Dwarven Daydreams

ฝﻉɭƈѻ๓ﻉ , traveler.

Here lies the archive of all my - tales

Is it okay if I ask to be added to your taglist? I love your style and your writings are great! I'd like to know right away whenever you post something

-Thorne

Hello Xx

Pairing : Thorin Oakenshield x Female OC - Eira.

Warnings :  Mentions of binding discomfort and emotional tension. Please take care of yourself while reading.

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Chapter 2: Ice and Iron.

She learned three things on the first day of the journey:

One : ponies are far more spiteful creatures than the books ever warned her.

Two : no amount of binding could stop the ache that bloomed behind her ribs by midday.

And three : Thorin Oakenshield had perfected the art of saying volumes with a single glance.

He didn’t look at her often. When he did, it was sharp, measuring. As if he were trying to determine what kind of mistake she’d be, the kind that got people delayed, or the kind that got people killed. He hadn’t spoken to her since that first exchange at the camp. She told yourself that was a blessing.

She rode near the rear of the Company, behind Bifur and Bombur. The others jostled easily around each other. Swapping jokes, stories, the odd song. She didn’t speak unless spoken to. And no one really spoke to her, not yet. It wasn’t hostility. Just… unfamiliarity. She weren’t family. She weren’t a dwarf. She weren’t even entirely sure what she were to them yet. Baggage, possibly. By midday, her thighs were burning. Every rise and fall of the saddle became a small act of war. She gritted your teeth and kept riding, posture rigid, hands blistering.

“Your pack’s off center.”

She turned. Fili had sidled up beside her on his pony, grinning. “It’s tugging you sideways,” he said, gesturing with his chin. “Bet you’ll be walking in circles if you get off.” She adjusted it, awkwardly, cheeks heating.

He meant well and she could tell. There was no mockery in his voice, only that easy humor he shared with his brother. But still, her pride bristled.

“Thanks,” she muttered. “I’ll manage.” He gave a shrug and trotted off to rejoin Kili, who was busy trying to balance an apple on the pommel of his saddle.

She stopped to rest near a stream. The moment her feet touched the ground, pain flared through her legs like a fire had caught behind her knees. She wobbled slightly and caught herself on a tree. The others had begun to unpack food, strips of dried meat, flatbread, hard cheese and talking over one another in bursts of Khuzdul and laughter. She sat down heavily on a low rock and pulled her waterskin free, trying to stretch subtly. The bindings were cutting deep now, but she didn’t dare adjust them. She were halfway through biting into a piece of stale bread when a shadow fell over her.

“You’re riding wrong.” Her heart sank. She didn’t need to look up. The voice was low, rough, and sharp edged. Thorin.

He stood with arms crossed, every inch of him carved from stone. The kind you break yourself against. His gaze was not one of concern. It was scrutiny. Thinly veiled irritation.

“You’re tensing your knees too much,” he said, eyes flicking over her like you were a poorly packed saddlebag. “You’ll be worse than useless by nightfall.”

“I’m adjusting,” she said, keeping her voice steady. He stepped closer, close enough to make the heat rise in her throat.

“I’m not interested in watching you adjust. I’m interested in this Company surviving the road ahead. If you fall behind, you’ll be left.” She bit the inside of her cheek. He wasn’t shouting, he didn’t need to. His voice was the kind that left bruises anyway.

“I said I’ll manage,” she answered.

“And if you don’t?” His eyes were blue steel. “Do you think I’ll carry you?”

“No,” she said. “I don’t.”

“Good.” His voice was like cold iron. “Because I won’t.” Then he turned and walked away, leaving her in the silence of her own shame.

𓅆

That evening, the Company camped in a wooded hollow, the trees overhead tangled thick with moss and the scent of damp earth rising heavy in the air. A fire was lit. Meat was shared. Boots were pulled off with groans and grumbles. Eira sat just beyond the circle of firelight, rolling her shoulder slowly to work the knots out.

“You’re quiet,” Bofur said as he passed her a strip of meat. She took it with a nod.

“Tired.”

“Aye,” he chuckled. “That’ll do it.” He didn’t linger, but there was something in his tone, not pity, but understanding.

She chewed in silence and glanced across the fire. Thorin sat with Dwalin and Balin, head bowed slightly as they spoke low. He didn’t smile. He didn’t relax. And when his eyes lifted to scan the camp, they passed over her like she were part of the background. Not a person. A shadow. An inconvenience. She hated how much that stung. Later, as the fire cracked low and snores began to rise around the camp, Eira sat cross-legged on your bedroll, pressing fingers to her temples. Every muscle in her back felt wound too tight. The bindings across her chest had gone from uncomfortable to nearly unbearable. She glanced around. No one was watching. Carefully, slowly, she slipped behind a low cluster of shrubs, turned her back to the camp, and began loosening the wrappings just enough to breathe again. She hissed softly as air rushed in, cool and sharp. Relief and fear fought in her chest.

That was when she heard it — a single, quiet footstep on leaves. Eira froze and turned. Thorin. Standing a few paces away, arms folded. Watching. She felt the blood drain from her face. Her cloak was still on. Nothing exposed. Nothing obvious. But he’d seen her pull away from the others. He’d seen her clutch her ribs. He said nothing. Just looked. Like a man trying to solve a puzzle that wouldn’t quite fit.

“I was adjusting a bandage,” she said, voice low. Still, nothing. No reply. No accusation.

Then, finally: “You’re hiding something.” It wasn’t a question. She forced herself to meet his eyes.

“You don’t trust me.”

“No,” he said flatly. “I don’t.” You waited. He didn’t move. Didn’t press further. And then, just as quietly, he turned and walked away.

That night, sleep did not come. Eira lay on her side, curled around her pack, the compass pressed tight in her palm beneath the blanket. Eira's heart beat against her ribs like it was trying to claw its way out. He didn’t know. Not yet. But she were being watched. Weighed. And judged by a king who already had one foot set against her. So she made yourself a quiet promise in the dark: Make him regret doubting you.

Summary:

To preserve her late father’s legacy and the knowledge he died protecting, Eira disguises herself as a male scholar and joins the Company of Thorin Oakenshield on the quest to reclaim Erebor. Cold stares, heavy footsteps, and a king with no patience for weakness — nothing could have prepared her for the mountain of a man who sees her as dead weight. But secrets never stay buried on the road to a dragon’s lair… and neither does desire.

Chapter 1: Deception.

𓅆

She shouldn’t have been there. Not among warriors, not among dwarves. Not with a pack on her back and a forged document in her pocket and her ribs bound so tight she could barely breathe. But then again, if anyone had asked what she should be doing, they’d have said embroidery. Or baking. Or marrying. They’d never say this.

Her boots sank slightly in the gravel outside the camp. The wind curled around her, cold and sharp and reeking faintly of iron and smoke. The Blue Mountains loomed behind, stark and bone-white under the clouds. And ahead...men. Dwarves. Warriors. Packing weapons, tightening saddles, arguing in Khuzdul. She adjusted your cowl, pulled it low over her forehead. Breathed in through her nose, out through her mouth. She’d practiced this. In mirrors. In shadowed alleyways. In the stolen hours between midnight and morning. Confidence. That was the key. Not swagger. Just certainty. Enough of it, and people rarely questioned her. Her hand went to the document tucked inside her coat. The seal wasn’t real. The ink had barely dried. But the name, Eiran son of Marnil, cartographer’s apprentice, fluent in Westron and Khuzdul, trained in historical recordkeeping, lorekeeping, and royal lineage. That was real.

Marnil had been her father. Her teacher. The only man who ever told her that her mind was worth something. They didn’t bury minds, the Council had told her after his death. They buried daughters. She swallowed that memory and walked forward. A dwarf with kind eyes and a white beard was the first to notice her. He looked up from a worn piece of parchment and gave her a long, assessing glance.

