A Simple Lock of Hair (Thorin x Reader)
No warnings. Just absolute fluff.
* I took some liberties with Dwarven courting customs. Enjoy!
Thorin had been courting you for months.
Not in half-measures, nor with casual intent, but with the deep, deliberate care of you, who loved with his whole being. He brought you gifts that spoke more than words ever could: hand-forged trinkets etched with runes of protection, rare gems whose colors reminded him of your eyes, a cloak woven by the finest hands in Erebor to keep you warm in the mountain halls. Each offering was thoughtful, extravagant, and heavy with meaning.
And yet, you felt there was something more you should do.
You were not born of stone and fire as the Dwarves were. You had come to Erebor from elsewhere, welcomed and cherished, but some customs still lay beyond your understanding. So one quiet afternoon, you sought out Balin.
He was seated near the hearth, poring over an old ledger when you approached. At the sound of your steps, his eyes lifted, immediately softening.
“Ah,” he said gently, closing the book. “Come, lass. Sit.”
You did, fingers twisting together in your lap as you explained your worries—how deeply Thorin loved, how earnestly he courted, and how you feared you had not yet shown him the same devotion in a way he would truly understand.
Balin listened without interruption, his expression thoughtful. To you, he had always been something of a father—steady, kind, and endlessly patient.
“In Dwarven courting,” he said at last, his voice warm, “gifts are words. Acts are vows.” He paused, studying you. “There is one gesture, though, reserved only for those who are entirely certain.”
“A Dwarrowdam who is ready to give her whole heart will cut a small lock of her hair,” Balin explained. “It is a sign of trust, of dedication. Hair is not given lightly among our people. To do so is to say: I am yours, without reservation.”
The words settled deep within you. You thanked him softly, and Balin only smiled, pride shining in his eyes.
That evening, alone in your chambers, you stood before the mirror. Your hands did not tremble when you took the blade—your heart was steady, certain. A small lock fell free, and you wrapped it carefully in silk before placing it into a simple box.
Thorin was not in his quarters when you arrived. After a moment’s hesitation, you set the box gently upon his table and slipped away, hoping he would understand.
When Thorin returned from council, weariness clung to his shoulders—until he saw the box. He opened it slowly, reverently, and when he realized what it was, his breath caught.
For a long moment, the world seemed to still.
Then his heart thundered.
He left his chambers at once, strides long and urgent, his pace restrained only by the dignity of his crown. By the time he reached your door, he was barely holding himself back.
You answered the knock with a soft word, not knowing who stood beyond.
The moment the door opened, Thorin stepped inside, closing the distance between you in two swift steps. You barely had time to speak before his hand came up, firm but careful at the back of your neck, pulling you into him.
His kiss stole your breath.
It was full of everything he had not said—gratitude, awe, devotion, love so fierce it burned. When he finally rested his forehead against yours, his voice was low, reverent.
“You have given me your heart,” he murmured. “I have been yours from the start.”
