Work Header

Lady In Red

Work Text:

They stare at her for several long heartbeats.

Dwalin is starting to feel that age has caught up with him and his hearing is now slowly fading, much like Oin’s. Beside him, Thorin Oakenshield is looking eerily calm.

“We need to what?” Thorin says slowly, drawing out each word as though he is chewing it up and spitting it out.

“You heard me,” the woman drawls out just as purposefully, not the least bit intimidated. Dwalin thinks perhaps she’s seen her fair share of drunken louts and brawling rogues to be running scared. “Rules of our tavern, boys. You come with a lady each, or you can have your ale by the side of the road there. Where it’s mighty warm too.”

“For what reason?” Thorin just forges on, intent on debating it to the end.

“To protect our ladies,” the woman looks crossly at him like he’s a particularly disagreeable specimen of a Dwarf.

“And where do you think we are going to find women to play to this ridiculous rule?” Thorin’s voice is fast becoming a snarl.

The woman harrumphs indignantly and looks ready to light into Thorin, when Dwalin physically pulls his King aside, and flashes a winning smile at the woman. “Don’t be hasty now, my lady,” Dwalin grins, keeping his head respectfully bowed, just a little. “We’ve had a rough day.”

“Don’t we all,” the woman snorts, but her tone is grudgingly amenable, and Dwalin actually feels relieved he does not have to do any more cajoling, for he has been doing it for days now. “Your friend is a bit of a grouch, eh?” she winks and Dwalin cannot help chuckling, even as he feels Thorin’s gaze spear into him from behind.

It is also closer to the truth than the woman thinks.

Since the quest to reclaim Erebor has commenced into action, they have travelled far and wide in search of willing Dwarven comrades. It is by pure chance they come across this little Dwarven stronghold hidden in the midst of reddish-hued, rolling hills. A strangely beautiful realm, aptly named Red Hills. Very un-Dwarven in its celebration of blue skies and hills and livestock. Yet somehow, it is still Dwarven, with the local Dwarves wielding formidable tools and weapons, and on account of their sheer brute size. Dwalin is a giant in Erebor with his towering height and long, dense muscles, and Dwalin is matched in physique by many of these Red Dwarves here, and shorter by some by a good several inches.

By another stroke of luck, they are told that a group of warriors are frequent patrons of this tavern. And they decide perhaps, it may prove useful to at least raise the topic of reclaiming Erebor from the clutches of Smaug. After all, alliances forged now with these Red Dwarves can aid them in future.

So here they are, barred at the door to the tavern because it has erected this interesting rule. Thorin is ready to flare and Dwalin just wants to get to that Hobbi-whatsitsname place so he can let the good Wizard take over the responsibility of taming his irritable King, and occasional lover.

“Good evening, my lady, we’ll be back very soon. Keep the ale warm,” Dwalin promises and strides away, herding Thorin along before the King can speak another word. As expected, the moment they are out of earshot, Thorin explodes.

“What was that, Dwalin?” the King all but snarls. “How could you stand there and agree to that ludicrous rule? Where on earth will we find strangers to accompany us to that tavern? Strange women, no less!”

Dwalin counts to ten in his mind, and exhales very, very slowly and noisily. As if on cue, Thorin glances at him, suddenly looking contrite. Works every time. It is a trick he’s learnt over the years. Thorin is cantankerous at the best of times, and downright tempestuous at his worst, and Dwalin’s figured out a way to essay his role as his King’s steadfast soldier, while sneaking in a fairly regular occurrence of hurried, heated sex with his fiery lover. Well, those occurrences have greatly lessened of late, especially with the quest looming over them, and neither of them has been managing that very well. The littlest of issues trigger Thorin into terrible outbursts, and Dwalin’s patience is almost at the end of its tether.

“Well, I…” Thorin begins, before grinding his jaw sullenly. “I did not mean to be so churlish about it. It’s just that surely you don’t expect me to bow and courtesy then? I am no maiden!”

“I can see that!” Dwalin retorts. And then like an epiphany, it strikes his mind with such beautiful and simple clarity that he is surprised he has not thought of it sooner. He stares at Thorin, the pieces clicking into place in his mind.

But of course.

“What forsaken place is this…” Thorin is still cursing as he paces across the cobbled lane. “I should be on my way. Not seeking aid from strangers in strange lands who care not a whit about – ” He stills mid-step as he finally catches the unmoving stare from Dwalin. “What?”

“That’s it, Thorin,” Dwalin exclaims, then forces his voice down. “We don’t need to find women. We have one here!”

Thorin actually looks around them, high and low. “I don’t see any,” he hisses. “If somehow you think I’m in the mood for a joke, Dwalin, I – ” Then he breaks off abruptly, mouth shutting with an audible clamp. His eyes grew wide beneath his dark brows as the nature of what Dwalin is truly saying sinks into his mind. Then slowly, like an unfurling storm cloud, his gaze narrows.

Are you suggesting that I make myself up as a woman?” Thorin says softly, a threat vibrating in his tone.

“Aye,” Dwalin says and gets no further as he blocks the heavy fist – one, two punches -  from Thorin, and actually manages to lock the King’s thrashing arms against his chest. Undaunted, he waits until Thorin’s furious struggling calms somewhat, before he sighs heavily and continues his explanation.

“Listen, Thorin, just – listen for a moment, will you!” Dwalin growls, tightening his grip. “You said it yourself. We cannot find any women now at such short notice, and at this hour. So what are we to do?”

Thorin stills, then twists free in one sudden, well-practised move that has Dwalin reeling a little. Decades of friendship and battles and tumbles in unlikely places, and Thorin still manages to catch him off-guard.

You dress up as the woman, then,” Thorin challenges, chest heaving with pants, his hair a rakish mane around his face.

“Well, I would,” Dwalin humours him. They can both play this game. “If you can see me as one.” He smiles winsomely and raises both forearms with the charming knuckle-dusters clanging against his brawny muscle.

Thorin opens his mouth as if to argue, then he closes it and glares hard at Dwalin. And finally, he just turns away and looks deflated. He spits out an un-Kingly curse. In reply, Dwalin shrugs huge, broad, very unwomanly shoulders.