“You’re late,” he said mildly. “We ride at dawn.”

She pulled the document from her coat and handed it to him without a word. Let the paper speak first. Let him read the lie with his own eyes. He scanned it. Then again. One bushy brow rose.

“Marnil’s son,” he said slowly, as if tasting it. “We’d heard he passed.”

“He did,” she said, voice low and even. “But not before teaching me everything he knew.”

He looked at her again. Closer this time. “You don’t look much like him.”

“I look more like my mother.”A pause. A flicker of something like amusement touched his face.

“Well, we’ve no shortage of warriors,” he said, folding the paper. “But minds are rarer. Especially ones with knowledge of old lineages. You’ll speak to Thorin.”

She stiffened. “Now?”

“Aye. Best not to delay. He doesn’t take kindly to surprises.”

No one told her what Thorin Oakenshield looked like, but she’d read the records. Descendant of kings. Hardened by exile. Crownless, but proud. And when she followed the white bearded dwarf who later introduced himself as Balin around the bend in the camp and saw him… There was no mistaking him. He stood by the fire with his arms crossed, speaking low to a taller, bald warrior beside him. Not tall by human standards but solid. Imposing. His hair was dark and thick, braided and bound, and his face was carved from steel. Sharp. Stern. Tired in a way that said he did not rest often. Balin handed him the document. Thorin read it, silent. Then looked up at her. He didn’t blink. She met his eyes and felt the bottom drop out of her lungs. There was nothing welcoming in his stare. Only calculation. Judgement. She could almost feel him weighing her, her size, her strength, her usefulness and finding her wanting.

“Another scholar,” he said flatly.

Balin cleared his throat. “He’s Marnil’s kin.”

“I don’t care whose kin he is,” Thorin said. His voice wasn’t loud, but it had weight.

“This is no errand for parchment rubbing sons of scribes.”

She bristled “My knowledge could aid you. I know old Dwarvish dialects. I’ve studied Erebor’s royal line, its vault systems, the histories of the First Halls and -”

“And can you wield a blade?” The question cut through her words like an axe. She hesitated.

“Not like a warrior.”

“Then you’ll die before the mountain’s shadow touches your boots.” He turned to Balin, dismissing her. “We’re not babysitting a scholar.”

“I’ll carry my weight,” she snapped, before she could stop herself. His head turned back sharply.

“And if you don’t?” he asked, voice like frost. “Will your ink and quills defend you when orcs come through the trees?”

“If you think ink has no power,” she said quietly, “then you don’t know the weight it can carry.” The silence stretched. Balin looked like he was holding his breath.

Then finally Thorin handed the document back to him. “You ride in the back,” he said, still looking at her. “You speak when spoken to. You do not delay us. If you falter, you’re left behind.”

She nodded once, trying not to shake.

“And if you die,” he added, “I won’t mourn you.” Then he turned and walked away.

𓅆

Later that night, she found a spot on the edge of the camp and sat cross-legged with a cold biscuit and her father’s compass clutched in her hand. She didn’t open it. Just felt the familiar shape under her fingers, the comforting weight. To find one’s way, even in darkness. She were in. She’d done it. The Company of Thorin Oakenshield would ride for Erebor at dawn and she would ride with them. Even if the man leading it hated her very presence. Even if her lie was a noose waiting to tighten. Even if every heartbeat in her chest reminded her that one wrong step could cost her everything. Because this wasn’t just a quest for gold. Or kingship. Or home. This was her father’s legacy. And her only chance to prove that she, too, were worthy of being remembered.

Pairing : Kili x Female Reader.

Warnings : NSFW. Character death.

Summary:

On the eve of the Battle of the Five Armies, Kíli seeks out the woman who once saved his life. A healer from Laketown who has since become the quiet center of his world. With dawn threatening to steal everything from them, the two spend one final night together in each other’s arms, wrapped in tenderness, laughter, and unspoken fear. Their intimacy is slow, aching, and full of desperate love. When morning comes, so does fate. 𓅆

The night before the Battle of the Five Armies. The wind outside howled like it knew what was coming. It slipped through the cracks in the stone halls of Erebor, whistling low and sharp, weaving through corridors like a whispered warning. Down in one of the old guest chambers, tucked away behind what remained of a half-broken door, you sat on the edge of the bed, trying not to think too much.

Trying not to think about how many hadn’t come back. How many more might not tomorrow. You ran your fingers over the worn stitching in your sleeve, distracted, tense, staring at the fireplace where the flames had begun to die. The hour was late. Too late. And still, you weren’t asleep. You hadn’t even tried. Because somewhere in the mountain, you knew Kíli wasn’t asleep either. And he didn’t have to knock.

You heard the familiar shuffle of his boots first, the barely-there hitch in his step, residual pain from the poisoned arrow he’d taken in Laketown. The one you’d pulled from his leg with shaking hands and stubborn breath. That night, he’d clutched your wrist as if it anchored him to the living. This one this night he walked in quiet.

 “Kíli…” you said softly, standing.

He shut the door behind him. No lock. No need. The world was coming apart by dawn.

“I couldn’t sit still,” he said, his voice rougher than usual. “Everyone’s pretending to sleep. I can’t.”

You nodded. “Me neither.”

The fire cracked. He crossed the room, eyes searching yours like they always did before he let himself touch you. His hair was unbraided, wild around his face, a few strands clinging to the collar of his coat. He looked like the version of himself he gave only to you. No prince. Just Kíli. He reached for your hand. You gave it willingly.

“They’re saying it’ll begin at first light,” you murmured. “That the orcs are close.”

“I know.” You looked up at him. “Are you afraid?”

He hesitated. And then: “I’m not afraid of dying. I’m afraid of not seeing you again.”

The breath left your lungs. He always did that. Dropped truth like it was nothing, even when it weighed everything. You stepped forward, slipping your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek to his chest. His heartbeat was a thrum beneath your ear. Steady. Alive.

“You’ll see me again,” you whispered. “You’ll come back.”

“I’ll try.” His lips brushed the top of your head. “But if I don’t…”

“Don’t.” You pulled back and looked at him. “Don’t say it.”

He swallowed hard, eyes glassy. “Then kiss me. Just in case.”

You did. Slowly. It was the kind of kiss that didn’t rush, didn’t beg, it simply was. His mouth was warm, his hand cradling the back of your head as if trying to memorize the shape of your skull. You pulled him closer until his hips pressed to yours, until the armor he hadn’t fully removed dug into your side and made you curse softly. Kíli laughed against your mouth.

“Hold on…”

Piece by piece, he shrugged off his coat, his pauldrons, his tunic, until he was left in only his undershirt and pants. You did the same, letting your fingers linger on every inch of him they passed.

“You’re still warm,” you whispered, touching the faint scar on his leg. “I always worried you’d feel cold again.”

“I only ever did before you.”

That broke something in you. He always said things like that. With no filter. No protection. You sat on the bed, and he followed, kneeling in front of you between your knees. His hands ran up your thighs, eyes dark, wide, almost reverent.

“I’ve thought about this,” he said. “Every damn night since Laketown.”

“Then don’t wait anymore.”

You pulled him up to meet you, and this time, the kiss was not slow. His mouth moved hungrily over yours, a growl low in his throat when you tugged at his shirt. His hands were rough, calloused, familiar and when they slid under the fabric of your nightdress, your breath caught. He pulled back to look at you. “I want to see you,” he murmured. You nodded, helping him ease it over your head.

His eyes widened. “You’re…”

You smirked, shy but bolder in the firelight. “Naked?”

“No. Beautiful.”

And then his mouth was on you again, on your collarbone, your chest, the soft underside of your breast. He took his time, like he knew time itself might run out. His lips circled your nipple, tongue teasing, one hand gently gripping your hip as if holding you in place while he worshipped. You gasped, hips twitching, and he smiled against your skin.

