#Happy bday razzy

[i-did-not-mean-to]

A surprise

My dear, dear friend...

I've been busy with my event, but I've not forgotten you! (of course not)

Thank you for being such a great presence in my life! (and for reminding me of your birthdate because I can't remember that kind of shit for the life of me.)

I am not playing favourites, I just don't know when anybody's BDay is if they don't remind me lol

So, without further ado...a ficlet for you!

Words: 2k

Characters: Bilbo, Thorin, and a mysterious, completely novel, not at all stolen OC

Warnings: scissors

Of all the insane discoveries Bilbo and Thorin made after nobody died in the battle against the Pale Orc, the secret powers of the Arkenstone—now retired—were by far the most whimsical and surprising.

For example, if wielded correctly, it could open a portal into other worlds. Unfortunately, the temperamental stone refused to summon anyone or anything even remotely relevant or helpful when it came to the socio-economical and political situation of a kingdom in distress.

Nonetheless, Bilbo had a great old time playing around with this absurd kind of magic.

“I have a surprise for you,” he intimated one evening as he sat by the hearth with his favourite grumpy dwarf.

“The glint in your eyes makes me nervous, my love,” Thorin admitted, but he leaned closer to the hobbit, nonetheless. The consequences of saying such a thing out loud would have been terrible, but it was, nonetheless, common knowledge that the king under the Mountain adored a nice gift.

Especially if said present was meant to be consumed and contained unholy amounts of sugar.

“I’ve managed to build a friendship with a most astonishing and inspired young lady,” Bilbo explained, speaking slowly to savour every word. “And she’s agreed to lavish her exquisite skills upon our undeserving heads. Literally.”

Frowning, Thorin waited. He sincerely hoped that Bilbo was not falling prey to his fancy for riddles in the dark at this very inopportune moment; it was dangerous to promise a short-tempered creature such as the king of the Longbeards a surprise only to speak in enigmas.

“She’s a hairdresser,” Bilbo burst out, giggling merrily.

“Does she sell ribbons then?” Thorin asked—for some reason, he couldn’t shake the idea that the unknown lady in question fashioned tiny garments to be woven into the customer’s hair. Dresses for tresses, or something of that kind.

“Don’t be daft!” Bilbo cackled. “She cuts hair.”

“And she lives?” Thorin roared, thoroughly horrified by the idea of some malicious being floating around with oversized sheers to cut off honest dwarves’ hair while they were otherwise occupied—or engaged in vigorous battle training.

“Of course,” Bilbo tutted gently. “Where she comes from, people pay her good coin to have her wash and treat their hair.” He gave Thorin’s shaggy locks a playful flick. “I thought it would be a nice idea to have our hair professionally done.”

“That is not a profession,” Thorin insisted, “it’s a crime.”

As expected, he finally did agree to let Bilbo lead this mysterious lady through the portal and right into their chambers.

“Fuck!” The tiny woman, bespectacled and extraordinarily pretty, cursed as soon as she caught sight of Bilbo’s wild mop of golden curls and Thorin’s tangle of braids. “I am not a wizard.”

“Clearly not,” Thorin agreed. “You are much too short, too young, and too clean-shaven to be one of those pests.”

He eyed her and the gleaming scissors sticking out of a curious belt slung around her shapely hips with considerable suspicion and apprehension.

“Are we going for a hobo-chic vibe then?” she inquired further while looking around to assess what she’d be working with; to her dismay, all she could discern was a pail of steaming water in one corner.

Her aching shoulders and tired back protested at the mere thought of having to wash two heads full of hair over what was essentially a wooden bucket.

“Do you have shampoo?” she asked then. “If not, you could have told me beforehand. I’ve brought my tools, but I would not have thought that you’d be entirely unprepared.”

Having done her fair share of home experiments for friends and family, she was well aware of how awfully wrong these things could go—for some unfathomable reason, people seemed to believe that she was able to produce a magazine cover look with a plastic comb and a box of supermarket dye from the last decade.

“I do not know what poison you are referring to,” Thorin interrupted her mental spiral into madness abruptly, “but there is a bar of soap by the tub.”