“I – ” Thorin gnashes his teeth wretchedly. He looks torn. “I cannot dress as a woman. It is unbecoming. I am a man!”

“Who needs allies, and the numbers to re-stake his claim on his homeland,” Dwalin points out quietly. It is a degrading blow, not the kind of strike Dwalin likes to inflict, but sometimes, harsh situations call for harsh measures.

Thorin looks away in silence for a long moment, and Dwalin thinks perhaps, he has pushed Thorin too far. He opens his mouth to suggest that they forget it, and that there are other ways to set up talks with possible allies, when Thorin looks up suddenly, his face stricken.

The King’s lips are pressed in a white line, his eyes looking resolutely at a spot beyond Dwalin. “I’ll do it,” he says grimly.

Dwalin keeps his face very straight.

“If you can find something to – to put me in.”

And then just like that, the night suddenly becomes so much more interesting.


That is how Dwalin finds himself in this splendidly mad situation where he is waiting for his King to put on a dress. He has to admit that perhaps he does want to see Thorin kicking about in a dress. It’ll be mighty eye-opening, and Dwalin can hold this over Thorin’s head for the rest of their days.

Yet there is something fairly hysterical about the whole thing. It starts with the part where Dwalin found it surprisingly easy to knick a dress – and with it a whole array of exotic-smelling oils and perfumes – off a pile of freshly-laundered clothing at the inn and sneak it up to the quarters he shares with Thorin. Then it progresses to the pure horror in Thorin’s eyes as he beholds the thing.

Red?” Thorin snaps.

The two Dwarves stare down at the rich crimson folds of the dress.

Dwalin makes a gesture of pure frustration. “If you must know, I didn’t have time to stand there and pick one in your colour!”

Thorin snarls and hurls the door shut with such force it quivers in its hinges.

So now Dwalin is leaning against the door, as he has been doing for almost a half-hour. He has little idea how much time it’ll take to pull on a bloody piece of cloth, but he thinks it should be faster than half-hour.

The door swings open without warning and Dwalin nearly stumbles through. When he rights himself, the warrior and his King eye each other for a very long, very pregnant pause.

By my beard, Dwalin marvels inwardly.

Several things hurtle through Dwalin’s mind at the same time. Thorin is wearing a red fucking dress. It covers most of his body, leaving just the neck and his forearms bare. Thorin’s hair is pulled back from his face and intricately braided and clasped with silver beads– which explains the time taken – has his skin always been so pale? – and there is a faint flush on his cheeks. Thorin’s beard, a thick scruff at his chin and jaw, do nothing to hide the fineness of his features, now that they are free from his hair. The expression on Thorin’s face is one of utter embarrassment, and an almost endearing discomfort, the same way he looks when he opens his eyes in bed and finds Dwalin is already awake and has been watching him sleep.

Dwalin feels his body stirring and realises how much he misses Thorin’s face like that.

“You’re staring at me,” Thorin says pointedly. Then he recoils, and one hand rises to tug at his sleeve as if he can pull it further down. “Is there something wrong with the disguise?”

And that’s probably the problem. There is nothing wrong with the disguise. It’s working remarkably well. Dwalin decides there and then that Thorin either looks like a strangely beautiful man, or a startlingly handsome woman. And red is his colour.

By the beard of Mahal.

Dwalin comes to the realisation he’s going to have to do something about the other men in the tavern.

As Dwalin considers his options of protecting his King in a tavern, a pile of white filmy fabric is dumped into his arms. He has some expertise with ladies’ undergarments to recognise petticoats and chemise when he sees them.

“I don’t need those,” Thorin announces brusquely, and swishes across the quarters, his proud bearing not the least stunted by his dress. “They restrict my movements and I cannot fight properly in them.”

“They’re supposed to protect your virtue,” comes out of Dwalin’s mouth before he can stop himself.

Thorin turns and stares at him in a sort of stunned silence. “I cannot believe you just said that.”

“Neither can I!” Dwalin fairly bellows, rubbing a hand over his tattooed head. It does not help that Thorin is standing there, one leg jacked up on a chair, skirt yanked up to his knee, adjusting the knife sheathed at the back of his boot. Dwalin just wants to slide his hands into the skirt.

Satisfied with his state of armament, Thorin pulls his skirt back into place, and nods to Dwalin. “Let’s proceed,” he makes to get out of the quarters, but is held back. “What?”

“I think you’re forgetting yourself,” Dwalin points out. He holds out one arm and waits. It is by sheer will that he does not laugh when Thorin’s face darkens and he slings his own arm around Dwalin’s.

“Watch your step, princess,” Dwalin gives up holding back his mirth and chuckles, tightening their entwined arms.

With his fuming King on his arm, Dwalin marches resolutely back to the tavern.


Barely several paces into the tavern, Thorin is ready to step back out and retreat to their inn. For the umpteenth time that night, he wonders why he has agreed to this foul idea. It had seemed logically sound in theory, but in practice, Thorin feels completely out of his depth.

And Dwalin is not helping.

It started at the door to the tavern. Dwalin thought the woman might recognise Thorin, so he had proceeded to nestle Thorin against his chest and tuck his face against his neck. Thorin held himself very stiffly, as Dwalin bantered and joked and exercised his roguish charm on the woman. He had to force himself not to inhale the smell of metal and fire and thick, musky maleness. It was Dwalin’s scent, and the familiarity of it made Thorin’s heart clench.

There is growing distance between them, and not pertaining to their bond as King and warrior. It is in the nights they have lain together, the warmth of bodies tangled in languid heat, and the feel of lips smirking against his skin. The quest hangs over Thorin like a colossal burden. It is all Thorin can think about, and he cannot afford to be distracted by anything, even if it’s a powerful, big-hearted warrior with a hearty laugh and indomitable spirit.

Now, here they are, inside the tavern, everything actually gets worse, and Thorin hasn’t even thought that possible.

They are standing at the doorway, surveying the interior and drawing entirely too much attention to themselves. Thorin seethes in growing annoyance, while beside him, Dwalin is nodding cheerfully to the other patrons.

“They’re looking at me,” Thorin hisses under his breath.