“I want to taste all of you.”

“Kíli…”

He lowered you gently to your back, dragging his tongue down the line of your body until he settled between your legs. You arched as he kissed the inside of your thighs, then slowly pulled your legs apart with his hands.

“You’re shaking,” he said.

“I’m not scared,” you breathed.

“I just want to feel you. All of you. Before anything else can take you from me.” He bent and kissed the inside of your knee. “Nothing’s taking me,” he whispered. “Not yet.”

And then he was tasting you. His tongue was hot and slow, stroking through your folds with an ache that built like a rising tide. You whimpered, fingers tangling in his hair. He moaned into you, as if your pleasure fed something deep and primal in him. He licked and kissed and sucked your clit with such focused desperation, you cried out his name.

“Kíli, gods, don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” he moaned. “I need to feel you come on my tongue.”

And you did.

You gasped and shook, pleasure crashing over you like fire and grief and love all at once. He didn’t stop until you were spent, panting, eyes glassy. When he finally kissed you again, you could taste yourself on his lips. “Please,” you whispered. “I need you inside me.”

He nodded, quickly removing what was left of his clothes. And when he hovered over you, bare and hard and flushed, you could see him hesitate.

“You okay?” you asked.

“Just… haven’t done this in a long time. Not like this. Not with someone I…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to. You wrapped your legs around him.

“Then make it count.”

He slid into you with a long, slow thrust and you both gasped. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t frantic. It was full. You held each other, forehead to forehead, mouths finding each other between whispered words and shuddered breaths.

“I love you,” you said, and he shivered.

“I’ve loved you since you cursed at me for nearly bleeding out.”

You laughed, choked and wet eyed, and then moaned as he began to move. Deep and steady, grounding you to the earth even as the world around you threatened to burn. His hand slid under your back, holding you close. His lips kissed your cheek, your temple, your mouth, over and over like prayer.

“Kíli,” you gasped. “I don’t want this to end.”

“It won’t,” he whispered. “Not really.”

You clung to him as he picked up pace, as the bed rocked with your joined weight, as sweat pooled between your bodies and the sound of skin meeting skin filled the flickering room. Your second release hit hard, unexpected and sharp. He followed soon after, spilling into you with a groan that broke in his throat like a sob. When it was over, you didn’t let go. You lay together tangled in blankets, your face buried in his shoulder, his arms locked tightly around you. His heart was still thundering. So was yours. And neither of you said anything for a while. Eventually, he spoke, voice so soft you barely caught it.

“If I die tomorrow…”

You shook your head against him.

“No, listen,” he insisted, voice cracking. “If I die tomorrow… just know I died thinking of this. Of you. Of us.”

You nodded, eyes full.

“I’ll find you again,” you whispered. “Somewhere. I promise.''

Kíli kissed you once more, and this time it was slow again. Final, almost. Outside, the wind grew louder. The mountain shuddered. And in the morning, the gate would fall.

Several moons later

The halls of Erebor were silent at this hour, save for the crackle of torches along the stone corridors and the whisper of your voice as you sat alone in the old healing quarters, now empty, repurposed as your space. Your hand lay tenderly over your swollen belly, round and heavy beneath your shawl. The child within stirred as you spoke.

“I hope you’ll have his smile,” you murmured, voice raw. “His laugh. The way he always made things lighter, even when everything was falling apart.”

You swallowed thickly and closed your eyes.

“And I hope you’ll be braver than I am. Because right now, I don’t know how to do this without him.”

The silence that followed felt endless. Then, softly, behind you, near the doorway. Came a voice, gravel deep and roughened by grief.

“You’re braver than you know.”

You turned. Thorin stood there, arms folded, shadows tucked beneath his eyes. He looked older. He always had, but now it showed more. Loss carved into the lines around his mouth and the slump in his shoulders. You tried to rise, but he shook his head. Instead, he stepped inside, slow and uncertain.

“I didn’t mean to overhear,” he said. “But… I come here sometimes. When it’s quiet. When I want to remember.”

Your voice caught. “So do I.”

He looked down at your stomach. “Kíli would have been… insufferably proud.”

You gave a small, broken laugh.

“He was already insufferable."

Thorin’s lips twitched. A long silence passed. Then, gently, he knelt beside you awkward and stiff, not touching, just near. Close enough for you to feel the weight of his presence. You could see the way he stared at your stomach, his jaw clenched, breath uneven.

“I should’ve protected him,” he rasped. “I should’ve done more.”

“No,” you whispered. “You brought him home. You gave him something to fight for.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. And something cracked open between you something unsaid. Shared grief. Shared blood. Shared love for a boy who would never walk these halls again.

“He lives here,” you said, placing his hand gently over your stomach.

For a moment, Thorin didn’t move. And then, silently, reverently, he left his hand there. No words. Just warmth.

Pairing : Thorin Oakenshield x Female Reader.

Warnings : SMUTTTT. 🔞

~ Chapter 12 ~

Spring had taken full root in Erebor. Even deep within the mountain, the air felt softer, scented with moss and warmed stone. The people rejoiced in peace. The mines were singing again, the forges aglow with life and labor. Thorin Oakenshield ruled with strength, but at his side stood something greater than gold, sharper than steel.

You.

They knew it now. All of them. The halls no longer whispered but instead they celebrated. You walked beside your king not as a curiosity, not as a hidden thing, but as a woman adored. Draped in deep silks and proud braids, you held his arm at feasts and laid beside him at night. He kissed your palms in public and called for you first when he rose. His people adored you. His court accepted you. But still, the words had not been spoken. Until tonight.

The moon was high above Erebor. Within the mountain’s heart, the sacred garden glowed with candlelight and steam. The heated pools shimmered beneath stone arches and moss-draped walls, their surfaces reflecting gold and silver light. The scent of earth and green things filled the air. And there, amid the quiet splendor of it all, Thorin waited.

He stood by the water’s edge, arms crossed, hair loose from its formal braids. He had removed his crown and coat, and his shirt was unlaced slightly at the throat, exposing the strong line of his collarbone and a glimpse of ink across his skin.

When you entered, he turned at once.

You wore a gown he had sent you days before —midnight blue, soft as smoke, with laces that clung to your waist and sleeves that fell like moonlight from your arms. He drank you in as if seeing you for the first time, though his eyes had never truly left you since the day you came into his kingdom.

“Come here,” he said, low and rough.

He reached for your hand and pulled you closer, until your chests nearly touched. You could feel the heat of him, the tension in his shoulders, the breath he held back just to keep himself steady.

“I could not sleep,” he murmured, “not with you gone from my bed.”

“Nor I,” you answered. “I needed to walk. To think.”

“What is there to think about?” His voice dropped further. “You are mine. I am yours. There is no doubt left.”

Your breath caught. You lifted your eyes to his and found something there, not lust, not hunger, but reverence.

“You say it as though it is already spoken.”

“It is,” he whispered, and then, with no hesitation, “I love you.”

The words hit you like thunder and melted into you like spring rain. You had known it, felt it in every touch and glance, but to hear it from his lips was to be remade.

You smiled. “I love you.”

He kissed you then, with all the weight of those words behind it. No rush. No war. No curse. Just Thorin warm, solid, hungry for you in the gentlest, fiercest way. His mouth moved over yours like he was learning you anew. His hands cradled your waist, his fingers grazing the laces of your gown.

You broke the kiss first, heart pounding. He stared at you, lips parted, eyes dark.

“Will you come with me?” you asked.

He followed you wordlessly, through the flickering garden, to the most hidden corner, where thick ivy crept up the stone walls, and candles burned low beside a long marble bench. You turned to him there and reached for the ties at your shoulders. His breath stilled.

Slowly, deliberately, you let the gown fall from your shoulders, leaving you in only a soft shift. He stepped closer and cupped your cheek.