The young lady made an unconvinced noise and stepped across the room, waving her unusual customers along.

When the short, charmingly polite, and utterly ridiculous little fellow in his waistcoat had first appeared in her wardrobe, she had—understandably—screamed her head off.

With time though, Bilbo had grown on her and thus, when he had asked her to perform her outlandish magic on him and his partner, she had agreed eagerly enough.

Who would not have grasped the opportunity to traverse a portal into another world?

“What are we doing today?” she asked—force of habit—while tying a rough-spun towel around Bilbo’s shoulders.

“I don’t know, I’ve never gotten my hair cut by someone so illustrious,” Bilbo muttered, his nose twitching with indecision and his mouth puckered in concentration.

“Just a bit off the ends then,” she said soothingly while already running her fingers through the silken curls to assess their actual length and the texture of the hair she’d be working with.

To her surprise, Bilbo started purring contentedly before she had managed to get his whole head soaped up. Of course, she knew that her skills when it came to washing hair and massaging scalps were at least respectable, but she had never—in all her long years of experience—met someone who enjoyed them quite as much as that.

“Indecent,” Thorin mumbled under his breath—he was flushing beet-red to the roots of his thick, luscious, evidently well-maintained hair.

“Hush, grump,” Bilbo hummed, “your turn will come. Oh, this is heavenly.”

As there was no adjustable chair anywhere in sight either, the woman was more than relieved that Bilbo was indeed short enough for her to be able to work comfortably as soon as he had settled into an old seat by the fire.

“Do you like your job?” he asked conversationally, and she smiled; customers—apparently in every possible world—liked to chat while they stared straight ahead.

Whipping out her scissors, she yelped as a broad, incredibly strong hand wrapped around her wrist like an iron vice.

“What are you doing?” Thorin bellowed menacingly.

“I swear that I’ll only get rid of the split ends—for healthier hair. You’ll see, it will make a huge difference.”

“Leave her be, Thorin,” Bilbo pleaded fervently. “You wouldn’t want to ruin my surprise now, would you?”

“No,” Thorin admitted sheepishly and retreated to the second chair to observe the procedure—deep blue eyes narrowed still.

The woman hummed under her breath as she trimmed Bilbo’s hair as one would shape a particularly soft hedge. In the end, she checked her work from every possible angle, and nodded, satisfied and proud of what she had accomplished.

“That does look good,” Thorin admitted after emulating her cautious prowling around Bilbo who was still sitting very primly and happily in his chair.

“I’ll need a mirror.” The dignified hobbit patted his curls—springier and glossier now—in an unconscious expression of vanity and nodded at the imposing dwarf still visibly torn between horror and curiosity. “Your turn, dear heart. Let’s see if we can get that thicket thinned a little.”

After all of Thorin’s threatening posturing, the woman dreaded having to touch his hair—he had promised to be a worse customer than a fidgety 3-year-old who had been pledged his favourite ice-cream and a trip to the playground after the haircut.

Coaxed by Bilbo—and allowed to explain in detail just how important and intimate hair was to his people—Thorin finally, after much ado, did sit down by the bucket.

The hairdresser, vexed by his words, looked down on him forbiddingly.

“If you are wounded, do you not let a healer treat your wounds? I surmise that it’s also uncommon and maybe even indecent to let someone else touch your naked body?”

“Yes,” Thorin admitted cautiously.

“Regard me as a hair-healer then,” she pounced on this opening, “I am exempt of all societal or moral prohibition linked to hair. It’s just my job.”

That seemed to reconcile him considerably and so, he allowed her to undo his many tiny braids before he let his mane plop into the by now only lukewarm water in the bucket unceremoniously.

Her hands were strong and confident as she started to untangle and wet Thorin’s hair, taking care not to create new knots while applying the deplorably rudimentary soap.

Soon, Thorin’s lids started fluttering and drooping and—long before she was done rinsing—he was fast asleep.

“And now?” she asked Bilbo, panic in her eyes.

“I’ll get his nephews,” he replied as if that was a completely logical and supremely informative reply.

The two younger dwarves entering just a moment later helped Bilbo drag Thorin to the seat by the fire.