“Just look natural,” Dwalin replies with a sort of rumbling glee to his tone. He likes the atmosphere of blazing firelight, brawny, roaring Dwarven men, too many barrels of ale, and Dwarven lasses swirling around with thick beards and colourful dresses as they exchange repartee with the men.

Then the first of many remarks to come reaches Thorin’s ears. New to town? Let me show you around, sweet thing. He just gapes at the man for a moment. How dare the Dwarf talk to him with such insolence!

He looks up at Dwalin with fire in his gaze. “I’ll show him what this means.” His hand curls into a fist.

Dwalin seizes his fist just as swiftly, an altogether too-bright grin plastered on his face. “You’re not to do anything. You’re in a dress!” he growls back from the corner of his mouth.

“I can handle myself.”

“You’re a lady, remember?” Dwalin admonishes him, actually looking somewhat scandalised by his behaviour. “Leave this to me. I swear I’ll protect your – ” he pauses, and his beard twitches with the effort not to burst into maniacal cackles. “Honour.”

It’s a good thing Dwalin doesn’t say virtue, or Thorin is certain he will lay this entire tavern to waste, with or without his lover in it.

The undesirable attention escalates the moment they head deeper into the tavern. Thorin finds out abruptly how a prey may feel as it is circled by predators. No one in the tavern sees through the disguise. Worse, the men in the taverns do not just look at him, Thorin discovers to his ire. They leer at him, appreciation gleaming in their eyes, gazes slithering up and down him like they are mentally tearing off his dress. Thorin does not understand it. There are many Dwarven lasses in the tavern, but they do not suffer half the lecherous attention on him. He thinks perhaps it is this preposterous red dress he is wearing, but is that any reason to be treated like a slab of meat?

Some men hover unbearably close, hissing propositions about a good hard fuck in the quarters above. Thorin stares at them balefully and considers agreeing so he can work them over good in a less crowded area. Others do not bother with words and just grab at him, filthy hands groping over his dress.

Those are the ones that make his insides churn. Thorin veers dangerously close to breaking point, but Dwalin is the quicker. He wraps an arm around Thorin’s shoulders and pulls him in close, his dark, hard eyes tracking around the tavern, challenging the advances from the other Dwarves, and staring down any further harassment.

The display of proprietorship is not lost on Thorin and his face burns.

“Keep close to me,” Dwalin says in a low rumble into his ear. “They’ll leave you be if they know you’re with me.”

Thorin just grunts and does not meet Dwalin’s eyes.

“There they are,” Dwalin whispers, gesturing with a jerk of his chin.

Thorin sees them. The warriors of the Red Hills, clad in light mail, and looking more like loud, drunken, swearing creatures than the famed warriors of the local lore.

Time passes excruciatingly slowly. He is cradled against Dwalin, who seems to be in his element here, and they make their way across the tavern. Despite himself, and the occasional lascivious whistle tossed at him from unwitting men, Thorin is grudgingly surprised by Dwalin’s ease at breaking down the guardedness of strangers, and turning superficial exchanges into boisterous banter. And he does it all with his arm hooked protectively around Thorin, occasionally bending his head to whisper into his ear like he’s flattering a pretty maid, then looking up again to crack ridiculous jokes that make the local Dwarves laugh. Thorin keeps his head lowered just a little, his face carefully schooled into a neutral expression, and tries not to flinch every time Dwalin’s lips brush against his hair.

They manage to reach the table with its group of stout-chested, roaring and guffawing Red Dwarves. Up close, they look and smell worse. Dwalin slips into their conversation, introduces himself as Fundinul, careful not to give away too much upon this first meeting, and angles his head to grin fondly at his lady Thrana in his arms.

Thorin almost blanches at that horrific name.

“You are one lucky lad, Fundinul,” one of the Red Dwarf warriors laughs raucously. He is heavy-bellied and ruddy-bearded. His piggish gaze rivets on Thorin’s face, and crawls down blatantly, before flicking up again. “The lady is beautiful. Such eyes and skin.” His voice dips into a sly, salacious drawl.

The impudence of this Dwarf is appalling. Thorin bristles and barely keeps himself from lunging forward, while Dwalin’s arm tightens around him in warning. “She’s a shy one, but she’s pleased with your fair words, my friend, and she thanks you for them.” Dwalin grins broadly, taking a huge swig of ale, before turning to Thorin and winking at him. “I’m blessed by Mahal, what can I say. A pretty maid, a warm bed every night.”

“A warm cunt, you mean,” the pig-eyed Dwarf sneers with an oily smile.

Thorin goes very still and Dwalin’s hand squeezes gently on his shoulder, a warm, soothing weight. Dwalin laughs along with the Red Dwarf, but his other fist twitches where it rests on the table, and his teeth are gritted behind his grin. Somehow, that unbidden crack of Dwalin’s composure eases a little of Thorin’s own rage.

“Oh, the little maid blushes!” one of the other Red Dwarves chortles, gesturing rudely at Thorin.

“Kiss her, Fundinul! Get her wet and ready for you later! Or we’ll do it on your behalf, eh, lads?”

Thorin can feel his insides wilting at the shame of it all. He does not want to put on a performance for these buffoons, but what are they to do now? His head jerks up and he stares at Dwalin. He sees Dwalin down another mouthful of ale, before the warrior turns and meets his disbelieving gaze. There is an expression in Dwalin’s eyes – something deep and dark and roiling. Thorin has seen it before, always in the moment before they end up coupling desperately in entirely unsuitable places.

“Wait,” Thorin whispers urgently, one hand already coming up in reflexive defense.

“Just one,” Dwalin breathes in a low, rough voice, grabs his upraised wrist, tugs him close, and crushes their mouths together.

They kiss like they’re fighting. Thorin stiffens and tries to twist away at once; Dwalin holds his head in place, while his lips and teeth bite and tear at Thorin, until Thorin’s mouth opens with a defeated gasp. Dwalin tastes of thunder and rutting sex and Thorin aches with it. The tongue that thrusts into Thorin’s mouth is harsh and demanding, sweeping territorially into the deepest folds. Thorin cannot help but give in to the bruising kiss, his mouth thoroughly plundered by Dwalin.

