜 Searching for more stories to read? Check out my masterlist!📜

@fizzyxcustard @shrimpsthings​ @sherala007 @jotink78 

@rachel1959 @saltwater-in-the-afternoon @.legolasbadass @yourqueenunderthemountain @guardianofrivendell

@gwen-ever @elrawienthewhite @mrsdurin @nelleedraws 

@vee-vee-writes @mcchiberry  @dumbassunderthemountain @errruvande @laurfilijames

@emrfangirl @s0ftd3m0n @lilith15000 @kami-chan1512  @ragsweas 

@enchantzz @aduialel @myselfandfantasy @thewhiteladyofrohan @middleearthpixie 

@i-did-not-mean-to @blairsanne @fckmini @clumsy-wonderland @wormsmith 

@mailinsblogofstuff  @medusas-hairband @xxbyimm @saucyminxbrainspill 

@quiall321 @frosticenow @glassgulls @evenstaredits @sotwk 

@littlesweetdressmaker @alwayssevvy @sleepycreativewriter @emmanuellececchi @sazzlep

@lyl1pad @enchantingkryptoniteheart-blog @shantismurf @dustie-faerie @beenovel @thorne-kreizler-fanfiction @thatshadowintheuniverse @animal4princess-blog

@ravenhearted @ruthoakenshield @asgardianhobbit98 @justfollowtheroad @silvergemofdurin @.sverdgeir @blackqueengold

@exhausted-humxn-being @balrog-prevention-society

If you're crossed out or not in the list any longer, it means that Tumblr hasn't been allowing me to tag you for a longer while. Please DM me so we can figure it out together.

[rockthistowninsideout]

A Bagginshield fic in the year of the lord 2025? It's more likely than you think!

May I present to you:

Tookish Magic (Ao3)

When Dís spotted Thorin coming towards them, she let go of all royal dignity and ran up to her older brother, throwing herself around his neck. Though the halfling beside him with the honeygolden hair and a longing in his eyes whenever looking at Thorin had not escaped her. “I hear the Battle of Five Armies was on knife’s edge but this fellow right here saved your life with his magic”, she remarked after taking a step back to scrutinize Thorin before she nodded to Bilbo.

(only available for registered ao3 users to avoid ai scraping)

Inspired by a cooking class idea, rereading and rewatching The Hobbit, and this post by @thotinshield and @bagginshieldhappiness

[totallynottinsel]

Thorin carrying their baby around attending to kingly duties -

Self-indulgent lil fic because MORE GIRL DAD THORIN AND BILBO! I WILL SPREAD THE AGENDA

Entering the lively world of parenthood had been the greatest unexpected gift they had received. Little Ev��rdeen had become the newest princess under the mountain, though she had already tired out her fathers quite a bit at only a few months old. Thorin had a good amount of experience helping to raise Fili and Kili since they were born, and Bilbo having to deal with tricky hobbit fauntlings stealing from his garden. Though a child of their own had promised to be a completely different thing entirely.

She was a gentle being, sharing all sorts of traits from the both of them---including a bit of a short temper. She would wake up at various hours of the night, either hungry or needing a change or simply wanting to be held. Thorin had been taken up by his duties as king, spending early morning's out and late nights sleepless, so Bilbo offered to help out the best he could and keep care of Evîrdeen on his own for a while. He insisted on being able to handle her on his own, regardless of the company's desire to lighten his work. That had caught up to him rather quick, unfortunately.

One morning Bilbo tossed in bed, feeling the aches of the past few days getting to him. He laid on his side, eyes still adjusting to the early light as he watched Thorin dress for the day. More formal than usual, as he had a meeting with ambassadors from across the land to discuss potential allyship. Bilbo smiled his way fondly, enjoying the sight till he was reminded by soft baby coo's that he should've been out of bed already. As he sat himself upward, he was put to a stop by a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Rest, Amrâl." Said Thorin. "I won't let you wear yourself out for my sake."

"You're sure? You've got a full plate for today; I could pull through..." A telltale yawn waved over Bilbo's words, and his head found its way to lay on top of his husband's hand. "Hm, staying in bed does sound rather nice. Would be better if you could as well." Bilbo certainly would have put up a better excuse for him not to go if his energy hadn't been melted to the end of its wick. Long gone had the lazy mornings of the two of them cradled in each others warmth for as long as they desired---at least for the time being, till Evîrde was more on their hour of wake. (Hopefully)

"I'm all yours tonight," Thorin planted a kiss to his forehead. "If you can wait."

"I suppose I'll have to," Bilbo's head fell back onto the pillow, sighing. "Does that mean you'll be making us dinner as well?"

Thorin should have seen himself walking right into that one. "If you'd like?"

"As long as you're not planning on re-heating the soup I made."

Thorin decided to take his leave then before more of his plans were exposed. Evîrde had been rolling about in her crib, laying on her stomach making burbled giggles. Thorin grabbed the cotton sling and fastened it across his chest, scooping her up and into the carrier. It was far easier to go around with both your hands at the ready, whether if danger should arise or, in Thorin's case---various papers to surely be skimmed and signed. Bilbo had tried out the sling a few times himself, though he preferred to use an arm. (and quite frankly enjoyed watching Thorin tote their daughter everywhere far more) He remembered rarely spotting such a useful tool in the Shire, a basket strapped to your back to help with two or more fauntlings at once, if any at all. Evîrde had seemed to grow used to her trips, aside from the occasional fussing to signal she had grown tired of it.

"Oh, would you look at her," Balin grinned as the baby reached her arms out wide to grasp the ends of his beard curiously. "Sweetest one there is. And how is Bilbo? Getting some shut-eye, I'd hope. Ran into the poor lad the night before rummaging about the kitchen completly jumpy."

"All he's been drinking as of late is that remedy Dáin introduced him to. He swears by it,"

"Ah, that.. coffee, I believe it was? Strange thing, but no less expected from Dáin Ironfoot."

Evîrde, incredibly intrigued by the odd rumble of indistinguishable words flowed between the two, listened silently before a sneeze jarred her. A second one followed and she seemed confused, tucking her head back under Thorin's chin to drift away to sleep again. "Have they arrived?"

"That they have. You'd best be on your way," Balin nodded. "Fíli's already greeted them."

One of them, at the very least, when Thorin found him. Just around the corner of the meeting hall he'd spotted his nephew necking with the Mirkwood ambassador. Suddenly he wanted to take Evîrde's non existent sleep schedule over Fíli and Kíli's inconvenient affairs any day of the month. The two quickly separated after noticing his appearance. "I believe we'll be discussing this later." He spoke lowly as Fíli passed him by, who only sighed accepting his fate in reply. The Mirkwood elf (name of Greglorindel, as he told. A victim of Thranduil's bidding, no doubt) offered many apologies and politely took his seat at the table.

Along with Mirkwood's ambassador had been Bain, son of Bard the Bowman, though still a young boy in the eyes of men. He had shown interest in taking up charge of Dale, helping his father in its reconstruction and allyship with Erebor. Out of them all, Thorin had grown rather fond of the boy and his resilience. He had gifted Evîrde a wooden toy not long after her birth.

"Hail Thorin, son of Thráin. My lord offers his greetings to you," Said the ambassador of Rohan, bowing a head to the dwarf, though quirking a brow at the sight of the peaceful baby strapped to his chest. He kept whatever immediate comments he had brewing in his head to himself.

"And what does the Mad King truly wish to gain under his greetings?" Thorin eyed the ambassador and his accompanied men with a stern glare. The men looked amongst themselves with wavering concern.

"I can assure you, my Lord Fengel wishes nothing more than to seek allies here in these great mountains and woods. Whatever stories you may have heard, they are surely false..."

"But it is true!" Bain exclaimed, startled by the boom in his voice, quickly shrinking back. "Sorry. If I may speak?"

Thorin signaled the boy to carry on with a nod.