“You can go on,” Bilbo encouraged her.

Feeling anxiety creep up her spine, the skilful lady started drying and combing the long, wavy mane carefully—almost instantly, her plastic tool broke though, and she lost a few precious minutes trying to get the shards of cheap plastic out of the tangle of wet hair.

A metal comb was handed to her, and she continued valiantly.

“So, what am I to do with it?” she then inquired breathlessly—it felt to her as if she was performing surgery on a big predator, always holding her breath for fear that the anaesthesia was wearing off prematurely.

“He likes braids,” one of the nephews supplied, his seeming helpfulness utterly belied by his wicked grin.

“Am I to braid his whole hair?” The young lady bristled—not only would that be a lot of work, but she was also not convinced that it would counteract the king’s prejudices against her and her craft if he woke up to either cornrows or a bridal-style up-do.

Light—fey and feral—came into three pairs of eyes.

“Yes,” Bilbo whispered, awed by his own idea, and turned his sparkling gaze to her. “We’ll help you. Let’s braid his whole hair.”

She only hesitated for a moment—there was indeed a bridal hairdo that she had been eyeing and fantasising about for some time. Unfortunately, none of her clients or colleagues had the time or the patience to sit as a model for it.

“I know just the thing,” she grinned and started to explain her design quietly.

By the time Thorin came to, his hair sported a ludicrous but handsome coiffure that charmingly blended 18th century wigs and ancient Greece’s most elaborate labyrinths.

“Hmmm?” he grumbled and shook his head, freezing when he did not feel his hair swish against his shoulders and back.

“What do you think?” His nephew—who had retrieved a mirror in the meantime—held up the looking glass, visibly biting his tongue to stifle his laughter.

“What did you do? Why do these braids say that I am an unmarried, livestock-breeding, off-spring producing, dam-seducing, bread-baking tanner?” Thorin roared.

“I…I’m sorry. I didn’t know…they didn’t tell me,” the hairdresser stammered, sure that she would be sent to the dungeons or beheaded by an axe for her trespass.

Thorin let his fingers follow the intricate pattern of braids. His face changed from bewilderment to awe.

“You’re good at this,” he then admitted, “and we have a great celebration coming up. Would you consider returning? Balin and Ori will lend you a book on braid-lore in the meantime.”

Bilbo nudged him in the ribs rather vehemently.

Coughing, Thorin added, “Of course, you shall be richly rewarded. If you require any specific tools…” He pointed at the sad remnants of her comb, littering the floor. “Just let Fíli—that’s the sun-haired goat bleating at us—know and he can forge them for you.”

Still, Bilbo swirled his hand encouragingly.

“You may bring your shampoo.”

Throwing a quick glance at his consort who was rolling his eyes impatiently, Thorin cleared his throat.

“And, of course, it would be our delight if you would come to the feast as a guest of honour. Dain will die of envy.”

The young lady stared at him for a long moment before bursting into laughter…and graciously accepting his royal invitation.

There we have it!

Happy birthday once again, my dear!

I hope you're having a great day!

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Happy Birthday Razzy

@lordoftherazzles 💖💖💖

!Here is my gift to you...Art by @dyemberrr!!! and a silly story from me...😔

(Let's give that amazing artist a hand (and a comm) for their talent and lovely nature...they've been a joy to work with)

JK...I've sent you a Kofi...

It's Razzy's Bday today and she's been having a shite time, so if you have any thoughts, prayers, or moneys to spare, consider buying her a KoFi 🥺💖

I love you dearly, friend, and I hope you're having a marvellous day. The first drink is on me 🍹🍾🍻

(but here comes the story anyway)

The Bagginshield Meta-story (or Who we are)

Words: 2,5 k

Characters: YOU, Thorin, Bilbo, Thrandy, Bard, Balin & Ori (for shits and giggles)

Warnings: This is not my usual subject, but it is my style...Let's see if they mash

“Well, best of luck to you,” Ori said with a shit-eating grin that amused you more than it actually annoyed you.