“I fear I’ll never get used to the sight of you bare,” he said, voice almost reverent.

You dropped to your knees.

“Let me,” you said. “I have missed your taste.”

His chest rose, and for a moment, he said nothing. Then, with one soft hand, he touched your hair, threading his fingers through the loose strands, and nodded.

You undid his belt with quiet fingers. You pushed back the fabric of his trousers, and when you freed him, your breath hitched. Still, even after all you had seen and touched, he stunned you. He was thick and hard already, flushed and aching.

He groaned low when your lips wrapped around him.

One of his hands found your hair again. The other gripped the edge of the bench beside him. You took him slowly, carefully, letting your tongue explore him, your lips glide down until he was nearly undone. He hissed your name through clenched teeth, his hips rocking once, twice, before he stilled himself.

You worshipped him there, with the sound of the water echoing softly behind you, with candlelight flickering against his bare skin and his voice breaking in your ear.

“Enough,” he growled, dragging you up to your feet with startling gentleness. “I cannot take any more.”

He turned you and lifted you, setting you on the marble bench as though you weighed nothing. Your shift was bunched at your thighs now, damp with your need, and he cursed in Khuzdul when he saw the way you trembled.

He kissed your neck, your breasts, the soft valley between. When he finally entered you, he groaned like a man falling to his knees before the gods.

You clung to him, your fingers grasping his back, his shoulders, anything to ground yourself as he thrust into you slowly, deeply, filling you in ways no words ever could.

“I love you,” he whispered again, over and over, with every movement of his hips, with every brush of his lips against your shoulder.

“I love you,” you said back, until it was a chant, a vow, a bond sealed by body and soul.

You came around him with a cry that echoed into the stone. He followed with a sound like reverence.

For a long while, neither of you moved. He held you, his forehead pressed to yours, his heart racing beneath your palms.

Then he pulled back slightly, still between your legs, and reached into the inner pocket of his coat, which lay beside the bench.

He opened his hand. In his palm sat a ring — silver and gold, shaped in the style of ancient dwarven craft, with a deep blue sapphire at the center.

“I was going to wait,” he said softly. “But I cannot. I will not.”

You stared, breathless.

“Will you marry me?”

Your laugh broke the silence, half-shocked, half-joyous. “Yes,” you said. “Of course. Yes.”

He slipped the ring onto your finger, then kissed you again, smiling against your lips.

And though the garden was hidden, though no one saw, it felt as though the entire mountain sang.

The King Under the Mountain had found his treasure.

And she had found her home.

—

Pairing : Thorin Oakenshield x Female Reader.

Warnings : NSFW 🔞 it’s happening ❤️‍🔥

~ Chapter 11 ~

A month had passed since the feast where Thorin Oakenshield claimed you before all of Erebor.

Thirty days of stolen glances, of fingers brushing in quiet halls, of heated moments behind stone doors where mouths met, where his hands roamed but never crossed the line. You hadn’t begged. He hadn’t asked. But the waiting had become unbearable, even sacred. The tension had ripened into something so thick, it clung to every glance like smoke.

Tonight, it changed.

He’d taken you to a hidden lake outside the mountain, where the stars mirrored in still water, where no guards stood watch and no courtiers whispered. Just a blanket, a flask of spiced wine, and the man you had come to crave more than breath.

He didn’t touch you, not at first. He just looked. And when the silence stretched too long, he said, “Come to my chambers with me.”

You did.

⸻

His chambers were dim, lit only by a low fire. The doors shut with a quiet finality behind you.

“Sit,” he said.

You did, on a carved stool by the hearth, where the shadows kissed your cheeks and the warmth licked your skin.

He came behind you with a stone comb, the same one he had gifted you a month before and began to draw it through your hair, slow and careful.

“I want to braid it,” he said softly. You stilled.

Braiding was no small gesture in dwarven culture, not when done by a king, not when done like this.

He sectioned your hair in silence, weaving it with fingers steady despite the tension in his shoulders. When he was done, he pressed his lips to the braid.

“That,” he murmured, “makes it known. You’re mine.”

You turned to face him, heart hammering, breath shallow. “And you?” you asked.

His reply was immediate. “Yours.”

He kissed you then, slow, deep, devouring. His tongue swept against yours with unhurried precision. His hands held your waist like you were precious. Breakable. Worshipped.

When the kiss broke, his voice dropped to a growl. “Take off your clothes.”

Your eyes met his, defiant. “You first.”

That earned you a dark smirk and then silence as he stripped. Layer by layer fell away until he stood bare before you, all muscle and scars and power, veins thick on his arms, cock hard and heavy, already flushed and wanting.

You undressed in turn, slowly, deliberately, until you were just skin and breath. When you dropped the last layer, his expression shifted, from hunger to awe. He stepped closer.

His gaze devoured you — lingering on the round swell of your breasts, the softness of your belly, the bare heat of your core. He reached for your breasts first, cupping them in both hands with a reverence that made your knees weak.

“They’re perfect,” he murmured, thumbs brushing your nipples until they peaked. “Full. Mine.”

He bent down and took one into his mouth, groaning as he sucked. You gasped, arching toward him. He lavished attention on each one until your breath was ragged. Then he dropped to his knees.

“Spread your legs.”

You did. While trembling. He looked up at you once, something primal in his gaze. Then he licked.

Slow. Long. Flat tongue through your folds, followed by the soft pull of his lips on your clit. He moaned into you, devouring you like a starving man at a feast.

“You taste like you were forged for me,” he said against your heat. “I’ll never get enough.”

His fingers slid inside you, thick, curling just right. Your head fell back as you came undone on his mouth. He didn’t stop until your thighs trembled, until you clawed at his shoulders and his name fell from your lips like a prayer.

When he stood, his beard glistened. His cock throbbed at the sight of you panting and open beneath him. He climbed onto the bed. Pressed his weight into you.

“Tell me you want it,” he rasped, voice shaking.

“I want all of you,” you whispered.

He pushed inside. Thick. Deep. Perfect. Your back arched as he filled you inch by aching inch.

His forehead dropped to yours. He held still, breath heavy. “I’ve dreamed of this,” he whispered. “Of being inside you. Of making you mine.”

Then he moved. And the world shattered. Slow at first hips grinding, dragging moans from your throat — then faster, deeper, his hands tangled in your braid as he kissed you senseless. He worshipped your breasts again as he fucked you, sucking and kneading, whispering filth between reverent kisses.

“Look at you,” he growled. “Taking me so well. Fuck, I’ll ruin you.”

You clenched around him and he groaned like a beast.

You came again, sobbing his name, and he followed spilling deep, grinding through it, kissing your cheek as he said, “Mine. Always.”

When it was over, he wrapped you in furs, held you close, and kissed the braid he’d made with his own hands.

“You were made for me,” he whispered against your skin. And you believed it with every shattered piece of your soul.

—

FINALLY

Pairing : Thorin Oakenshield x Female Reader.

Warnings : minor explicate language.

~ Chapter 10 ~

The box arrived just past dusk, resting on the edge of your bed like it had always belonged there, like it had been waiting for the perfect moment to be found. You touched the velvet carefully, reverently, already feeling the weight of meaning pressed inside. When you unwrapped it, the air stilled.

A dress, sapphire blue, rich and deep as midnight, stitched with thread so fine it glimmered like starlight. You drew it out slowly, letting the fabric unfurl like a banner. The bodice was sculpted, the waist structured, but the neckline, Mahal, the neckline plunged far deeper than any dwarven gown you’d ever dared wear. The back swept low, scandalously so, the hem brushing the floor with a sigh.

Beneath the dress, pressed into the folds of the silk, was a single slip of parchment.

“Wear this. For me.”

No name. No signature. But you felt his voice in those words all the same.