"My Da and I had spoke to a family that said they fled from your land, to get away from the King. They said he was a gold stealer, taken by greed. That's why they call him the Mad King, isn't it?"

Gold stealer. Thorin's chest tightened at the word; he knew Bain nor his father would lie of such accusations. What he did not know for certain was where King Fengel's desires lay in regards to not only the shared wealth of the mountain, but of his people, their neighbors, his family. Evîrdeen. Bilbo. The greed of men knew little of when to stop. He brought a hand to rest over his daughter's back to soothe her fidgeting.

"And we are supposed to believe the words of a child?" The man of Rohan spat.

"The boy speaks true. And I can say my lord Thranduil would neither like to forage an alliance with those of thieves who steal from their own people." Said Greglorindel. "Tell us what you seek in these hills and forests."

"I say, we were hardly expecting to be lured here just to be insulted---"

"You came here with your own free will. Do not mock those who I trust at my council, if that is all you sought to do." Thorin's voice trickled with promising venom, though it was drowned out by the other's beginning a fierce argument. The loud shouts startled Evîrde from her nap, and she grabbed at her father's braids, somewhat having learned it got his attention. When all he did was move her hands away she squirmed, fussing uncomfortably.

"Outrageous, these claims!"

"We can't let a Mad man into our homes--!"

"Utterly uncivilized---"

Thorin blew out some air as he paced the room, gently bouncing Evîrde in an attempt to calm her. "If all you intended to bring to us was ill tidings, then I suggest you leave." He peered at the men, who continued to show him little respect. Evîrde tugged at his braid far more aggressively the second time around, but it kept her distracted. "You may tell your King he will not find what he wants here. Least he come to speak to me himself."

When the meeting had met its swift end not long after, and the men of Rohan left bitterly---surely telling their king of the stubborn fashion dwarves wore. Bain and Greglorindel had promised to spread the message to keep an eye out for Rohan and its King alike.

Thorin walked along the halls as Evîrde cried from the whole ordeal. He spoke to her softly and cradled her close, though it failed to comfort her entirely. When he tried singing it slowly started to chip away her sadness; it had worked in the past, as Thorin would often sing to her as his own mother had done when he was a newborn. Bilbo had admitted his fondness of his singing voice as well, which the hobbit immensely regretted---as that led to Thorin teasing him for an entire week.

When Evîrde had calmed later on Thorin brought her to the kitchen in search of a morning bite. He offered her small spoonfuls of the mashed berry medley Bombur had concocted. The kitchen had become an odd sort of gathering spot for the company, and it was easy for Fíli and Kíli to find their way to it. Thorin was certain they had just been following him.

"It was really that bad?" Kíli asked as he booped Evîrde's nose with a finger.

"Oh, it was." Fíli practically cackled. When Thorin flashed him a silent stare as in 'you're still in trouble', he coughed back his words. "At least I think. I wouldn't know."

"Well, what did the men say?"

"They shared word of the Lord of Rohan and his interest in Erebor and the surrounding land. I know enough of that man and his greed to say our doors will not be open for him." Thorin scoffed.

"Greed? So he's---ow!" Kíli pulled his hand away when Evîrde decided to bite his finger. "He's what?"

"He's a gold hoarder, isn't he? Can't say I haven't heard a few stories myself. Word travels far when your whole land hates you." Fíli shrugged, patting his brother on the back as he held his wounded finger.

"That it does." Thorin wondered if he would have become like Fengel, or something worse if he hadn't been freed from his sickness. To be entranced without escape for the rest of your days, fed by gold, by fear, by power. To turn you cold and heartless, a monstrous thing hidden under the mask of a man. Pain still struck him for all he had done under such vile influence; no good soul deserved to be trapped by such horrible curse, not even the most egregious elves.

Evîrdeen pawed at the intricate beads lacing his hair, and her glimmering brown eyes---ever so much like Bilbo---looking up to him, made him smile against the thoughts batting his head. He did not know how he became worthy of such incredible blessings, but he would not waste them for a moment of his coming life.

"So, we're not getting free horses then?" Kíli frowned. "That's their whole thing, isn't it? The ro... rohrrm? Rohim? Close enough."

"Pretty sure it's rohimmer." Fíli corrected.

"Sounds right to me."

"You can find your own horses," Said Thorin. "Whatever misshapen peace offerings King Fengel has to offer, he can shove it straight to his---"

"Excuse me! What did I say about swearing in front of the baby?" Strangely on cue, Bilbo was standing behind them all. Clad in his checkered robe and hands on his hips.

For a moment Thorin stared back at him cluelessly. "I wasn't--?"

"Yes, yes you were. I can tell when you're about to."

"She can't even understand a word we're saying!" Kíli raised his hands up defensively.

"She will eventually!" Bilbo stomped over and waved Fíli and Kíli away, reaching out a hand for Evîrde to grasp once she spotted him. "You may be half dwarf, but good manners come first and foremost."

"Ouch. When did we ever have bad manners?" Fíli looked to Kíli, who raised his shoulders unknowingly.

"Aren't you supposed to be resting?" Asked Thorin.

"Well, I was, but I got peckish and drank up the last of that coffee, and now I can do everything but sleep. Not mention all the racket that's been going on." Bilbo wasn't going to touch on the absolute atrocity of Nori 'borrowing' his favorite mug for the third time that month. He grabbed an orange from the fruit bowl and aggressively tried to peel it, only to realize it was fake. "Why do we even have this!?"

"Dori says it's nice decor, or something." Kíli grabbed a handful of the faux food himself and went on to juggle it as Fíli cheered for his act.

"Well, how has your morning been? From the sound of it not very... fruitful." Bilbo gestured with the orange in his palm.

"To put it simply, we will not find ourselves allied with Rohan." Thorin explained, lifting Evîrde up and out of the sling when she had begun to wave her hands at Bilbo to hold her.

"Suppose it was worth a try---oh, hello darling." Bilbo's spirits lightened back up as he took her into his arms. "You've had quite the day so far, haven't you?" He took her grabbing at his ears and curls for a 'yes' of sorts. Thorin certainly looked as if he'd had an anvil dropped on his head, as far as he could tell by his unamused stare. Fíli and Kíli were hardly helping by trying to get him to juggle fake fruit with them. "What else have you got for today?"

A telling grin spread across Thorin's lips. "As the meeting was cut short, I believe I have time to spare till the next."

And that was how all three of them ended back in bed, snug and warm under the layers of blankets and fluffed pillows to max relaxation. Evîrdeen wouldn't complain about the chance of another quiet nap, curling up to Bilbo's chest. Thorin linked an arm over them both, spooning Bilbo from behind, applying soft kisses to the crook of his neck every now and then. Each found themselves falling asleep easily. Strange men, fake fruit, Elven affairs and missing mugs be damned---they decided to take a royal day off.

[cowboybeepboop]

Infinite

"Always and forever, you're mine,"

Pairing: Kili Durin x fem! Reader 

Genre: Romantic smut

Word count: 3.6k

Summary: You're in a secret relationship with the dwarf prince, one full of nothing but love.

Warnings: kind of angsty? Idk forbidden love, soft kili, unprotected sex

Kíli had never truly been in love before - sure, he’s had his little crushes here and there. But never something so serious, with his blood almost burning as he thought of your face, his heart skipping every other beat when you were near.

After several long months of secretly sneaking off with you, always behind his uncle’s back, he approached you with the biggest smile, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you into a tight hug. “I’ve been waiting all day for you, darling.”

“My love…” you murmur against his neck, cuddling into his embrace.

Kíli tightens his arms around you, burying his nose in your hair with a deep inhale. Your sweet, flowery scent makes his mind hazy - it is all he can think of besides how much he adores you.

“Do you know how hard it is to wait for you?” he murmurs, pressing a warm kiss to your temple. “I dream of you all the time, and all day, all I want to do is see your beautiful face again…”

He pulls back just so he can cup your face in his hands. “You’re all I ever think about…”

His gaze drifts down to your mouth, and his own lips curl into a smirk. “I've been wanting to do this all day…” he murmurs, leaning down and tilting your chin up to press a firm, lingering kiss onto your lips. 