He was a dear creature, but – in your opinion – he was also kind of a wuss; now that he was off to spend his honeymoon somewhere far away from the king and his consort, youhad the honourable task to chronicle the events taking place in Erebor.

“How hard can it be?” you jeered lightly, pinching his cheek affectionately which made him squirm a little.

“You’ll soon find out,” he said with a shrug and gave you a short half-hug before sauntering away, a little too eager to leave the premises for your taste.

You were truly happy for him and – truth be told – you had faced greater perils and hardships in your life than a constipated king and his half-feral husband.

“Oh, it’s a good one to start you off,” Bilbo laughed when he saw you – armed with stacks of paper and a handful of quills – come down the corridor leading to the meeting room.

“What do you mean?” Your eyes narrowed suspiciously upon seeing just how amused the consort was; Ori’s mocking grin floated back to your mind like the reflux some of the dwarven cuisine’s staples always gave you.

“You are about to witness the verbal sparring between Thorin and Thranduil,” Bilbo informed you in a sing-song voice that you would have written off as typical Hobbit-cheerfulness if you hadn’t known the little man to be a complete savage.

With every step you took, the feeling of being shoved into a lion’s den with a juicy steak dangling around your neck intensified and the mischievous twinkle in the Hobbit’s hazel eyes did nothing to calm your roiling stomach.

The kings were already there, looking like a storm about to form by mixing elements and temperatures that would inevitably clash.

“Thranduil,” Bilbo purred, “I see that you’ve decided to express your deep, respectful interest in this meeting by being so impeccably clad.”

The addressed Elf – tall and impossibly pale – whipped around as if Bilbo had thrown a thistle down his intricately embroidered robes while the – definitely human and very exhausted – man he was betrothed to merely pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

“I’ll have you know that this is a very old robe,” Thranduil hissed, caught between his discomfort at being called out for his subpar appearance and his petty streak, “not that any of you would know the difference.”

You settled down at a small table and wondered if this was part of your duties already.

Thranduil wore ‘old’ robes. Consort (maybe?) liked them well. King didn’t care.

You jotted it down just to be on the safe side, but Thranduil’s piercing eyes made you freeze where you sat.

“What are you writing? Where is that pitiful, scrawny girl who usually scribbles away furiously during these idiotic meetings?” he spat, drawing closer to peek over your shoulder.

“Love,” the man – Bard by name – whispered warningly, “this is not your home and, I’m sure, king Thorin is entirely apt to appoint any scribe he likes. Also, I am almost certain that the girl is a lad.”

“He’s on his honeymoon,” Thorin informed him in a clipped voice, giving you an almost apologetic look before he tore into his opponent.

“In the right corner, weighing in at ‘a grown war boar and a half’, our resident grump…Thorin II,” Bilbo’s cheery voice resounded right behind you.

“So, what do you want for your mouldy, worm-riddled, brittle, stupid wood?” Thorin goaded Thranduil; the whole meeting had the purpose of strengthening trade and peace agreements between two people who had been enemies for the longest time and – as far as dwarves and elves were concerned – would not have minded awfully leaving it at that.

Judging by the behaviour of the two regents of said people, their inveterate enmity was alive and thriving still, but someone had to have initiated these talks and you were curious to see how this would end, especially as nobody really seemed to be happy to be here.

“And in the left corner, weighing in at ‘a wet log covered in fungus’, the prissy king of wild creatures and haunted trees…Thranduil Oropherion,” Bilbo went on unerringly.

“I do not want nor need anything from you,” Thranduil hissed, “you ugly, stinking, ill-tempered stump of a creature.”

Your head whipped around only to see Bilbo leaning against the wall behind you with a completely relaxed expression on his face; he was apparently used to insults being flung around wildly and this warm-up did not faze him in the least.

“Gentlemen,” Bard tried once more – completely in vain – to calm the tempers roaring like flames and driving the heat into both the regents’ complexions.

“I’ll teach you,” Thorin rumbled and – like an arrow – Bilbo suddenly shot forward to wrap around his husband like a particularly persuasive vine.

Now, you were not entirely sure if he meant to be living armour in the upcoming fight or if he was really trying to hold his husband back, but you saw him pour words like honey into the king’s ear which made him relax his stance and smile to himself.