As you changed, every movement felt heavier. You ran your hands over your own skin with more care, more awareness. The dress settled onto your frame with intention, it held you like a promise. You adjusted the shoulder, the neckline, your breath catching when you found the embroidered runes hidden at the hem: Strength. Loyalty. Mine.

Your heart stuttered. Your fingers lingered.

When you looked into the mirror, you barely recognized yourself, not because of how beautiful the dress made you feel, but because of how clearly you saw what you meant to him. Tonight would change everything.

You left your chambers with the mountain silent around you. But as you descended toward the feast hall, voices rose like rising heat, music, laughter, distant cheer. You were late by design. He wanted you seen. Wanted you arriving. When you stepped into the hall, all sound fell away.

Hundreds of dwarves, gathered from every stronghold—Iron Hills, Ered Luin, distant holds you’d only heard about in legend, all fell into stunned silence as their king turned to face the entrance.

His eyes found you instantly. And the way he looked at you…

The torches could have gone out and the hall could have crumbled, and it wouldn’t have mattered. His gaze swept over you slowly, his lips parting slightly as he took in the curve of your waist, the bare expanse of your shoulders, the daring cut of your dress. He said nothing. Only extended his hand.

You walked to him. Head high. Legs trembling.

He didn’t take your hand. He pressed it to his chest. Then turned to address everyone. His voice rising above the busy crowd.

“This,” he said, voice low but ringing across stone, “is the one I have chosen.”

Silence. Staggered. Shocked.

Then someone…Bofur, probably—whooped. And the dam broke.

Cheers, thunderous and wild, erupted around you. Mugs slammed against tables. Voices roared in celebration. Names were shouted, toasts raised. You didn’t see their faces. You didn’t hear their words. All you could feel was Thorin’s steady heartbeat beneath your palm and the weight of his claim as he folded his fingers over yours.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t gloat. He only looked at you with that same, storm-dark gaze and said, in a voice that only you could hear, “Now they know.”

The rest of the feast passed in a blur. You sat beside him at the head table. You drank too much. Smiled too easily. His hand never left yours beneath the cloth. When your skin brushed his, it was electric. He spoke little, but his thumb traced slow patterns over your knuckles, grounding you.

When the final toast had been raised and the songs turned soft and slurred, Thorin rose.

He helped you to your feet. Silently led you from the hall. His study was quiet when he shut the door behind you, but you could still feel the music vibrating in your bones. You turned toward him, heart still racing, but he was already there, close, warm, eyes like obsidian.

“You made a spectacle,” you said, breathless.

“I made a vow.”

You hesitated. “You never said it before.”

“I did,” he said. “Every time I looked at you like I couldn’t bear it. Every time I touched you like it would break me.” He stepped closer.

“But tonight, they needed to hear it. So you would know it was real.”

His hand lifted, knuckles brushing the edge of your neckline. He traced the curve of your collarbone, slow, reverent, until his palm settled over your chest.

“You wear my colors. You carry my rune. You are mine.”

You let out a shaky breath. “And what are you?”

His mouth was a whisper away from yours when he answered, “Yours. Entirely.”

Then he kissed you. Not with fire but with devastation.

It was slow, deep, drowning. His mouth moved against yours like he meant to pull the truth from your throat. His hands slid down your sides, found your hips, pulled you flush against him. The desk behind you caught your spine as he lifted you, seated you—parted your legs with a knee. He didn’t rush. He pressed.

His mouth trailed along your jaw, then lower, tongue tasting your throat with a groan.

“I wanted to take you the night I made you come undone on my tongue,” he rasped. “I nearly did. On that table.”

You whimpered.

“And tonight,” he said, hands squeezing your thighs, “when you walked into the hall in this dress, I wanted to tear it from your body and fuck you right there on the throne.”

You moaned, breath catching as he rocked his hips into yours.

“But I won’t.”

He kissed you again, deeper, filthier, until your head swam.

“I want the whole mountain to know,” he growled, grinding against you with maddening pressure. “That when you finally can’t walk, it’s because your king made you his.”

You were shaking now, hands in his hair, body bowed into him.

“And I will,” he whispered, teeth grazing your ear. “On my bed, beneath my crown. With your wrists bound in my belt and your thighs trembling around my waist.”

Your moan was half a cry.

“But not tonight.” And just like that, he stilled. You stared, panting.

He smirked, adjusted the bodice of your dress like nothing had happened, and said, “We should rejoin the feast.”

You blinked. “You’re cruel.”

“I’m patient.”

He offered you his arm. You were trembling when you took it.

—

You drank more when you returned, laughing, flushed, giddy. Thorin never strayed far. When you leaned into him, he steadied you. When your eyes grew heavy, he lifted you in his arms and carried you through the mountain like you weighed nothing.

He didn’t undress you.

Instead, he called for your attendant, the one who always helped you—and whispered something you didn’t catch.

But when she nodded, when she met your eyes and smiled, you knew he had thought of everything.

He brushed a kiss to your temple, then left without another word.

And you fell asleep with your comb beneath your pillow, your king’s name echoing in your dreams.

—

Pairing : Thorin Oakenshield x Female Reader.

Warnings : NSFW 🔞 FLUFF 🤍 Pregnancy 🤰

𓇢𓆸

The early spring wind swept gently over the stones of Erebor, whistling low and ancient as it moved through the great halls. Deep in the heart of the mountain, beyond the war rooms and golden vaults, the Queen of Erebor stood in a quiet chamber, staring down at the worn edge of the healer’s parchment.

It was a simple thing, just a few lines scribbled in dwarvish runes but it may as well have been written in starlight. Her breath caught. Confirmed. With child. Strong heartbeat. No sign of ailment. Her hands trembled as she folded the parchment and pressed it to her lips. For a long moment, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Only feel.

Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, not wild, dramatic tears. No. These were soft and sacred. The kind that fall in silence when a burden long carried finally lifts. It had been over a year that they have been trying

But month after month passed. And her womb remained quiet. Empty.

At first, Thorin said nothing, only held her tighter. But she could feel it, the shift. The way his touch lingered with reverence tinged by grief. The way he turned away in the mornings with something heavy behind his eyes. He never blamed her. Not once. But she knew. He blamed himself.

He thought it was his curse. The gold sickness. The dragon. The battle. The bloodline.

She had seen it in him. The way his hand curled against his chest late at night, as if he could feel his past rotting beneath the surface. He feared he would never leave behind anything good.

But now… now…

She placed a hand to her belly, still flat beneath her silk robes. Nothing had changed and yet everything had. Their child was here.

Alive.

That evening, she waited for him in their private chambers, tucked behind the royal wing of the mountain. The fire burned low in the hearth, casting gold and amber shadows across the stone walls. She had dismissed her handmaidens early, choosing to prepare herself alone, brushing her hair until it shone, slipping into the deep blue velvet gown Thorin always lingered over when she wore it.

And on the hearthstone, just before the fire, she had placed something small: a carved wooden rattle. It was shaped like a tiny ram, sturdy and detailed — the kind a dwarven father might gift his child for their first nameday. She’d had it commissioned quietly by a craftsman in Dale months ago, just in case. Just in hope. The door opened, and she turned.

Thorin entered, his shoulders already low with fatigue, his crown clasped in one hand, the other lifting to rub the bridge of his nose. He looked weary…battle-weary, meeting-weary, king-weary. But when he saw her, his breath paused, and something softened in his gaze.

“Amrâlimê,” he murmured, stepping forward. “You’re awake late.”

“I was waiting for you.”

He smiled faintly. “A selfish part of me hoped you would be.”

He moved toward her, setting his crown on the nearby table. As always, the moment he entered their chamber, the crown became just gold again. No longer a symbol. Just weight. And he was just Thorin, her husband, not her king.

But when he reached to draw her close, his eyes fell on the small wooden rattle on the hearth.

He stopped. There was a long silence.