Your lips reply eagerly, your hands gripping his sides as you press against him. “I have missed you as well. It has been far too long since I’ve been in your embrace.”

Kíli closes his eyes gently as he savors the taste of your kiss, a low hum of approval rumbling in the back of his throat. 

“Mm… you’re so perfect…” he says softly, rubbing his thumbs along your jawline. “And it really has been too long. I can’t go another day without you in my arms.”

He gives another tight squeeze and pulls your body flush against his, as though he can’t get you close enough.

He moves one of his hands behind your head, burying his fingers in your hair and tilting your head back so he can bury his mouth against your neck.

“I need you…” he breathes, pressing hot kisses and soft bites along the length of your neck, leaving the skin red. “More than I need air. How am I supposed to get through days without you here with me…?”

“Lover…” you sigh, eyes fluttering shut with the contact. “I do not wish to sneak around any longer..” your hand cradles the back of his head.

Kíli’s face buries into the crook of your neck, inhaling the soothing scent of your skin as he tries to calm his aching heart at your words. 

“I… I don’t either,” he whispers back, pulling away from your neck to nuzzle his face against your ear. “But my uncle… he won’t understand. You know how Dwarves feel towards Elves…”

“My heart belongs to you until the day I take my last breath.” Your fingers tangle in his hair. “I wish to stay with you, in your arms.”

Kíli lets out a small sigh as your hand slides through his hair. He lifts his head again, looking down into your eyes longingly.

“You’re mine… you’re all mine,” he murmurs, tracing the pads of his fingers over your jaw. “And if I could, I would never let you leave my arms again. But…”

His mouth twists into a tight frown. “My uncle would have my head if he found out about you. He’s a stubborn old Dwarf who holds his grudges with a burning fire.”

“My love,” your gaze meets his, tears falling down your face. “I cannot make you choose, but I wish you would.” You breathe out.

Kíli’s heart feels as though it might break right there. He closes the distance between you, his hands immediately reaching up to cradle your face gingerly between them, his thumbs wiping at the tears on your face.

“I can’t lose you,” he whispers, his own voice thick with emotion. “I can’t lose you. But he’s my family… the only family I have left… if I defy him and lose his support…”

He lets out a shaky sigh, letting his hands slide downwards until they’re clutching at your wrists.

“I know..” you murmur softly. You bring your hand to his face, fingers dancing over his tanned skin.

Kíli lets his eyes fall closed as you touch his face, leaning into the touch like a starved dwarf. 

“You make it sound so easy… defying my family, my kin, my brother…” he mutters, pressing his forehead against yours gently.

“I do not wish for you to defy them.” You sigh, desperately trying to find the words. “But loving me is the problem.. for it is against his will.”

Kíli’s face twists at your words. He knows that what you’re saying is true - it was against Thorin’s will. Thorin would never accept an Elf for Kíli to love.

“But I do love you,” he says back fiercely, leaning back to look into your eyes desperately. “I love you so much… I can’t just stop loving you… I *never* could…”

You press a gentle kiss to his closed eyes, your touch soft and almost ghostly.

Kíli’s breath catches in his throat as your lips press to his eyes, gently squeezing your wrists gently. He feels as though you’re a dream - too beautiful to be real. How could he ever let you go?

“Please,” he whispers, opening his eyes again to look at you desperately. “Please, don’t leave. I can’t live without you…”

“Love..” you breathe out, at a loss for words. In all of your endless wisdom, you still cannot find the solution to your predicament.

“Do not cry, my dear.” You wipe the warm tears from his cheeks, your own threatening to fall.

Kíli’s breath shakes as you touch his face again, and he swallows thickly, trying in vain to halt the flow of tears.

“How am I supposed to *not* cry when you’re about to leave me…?” he mutters shakily, his hands gripping your wrists desperately, as though he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go of you.

You wrap your arms around him, pulling him into a comforting embrace. Your fingers tangle in his hair as you bite back your despair. “Kili..” you sigh his name, voice barely above a whisper.

Kíli lets out a small whimper as you pull him into your embrace, burying his face into the crook of your neck quickly as if to hide the tears that continue to run down his face. 

He grips at your back, holding onto you like a drowning man gripping for a lifeline. He’s never felt so vulnerable, so broken - so weak - before.

“You can’t leave…” he mutters again, his fingers digging into your back as he speaks. “Please… don’t leave me…”

“Kili..” Every time you repeat his name, Kíli’s heart aches fiercely. His fingers dig into your back more desperately, pulling you as close to him as he can.

“Please…” he mutters, his voice muffled as he buries his mouth against your shoulder, his breaths coming in short gasps. “Please don’t leave… don’t go… I’ll die without you…”

You pull back from his embrace ever so slightly, guiding his hand to your chest. “My heart beats for you, only you.” Your other hand traces soft patterns into his back comforting him.

Kíli closes his eyes as your hand leads his to rest against your chest, feeling the steady thumping of your heart against his palm. It’s an almost soothing sensation, reminding him that he’s *not* dreaming - you’re really here with him, in his arms where you should be.

He lets out a shaky breath as your fingers work their way across his back, and he finally raises his head again to look into your eyes. 

“Don’t…” he whispers back, his voice thick with the sound of tears. “Don’t go…

“I will stay by your side, as long as you wish me to.” Your resolve drifts away, your desire for him outweighs the desperation for more than a secret relationship.

Kíli lets out a shuddering breath, his eyes widening slightly as his heart starts to thump against his rib cage. You’ve just said exactly the words he craved to hear, his shoulders sagging with pure relief. 

“I will always want you by my side…”

His hands move to your hips, his thumbs massaging gently into the bare skin just below your shirt. He swallows thickly, his eyes darkening as he suddenly drops onto his knees in front of you.

His hands slide up your side, his lips immediately finding your stomach and leaving a line of soft kisses there.

“Meleth nîn..” you gasp, his kisses leaving you breathless and craving more.

Kíli’s hands slide under your shirt, his fingers gently tracing up your abdomen as his lips continue to press against your skin. He lets out a small moan as your soft gasp reaches his ears, the sound adding to his growing desire.

“Say it again…” he breathes, pressing a kiss against your bare skin just below your ribs. “My darling… say that again…”

“Meleth nîn, your touch undoes me.” You moan, head falling back in pleasure.

A shiver of pure lust runs through Kíli’s body as you moan for him again, and his lips pull into a smirk against your skin. His hands slide higher up your body, his fingers dancing across your stomach, up towards your chest.

“I want to undo you… I want to drive you wild, love…” he mutters, leaning in to press his lips to the bare skin between your breasts. “I want to *break* you…”

You let out soft noises, your body trembles with his touch. “Such lewd words my prince.”

Kíli lets your words encourage him further, his tongue darting out to lave against the bare skin of your stomach before his mouth wanders higher. He bites down on your skin gently, his teeth just barely breaking the surface.

“Filthy prince, aren’t I?” he mutters, giving another bite against the skin of your belly. “And you love me for it.”

You lower yourself down, capturing his lips in a hungry kiss. Kíli immediately leans into the kiss, his tongue darting into your mouth to dance with yours. He groans with pleasure at the sudden shift in position, lowering himself against you on the grass until his hips press against yours.

He pulls back from the kiss to catch his breath, his eyes raking over your body as he moves to press kisses against the side of your neck. “I want to make you mine… I want to take you here… now…” he whispers against your ear.

“My love..” you moan, feeling his hand slide between your thighs.

Kíli groans as he hears the sound of your moan, and can already feel himself starting to harden at the sound. He moves so that he can press his hips even more into yours, rubbing against you needily. 

His hand slides further between your thighs, his fingers tracing along the skin that’s not being covered by your clothing.