Insults were exchanged. Threats were made. Consort of Erebor has disarmed the situation by whispering unknown state secrets into the heated ears of the king.

Slowly, you started to understand Ori’s hilarity better; did every council meeting and conference with foreign dignitaries inevitably turn into such a circus?

“I only want your rotten wood to burn,” Thorin declared with that amalgam of petulance and haughtiness that was his brand.

“I do not intend to use your rock to erect a monument in your honour either, Thoza,” Thranduil purred.

If Thorin was like a mountain lion, strong, bulky, and just the tiniest bit skittish, Thranduil was like one of those sleek, cunning, and ridiculously vain jungle-cats that lived in the high grasses of faraway lands.

You were sorely tempted to throw a ball in their midst to see if it would put a stop to all their hissing and posturing.

“If we could proceed?” Bard, backed up by Balin – rattled awake from his stupor by the noise – tried once again to reign in the generalised chaos.

“My love,” Bilbo hummed, “I’m sure you can get this deal done, can’t you?”

There was a challenging note in his silken voice, and you had to hand it to him; he knew exactly how to steer and manipulate the king into doing his bidding.

Consort plies the king by flattering him and – as far as I can tell – patting his royal behind very fondly.

By this time, you could only imagine Ori’s face when – upon returning from his Thorin-free and sex-rich honeymoon – he found your notes.

It was not that you disliked the king or his consort, but they were – undeniably – challenging in many different ways; for example, you had never seen such an indecently public display of marital affection in a meeting with a foreign dignitary.

You cleared your throat to get them to move on with the proceedings at hand but, by now, Thranduil was mending his crown – his long-suffering husband frowning at him impatiently – while your own king was being placated by the feisty hobbit with small, teasing pecks on the nose.

If they went on like that, your log of this momentous trade agreement would read like a soppy romance novel or a guide on how to maintain a healthy marriage.

King Bard is coaxing Thranduil back to the negotiations by pspsps-ing him like a cat.

Bilbo Baggins is engaged in a complicated mating ritual involving the king’s beard and his own nimble fingers.

After 10 minutes of stalemate – entirely unrelated to the talks – both parties seem to be ready to come back together.

This devolved into a soap opera, you thought, and cursed that blasted orange-haired, rat-faced, weak-hearted scribe once more in the most colourful words you could think of.

“So, we are willing to provide first class rock – and the odd gem – in exchange for firewood – and the odd vegetable – if that pleases you, king,” Bilbo sing-songed in a sickly-sweet tone that made Thranduil wrinkle his nose in distaste.

To your profound astonishment and amusement, King Thorin mirrored that expression almost instantly; while Thranduil seemed to take offense at Bilbo’s inflection, Thorin was horrified by the idea of having vegetables delivered – like a green, healthy plague – to his doorstep.

“The things we do for love,” Thranduil sighed, gracing his husband with a fond smile; it was universally known that it was for the sake of Bard that the king of wood and branch had accepted to even have these trade talks.

“A good, sturdy house is made of wood and stone,” Bard famously claimed and – while neither of the two mystical kings readily agreed to that – both Thranduil and Thorin were willing to make room for what was lacking in their realm to ensure the happiness and safety of their betrothed.

In short, it was a rather straightforward affair: both kings would agree to trade raw materials they could easily get for themselves in order to entertain a polite and regular exchange.

Never would you have believed this to grow into such a battle of wits and wills, but Bilbo’s wink and Bard’s compassionate smile made your heart twitch with empathy.

The rather boring nature of the negotiations did not prevent the situation from being an interesting and most informative one, nonetheless, for there were a thousand things you noticed and that amused and surprised you in equal measure.

Haughty to the point of being deemed arrogant, both Thorin and Thranduil were beacons of their royal status and their noble bloodline; it astonished you to no end to see them – consistently – look to their spouses for reassurance and guidance.

“Thorin?” Bilbo prompted, his small, pudgy hand squeezing the enormous mitt of the king encouragingly.