“…What is that?” His voice was low, almost careful.

She stepped to his side and took his hand in hers.

“It’s for you,” she whispered. “For… us.”

His brow furrowed as he stared down at the rattle. And then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, she watched the meaning begin to dawn. He turned to her sharply, eyes scanning her face, desperate, almost afraid to hope.

She gave the smallest nod, her fingers tightening around his. “I’m with child, Thorin.”

A beat. Then another.

He didn’t speak. He simply… stood. Frozen. As if the world had stopped spinning. His lips parted, but no sound came out. And then, suddenly. His knees buckled. Not to the ground, not entirely but just enough. He sat back against the nearest chair like the wind had been knocked from him. One hand went to his chest, the other gripped hers like an anchor.

His eyes were wide, shining with something she’d only seen once before, when he awoke in the aftermath of the Battle of Five Armies and realized he was alive, and she was beside him.

“…Truly?” His voice cracked. “You… You carry our child?”

“I do,” she whispered, sinking to her knees before him. “The healer confirmed it this morning. It’s early, but they said the signs are strong. They said…they said everything looks as it should.”

His mouth trembled. He drew in a breath that sounded like it hurt, the kind of breath someone takes after surviving something that should have broken them.

Then, without a word, he wrapped his arms around her crushing, reverent, fierce.

She let herself fall into him, arms around his broad shoulders, his beard brushing her cheek as he buried his face in the curve of her neck. And then…gods — she felt it. He was crying. Not loudly. Not shaking. But the tears were there, hot and silent against her skin.

For all the battles Thorin Oakenshield had fought, for Erebor, for his people, for his crown. None had cost him more than this quiet war he never spoke of. This battle fought in prayer and silence, in the aching hush of a chamber where no child stirred. Until now.

“I thought…” he whispered, barely audible, “I feared I would never give you this.”

She leaned back just enough to touch his face. “You’ve given me everything, Thorin. Everything. Even if this day had never come, I would still call myself the luckiest of queens.”

He shook his head but he was smiling now, brokenly, like someone trying to piece their joy back together.

“I wanted to give you a legacy,” he murmured. “A home. A child. Something of me… that was not war or grief.”

She pressed her forehead to his. “Then you’ve done just that.”

For a long while, they stayed there, wrapped in firelight and silence, the mountain quiet around them. And then Thorin pulled back. Still on his knees, he reached for the hem of her gown and lifted it with slow, reverent hands, just enough to bare her lower belly.

He placed both hands against her skin.

His palms were calloused, rough from battle but warm. Steady. They cradled her softly, thumbs brushing along the curve of her abdomen. Then he bent forward and pressed his forehead to her belly.

And he began to speak. Low, guttural words, deep and ancient. Khuzdul.

The secret language of the dwarves. The language of stone and oath and blood. A language never spoken lightly. She didn’t understand the words, not fully, but she felt them. Blessings. Vows. A promise to their child.

A promise to protect. To guide. To love. To shield. To never let them feel unloved or unwanted or less than whole. When he finally lifted his head, his eyes were burning with something raw and sacred.

He leaned forward and pressed a kiss, not to her lips, not to her cheek but to the very center of her belly. When he looked up, his voice was thick.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “For not giving up on hope. Even when I did.”

She cupped his face. “It was always you, Thorin. Even in the waiting. Even in the silence. You were still… enough.”

He pulled her into his lap then, cradling her as if she were already carrying the weight of the world. And maybe she was. But in his arms, that weight was not a burden, it was glory. As the fire burned low, they stayed there.

Thorin with one hand splayed protectively across her stomach. His other tangled with hers.

And when they eventually climbed into bed, he curled around her from behind, head pressed gently to the curve of her back, one hand never leaving her middle.

She heard him whisper something into the dark.

She couldn’t make out the words just the tone.

Softer than stone. Warmer than gold.

And when she fell asleep that night, she did so wrapped in the arms of a king, carrying the child of a man who had once feared he would never be worthy of such joy. But he was. Oh, he was.

𓇢𓆸

5 months later…

⸻

The nursery was nearly finished.

Warm afternoon light spilled through the carved arch of the stone window, catching on the tapestries that lined the walls, deep sapphire blue, embroidered with silver trees and mountain peaks. Thorin had insisted on only the finest dwarven craftsmanship, though she had teased that their child wouldn’t care if the cradle was carved from gold or goat wood, so long as it held them safely. Still, Thorin had carved the cradle himself.

Each evening for the past month, after council meetings and royal decrees and his endless responsibilities as king, he would retreat to the workshop, not as Oakenshield, not as ruler of Erebor, but as a husband and a father-to-be. His callused hands worked with reverence and care, shaping the mountain’s heartwood into something beautiful. The headboard was adorned with a mountain range, and nestled in the center, a small starburst symbol. Her family’s crest. His way of saying: this child is ours. Not just of my blood. Of yours.

Now, standing in the room beside that cradle, she ran her fingers along the smooth edge. Her belly curved softly beneath her linen dress, round and full now, unmistakably housing the new life growing within her.

She felt it — not just the pressure, the movement, but the presence. Their baby moved often now, especially when Thorin spoke. It was as if the child already knew the sound of his voice. She smiled faintly and pressed her hand against her belly.

“You’ve no idea how loved you already are, little one.”

Behind her, the door creaked open.

She didn’t need to turn to know it was Thorin. She could feel him, the quiet weight of his gaze, the shift in the air when he entered a room. He was always composed in public, ever the king, but the moment they were alone… his guard dropped.

“Amrâlimê,” he murmured.

She turned, and her breath caught.

He was still dressed in his formal tunic, but the crown was gone. His dark hair was half-loosened from its braids, and there was a faint dusting of sawdust on his sleeves. His eyes… gods, his eyes were fixed on her belly like he was seeing her for the first time.

“You’ve grown,” he said softly.

She arched a brow. “I’m aware.”

He stepped forward slowly, his gaze trailing upward from her belly to her breasts, which had grown heavier with the pregnancy, full and round beneath the soft fabric of her dress. She saw it then, the way his jaw tightened, the way his breath hitched. The heat in his gaze.

“I meant… you look radiant,” he said, voice a little rough.

She tilted her head, stepping closer. “Do I?”

He reached for her waist, hands cradling either side of her belly as he bent to press a kiss to it. The gesture had become second nature now, he greeted their child before he greeted her, most days.

But when he straightened, his eyes lingered.

“Do you know what I think every time I look at you?” he said, voice low.

She raised an eyebrow, teasing. “That I’ve turned into a waddling mountain goat?”

He chuckled — but only barely. His eyes darkened.

“I think… this is what the gods meant to give me. Not gold. Not glory. This.”

His hands slid up, gently, reverent — until they cupped her breasts. She gasped, a little surprised, a little breathless. He brushed his thumbs across the peaks through the linen, and she moaned softly. Her nipples were more sensitive these days, sometimes painfully so. But Thorin’s touch was patient, worshipful.

“You’re softer,” he whispered, leaning in to nuzzle her neck. “Glowing. Full of life. You are more beautiful than I have ever seen you, and I… I can barely look at you without wanting to fall to my knees.”

Her hands gripped his tunic. “Then do it.”

And he did.

Thorin knelt before her like a knight before his queen hands on her hips, eyes lifted with something that bordered on reverence. He pressed his forehead to the swell of her belly and exhaled, as though steadying himself. Then, slowly, his hands slid up her thighs beneath the hem of her dress.

“Thorin—” she whispered, voice shaking.

“You are mine,” he said, looking up at her. “And I will worship every inch of you. Especially now, when you carry the legacy I prayed I would never be cursed to lose.”

She let him guide her backward, walking her slowly to the bed that had been placed in the nursery. He stood only long enough to shrug off his tunic and shirt, revealing the muscle-sculpted form she loved. All strength and scar and hunger.