Kíli’s hand reaches the apex of your thighs, feeling the heat emanating from your core. He whispers, “I need to feel all of you, my love. Tell me you want this, tell me you’re mine.” His voice is filled with urgency, his desire for you burning like wildfire within.

"Yours," you pant into his mouth, your body arching towards his touch. "Forever yours, Kili." His hand slides into your pants, his fingers seeking your warmth eagerly.

The words are like a key unlocking his restraint, and he responds by kissing you with a passion that feels as though it could set the entire world ablaze. His hand slides further into your folds, his fingers now coated in your slickness as he explores your most sensitive areas with a gentle, yet insistent touch. 

His movements are tender but firm, as though he's afraid you might vanish from his grasp at any moment. His thumb finds your clit and begins to rub it in slow, deliberate circles, the pressure increasing as your breaths turn into soft whimpers of pleasure.

"Mm," he groans against your mouth, his arousal growing as he feels you react to his touch. "You're so wet for me, so beautiful... I can't wait to taste you."

With a final, lingering kiss, he pulls away from your lips and moves his mouth down the side of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin as he goes. 

His hand continues to work between your legs, his fingers teasing and exploring as he goes lower, his eyes never leaving yours as he watches the pleasure build on your face. 

His other hand moves to the hem of your shirt, lifting it up and over your head in one swift movement, leaving you bare before him. 

His gaze devours your body, his eyes dark with need as he kisses his way down your chest, pausing to suck on your nipples before his mouth reaches the waistband of your pants.

With a growl of desire, he unbuckles the belt and unbuttons the fly, pulling the fabric down to expose your quivering stomach. He kisses and licks his way down, his hand still playing with your wetness as his tongue darts out to taste you. 

You moan deeply as he finally brings his mouth to your sex, his tongue sliding over your clit in a way that makes your legs shake. His kisses are now replaced with the feeling of his mouth and tongue, his movements growing more urgent as he brings you closer and closer to the edge of release.

Kíli groans into your heat, his mouth never leaving the sweetness of your folds as your thighs tighten around his head. His tongue laps at your clit with fervent strokes, the sound of your moans echoing in the quiet glade like a siren’s call to his soul. 

The pressure of your legs only fuels his hunger, his hands gripping your hips to keep you still as he worships your body with his mouth. The scent of your desire fills the air, making his arousal ache painfully in his breeches. 

His movements become more feverish, his tongue flicking and suckling, as he tastes the sweet nectar of your passion. Your body tenses, and he knows you’re close. He doubles his efforts, his teeth grazing your sensitive bud as he pushes you towards the precipice.

"Kili, I..." Your voice trails off into a keening cry as the orgasm sweeps through you, your back arching and your nails digging into the dirt. He continues to lick and suck, drawing out every last tremor of pleasure as your legs quiver around his head.

Finally, when you collapse against the cool grass, boneless and panting, Kíli pulls back, his mouth glistening with your essence. He smirks up at you, eyes dark with satisfaction and desire. "Mine," he whispers, his voice thick with lust, "Always mine."

Kíli slides himself between your trembling thighs, his eyes never leaving yours as he admires the flushed beauty of your post-orgasmic state. He fumbles with the ties of his own breeches, finally freeing his erection which juts out proudly, aching for the warm embrace of your body. 

The anticipation is almost unbearable as he lines himself up with your entrance, his hand gripping the base of his shaft as he gives it a slow, firm stroke. He leans in to kiss you again, his tongue sweeping into your mouth as he starts to press forward, the blunt tip of his cock parting your folds. 

You moan into the kiss, your body instinctively responding to his touch as he pushes in, filling you inch by inch with his thick, hard length. His movements are slow and deliberate, savoring every moment of your union as if it could be the last.

Kíli's eyes never leave yours as he pushes deeper, his cock stretching and filling you completely. His movements are slow and tender as if he's afraid of breaking the spell that's wound tight around the both of you. 

Each inch feels like an eternity, his passion building like a crescendo in his chest. He whispers sweet nothings into your mouth, his tongue dancing with yours as he starts to move with a rhythm that matches the beating of your heart. 

His hips rock into yours, the friction causing sparks of pleasure to ignite within you. Each thrust is a declaration of love, a silent promise that no matter the cost, you belong to him, and he to you. 

The world outside the glade fades away, leaving only the two of you, entwined in a dance as old as time itself. With every stroke, Kíli claims you more thoroughly, his love and desire a physical force that resonates through every fiber of your being. 

Your bodies move together in perfect harmony, the slick sounds of your union the only music playing in the symphony of passion. 

With the intensity of his love and desire driving him, Kíli's movements become slightly more erratic, his orgasm approaching like a storm on the horizon. Despite his best efforts to prolong the moment, the passion overwhelms him, his body shaking with the effort to maintain his control. 

He whispers your name like a prayer, his hips thrusting faster, his cock sliding in and out of you with a passionate fervor that speaks louder than any words could. His eyes never leave yours, the connection between you as palpable as the heat of your bodies pressed together. 

The slick sound of your union fills the quiet glade, punctuated by your breathless moans and his grunts of pleasure. His hands tighten around your hips, guiding you to meet his every thrust, his body demanding release. 

The sensation of his hardness pounding into you sends waves of pleasure crashing through you, your climax threatening to build again. Kíli knows he's close, his breaths coming in harsh pants against your skin, his eyes dark with a primal need to claim you, to make you his in every way possible. 

He whispers sweet promises and dirty confessions against your neck, his teeth grazing your skin as he fights to hold back his release, not wanting this stolen moment of pure ecstasy to end. 

But the need is too strong, and with a final, desperate moan, he buries himself deep within you, his orgasm ripping through him like lightning through the sky, his warmth filling you as he surrenders to the overwhelming love that consumes him.

"Forgive me, my love," Kíli murmurs against your neck, his voice heavy with passion and regret as he realizes his own climax has come first. "I wanted to make you feel good first, to give you pleasure before I took mine." 

His hips slow their rhythm, his cock still pulsing deep inside you as his orgasm subsides. He kisses the tender skin of your throat, his grip loosening slightly. "I'm sorry," he whispers, his eyes searching yours for any trace of disappointment.

"No, no, Kili," you whisper breathlessly, shaking your head. "You never need to apologize for loving me like this." Your voice is a soft caress against his ear, sending shivers down his spine. You feel his cock thicken within you, his passion not yet sated.

"Take what you need," you encourage him, your hips rocking gently against his to show you're ready for more. The sensation sends a jolt of pleasure through your body, and Kíli's eyes flare with renewed desire. 

He groans, his hips moving with more urgency, his love for you a potent elixir that fuels his need. He kisses you deeply, his tongue mimicking the movements of his hips as he starts to thrust again, his hands tightening on your hips. 

Your bodies move in perfect harmony, a silent conversation of love and need. Your desire builds once more, coiling tight in your core. "Again, my love," you breathe into his ear. "Take me again." The words are a catalyst, igniting a fresh wave of passion in Kíli. 

Kíli feels your muscles tightening around him, your body's sweet embrace urging him closer to the edge as well. He can't help but groan into your ear, his breath hot and ragged as he picks up the pace. 

His strokes become more deliberate, aimed to hit that spot deep within you that makes your eyes roll back in your head and your toes curl. His own climax builds the pleasure from your tightness around him almost too much to bear. 

His hand slides back up to find your clit, his thumb circling the sensitive bud as he continues to thrust, his other hand digging into the soft flesh of your hip to hold you in place. "Cum for me," he whispers, his voice low and demanding, "I need to feel you cum around me, my love."

The intensity of his words sends a bolt of pleasure shooting through you, and you can't help but let out a sharp cry as your body obeys his command. Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, your inner walls contracting around his cock as you ride the peak of ecstasy. 

Kíli's eyes widen in amazement as he watches your face contort with pleasure, feeling the tremors of your release through your entire body. His orgasm follows swiftly, his cock pulsing as he releases himself deep within you, his love and passion a physical force that resonates through the both of you. 

