#kingunderthemountain

Pairing : Thorin Oakenshield x Female Reader.

Warnings : None.

~ Chapter 2 ~

The rain came down in sheets.

By the time the company found the shallow cave nestled in the hillside, you were soaked through — your cloak heavy, hair clinging to your face, and boots squelching with every step. Thunder cracked across the sky like a whip, echoing through the mountains. No fire would burn in this wind, and the company huddled together in the dark, the only warmth coming from shared breath and body heat.

Thorin had said little since the storm began. He’d been at the front, leading in silence, jaw tight, his hair plastered to his shoulders. The moment they’d found the cave, he’d taken to the far wall and sat down — arms crossed, cloak drawn around him like a barrier.

There was barely space for all of you. Dwalin and Bofur had already stretched out near the entrance, snoring softly. You lingered at the edge, eyeing the narrow gap between Bombur and Thorin — the only dry patch left.

“Go on,” Kíli said with a grin, his voice low. “He doesn’t bite.”

You weren’t so sure.

Still, you slid into the space, careful not to jostle anyone. Your back was turned to Thorin, and every inch of you felt his presence behind you — the way he shifted slightly as you settled, the deep breath he took, the warmth of him through your damp clothes.

You shut your eyes, willing your thoughts away.

The storm raged on outside, howling against the rock. Water dripped from the roof in slow, rhythmic taps. Time passed — it must have — but sleep didn’t come.

Your limbs were stiff, the stone beneath you unforgiving. Worse, your skin prickled from the cold, and a shiver worked its way up your spine despite your efforts to stay still. You pulled your cloak tighter, but it was already damp and offered little comfort.

Then, something shifted.

A soft rustle of fabric. The sudden, subtle weight of another cloak being draped over your side. You froze.

“You’re shivering,” Thorin murmured, voice rough from disuse — barely a breath.

“I’m fine,” you whispered.

He didn’t answer. But the cloak stayed. The silence stretched again, this time heavier.

Your shoulder ached. Your hip throbbed from the stone. And though you hated to move — hated to give away how much your body protested — you slowly turned to adjust, drawing your legs in slightly. You shifted onto your other side.

And stopped.

Thorin was facing you.

His eyes were open, watching.

You hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t prepared for the closeness — barely a hand’s width between you. The cave was so dark, but the faint glow from the outside storm caught in his eyes, casting pale gold along the sharp lines of his cheekbones, the furrow of his brow, the glint of something unspoken in his gaze.

Your breath caught.

Neither of you spoke. The storm filled the silence between you, distant now — like the world had narrowed down to this tiny space, and the shape of each other.

You weren’t sure who was holding stiller — him or you.

He looked tired. Not just physically, but in the way that carved itself into the corners of his mouth, the small crease between his brows. His hair was half-dry now, curling faintly, framing his face. And gods — you didn’t mean to, but your gaze lingered.

So did his.

The air between you was warm, despite the chill. Every breath you took seemed to draw in his scent — smoke, pine, the faintest trace of something metallic.

You told yourself to look away. You didn’t.

Then something happened — something so small, it almost didn’t count. His fingers twitched where they rested between you, brushing your sleeve. Not a touch. But almost.

You felt it like a strike to the chest.

Your breath came shallower, but you didn’t speak. He didn’t either.

You wondered what would happen if you reached out — just once — just a single brush of your fingertips along the stubble at his jaw, or the edge of his sleeve. Would he pull away? Would you?

But you didn’t move.

Instead, your eyes stayed locked, and in that space, in that storm-lit hush, it was as if every word neither of you had said found a home. Not a confession, but an understanding.

And Thorin — proud, stubborn Thorin — let it happen. Didn’t turn away. Didn’t scowl or scoff. He simply watched you, and in his gaze was a softness so rarely shown it nearly undid you.

He shifted then — only slightly — his head resting back against the stone behind him. Not quite breaking the gaze, but letting his eyes close at last.

Your chest ached.

You watched him a moment longer, then let yourself relax, finally curling beneath the borrowed cloak, your body facing his. Your hand, still close to his, remained where it was — unmoving, almost touching.

Hmm... Der Hobbit hat was mit mir angestellt.😂 Ach ich steh einfach auf so tragische sch**ße!👌

Gerade das Making of der Todesszene geschaut und selbst bei Greenscreen hab ich Pipi in den Augen.😢

I finally drew something

I have long promised my friend to draw these beauties, but still could not take them, and then this is the situation in the country, which is very hard emotionally and it is very hard : to pretend that everything is good - it's just not real ...

And my computer, which, recently, began to rebel - it stubbornly refused to see my graph.tablet because of what the process of work was slowed down ...

But let's not talk about the bad, it's already October and not far off my favorite holiday is All Saints ' day - Halloween 🎃

And I still have so many orders accumulated during this period 😅

Sons of Durin

Thorin

Fili

52 weeks of D&D? (I’m still trying to do it though I’ve lost a few months, sorry about that!!) - Party