When Dwalin releases his lips, their heavy breaths mingling, the warrior’s gaze is dark and searing.

“Quite a show there, lad,” Pig Eyes booms, his gaze sliding over Thorin with undisguised interest. “Eager little wench, eh?”

“Only for me,” Dwalin cuts in gruffly and something in his tone suggests no other male should test that theory. There is some red in Dwalin’s face now, Thorin cannot be sure if it is from the ale or the kiss. His eyes are intense when they lock onto Thorin. “Isn’t that so?”

Lips still thrumming from the ferocity of their kiss, Thorin just nods tightly, and Dwalin’s lips curl up in satisfaction before he turns away. The taste of Dwalin, however, lingers long in Thorin’s mouth. And worse, his body turns traitor against him by responding like it’s always done to Dwalin’s touch. Thorin’s groin is throbbing under his dress, and he does not know what to do to calm himself.

The rest of the rowdy talk at the table passes in a blur of noise, overly-loud laughter, and frothing ale. Thorin nurses at his tankard, feeling the liquid flow like molten amber down his body. He feels warm in this dress – how is that possible, it is thinner than his usual attire – but he holds his drink well, so he knows it is not the ale. Then it may be…his mind does not pursue the thought. His gaze, however, shifts, unconsciously, until it rests on Dwalin’s profile.

Age and wars have left savage marks on the warrior Dwarf – part of his ear is torn and scars are thick at many places – but they do not tarnish his spirit or diminish his temperament. He was, still is, and will always be a true son of Erebor. The warrior Dwarf does almost all the talking at the table, but Thorin finds he does not mind. There is ardent loyalty and consuming love for Erebor in Dwalin’s voice when he speaks. Then Thorin hears Dwalin say my King, and the warrior’s eyes are bright and fierce.

As if sensing his scrutiny, Dwalin glances at Thorin in his arm, and he smiles, one of warmth and another emotion Thorin cannot quite catch, before he gets a hold of himself and rejoins the table conversation.

Thorin realises a heartbeat later. It was desire he saw in Dwalin’s eyes. Dwalin wants him.

As if responding to his thoughts, Thorin feels his loins tighten and he shifts, trying to cover the growing bulge under his skirt. The smell of Dwalin is in his nose, and under his skin, and there is nowhere to go. His body is reacting like an over-eager stripling, and Thorin is furious with himself. Thorin closes his eyes briefly, trying to bring his breathing under control before he humiliates himself any further.

His arousal slowly abates, and Thorin is profoundly relieved, until Dwalin’s arm slides down. Thorin’s eyes flare wide. The warrior’s arm is now wrapped around Thorin’s waist instead. His fingers spread warmth through the thin red velvet, making it itch at Thorin’s skin. He is trying so hard to keep from fidgeting he does not feel the other hand until it starts moving.

He glances down sharply. Sure enough, Dwalin’s knuckle-dustered hand rests on his thigh.

Flustered, Thorin lays his hand on top of Dwalin’s, meaning to stop him, but Dwalin simply presses down. Thorin’s fingers dig into the knuckle-dusters, but that does little as Dwalin’s hand begins to caress his thigh in slow circles. He’s supremely glad he had the foresight to keep on his underpants when he tossed the petticoats, but they’re paper-thin linen, and the skirt is just a hair’s breadth thicker. He feels Dwalin’s touch as a scorching brand upon his skin. Heat pools again in Thorin’s belly, then flares with greater urgency. At the apex of his thighs, his cock stiffens in his underpants.

Thorin realises his hand is shaking where it clutches at Dwalin’s knuckle-dusters. He can hardly concentrate on the talk around him, while Dwalin chatters on blithely as if he is not groping Thorin’s leg. It’s been a while since Thorin’s been touched like that. Apprehension and spiking lust churn inside him until his body decides for him, and his hand falls away.

There is a pause from Dwalin, as if the warrior is registering the latest turn in events. Then his hand moves, purposeful and sure this time, and glides down Thorin’s inner thigh.

If anyone looks over the table where they are seated, they will no doubt see the large hand wedged between Thorin’s thighs, stroking up and down, and they will know that is the reason Thorin is breathing erratically. But no one looks, and Thorin is both relieved and wretched as he tries not to press up into Dwalin’s hand. His arousal, escalating like a wildfire now, tents against his skirt in a prominent bulge.

“Nay, I don’t need another ale,” Dwalin is saying and now he looks at Thorin, a smugness quite apparent in his eyes as he takes in Thorin’s flushed cheeks. “Do you, Thrana?”

“I’ll like another,” he says in one rushed breath, not looking at anyone at the table, certainly not at Dwalin. Then he pulls away completely, yanking his skirt more fully over his erection, and heads towards the barrels of ale with hurried strides. He sees Dwalin move as if to get up and follow him, but the warriors are speaking to him, and Dwalin stays in his seat with a frown darkening his face.

He gets a tankard from the bar maid, who clucks and tells him to go easy. She must be joking, for Thorin feels ready to down a whole barrel if he needs to. The night has not gone in any way, or any direction he has anticipated – starting with this loathsome dress. He hates it almost as if it is alive. If it weren’t for this dress, he and Dwalin would not have been trapped in such a compromising situation. He would not have been kissed by Dwalin.

He would not have realised how much he misses Dwalin.

Thorin’s heart clenches in a way that surprises him – he doesn’t think he’s capable of feeling that way anymore, not with the burden weighing on his mind. So here he is, still half-aroused, bone-weary of denying himself of all the things he desires, and thoroughly irked by this whole charade. Just look at the mess now. It isn’t even Thorin’s idea to begin with and now he does not know how to go back and face Dwalin. Just look at the mess now.

When that hand pets at his hair, Thorin is so wound up he is ready to snap. So he whips around to give Dwalin a piece of his mind, and the words die clumsily on his tongue. It is not Dwalin, he realises a beat later. Then, he glares anyway, because it is Pig Eyes who is crowding against him.

“All by yourself, little wench?” the Red Dwarf wheezes. He is half a head taller than Thorin, and he uses it to lean into Thorin’s space, sniffing at his hair. “You smell good.”

Thorin does not move; he just stands there and holds the other Dwarf’s leering gaze without flinching. “Get away from me,” Thorin says very quietly.