His movements slow, his chest heaving with each ragged breath as he leans in to kiss you gently, his love for you shining in his eyes like the stars above. "Always and forever, you're mine," he whispers against your swollen lips.

[novanillacake]

Dwarrowtober 1: "Mountain" (TW: Blood/nosebleed)

a.k.a. Amalda notices Thorin is built like one

[thicctails]

when I finish my PJO fic, I think i'll turn my attention to a lil Hobbit/LoTR au/fic idea I've been simmering in m'brain

I call it "The Very Scaly Fauntling" AU. Its a Bagginshield au where Bilbo leaves after the Battle of the Five Armies (Thorin, Fili and Kiri all live) still assuming he's banished, and ends up discovering he's pregnant on his way back to the Shire. (cliche i know, but i love it) He stays in Mirkwood bc traveling while pregnant is a Very Bad Idea, bonding with the elves and Gandalf. One day, he discovers a shiny green rock in the garden that reminds him of the Shire, so he puts it in his cozy room, just above his hearth.

Spoiler alert, its not a rock, and months later Frodo Harma Oaken-Baggins gets a 'twin' brother, Glade Gorthnóna Oaken-Baggins, the most Hobbit-ish little dragon to ever live.

[thorinsspringforge]

Reveals are HERE!

The Thorin’s Spring Forge 2025 AO3 collection is live! You can now take a look at all the fics and art that have been submitted here. 

We have 19 new Thorin-centric fics for you, and 20 gorgeous artworks to go with them!

And while we're reading, ogling and squealing, let's throw tons of love at our amazing creators with kudos and comments! Remember, random keysmashes and emojis work too. ❤️

Thank you to everyone who participated: our artists, writers, pinch hitters and beta readers! We love you all, and this would not have been possible without you.

TSF Mod Team

[esta-elavaris]

Flufftober Day 16: Singing one another to sleep - Thorin Oakenshield/OC [1,006 words]

My Flufftober '23 masterpost can be found here 💜✨

“Thorin!”

Gwen jolted upright from a dead sleep, hands coming up to block a blade that was not there – wielded by a foe that no longer breathed. But it took her a moment to remember that, pain slicing through the long-healed scar that ran across the back of her forearm from wrist to elbow.

Reality registered, her limbs slackened, and she sighed shakily. Sweat drenched her, her nightdress sticking to her, and her heart and head warred for which could pound the hardest. She cursed quietly beneath her breath.

“The dragon?” Thorin’s voice sounded behind her, rough with sleep.

“Ravenshill,” she corrected hoarsely. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

As she spoke, she tried to rub the phantom pain out of her scar.

“You survived,” he spoke quietly.

It was difficult to say whether he was reassuring her of that fact, or himself.

“…despite a bit of touch-and-go in the middle there,” she murmured, hand settling over the scar.

Were it not for the healing abilities of the Elves, she would have lost the arm. It spoke volumes that Thorin had even taken her to them so entirely without reluctance, in the aftermath. As it was, there was occasional loss of sensation here and there, and she’d never move it with the same deftness she’d been capable of before, but it was a small price to pay.

“That’s not what bothers me in the dreams,” she admitted. “In the dreams, I don’t get there in time.”

To distract herself from the discomfort of speaking the words aloud, she peeled off her nightgown, throwing it away from the bed where it landed with little more than a rustling flutter. It was only keeping her cold, the way it clung to her damply lending to her sense of unease. But since she wasn’t willing to lie down again just yet, she only ended up colder as the sweat cooled and dried on her skin.

Wrapping her arms about herself, she tried to steady her breathing – helped by the fact that Thorin sat up and shifted til he was at her back. Her husband was like a furnace, and with his chest at her back she could no longer pretend the tremors were purely to do with the cold.

“You are here,” he said softly into her ear. “As am I. It is over. Although you paid a hefty price to see things as they are now.”

“I’d do it again.”

He did not sound cheered by the prospect, humming lowly in the back of his throat. “I would not ask that of you.”

“Since when has that ever stopped me?”

The rueful sound he made in response had a note of fondness to it. Winding a strong arm about her waist, he pulled her back – the gesture a suggestion more than an insistence, and she knew that if she insisted on remaining upright, he would ease up immediately. Instead, though, she leaned into the embrace, allowing him to lead her to lie down, more atop him than the bed itself. But that helped. She could not convince herself that he was not here, nor that he was not breathing, when his heartbeat beneath her hand, and she could feel each inhale and exhale every time.

“I’m all sweaty,” she protested half-heartedly.

Thorin scoffed. She looked at him properly for the first time since waking then, finding concern clear and unhidden in his striking eyes and his hair mussed from sleep.

“Do you think I care at all about that? No, my thoughts are with how I might repay wife for saving my life,” he mused quietly – likely sensing that she needed the silence filled so that her thoughts would not run away with her.

“You married her, for one thing.”

“A poor reward indeed,” he teased, one corner of his lips upturning. “A punishment, some might argue. Depending on my mood.”

“Stay awake with me?” she asked quietly. “Just for a little while?”

His manner lost what little teasing there had been in it to begin with, his face softening as the hand not at her waist found her hair.

“All night, if need be,” he vowed.

“I’m sorry. If you’re tired-”

She wasn’t used to being this shivering, frightened thing – and beyond her disquiet felt ridiculous for how he was being forced to pander to it, husband or no. But he dispelled her fears with a tightened hold and a firm interruption.

“Do not apologise. Not for this. Never for this.”

“It’s been so long since the last one. I thought it was over.”

“That is the way with them,” he murmured ruefully. “The gaps betwixt them lengthen and lengthen until one day they will be no more. In the meantime, you’ll recover more quickly from them each time. They will…jar you less.”

He spoke from experience, and how could he not? Given all that he’d seen across his years? She knew that Dwarves’ lives spanned further than those of humans, but he’d seen enough for ten lifetimes, even with that difference in mind.

“Do you get them? From the battle, I mean?”

“You dream that you did not succeed,” he said softly. “I dream that you did, but did not live to see that success.”

“I did.”

“You did.”

They lapsed into silence, Gwen slowly managing to match her breathing with his. After the third time he tactfully pretended not to notice her glancing up at him to check if he was awake, he began singing in low, soothing tones to save her the bother. The song was in Khuzdul, she knew not the words (the argument over the fact that Erebor’s Queen should know it being a surprisingly uphill one thus far), but that helped somewhat – focusing on his impossibly deep voice rather than the words it was forming, and feeling the vibrations of it throughout his chest.

When she finally did fall asleep again, it was a dreamless one, and she suspected it came long before he allowed himself to drift off again, too.

Links: AO3 -- FF.net -- flufftober masterpost -- dividers by cafekitsune

[luna-writes-stuff]

Just rewatched the entirety of the Hobbit saga and then I realised; ‘I wrote a whole ass fanfic series containing every little detail in the dwarven story line that is captured within these 9 hours’, so yeah, I couldn’t help but make at least one new meme post.

If you have no idea what I’m talking about, last year I finished my Kili X OC fanfic series! And it’s free to read right here on this hellsite! You can find it in the main masterlist on my pinned post <3

[anaszpan]

[ IMAGINE ] : You are Mr.Baggins' neighbor. By accident Thorin Oakenshield mistakes your and Bilbo's house and pays an unannounced visit.

[ A/N ] : The photos do not belong to me. English is not my native language. Don't hesitate to use this idea in your story.

[ ( ´ ꒳ ` ) ♡ ] : As the sun dipped below the rolling hills of the Shire, casting a warm golden glow over the lush landscape, I had just settled into a cozy chair by my hearth with a good book and a cup of chamomile tea. The peaceful ambiance was a staple of life in our quiet corner of Middle-earth, where the only disturbances typically came from the rustle of leaves or the occasional chatter of passing hobbits.

But that evening was different. The sound of heavy boots marching towards my door startled me out of my reverie. I set down my book, intrigued and slightly apprehensive. It was quite uncommon for visitors to stop by unannounced, especially not at this hour.

