Pairing : Thorin Oakenshield x Female Reader.
Warnings : NSFW 🔞 FLUFF 🤍 Pregnancy 🤰
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.
She placed a hand to her belly, still flat beneath her silk robes. Nothing had changed and yet everything had. Their child was here.
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.”
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.”
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.
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.
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.”
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—”
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.
“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.”
And in that sacred quiet, wrapped in one another’s arms, they slept — king, queen, and the promise of a future dreamed of for far too long.