Then he joined her on the bed, kneeling above her, pulling her dress up and over her head until she lay bare beneath him. He froze. And stared.

She shifted slightly, suddenly self-conscious. “I know I’ve changed. I know my body is—”

“You are perfect.”

He said it like it was law.

Then he bent his head and wrapped his mouth around one swollen breast. She cried out softly, her hands flying to his hair. He suckled her gently, slowly, his tongue teasing her nipple in lazy circles while one hand slid down between her thighs. Her body arched as his fingers found her.

He groaned, deep and low. “You’re so ready for me, my queen.”

“Then take me,” she whispered. “I need you.”

He didn’t need telling twice. He positioned himself above her, nudging her legs apart with gentle pressure. One hand cradled the back of her thigh, lifting her slightly to avoid pressing too much weight against her belly. He slid into her with a groan so guttural it made her thighs shake.

She gasped, he still stretched her, filled her, claimed her completely. And now, with the fullness of her body, the sensitivity of her skin, it felt like more.

He moved slowly at first, reverent, almost achingly tender.

“I can’t believe you’re mine,” he whispered. “Mine… carrying my child. My heart, my queen, my future.”

She pulled him closer, wrapping her legs around his hips, her fingers digging into his back.

“I was always yours,” she whispered. “Even before this. Always.”

He kissed her then, not hard, not rushed, but deep and warm and wet. Their tongues tangled as he rocked into her, the rhythm steady and unhurried. Every motion was an act of devotion, every breath shared like a vow. She whimpered beneath him, the pressure building, the fire coiling tighter and tighter within her.

“Thorin, I’m… I—”

“I feel it,” he breathed. “You’re close.”

He slid one hand between them, his fingers finding her clit, circling gently — just enough. She came with a soft cry, her body trembling around him.

And that…was what undid him. He buried himself deep and came with a low, broken growl, spilling into her as if the act itself could root them together forever. When it passed, he didn’t move. He simply held her, both of them panting, his head resting over her heart. Silence wrapped around them like a blanket. Then softly…

“You are the mountain’s heart,” he whispered against her skin. “And this child is our song carved into stone.”

Tears welled in her eyes again. She kissed his temple. “You were always more than a king, Thorin. You were meant to be a father.”

He smiled, tired and dazed and full of wonder.

“I was meant,” he murmured, “to be yours.”

Pairing : Thorin Oakenshield x Female Reader.

Warnings : NSFW - language - power dynamics.

𓇢𓆸

You’re fast, but you’re not that fast.

Not when the king is hunting you with murder in his eyes.

You dart down a darkened corridor, laughter bubbling up from your lips, just to taunt him, just to hear the echo of it bounce off stone. You know he’s behind you; you can feel the heat, the fury, the singular focus.

You’re baiting him and you know it. And, gods, it feels good. You turn a corner, slide to a halt, nearly crash into a rack of armor. He’s gaining. You hear the scrape of boots and that low, guttural growl he makes when you’ve truly pissed him off.

You flash him a wicked grin, teeth bared.

“Getting slow in your old age, Oakenshield?”

He rounds the corner and slams his axe into the stone beside your head, just hard enough to make the wall shudder, just close enough that you feel the wind of it whip your hair. His eyes burn, blue and bottomless.

“Keep running your mouth, girl. It’s the only thing you do faster than running away.”

“Oh, I don’t run,” you shoot back, chin tilted up, “I just know how to make a king chase. Is that your secret, Thorin? You like it when a woman gets away?”

He leans in, chest heaving. “I like it when she knows her place.”

He’s close enough you can feel the heat off him, smell the leather and metal, the clean, sweat-and-smoke scent of him. His hand is braced on the wall, trapping you.

“And where’s that?” You don’t back down. “Under your boot? On her knees? Or maybe you just want someone who doesn’t flinch when you get all big and scary?”

“Oh, I don’t want someone who flinches.” His lips twitch, almost a smile. “I want someone who knows how to scream.”

You arch a brow, pressing your luck. “You’re all talk, King. You haven’t managed to catch me yet.”

He grins. Slow, dark, dangerous. “That’s about to change.”

Pairing : Thorin Oakenshield x Female Reader.

Warnings : Explicit Sexual Content 🔞

~ Chapter 9 ~

You came back to Erebor laughing.

It felt strange, letting that bright sound bounce off stone walls built for echoes of war and trade deals. But the elf who’d ridden beside you all week had been good company and lots of easy jokes, easy smiles, the kind of lightness you’d forgotten existed on the other side of a mountain.

You never noticed how his fingers lingered when he passed the reins to you. Never caught the little tilt of his head, the too warm look in his eyes. But someone else did. Thorin saw every breath, every brush of skin.

—

Your boots were still half-untied when the door crashed shut behind you.

You spun. “Thorin! Mahal, you—”

He dropped the latch with a hard click, heat rolling off him in waves.

“You didn’t see it,” he said, voice kept just barely civil.

“See what?”

“The way he watched you.” One measured step. “As if he’d earned the right to touch.”

You blinked. “He was courteous.”

“He was flirting,” Thorin corrected, chest rising like a bellows. “And you laughed for him.”

“Is that illegal now?” You shot back.

“No.” Another step closer. “But letting him imagine you’re free to claim is.”

Your back hit the wall. “You think I belong to you?”

“I know you do.”

His eyes swept over you, dark and certain. “Do you doubt it?”

A thin breath left you. “Not for a moment.”

The answer calmed nothing in him; the tension coiled tighter, like a drawn bowstring.

“And tonight,” he murmured, “I’m going to remind you.”

He kissed you, sharp, possessive, teeth catching your lower lip until you gasped. His hands settled on your hips, dragging you against the unmistakable press of him.

When he pulled back, his eyes were molten. “I’m not going to fuck you,” he said, voice rough stone. “Not yet.”

“Then…?”

“I’m going to taste you until his name is dust.”

Your knees wobbled.

“And when I do finally take you,” he breathed against your ear, “it’ll be after the whole realm knows you’re mine—so when you can’t walk the next morning, no one wonders why.”

A whimper slipped out before you could stop it.

His answering smile was pure hunger. “Off. Now.”

Your fingers fumbled with ties and buckles, each layer louder than your heartbeat. When your skirt pooled at your feet, Thorin’s gaze roamed, reverent, greedy, almost pained.

“For every breath he stole, I’ll take ten,” he vowed softly. “Starting here.”

He dropped to his knees.

“Perfect,” he whispered, callused thumbs sweeping along your thighs. “Hold on to me.”

Then his mouth found you.

The first slide of his tongue forced your head back against the door. He groaned like a starving man, mapping you with slow, devastating precision, open-mouthed kisses, lingering licks, gentle sucks that turned your legs to water.

You clawed at his braids. “Thorin, you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he said, voice muffled but firm. “Let me have this.”

He suckled your clit, then slipped two thick fingers inside you. The world shattered. You arched, thighs clamping around his shoulders, a silent cry caught in your throat. He didn’t relent—kept licking, coaxing, milking every tremor until you sagged, boneless.

Only then did he rise. His beard and lips shone; his eyes burned.

“You are mine,” he said softly, as if stating simple fact. He brushed a thumb over your swollen lip and added, almost tender, “Rest. I’ll send a bath.”

For one heartbeat he lingered, fingertips trailing down your arm, an unspoken apology wrapped in heat and then turned on his heel. The door eased shut behind him, the scent of him still clinging to you, leaving you trembling, breathless, and utterly certain who you belonged to.

—

Pairing : Thorin Oakenshield x Female Reader.

Warnings : NSFW 🔞 - masturbation / angst

~ Chapter 8 ~

It came the morning after.

Not a letter. Not a summons.

Just a gift, left in the quiet of your chambers. It had been placed so carefully on your writing desk that you knew without question, it hadn’t been delivered by a servant. A small, velvet-lined box.