When I opened the door, I was met with the unexpected sight of a dwarf, his stature formidable even in my doorway. He stood there, framed by the pastel colors of twilight, his braided beard glimmering faintly in the fading light, and his deep-set eyes shimmering with a blend of determination and uncertainty. His attire, rugged and adorned with symbols of his kin, spoke of countless adventures and an unwavering spirit.

The moment felt surreal. There was an air of tension, a collision of worlds as I stood there speechless, my initial spark of curiosity mingling with something deeper—a stirring recognition of his own nobility and resolve.

In that fleeting instant, amidst the remnants of daylight and the gentle whispers of the evening breeze, I felt an unbidden spark of attraction. It was a clash of emotions—the warmth of home and hearth meeting the raw, untamed spirit of adventure that emanated from him. He seemed to carry not just the weight of his title but also a yearning for something more, something perhaps even softer than the iron walls of his heritage would allow.

Thorin’s gaze swept the interior of my home, lingering on the small details—my patchwork quilts, the quaint trinkets lining the shelves. A flicker of confusion crossed his brow, perhaps an acknowledgment that he had walked into a realm where he had not expected to find himself: the simple, safe life of a hobbit versus the tumultuous paths of a dwarven prince.

For an instant, we were suspended in time, the boundaries of our worlds blurring in the stillness of the moment. My heart raced, caught between the allure of the unknown and the comfort of familiarity, while Thorin seemed to wrestle with his own tumultuous thoughts, a fire mirrored in his eyes that hinted at hidden depths I longed to explore.

“Thorin Oakenshield. At you service... Is this the door to Bilbo Baggins' house?” he asked, his voice a deep rumble that felt like distant thunder—strong and echoing, yet somehow inviting. The serious demeanor and royal lineage seemed to fade as I noticed the vulnerability lurking beneath, a soul hungry for acceptance in a life burdened by duty.

Though initially my mind raced with the potential chaos of an uninvited Ruler invading my tranquil home, something deeper, almost magnetic, pulled me closer to him. There was a tension in the air, palpable and charged, as though the very fabric of fate was weaving our threads together in that brief encounter. I could feel the flutter of anticipation in my chest, each heartbeat a reminder of the exhilarating unknown that stood before me.

“No, my Lord. You’ve ventured a bit off course.” I managed to say, my voice barely rising above a whisper.

[lathalea]

The Arrival

Yes, my beloved readers, it's time for another Thorin fic from yours truly!

Relationships: Thorin Oakenshield x Reader/OC (pick one) Rating: G Warnings: none Author's notes: Thorin and his Company have reclaimed Erebor and started rebuilding their kingdom. Everything seems fine except for the fact that the King Under The Mountain is eagerly awaiting the arrival of someone very dear to him... Also, I want to apologise to Peter Jackson for stealing some lines from An Unexpected Journey and J.R.R. Tolkien for appropriating and rephrasing one sentence from The Lord of The Rings.  I'm a hopeless romantic, what can I say? You can find this fic on AO3. For @legolasbadass 💙💙💙

Khuzdul: Iglishmêk - dwarven sign language Kurdelê - my heart Lukhdelê - my light of all lights

The King Under the Mountain, Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, the second of his name, also known as Thorin Oakenshield, the king of Durin’s folk, was not a patient Dwarf—and yet he waited. He had been standing on the main terrace above the Great Gate of Erebor since the moment when the first rays of the morning sun gilded the distant peaks of the Iron Hills. His eyes, however, were turned towards the west, where the jagged tops of the Misty Mountains grazed against the pink sky. As he took a deep breath, fresh spring air filled his lungs. It was his—and his people’s—first spring in Erebor since it was reclaimed. The winter after the Battle of Five Armies passed in a blink of an eye. The kingdom was being rebuilt and prepared for the returning Dwarves, food stores had to be replenished, new trade agreements had to be signed… but among all those duties, something else kept Thorin awake until late on many a night. His memories.

The memory of a pair of hands gently resting on his shoulders as he sat behind his desk, and the sweet timbre of the voice that went with it, “Come, Kurdelê, it is time we reposed for the night, those reports can wait until the morning.”

The memory of those soft, sweet lips pressing innocently against his cheek and murmuring something scandalously indecent into his ear.

The memory of how her body felt in his lap, his arms around her waist, her arms around his neck, her forehead pressed against his, her silver laughter as she pretended to scold his rash behaviour, so unbecoming of a king.

The memory of her bare skin in candlelight.

But there were other memories, too. Their lengthy late-night conversations about anything and everything. Their secret escapades to the market, or to an inn, dressed as common folk, pretending to be a couple of travelling merchants. Their wanderings through the Blue Mountains in search of the best view of the sea in the west (his choice) and the most beautiful flower glades (her choice). 

During the lengthy council meetings he had to hold almost daily in Erebor, he would recall how much her presence changed the dynamics of similar gatherings back in the Blue Mountains. Her reasoning was swift, and her no-nonsense approach to the matters of state made even the most ancient council members nod in approval. Even now, he would—out of habit—turn to his right, wishing to discuss a matter with her or ask for her insight. But she was not there, and so he would give out a dissatisfied grunt and return to the matter at hand. 

He knew that the only thing he had to do was wait, and he abhorred it. But there was nothing to be done. No sane person would risk crossing the Misty Mountains in the middle of winter. Now, however, the spring came into its own right. And he sent his best men to the High Pass to oversee the approach of the first dwarven caravan from Eriador. It was supposed to bring the first group of his people returning home, merchants, masters of craft, their families and belongings… and her. The whole Erebor was waiting for the arrival of their kin—the symbol of a new beginning for the Mountain and its dwellers. Many eyes turned to the west, counting the days, making wagers, discussing the route the waggons must have taken, and the current road conditions. It seemed that in those days, only one topic existed: the caravan.

But Thorin could only think of her lovely hand in his.  Of her kindred touch.

As soon as a raven brought word from the caravan, reporting that they have succesfully crossed the mountains, he could not stop himself from looking to the west, and hoping. 

This was the fifth day he spent on the terrace, waiting for any signs of the caravan’s approach.

On the first day, Gloin waited with him in hopes of seeing his wife and son, but was called away due to some issue in the treasure chamber. Thorin stayed, cursing the enchanted forest (and its haughty king, for good measure) for daring to obscure his view. Sadly, neither the forest nor its king moved out of the way.

On the second day, Dwalin asked Thorin whether he was growing mawkish in his dotage, staring at the edge of Mirkwood like a lovesick whelp—a question he had to take back on the training grounds. 

On the third day, Dori asked whether Thorin would rather wait inside, on account of that nasty rain, and drink some warm tea with honey. No, said Thorin, he would not. And that envoy from the Iron Hills could join him there, on the terrace, by the way.

On the fourth day, Nori, Bifur and Bofur kept Thorin company, amusing him—and themselves in equal measure—with the latest gossip straight from the taverns of Erebor (all two of them, for now). He had no idea that several hundreds of dwarves, mostly newcomers from the Iron Hills and the White Mountains, could wreak such havoc. And marry so swiftly and in such numbers. Spring was truly in the air.

Now, on the fifth day, he stood alone, and waited. Roac was circling the Long Lake below, giving out a single caw from time to time, “Still nothing.”

And then, a hunting horn rang out in the air. Thorin knew its sound all too well.

“Balin!” he exclaimed to his friend who sat in the hall beyond the terrace. “Sound the alarm!”

The elderly dwarf raised his head from above a piece of parchment, slightly puzzled.

“Call out the guard,” Thorin insisted, feeling his impatience take the better of him. “Do it now! 

“What is it?” Balin rose from his seat, his scroll forgotten.

“The caravan!” Thorin gestured excitedly—perhaps a tad too excitedly for a Dwarf of his stature—towards Mirkwood, where a long line of waggons started emerging from the forest. “They will be here soon!”

She will be here soon. 