Pig Eyes just laughs as if Thorin’s told a joke. “Ah, she speaks,” he gives a belching grunt. “You have a lovely voice, deep and sweet.” Then the mirth disappears and his face is ugly when his hand grasps Thorin’s braids. “I’ll give you all the cock you need. Make you scream. Leave that spineless half-wit.”

Thorin is hissing before he knows it, his voice rising past the hushed whisper he’s supposed to adopt in his disguise. “Do not speak of him that way.”

“Fiesty little wench, are we.” The hand in Thorin’s hair moves to grip the trim of his dress, greasy fingers running over the skin at Thorin’s neck, and that sneering face is suddenly so much nearer. His breath slithers over Thorin’s lips, fetid and damp. “I’ll bet his cock isn’t big enough to satisfy your – ”

All Thorin sees is red before his eyes. He springs up, hearing a rip as the trim on his dress tears, and gets behind the startled Dwarf in one move. Throwing the boor against the table, Thorin grasps his arm as it swings at him, and pins it behind his back. Leaning his weight on the trapped limb, Thorin knows it hurts and that makes him smile properly for the first time that night.

“What were you saying?” Thorin murmurs, yanking viciously on the Dwarf’s arm and hearing him whine in pain. “Repeat it.”

“Fucking cunt!” Pig Eyes howls, squirming in Thorin’s iron grip. “Get off of me!” His words end in a yelp as Thorin tugs on his strained arm again.

Then there are heavy, running footfalls, and Thorin finds himself abruptly pulled away by an arm around his waist. He is reluctant to let go of his quarry, but Dwalin forcefully drags him several paces away.

“What’s going on?” Dwalin whispers furiously, worry clouding his face. “I couldn’t see over the crowd and you disappeared.” He shakes his head exasperatedly. “We’re supposed to be forging alliances here, not destroying relations.”

Thorin hears the accusation in his tone, and his own anger rises like a black tide. How dare Dwalin put him through all that he did and now come marching in like a blustering protector! “I will not forge alliances with such swine,” Thorin snarls under his breath, seeing that they’re already drawing attention from the other patrons, and trying not to shout. “He spoke ill of you!”

Dwalin freezes and stares strangely at him, and Thorin wants to bite his own tongue off. “I will not tolerate anyone speaking of my men with such disrespect,” he corrects himself.

“Indeed,” Dwalin murmurs, raising a hand towards Thorin as if he wants to touch. Then there is a weighted pause, and he rears back with a sharp snarl. His gaze is narrowed onto the ripped neck of Thorin’s dress, and Thorin can see it dawning in his eyes – what the Red Dwarf had tried to do.

Drawing himself to his full height, Dwalin’s eyes are glacial and Thorin knows that is Dwalin at his most terrible. Thorin thinks perhaps he should say something, but the warrior is already stalking towards Pig Eyes like an enormous, enraged bear.

Dwalin hauls the offender up by his collar with both fists, and leans in. “If you touch him again, I will tear you from limb to limb and feed your balls to the dogs. Do you understand?” he says quietly, and his tone is edged with a cold fury. “He’s mine.”

Thorin’s breath stills in his chest, at both the unmistakable possessiveness in Dwalin’s threat and at the slip of Thorin’s gender. Pig Eyes just nods frantically and looks confused at the same time.

Dwalin releases the Dwarf with a hard shove, and strides back towards Thorin. The ferocity on Dwalin’s face silences every onlooker in the tavern. Thorin has just about enough time to say “What about alliances?” before Dwalin seizes him by the arm.

“Talks are off,” Dwalin growls without looking at him.

They cut a swathe right through the patrons in the tavern, Dwalin’s snapping gaze enough to scatter the crowd and let them through. Thorin goes along with it, not least due to the fact that his skirt doesn’t allow him to match Dwalin’s steps and forces him to be towed along, and also because Dwalin looks ready to kill.

They leave the tavern and reach a quiet grove of thickly-foliaged beech trees. Away from all prying eyes and ears, Thorin attempts to stand his ground, but Dwalin is having none of it. He hurls Thorin against solid tree-trunk and the King’s back slams violently into it.

The breath is knocked out of Thorin’s chest. “What do you think you’re doing?” He demands as soon he steadies himself. Dwalin looks livid, but Thorin himself is not in the best of moods. He’s just pretended to be a woman for hours, and subjected to the humiliating attention from uncouth, lowly Dwarves. He’s kissed Dwalin and by Mahal, he wants to do it again –

Dwalin’s hands rise and press into the wood on either side of Thorin’s head. There is a dangerous calm to his movements, and an unholy gleam in his eyes as his bulk descends slowly, and purposefully onto Thorin. They are chest to chest, lips almost touching, and Thorin is entrapped on all sides by Dwalin’s arms and the unyielding wood at his back. He feels unbearably warm in his dress now.

“You – ” Thorin begins.

Quiet,” Dwalin silences him. His breath and scent and voice surge over Thorin all at once. “I’ve put up with you for days, princess. Be at your beck and call day and night. Let you order me around. Watch you dally with other men.”

Thorin rears back like he’s slapped. His jaw drops.

“So, my lady,” Dwalin snarls and thrusts his hips against Thorin. Through their layers of clothes, Dwalin’s clothed erection is huge, hot and hard, and it drags an answering heat from Thorin’s loins. “You’re going to make it up to me.

Then he closes the distance, and claims Thorin’s mouth in a brutal kiss.


Dwalin cannot help it; he wants to punish, and he seeks to inflict pain as he deepens the kiss. Thorin has angered him. It is partly Dwalin’s fault, for he’s the one who put Thorin in a dress and paraded him around in a tavern, while he seethed in both hunger and jealousy as Thorin attracted too much attention like Dwalin already knew he would. But the rest of it. The deliberate avoidance of Dwalin, the heedless impetuosity and reckless outbursts, the constant denial of their mutual desire – those are all Thorin, and Dwalin will see that righted.

Thorin’s tongue entwines with his now, resisting him, but it surrenders just as quickly, allowing Dwalin access. And Dwalin takes what he wants, holding Thorin’s face with both hands to deny him escape and fucks into his mouth. All that he’s been yearning for has come to a head now that he’s given the chance to touch again. He feels the groans vibrating in Thorin’s throat, the sounds going straight to his own cock.