Inside, a pendant. Dwarven-made. Not ornate or flashy. Simple. Solid. Shaped in the rune for “belonging.” Forged from mithril and iron. The contrast soft against the dark velvet. The faintest warmth still clung to it, like it had been held in his hands too long before he left it there. It was personal. Too personal for a king to give a subject. Too intimate to be meaningless.

You touched it with trembling fingers and understood. This was his apology. Not in words. Thorin would never give you those. But in tradition, in craftsmanship—this was his heart laid bare. And you accepted it. You wore it beneath your tunic all day.

—

The next morning, you were gone.

Balin had asked you to accompany a small caravan to a nearby hold. Just for a few days, to catalog old records and confirm lineage scrolls. It was work you loved, and it would be quick. You didn’t say goodbye. Not directly.

But you left something behind. On purpose.

One of your scarves. A soft, dark blue, faintly scented with lavender oil, was casually draped over the back of a chair in Thorin’s private chambers. You had taken to bringing documents to him there lately, sometimes waiting for him while he finished meetings.

You didn’t know if he would find it. You didn’t know what he would do. But you left it anyway.

—

He found it that night.

The moment he stepped into the room, he knew. The scarf didn’t belong to him. Didn’t belong to the room. But it belonged to you and the sight of it nearly dropped him to his knees. He stepped toward it like it might vanish. Like it might burn if he touched it wrong.

With both hands, he reached out, held it, and breathed you in. His jaw clenched. His throat worked. Then he sat. Slowly. He didn’t let go. He closed his eyes.

You were gone. For days. And he hadn’t even said your name since that night in the council chamber. He thought he could withstand it.

But now?

With your scarf wrapped around his hand and your scent dragging him under? He couldn’t.

His hand moved to his belt, breath catching. He undid it slowly. With the same reverence he might give a blade. Not for lust. Not only for release. But for remembrance. He wrapped the scarf around his hand, held it to his face for a long moment, then let it fall over his thigh.

And he touched himself. Slow. Heavy. Silent.

His cock was already half-hard, thickening quickly as he imagined you. Your mouth. Your fingers. The heat in your eyes the moment you knelt before him. The soft gasp you gave the first time you saw him. The way your lips had wrapped around him so willingly, so hungrily.

He groaned low, fisting himself once, twice, the silk of your scarf brushing his skin. You weren’t here. But you’d left this. For him. You’d accepted his apology.

And now he was coming undone.

He stroked himself steadily. Breathing harshly. Hips rocking slowly into his palm. Eyes locked on the scarf like it might become your hand if he only willed it hard enough.

“I should’ve stayed,” he whispered. “Should’ve taken you then.”

His thumb brushed the head of his cock, and he shuddered.

“You belong to me.”

He could feel you. Taste you. Remember your lips, your tongue, the soft moan when you realized just how big he was. He gripped himself harder. Faster. Chasing the edge. Pressure building, burning in his spine.

“Mine,” he growled, biting back a sound as release broke over him like fire. He spilled into his hand, panting. Jaw tight. The scarf tangled in his lap.

He didn’t move for a long time. Didn’t speak. He just held it. Breathed and Burned.

He would never say it. But he was already yours.

—

Pairing : Thorin Oakenshield x Female Reader

Warnings : NSFW 🔞

~ Chapter 7 ~

Everyone in Erebor knew to keep their distance when Thorin Oakenshield was in one of his moods.

The halls themselves seemed to tense with him — shadows deeper, air heavier. Guards didn’t meet his gaze. Servants stepped aside faster. Dwalin barked orders just to fill the silence he left in his wake.

This week, Thorin wasn’t just brooding. He was seething. And ever since the archives, he’d avoided you like the very sight of you might break him open. He hadn’t spoken to you. Hadn’t looked at you. Hadn’t so much as acknowledged your existence. You told yourself it didn’t matter. That what had happened was a moment of weakness. That it meant nothing. But it had meant something. And you were done pretending it hadn’t.

So when the summons came — formal, curt, requesting your presence at a war council…you went. Not for duty. Not for him. But to end this.

—

The chamber emptied slowly. Maps were rolled, weapons slung over backs. Advisors filed out one by one until only two remained. You. And him. The door shut behind the last dwarf with a soft thud. Silence.

You didn’t move. Neither did he. Finally, Thorin turned — jaw clenched, expression unreadable.

“You were late,” he said flatly. Your lips parted. “That’s what you want to say to me?” He arched a brow. “You were summoned. You should’ve arrived on time.” You stared at him.

“No hello,” you said. “No explanation. Not even a nod after what you did.” His jaw twitched. “What happened between us was a lapse in judgment. It should not have happened.” Something in your chest snapped.

“A lapse?” you repeated, voice rising. “You touched me like you needed me. You kissed me like you’d drown without it. And now you want to pretend it didn’t matter?”

“It can’t matter,” he growled. “You knew that from the beginning.” Your hands shook. “So now I’m just supposed to go back to sorting scrolls while you pretend we never touched? That you didn’t make me…”

“Enough.”

“No,” you snapped, stepping closer. “You don’t get to silence me. You don’t get to act like this is all under your control when you’re the one who broke first.”

He stepped into your space, eyes blazing. “Because if I didn’t leave, I would’ve taken you on that damn table.”

You sucked in a breath. “But you didn’t,” you said coldly. “You left. Just like always.”

“I had to.”

“You chose to.”

You were chest to chest now, breath uneven, the air thick with heat and hatred and want. “I haven’t forgotten a second of it,” you said, lower now, deadly. “I still feel your mouth on my skin when I sleep. But here’s the truth, Thorin. We haven’t even had sex. Not once. You kissed me, touched me, then walked away like I was something to regret.”

His lips parted slightly, but he said nothing. You laughed once — sharp and bitter. “Tell me. When you think of me now, do you imagine what I taste like, or are you too proud to admit you still want me?”

His hand twitched. Your eyes dropped — just for a moment — and saw it. The proof. Hard. Straining beneath his belt. And then, before he could speak—

You dropped to your knees.

His eyes widened. “Don’t.”

You ignored him. “I want you to remember this,” you said softly. “Next time you look through me like I’m nothing.”

Your fingers worked his belt loose, and when you pulled open his trousers, what you revealed made your breath catch. He was… big. Thick. Heavy. Hard. Your mouth went dry, and for a second — just a second you faltered.

He was panting already, hands clenched at his sides. “You don’t have to”

But you wanted to. Desperately. You licked your lips. Met his eyes. And slowly took him into your mouth. The first inch made him grunt — a low, strained sound. He tasted clean, salty, the weight of him pressing against your tongue. You hollowed your cheeks and took more. His hand found your hair, not guiding just anchoring, holding on like he might shatter.

You pulled back, licked the head, then slid down again, deeper this time. He cursed. You moaned around him, and he swore again, more ragged now. The sheer size of him stretched your lips, your jaw aching already. But the sounds he made? The way his chest rose in harsh bursts? It drove you. You wrapped your hand around the base and stroked in time with your mouth. Flicked your tongue. Let your lips drag slow and messy.

He was unraveling. And you loved it. “Fuck,” he rasped, voice shaking. “I’m—don’t stop—”

You didn’t. You looked up at him, spit glistening on your lips, his cock glistening too, flushed and hard and twitching. Then you sank down once more, humming low in your throat.

He came with a growl — deep, guttural, hips jerking once as he spilled into your mouth. You swallowed, licking him clean, watching every flicker of emotion cross his face. When he finally opened his eyes, he looked ruined. Undone. Devastated.

You stood slowly. Met his gaze. Wiped your mouth with the back of your hand. And smiled.

“Still nothing between us,” you said coldly. “Right?”

Then you walked out. Leaving him silent. Shaking.

And utterly wrecked.

—