Over a year passed since the last time he held her in his arms, since he braided the silky dark waves of her hair, and since he looked into the brilliant, wise eyes of the woman he loved. To him, it felt like an eternity, and in that very moment, as he hurried down the stairs that led towards the Great Gate, he made a solemn promise to himself.

When the caravan arrived, most of the Dwarves were already gathered outside of the mountain. The guards held their heads high, presenting their weapons in an honorary salute, not leaving their posts, but even they cast curious glances at the newly arrived, trying to find familiar faces in the crowd. Thorin smirked at his thoughts. They looked as impatient as their king.

He knew the protocol of such meetings like the back of his hand, requiring him to stand by the gate, look regally, and welcome the newcomers to their new—old—home. His resolve wavered, however, when he saw a familiar figure clad in a green, fur-lined gown getting down a waggon, helped by one of the guardsmen. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. Without thinking, he took a step forward, and then stopped, recalling who he was and what he was expected to do. He was also not allowed to leave his post, just like his guards. Instead, he observed from a distance, admiring the way the waves of her hair fell down her shoulders as she looked around, perhaps slightly disoriented, taking in the surroundings. Thorin saw the exact moments when her gaze rested on the mossy stone shaped by his ancestors into statues of warrior kings. Then her gaze moved down, focusing on the green marble of the Great Gate. Her eyes widened, her lips formed an “O” and then moved, she spoke something, but her words were lost in all the commotion. In that very moment, she reminded him of that bright-eyed maiden he had met for the first time in a mountain meadow half a world away; the maiden who laughed at his abysmal jokes, who fit so well in his arms when they danced, and who accepted his awkward courting efforts. The time that passed between then and now did not take away her ability to wonder and enjoy the world around her. She endured so many hardships on the way from the Blue Mountains to Erebor, so many cold nights on the road, faced so many dangers, and yet she never wavered in her decision to leave the Blue Mountains behind to be with him and their people. Now, she was finally here and, at last, he felt complete. Being able to see his own kingdom—their kingdom—through her eyes, and to see how amazed she was at the view, was a reward on its own. 

Thorin could not stop himself from smiling when her eyes finally met his. 

“Welcome home, my…” he began signing in iglishmêk, in that discreet way they often did on official occasions when the eyes of many would rest on them.

A light flush bloomed on her cheeks, she responded with a smile, and began walking towards him, oblivious of her escort and the joyous crowd around her, forgetting about the protocol, moving faster and faster, a giggle escaping her lips, her braids danced in the wind, her cloak flowed behind her, and…

“Thorin!” she called him in that melodious voice of hers, and there were diamonds in her eyes, or perhaps it was only his vision that suddenly turned very blurry, and he opened her arms, and thought “the Abyss take the protocol!”, and he rushed towards her, ignoring Balin clearing his throat in embarrassment, because she was finally here, and he had waited long enough—and they finally met halfway.

He wrapped his arms around her and felt her pressing into him, and there was laughter, and more tears in their eyes, the diamonds of happiness, those most precious among gems, and he was finally able to finish that sentence.

“Welcome home, my wife,” he rasped out, pressing his forehead against her, breathing in her familiar flowery scent, the one he adored so much. This was her, finally her, in his arms, and only she mattered in this very moment, not the crowd cheering around them, witnessing this moment of tenderness between their ruling couple, not even his kingdom, nor the world around them—now, it was only her.

“I missed you, my love,” she murmured, holding tight onto him, as if she wanted to make sure he would not disappear, and a wave of warmth washed over him. “I can’t believe I’m finally here, with you, after all those months…”

“Neither can I,” he agreed, cupping her cheek tenderly and eliciting a small sigh from her. “It was much too long, Lukhdelê.”

“Aye, it was,” she nodded, her eyes searching his face, as if learning it anew.

“I made a promise to myself,” Thorin continued. “Never again.”

“Oh?” she tilted her head in that alluring way of hers, and he had to suppress the improper urge to kiss her passionately in front of his people.

“Never again shall we part for so long. I crave you by my side, my heart,” he stated, bringing her hand to his lips.

“Then I will be looking forward to you upholding the promise,” she graced him with a teasing smile that made his blood run faster. “We have been apart indeed for too long, and so were our people. I believe it is time for us to work on improving their morale, would you not agree, my king?”

“Your wish is my command, my queen,” he agreed and took her in his arms again, and then their lips met. Sweetness intermingled with warmth, tenderness fueled the fire inside them, and he cared not that they stood in front of the gate in the sight of many.

After all, who cares about protocol when you have to properly welcome your wife home?

💙💙💙 Read it? Like it? Spread the love and reblog it! 💙💙💙

📜 Searching for more stories to read? Check out my masterlist!📜

Do you like my writing? Would you like to read more? Feel free to show your support by having a Ko-fi with me! Thank you 💙

Taglist (let me know if you'd like to be added/removed): @fizzyxcustard @shrimpsthings​ @dark-angel-is-back @sherala007 @anyaspidergirl-blog @jotink78 @rachel1959 @saltwater-in-the-afternoon @linasofia @bitter-sweet-farmgirl @legolasbadass @yourqueenunderthemountain @reblogunderthemountain @guardianofrivendell @elrawienthewhite @xmly-xo @mrsdurin @nelleedraws @beenovel @vee-vee-writes @mcchiberry  @dumbassunderthemountain @errruvande @laurfilijames @emrfangirl @s0ftd3m0n @lilith15000 @kami-chan1512  @ragsweas @enchantzz @aduialel @myselfandfantasy @thewhiteladyofrohan @middleearthpixie @i-did-not-mean-to @blairsanne @fckmini @clumsy-wonderland @wormsmith @mailinsblogofstuff  @medusas-hairband @xxbyimm @knittastically @saucyminxbrainspill @quiall321 @frosticenow @glassgulls

[aritheanna]

Kìli Durìn x fem!reader

Restless

Hii, this is my first one shot for Kìli Durìn so please keep that in mind and I hope you all enjoy!

Warnings: Fluff

Word count: 2.1k

Summary: You tag along on the quest of the company with your uncle Bilbo and have trouble sleeping along the way. Kìli is there to comfort you.

Run. Run, run, run. Those words repeated in your head as the pattering of your footsteps and the cracking of sticks and branches could be heard throughout the forest. An Orc pack was quickly on your trail as you endured a dangerous quest along with 13 Dwarves, a Hobbit and a wizard. There was no time to look behind you, the anticipation and fear was killing you.

Looking to your right, you saw your uncle Bilbo just feet away from you. Bofur and Bifur weren’t far from him as your left consisted of Fíli and Kíli. The others trailed behind you as your long legs gave you a bit more of an advantage. Gandalf leading the group, urged everyone to keep running for there was another creature quickly on your trail.

All 16 of you quickly rushed to your destination safely, breathless and tired. There, sat a house filled with animals and a large table and plenty of room for everyone.

“Whose house is this Gandalf?” Bilbo asked as he looked around curiously.

“Beorns.” He replied, and uneasy tone filled his words as you looked over to your shoulder and pulled out your canteen. Thankfully you had found shelter, as the last drop fell into your mouth.

“Need more?” Looking up, you saw the young Dwarf Prince handing you his canteen. A small smirk was plastered on his face as he took a seat next to you. Kíli was different from the others, though he was young and didn’t have much self esteem, you thought he was the most charming dwarf you’ve ever met. You loved a man that could make you laugh, someone who still was passionate about his family, and loyal to those he only had just met. The laughter that oozed from him was contagious, no matter the situation, you could count on him to lighten the mood.

You admired the way he had kept his hair, a small part was pulled back into a beautiful clip. A few pieces had fallen out due to the roughness of the journey but it never seemed to be too messed up or look bad in any way. You adored the way his bangs sat gently on his face, you’ve never seen someone pull off such a hairstyle before. No matter the day or what he went through, it never looked dirty or oily, and how you wished you could be the one to braid his hair.