They break apart only when all breath has left their chests.

Dwalin’s hand closes on the bodice of the dress where the tear is; his eyes glitter in the startlingly-bright moonlight. Thorin is gripping onto his wrist – to stop him? – or to let him. His lover’s face is alive with desperate longing and such raw, open hunger, Dwalin thinks he will lose control and bend him over and take him just like that. But he waits. He waits because he wants Thorin to acknowledge his own desires and succumb to them.

It takes several counts, a few more heartbeats, and finally, Thorin caresses his thumb over Dwalin’s wrist before letting his hand drop to his side.

There is feral triumph in Dwalin’s eyes. He yanks the bodice down, velvet tearing down the middle like thin parchment, Thorin’s body jerking with the force of it. Pale, hard chest is revealed, pelted with dark curls, and crowned with dusky nipples. Dwalin heads straight for them, latching his mouth over those nubs in turns, caressing them with tongue and teeth until Thorin’s hands convulse at his shoulders.

He rears back now, watching as Thorin struggles to regain control, to retain his usual imperiousness. Always a King, even in pleasure. So Dwalin circles one of those nipples with a callused thumb. He pinches at the other, rolling it until it stiffens into a little peak. How Thorin glares back at him, and grits his teeth to stay quiet.

“Tell me what you want,” Dwalin cajoles him. “Command me, princess.”

Thorin scowls at that address, but there is also satisfaction at Dwalin’s show of submission. He likes it when Dwalin plays the loyal, devoted soldier. He lays a hand on Dwalin’s shoulder and pushes insistently. “On your knees.

“Very well,” Dwalin takes that hand and kisses the back of it like he’s courting a fair maid. “My lady,” he says as he lowers himself onto his knees. He looks up at Thorin like this, subservient, one hand curling into the hem of the skirt. “May I?”

Thorin nods, eyes deepening now with lust. Dwalin feeds his hunger, pushing the skirt up to Thorin’s knees. Dwalin lifts one of Thorin’s legs and hooks it over his shoulder. That opens the skirt up, and creates a dark, inviting space between. Thorin breathes a little more unsteadily now, leaning back into the tree to keep his balance on one leg, staring down at Dwalin with a challenge in his eyes.

Dwalin just holds his gaze, and smiles as he pushes the skirt all the way up to Thorin’s waist in one sudden move.

The balance shifts in that very moment, and the breath stutters out of Thorin’s mouth.

“Hold it there,” Dwalin says harshly, his tone brooking no further argument, and Thorin looks as if he will refuse, but he inhales hard instead, and obeys.

The stain on Thorin’s cheeks is a pretty red now as he holds up his own skirt, displaying himself for Dwalin’s viewing pleasure. Dwalin takes in the sight with greedy eyes. Thorin’s thin linen underpants are tented outwards, the erection beneath straining against the cloth. There is dampness at the crotch, moulding the cloth to flesh, and Dwalin can see the outline of Thorin’s cock – thick, long shaft, veins running along the length of it, bulbous tip leaking yet more wetness that turns the cloth almost translucent. Dwalin traces a finger up that straining bulge, and it throbs beneath his touch.

“So wet for me,” Dwalin laughs low in his throat, and his breath washes warm over Thorin’s crotch.

Unbidden, Thorin’s hips jerk towards him, but it is an abortive gesture with one leg caught over Dwalin’s shoulder.

“What do you want?” Dwalin looks up at him, his fleeting touch turning into a glide up and down Thorin’s arousal. There is not enough friction for anything but Thorin to growl down at him and try to urge him on by pulling him closer with his leg.

Dwalin just stays where he is with that infuriating smirk on his lips, and waits.

“I want your tongue on me,” Thorin gives in and hisses. “Lick me.”

So Dwalin rips the linens off, baring Thorin’s cock to the night air. There is a loud gasp from Thorin at the sudden chill, and a series of smaller, strangled ones as Dwalin’s tongue laves at his erection in hot, hungry licks. He presses wet kisses over the heavy balls nestled on the thatch of dark hair, drawing them into his mouth to toy with them. Thorin squirms under his mouth, trapped in position and unable to thrust. Dwalin goes no further than that with his tongue for now, pulling away to lean back on his haunches again. He holds Thorin’s cock with one hand, and turns his other hand so the cool metal of his knuckle-dusters rests on the shaft.

Thorin’s eyes are drawn helplessly to Dwalin’s hands, his cock fully hard and aching. The metal is a startling jolt to his senses.

“Hold very still, my lady,” Dwalin tells him, then he trails his knuckle-dusters ever so lightly up and down the heated flesh, just enough to leave thrumming pinpricks of sensation in their wake.

The breathing above Dwalin is laboured, Thorin’s eyes rolling to the back of his head as he trembles with the effort of keeping himself still. Dwalin pays special attention to the head of Thorin’s cock, pressing the metal over the glistening, swollen tip in gentle nudges. The scent of Thorin’s arousal is sharp in Dwalin’s nose. When Thorin is getting close to moaning out loud, Dwalin pulls his hand away.

“Look at me,” Dwalin orders softly, waiting until Thorin’s unfocused gaze is trained on him. “I’m going to make you come on my tongue before I fuck you.”

Then he leans forward and sucks Thorin’s cock into his mouth.

Thorin cries out at the sudden wet clamp around his shaft, and Dwalin is unrelenting, taking Thorin’s cock deep until it is squeezed and massaged by Dwalin’s throat muscles. The leg trapped over Dwalin’s shoulder digs hard into his back, as it seeks to either pull Dwalin closer, or push away to escape from Dwalin’s mouth. Yet there is no respite from the maddening pleasure. Thorin’s eyes are glazed as they look down, taking in the sight of Dwalin’s head buried deep between his thighs, bobbing lewdly as Dwalin’s mouth works at him.