“Erebor will be honoured to provide finest stone – and the odd gem – to your people,” Thorin grumbled, nodding into the general direction of Thranduil and Bard.

“And we – in turn – will be ecstatic to provide wood – and the odd vegetable – to the lonely mountain in hopes to sustain the prolonged good health of our neighbours,” Thranduil purred coldly before seeking the gaze of his husband to get his approval of the herculean effort he had just made.

Trade seems to be agreed on. Nobody died. Bard needs a drink. Bilbo needs a quiet room to massage the tension out of our king.

You bit your lip; clearly, you were taking too many liberties with your transcription here, but they were too touching.

Grown men – some of them decades and millennia old – squabbling like children made you grin madly, but you hid it behind your hand, pretending to stifle a cough.

The part that touched you most was definitely the love; they both loved their husbands and their people and – no matter how much they truly might loathe one another – they were willing to do whatever was necessary to ensure the happiness and safety of those they were responsible for.

And their spouses knew.

Oh, the small frown washing over Thranduil’s face as Bard’s responding smile was just the tiniest bit delayed, and the way Thorin held on to Bilbo’s hand as if it was the only anchor tethering him to the calm, self-possessed demeanour expected of him, these tiny details warmed your heart and made your fingers fly over the parchment.

This was worth being written down for posterity – much more than a lousy exchange of dead wood against cold stone – it was the love between races, between people, between souls that made it all worthwhile.

The silence having fallen like a blanket of mist and shadow onto the congregation was as soft as a caress now and you found yourself sketching the wondrous creatures in front of you absent-mindedly.

Suddenly, those scrolls that Ori only ever showed his beloved – lovingly called his ‘private archive’ – made a lot of sense to you; no doubt, a soul as sensitive as his would not be left untouched by the earnest yearning and the monumental faith that ran like a quiet but steady brook between the boulders of regal authority and political strife.

Love will find a way, that was what your old nan had always told you and – for the first time in what seemed like forever – you thought you might understand what she had meant: love, life, and growth had dug into unyielding stone and taken their place amongst cold, remote stars.

Old and yet to grow older still, the two kings had lost their hearts to creatures meant to bloom and wilt within the blink of an eye if not magically sustained; how many oaths would be sworn, how many monsters braved, how many treasures absconded – in time – to keep that precious life, thrumming wildly like a flighty bird in their palm, burning bright?

The kind of devotion you had just witnessed might well outlast rock and outshine distant celestial bodies; it surely had mellowed fossilised resentment and made new buds thrive from seemingly barren roots.

Despite the bickering and the insults, what struck you most in this first meeting you had taken notes of had been the undeniable, inevitable, invincible impression of hope.

You had made it all the way to your chambers until you realised that you were smiling like an idiot as you replayed the intimate gestures of trust and teasing between two couples that represented life in its myriad forms – all of them precious and beautiful – and the surprises even tradition and a long life could not fully prepare you for.

“Hmmm,” Ori smiled as you handed him your accounts of the meeting, “they did it again?”

“Fighting?” you asked, “Don’t they always?”

“No,” the soft-spoken scribe chuckled, “forget about the meeting and moon at their spouses. Balin has pondered asking them not to bring Bard and Bilbo to the meetings, but then the two kings storm out of the room within an instant and refuse to be coaxed back into negotiations.”

Relaxed and visibly happy, Ori rolled up your scrolls with the ease of habit and tucked them under his arm.

“By the way,” he said, turning around, “your comments were hilarious, and those drawings were really rather good. I’ve been thinking about working less and I’d love to share some of the load with you.”

“You want out of the Thranduil meetings, don’t you?” Your eyes narrowed warily.

With a boyish wink, Ori waved a nonchalant hand and promised that you’d talk about it again once you had time to think it over.

You made sure to keep your face stern until he was out of sight, but – if you were completely honest – you wouldn’t have minded all that much being the chronicler of an epic love story that defied prejudice, tradition, time, and all the evil of the world itself.

Once again, happy bday my dear...

I'm wishing you all the best and I hope this was not the worst gift anyone has ever written for someone else. Let not the quality of my writing be a gauge of my love...

❤️❤️❤️