Apr 13, 2025
seen from Italy
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from France
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Canada
seen from China
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Morocco
seen from Germany
seen from Germany
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Russia
Not really good but Thorin as a dragon
I think the apple bobbing game would be very popular in the Shire, a symbol of abundant harvest, autumn festival, and of course, food! The pride of a dwarf wouldn't allow Thorin to give up, even if he has no chance against a hobbit ;) I never understood how they even catch those apples… is it a superpower…?
'Trolls' Hill' by J.R. R.Tolkien
“Yours, Always.”
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.”
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.
R-18+; Ecstasy
Summary - "I just wanna be your sweetheart..."
Warnings - Smut (some lean more steamy), language, headcanon-y not full smuts, fem!reader, afab!reader, mention of male genitalia (characters), mention of female genitalia (reader & Tauriel), vaginal sex, oral sex (female and implied previous male receiving), dom-sub dynamics, darker themes (teetering into dead dove territory if not there), dub-con aspects/dubcon?, choking, dollification, manipulation, mind control, hair pulling, manipulation, piercings, bodily fluid (reader squirts), lowkey sub!Kili (is it really a rottencherrypie fic without sub!Kili?), lowkey obsessed!Kili,lowkey obsessed!Legolas, thranduil being an ass, brat!Reader, sex worker!Reader, monster x human (azog), inhuman dicks (azog), power manipulation, power play, semi-public sex, implied creampies, and more.
Pronouns & POV - She/Her, third-person
Pairings - Thorin x Reader, Fili x Reader, Kili x Reader, Thranduil x Reader, Legolas x Reader, Tauriel x Reader, Azog x Reader (hear me out)
Word Count - 6k (you can see me slowly getting into the swing of things)
A/N - Hello, my darlings, it has been a while. I apologize for disappearing, I was struggling and needed a step back from everything. I had realized that I was no longer enjoying writing and felt more like I was performing rather than creating, and felt like I was losing myself so I needed to find myself in the hopes of finding joy in writing again. I still have no clue how to use an emdash for anything other than aesthetic purposes...I think it looks pretty. This is not requested, I just like the song ecstasy by SUICIDAL-IDOL and the lyrics gave me this idea. I am a tad rusty, so my apologies for that (I have solely been writing a lot of Joe Goldberg and Steve Rogers stuff...for personal reasons). But, onto the oh so familiar part of this, the reader has no defining traits other than long hair to pull, soft skin, elegant limbs (whatever that means) and plump lips. This smut leans a bit darker with some characters, you have been warned! Azog's part is very manipulation heavy and darker theme wise, you have been warned! Smut below!
Read on AO3 Read on Wattpad (N/A)
Hi friend! If you are accepting requests, I am interested in seeing some Legolas X Female Reader. Perhaps something with Gandalf’s apprentice? Maybe some magic? Perhaps a sassy reader or a sassy Legolas? Who knows. Whatever this sparks in your brain works for me :)
Love this so much!
Mornings
Legolas x reader
Warnings: none
It was the early morning, dew settled over the long grasses as pale sunlight began to rise over the distant mountains in the East.
You were awake first amongst the fellowship, as always. Such a practice had been taught to you by your mentor and almost-father figure, the wizard Gandalf. Not even as discipline or rule, but rather something you'd observed from him. No matter how early you managed to wake on your training days with him, it seemed that he was always awake earlier, quietly going about his morning as if time didn't exist. You'd asked him one day why he always woke so early. He'd told you that he found early mornings precious and unappreciated. Too many dreaded the sunrise because it implied the start to a new day of work, but he believed in the magic of how the world looks when so few choose to see it. And he never thought of mornings as the first part of a sequence of events, but as an entity of their own, beautiful and quiet and worth experiencing without thinking of them as anything other than what they are.
So, you'd began training yourself to wake as early as he did. This, of course, was years ago when you'd just come under his mentorship. Now, you naturally woke just before the sunrise every single day, which consequently gave you an extra portion of the day that could be slow. Appreciated. Experienced.
Your flowing muslin dress fluttered about your feet as you walked quietly through the woods, nearly concealed by the thick, wool-like elven cloak that draped down your back and over your head, protecting your warmth from the chill of the early morning.
Before you strayed too far from the fellowship's makeshift camp, you came across a small clearing where you sat on the cool earth, soaking in the brightening sunlight of dawn. You'd found that this act, which could be described as a sort of meditation, grounded you deeply with the forces of the earth, and had more quickly progressed your skills as a rising sorceress.
It was also in moments like this that you missed Gandalf dearly. His "death" had been untimely, or should you say, his brief departure from the fellowship to handle matters of his own. The hobbits were inconsolable about this fact, truly believing it was indeed his death. But you knew in your heart that he persisted, albeit elsewhere. And you knew that soon he'd return, soon he'd come to find you.