The flame stokes higher and higher in Thorin’s loins, drawing tight in a coil of tension. He is so close. He scrabbles at Dwalin’s head, wanting to buck into that sinful mouth, but the warrior holds his hips down and suckles harder and faster. Lost in the throes of pleasure, Thorin’s back arches like a bow as he comes, spilling himself deep in Dwalin’s throat. The warrior Dwarf swallows his release, his tongue coaxing the seed from Thorin’s pulsing member, the last spatters of fluid dripping onto his thick beard.

Thorin’s face is an open book of emotions – mindless satedness, and a sort of vulnerable bewilderment as his body recovers from the aftershocks of his climax.

“You taste sweet, princess. Like I remember,” Dwalin grins roguishly up at him, giving a last lick over the sensitive head of Thorin’s softening cock.

A sort of strangled groan squeezes past Thorin’s throat as he stares dazedly down at Dwalin, who looks a picture of perverse debauchery with his reddened lips, and droplets of Thorin’s seed glistening on his beard.

“You…” Thorin gestures unsteadily at him.

Dwalin is already rising to his feet. His groin feels like it’s on fire; he is fucking aroused and his cock is straining vigorously at the front of his breeches. “Oh, my lady,” he says now, and he can hear how his voice has gone guttural and hoarse. “I have every intention of taking my pleasure as it is due.”

Grabbing Thorin by the waist, he grinds their lower bodies together. “Shall I ravish you here?” He spins him around and shoves him into the wood. “Into this tree, in the open, just like that. You want that?” His weight crushes into Thorin and he traces his ear with his teeth. “I’m going to fuck your cunt so hard you’ll feel me every time you move.”

A full-body shiver takes hold of Thorin. His face is buried in one forearm, but his hips push back against Dwalin, and Dwalin can imagine the turmoil of shame and lust warring in him. Dwalin does not give him time to decide which is the stronger; he takes Thorin’s braids and yanks his head back until his neck strains, and rubs his bulging crotch against Thorin’s clothed buttocks. It is no relief for both of them, but Dwalin wants Thorin to feel how hard and ready he is for him.

The King angles his head, and there is such sheer want in his eyes, Dwalin has to fight to control himself and not tear the skirt off and fuck into him right now.

“There’s – ” Thorin breathes, looking torn and terribly aroused at the same time. “The pocket – ”

Dwalin indulges him, carding though the hidden pocket on the dress until his fingers close on a vial of oil. He puts it to his nose and growls a laugh when he smells a sharp, spicy scent. “I like the way your mind works, wench.”

Thorin just looks away. “It was in the dress – I – ”

“No matter,” Dwalin is flushed against Thorin’s back, and he holds up the oil for the King’s perusal. “I suppose I’ll use this on your cunt, hmm? Oil you up good. Get you wet and ready for my cock,” he nuzzles at Thorin’s ear.

Thorin flushes a deep crimson. “Don’t speak to me like – ”

“Like what?” Dwalin grips the skirt with his free hand, hiking it up with hard, angry movements until it bunches around Thorin’s waist again and leaves him naked below. “Like you’re a dirty little slut?” On the last word, Dwalin takes hold of one muscled arsecheek and squeezes it roughly. He digs his thumb into the tight cleft between and slides it up and down. “Look at you, all begging for it.”

Thorin muffles his whine into his hand. His whole body is responding, and shaking, and arching back into Dwalin’s touch, but his mind struggles to relinquish control. He is a wanton mess – King and whore at once under Dwalin’s hands – and Dwalin feels an almost frightening possessiveness at the sight of it. He will permit no other to touch his King this way.  

He takes his teeth to the leather on one hand, working the strapped knuckle-dusters off. There is a small, dark flare in his belly urging him to use those on Thorin, but he ignores it – for now. They have not fucked in a while. Thorin will need mercy – just a little – this night and Dwalin wants to feel with his fingers. He coats them liberally with the exotic oil, and the air around them grows thick with the heady scent.

Kicking Thorin’s boots further apart to splay his thighs, his fingers plunge between Thorin’s buttocks until they find it – that tight little ring of muscle. He massages that tiny hole with one oiled finger, feeling it twitch helplessly at his intrusion, then pushes in without stopping. Thorin whimpers low in his throat. 

“Sweet little whore,” Dwalin purrs, finger beginning its work as it twists around that tight passage, coating it with oil. “Feel how your pussy’s sucking me in.” He withdraws, pours more oil on his fingers, and without preamble, pushes in with two.

There is a harsh gasp from Thorin, and Dwalin is well aware why. He has large, heavy-jointed Dwarven fingers and they are thickly callused from years of weapons-wielding. But Thorin will have to take his cock – much bigger than mere fingers – very soon, and Dwalin is only being merciful as he ruthlessly spreads his fingers, opening Thorin up as much as he can. He does not stop or slow. When Thorin is taking three fingers in his arse, his thighs are shaking with the effort of keeping him upright, and the noises from his throat are a constant rumble.  

“My princess,” Dwalin whispers intimately into Thorin’s ear. His gentle tone is in stark contrast to his fingers pistoning obscenely in and out of Thorin’s hole. His free hand works at his own breeches, unlacing them and letting them drop to his boots. He sighs as his freed cock juts upright into air, huge in girth and rock-hard with need. His hand pumps over his erection in slow strokes, smearing oil over it. It gives him scant relief, just enough to stoke his arousal without driving him too near to the edge.

Withdrawing his fingers with a last curl, he replaces them with the head of his cock at Thorin’s entrance. He circles that quivering hole, not penetrating, just rubbing into it. “You feel this? Hmm?” he chuckles. “Your little pussy wants it so badly, doesn’t it?” Dwalin pushes in just a little, and stops. “You’ll have to tell me what you want, princess.”

“I – ” Thorin says at once, then grinds his teeth. “I want your  – ” he falters.

“My cock?”

Thorin’s fingers dig convulsively into the wood, then he pushes back with his hips in silent entreaty.

Almost, almost. Thorin is close to yielding completely to him. Dwalin reaches between Thorin’s thighs and grasps the half-hard shaft he finds. He kneads it just a few times. Enough to tantalise and make Thorin shiver. “And where do you want it?”

“In my – ” Thorin sputters a muffled curse. He’s almost fully-hard again just from Dwalin’s teasing, and now Dwalin tortures him with the promise of darker, carnal pleasure dangling just out of reach.