Shaking the thoughts from your head, you used your peripheral vision, and looked down at the young dwarfs hands as they tapped repeatedly against his trousers. You knew since the moment you met him back at the Shire that Kíli was a restless and daring man, and that excited you. Only, he seemed more anxious than restless right now.

“What’s wrong Kíli?” You said tilting your head towards him, a smile creeping onto your lips for reassurance. The Prince turned to face you, he furrowed his eyebrows playfully and returned the smile.

“Nothing Miss (Y/N), just happy to be here.” He shrugged off the conversation, shaking his head slightly as a way to end it. But before you could say anything else, Fíli motioned his brother to help set up the bedrolls.

You clenched your jaw slightly and let out a soft sigh. The nights with the company had been rough for you, sleepless even. You feared for everyone, worried that some people won’t make it back alive. You had no other family, no where else to go, and the thought of anything happening to Bilbo brought you to tears. In fact, the thought of anything happening to any of your newly found friends made your stomach turn and your body shiver.

The tiredness was certainly there and you wished, hoped, just once you would be able to have a good nights rest. Especially tonight of all nights, being in a house with warmth and some privacy from the cursed world, this would be the best environment. Tonight you will sleep, no matter what it takes; you thought to yourself. Typically you would set your bedroll next to Bilbo except everyone else seemed to have the same idea; great.

Majority of The Company were already fast asleep, the loud snores filled the room but always seemed oddly comforting. Gandalf was smoking pipe weed in a corner, too zoned out to care for Fìli and Kìli who were goofing off near the fire place. Kìli’s brown wavy hair seemed to glisten from the light of the fire, turning into an amber like color as it highlighted certain strands. His eyes looked as though the light was being captured and held in them, the green in his eyes shined as beautiful as the shiniest green aventurine. If jewels were as bright and beautiful as his eyes I’d be obsessed with them too. Was all you could think of as you sat there fantasizing about the young Prince.

When you first met Kìli at the Shire you couldn’t help but be enchanted by his beauty; his charm and charisma. The way he was so adventurous and cheerful. Such a bright soul with so much love and wonder. But how foolish would it be to fall in love with a Prince trying to reclaim his home? There was no time for love, and even if there was, why would he love you? Half human and half hobbit. You didn’t have the height of a hobbit but you weren’t tall either. Your feet weren’t hobbit shaped, but you still were as stealthy as any other hobbit. There was nothing special about you, so why would he want you?

Kìli was to be king someday, there was no chance he would be allowed to be with anyone besides a dwarvin maiden. At least that’s what you told yourself. The mere thought of rejection from him made your heart hurt and became heavy, falling to the floor in sadness. Perhaps this will be another restless night after all.

Kìli turned his head in your direction, still engaging with his brother but paid no attention to the conversation. He was fixated on you as you adjusted your bedroll in the corner, far away from everyone else. At this point, he had completely drowned out any noise and wondered: why is it you were alone? Why did your expression look meek and sad? What could such a pretty girl, with big (y/c/e) be upset over?

“Kìli?” Fìli said, snapping his brother out of his trance. Kìli shot his head back to his brother with a surprised expression, as if he forgot he was in the company of him.

“Hm? Oh, yes! Um-“ Kìli stammered and cleared his throat as he tried to recall the last topic of discussion. Fìli smiled at his little brother and put his hand on Kìli’s shoulder, bringing him in slightly.

“Go.” Fìli whispered, tilting his head in your direction. “Go accompany her.” The words coming from his brothers mouth made Kìli start to sweat in his palms while he looked back and forth between you and him. Taking in a deep breath, Kìli sternly nodded and tensed up his chest. Thinking that if maybe he appeared more confident, he would actually become so.

As Kìli picked up his bedroll and slowly made his way over to you, he studied your body language. Your eyes blankly stared at the ceiling above as you clutched your blanket with both hands. You were lost in thought and hadn’t noticed the Prince making his way over to you.

“Mind if I join you?” Without letting you reply, Kìli had already set down his bedroll next to yours, leaving about a foot of distance between you two. You wondered why he chose to sit so far away but of course, you two were just friends. The thought of that made you roll your eyes as you looked away in annoyance, but seeing Kìli sit next to you with crossed legs and a big smile seemed to cure that annoyance.

“Don’t you want to get some rest?” You smirked, turning onto your side to face him while resting your head on your palm.

Kìli returned the same playful grin, “Don’t you?” He said with a charming laugh. How you loved that laugh of his, making your heart skip a beat and your stomach fill with butterflies each time. It was like a gift, so special and so unique, nothing else could beat his laughter.

“I’d love to, but-“ You paused, biting the inside of your cheek. Kìli furrowed his brows and tilted his head in confusion. “It’s nothing.” You said with a small fake laugh. You thought it would be best to not trouble him with your worries. You quickly looked away from him and went to lay on your back.

Kìli clenched his jaw with frustration, confused as to why you would not trust him. Why you could not open up to him. This entire trip Kìli had tried to get your attention, one way or another, whether it was to make you laugh or helping you fight your battles. Though to you it seemed like he didn’t think you could do it on your own. In reality, he did not want to see you get hurt.

“Confide in me,” Hovering over you as Kìli said that, he smiled so gently. His actions made your eyes widen and cheeks burn red. “Tell me what is on your mind.”

Your heart was beating a million miles an hour as you tried to stammer the words.

“I’ve just had a hard time trying to fall asleep.” You finally mustered the courage to speak, still locked into the young Princes eyes. “This whole trip.” You added. It wasn’t a lie by any means, you just thought it would be embarrassing to truly let him know that you were scared.

“Perhaps I could be of service, Miss Burglar.” His choice of words sent fire down your spine as you squeezed the blanket so tight you thought your hands would shatter.

“H-How so?” Your voice was quiet and shaky while Kìli’s smile never seemed to fade.

“May I?” Kìli’s voice was as sharp but tender and it wasn’t intimidating; instead you found yourself lost in it whenever he spoke. Losing yourself in each syllable, you were too shocked to noticed he had moved his bedroll completely next to yours so that not even a centimeter was between you two. “I know we have not known each other for long, but I cannot get you out of my head (Y/N). Forgive me if this is too much, but, I’m-“

“I loved you since the moment I saw you Kìli Durìn.” These words startled you, for you didn’t mean to have said it out loud. Quickly you covered your mouth, face still piping hot.

Kìli let out a soft chuckle as he looked away for a split moment. He could not believe that a woman of your beauty would love such an immature dwarf as himself. However he was so pleased that you did.

“May I hold you, (Y/N)?”

“Please.” You said, still in disbelief as to what was happening. Kìli smiled to himself as he slowly laid himself down, putting an arm around you securely. He used the arm that held you and pulled you in closely to him with minimal effort. Turning you onto your side as he did so. As the two of you adjusted yourselves, you couldn’t help but graze his forearm and biceps. Despite Kìli being so young, the muscles that he carried were astonishing. So strong and so gentle at the same time.

Kìli noticed your attraction and laughed, pulling you in so close it felt as you two would merge together. He buried his head into the nook of your neck, taking in a deep breath as he smelled your scent of fresh flowers and what appeared to be a hint of mint.

For once throughout the whole trip, you found yourself quickly drifting off without a single toss or turn. It was such a peaceful feeling and knowing the man you loved felt the same made everything seem ethereal. You hoped this night would never end and prayed that when you woke up he would still be right beside you.

Just as you were about to fall asleep, the dwarf Prince leaned in, whispering slightly as he said, “Amrâlimê, you have my heart for eternity.”

With that the two of you fell asleep, smiles carved into your faces as though you were statues. The feeling of pure love and gratitude was the last thing you had felt while you held the Princes large and rough hands in yours.

The end!!! Hope you all enjoyed <3

[bistecpard0]

Solo un poco de Thorin x Oc

Dibujarlo es difícil sobre todo porque se supone que debe ser algo ancho pero se me ha complicado hacer que parezca un enano 🫠🫠