As you sat, fingertips delicately situated in the cold earth beneath you, your eyes closed and lips relaxed, the earth came alive around you. Although you could not see the way the trees swayed in sync with your breathing, or the way small butter-colored butterflies fluttered around you, or the way petals of little pink flowers seemed to pick up into the swirling breeze, rustling the green grasses below them... a pleasant warmth surged throughout your entire body, flowing up from your toes, your hips, shoulders, to the tips of your fingers and out through your breath.
You opened your eyes when you felt a presence behind you. "Legolas," you spoke, your voice carrying through the air like a melody.
"We must prepare to continue on," he said softly, and you could hear the smile in his voice although you could not see his face.
"It is still early!" You turned your head then to face him, a playful smile on your lips. "May I not enjoy a few moments to myself before I am bombarded with duties?"
Legolas approached, offering a hand, which you took. "There will be time for moments like this," he assured.
Gandalf had introduced you to Legolas years before you were both assigned to the fellowship. Then, you were much younger, and far more inexperienced--in everything. You'd always seen Legolas as someone beyond your reach, both in age and experience with magic. For the elves had their own ways regarding magic--still not nearly as advanced as that of wizards, but different. And when you'd first met Legolas, you couldn't help but develop a bit of jealousy and possibly fear of what he was capable of.
But now, the things you could do and the insight you'd gained were quite leveled with his abilities, if not even further along. But Legolas was ever the tease; never doubting your capabilities, but enjoying challenging you in new ways, and always seeing you as the beautiful, headstrong apprentice he'd first met years ago. It was almost frustrating sometimes that you could demonstrate all the magic you wanted to him, and still he'd only be marveling at the beauty of your eyes and the song in your voice.
"What is so important that you must interrupt my morning alone?" you complained, your hands intertwined with Legolas's as you stood in the small clearing. The sun was brighter and yellower now, shedding a pleasant warmth on your shoulders. And even as you defiantly stood with him wanting only to return to the state of peace and relaxation you'd previously been in, another part of you felt a different sort of warmth spread through your body as his larger hands held yours, his fingers extending to the pulse points on your wrists, thumbs lazily tracing over your knuckles.
"I wanted to see you," he whispered. "Before everyone's all around and busy."
The warmth spread now to your cheeks in the form of a reddish glow, and you looked down. Years knowing him, and he still had such an effect on you. It was almost irritating, how unable you were to hide your affection.
"You can practice on me!" He readily suggested, feeling a little bad for interrupting whatever magic you were doing. Because he practiced his own form of magic, there wasn't really a way for him to understand fully exactly what it was you do. You'd also never really had a reason to demonstrate it, at least up until when Gandalf had gone.
"Oh Legolas," you laughed. "I don't think you want that."
He furrowed his brows in faux-confusion, egging you on. "Why not? You couldn't possibly actually hurt me."
You knew what he was doing. Truthfully, he loved seeing you do magic almost as much as he loved just being near you. But for the longest time you were less experienced than him, and thus were hesitant to demonstrate your magic to him. So it took a little bit of pushing and baiting on his part to actually see it.
You also knew that it was partially true. There was little chance you'd actually be able to hurt him. Legolas could come across as extremely docile and peaceful, which almost implied a sort of fragility. But he was quite the opposite. At a little over six feet tall, his lean figure was solid muscle and inhuman strength and agility. It was well-known that he rarely lost a fight, or was so much as injured in battle. You'd never even seen him bleed.
"I wouldn't use my powers to hurt you," You smiled, taking his hands again. "Not unless you give me a reason to."
You closed your eyes, focusing your energy to where your fingertips connected with his skin. This sort of magic you were sure he'd never experienced before.
You thought of a memory, distant and pleasant, one that was buried deep behind layers of your existence. One when you were a small child, holding the hand of your mother as you followed her through the flower fields and mountains where you grew up. Then coming to the end of the meadow, where a steep drop-off opened into a vast valley, framed with snow-topped mountains and a winding river. Where you'd come from, you were sure Legolas had never seen. But through your memory, he now did, and it was as clear as if he was seeing it for himself.
After a moment you dropped your hands, looking up at him. He slowly opened his eyes, a new wonder in them.
He could hardly find the words to describe what you'd shown him, a memory that wasn't his own. You smiled at his expression, his eyes blue and wide. "Thank you Legolas, for helping me practice."
"Will you show me more sometime?" He whispered, his voice awe-struck, and you laughed, taking his arm as he led you back to the camp.
"If you let me have my mornings, I'll show you worlds beyond that."
Roads go ever ever on🏔️