“Say it,” Dwalin demands, voice gone low and rough. He is near breaking point himself, but he will hear what he wants from Thorin’s mouth. He wants to know how much Thorin will bend his own will to his, and he wants – needs to know that Thorin hungers for him as much as he desires his King. “Tell me how much you want me.”

Thorin’s head turns suddenly. His face is flushed and damp with sweat, hair matted to his cheeks, and his expression is wild. He stares at Dwalin with such intense longing, and his gaze does not waver when he says in a voice hoarse with desire, “In my cunt. I want your cock inside me. Want to feel all of you. Dwalin.”

Dwalin needs no further bidding. He pushes in, the heavy, blunt head of his erection wedging an inch into that tight channel. A stifled cry drags out of Thorin’s lips, and he braces his forearms on the tree, the only support he gets as Dwalin shifts another inch inside.

“So tight, your little cunt,” Dwalin grates out. The pressure sucks around him, goading him, making him want to thrust deep and hard, but he paces himself and goes slowly, torturous inch by inch. He’s shaking by the time he is finally completely seated inside Thorin, his cock gripped in slick, molten heat.

A cold sweat breaks out over Thorin’s skin as his body strains to accommodate the penetration, but he spreads his legs further apart and reaches back to brace one hand on Dwalin’s hip. “Move, you oaf. I won’t break.” His hand rises and comes down hard on Dwalin’s skin in a resounding smack. “Move.”

Dwalin barks a laugh. “Fucking needy whore.” He takes Thorin’s hips with both hands now, pulling them up so that Thorin is almost bent in half. And he moves. Slow, careful thrusts at first, then speeding up as Thorin’s passage eases around him, nearly lifting Thorin off his feet with each forceful buck of his hips. Now he pounds into Thorin with hard, heavy stabs, dragging Thorin’s hips back into each thrust, shifting his angles until Thorin gives a startled whine.

“Oh, there it is,” Dwalin draws out, and plunges back into that same mark, forcing a sweet moan from Thorin’s throat. “Here, hmm? This feels good?” And he spears into Thorin, nailing the same spot again and again with increasing intensity.

The noises come thick and fast from Thorin now. Long, low, groans, punctuated by loud gasps and a feverish string of yes and Dwalin’s name. Dwalin shoves the skirt up as high as it can go, spurred on by the sight of his own cock plunging in and out of Thorin’s flesh. His voice flows rich and dark and dirty into Thorin’s ear, growling encouragement and vulgar filth as their bodies rut below. Thorin writhes under him, dry sobs heaving from his chest as Dwalin sets a bruising pace, nails digging welts into the bark.

Tension swiftly draws taut in Dwalin’s belly. He won’t last long, already driven mindless by the unbearable clench around his cock and Thorin’s hand on his hip, urging him on. His last thrusts are erratic and uncontrolled. His balls tighten, and he pulls out, steadying one hand on Thorin’s back, and stroking himself furiously with his other. It takes just several tugs before thick, white strings of fluid spurt from his cock, spattering over Thorin’s buttocks and his blushing, abused hole. He continues pumping, until his cock empties the last of its release.

Chest rising and falling with great pants of breath, Dwalin opens his eyes blearily, and sees that Thorin is – has been – watching him intently, gaze riveted greedily on his groin. Still basking in the sleepy warmth of spent sex, Dwalin hauls Thorin up and against his chest, and lets the King’s head fall back on his shoulder. He mouths at Thorin’s neck, tasting the musky-salty flesh on his tongue.

“You don’t know what you do to me, Thorin,” he says, and feels Thorin turn his head to give him greater access to his neck. “I want to come in you, on your face, my cock in your mouth.” He gropes under the skirt until his hand closes around Thorin’s erection. “Feel my hand, Thorin, there,” he says and continues to press kisses over Thorin’s cheek and jaw, even as his hand moves under the skirt in lewd beats, making sure Thorin’s cock feels every inch of his coarse, callused palm as he pumps it. “Let me make you come again. Give it to me. Come on. Thorin.”

The King trembles in his arms, eyes closed, hips bucking desperately into Dwalin’s hand, a litany of whimpers tumbling from his lips.

When Thorin is driven over the edge, Dwalin swallows his cry with his own mouth, kissing him until Thorin is exhausted and pliant in his arms. Then he withdraws his hand and holds it up, marvelling at the generous coating of stickiness.

“You’re a virile lady, you know?” Dwalin chuckles.

Thorin takes a few moments to compose himself after his second mind-numbing climax that night, then turns his head and stares witheringly at his lover. “And you’re an insufferable, presumptuous and entirely incorrigible brute.

“Aye,” Dwalin agrees wholeheartedly. “But of course.”

They keep quiet for a long moment, Thorin allowing himself to rest in Dwalin’s embrace, taking rare comfort from the warrior’s powerful arms and the intoxicating heat from his body. Dwalin’s bearded chin is rested on his shoulder, the ebb and flow of his breathing seemingly in time with Thorin’s own heartbeats.

“Dwalin,” Thorin speaks at length, seeming to be contemplating something very solemn.

“Yes, my Lord?”

Thorin snorts at Dwalin’s belated show of subordinate deference. “I don’t suppose we can stay long in this place. After what you did to that foul imbecile.” Thorin does not sound the least bit regretful about it at all.

Dwalin smirks into the skin right below Thorin’s ear. “What I did after what you did.”

There is a soft, wry huff from Thorin. Then a long, deliberate pause. “You won’t say anything to the others. About the dress.”

“I won’t.”

“Especially Fili and Kili.”


“Not Gandalf either.”

“He’ll find out. He has his ways.”


“I swear I won’t say a word, Thorin. If you…”

Thorin turns in his embrace and looks at him very seriously.  “If I what?”

So Dwalin gives a serious reply. “Keep the dress.”

Thorin stares at him. “It’s ruined.” There is obvious relief on Thorin’s face at that. “Why keep it?”

Dwalin feels a little reckless and brazen, and he thinks he’s allowed to, considering. He cocks a grin, and it feels wicked even to himself. “Red’s your colour. Matches your blush.”

And he admits he probably deserves the fist to his face that follows next.