#Three Shires Shot

[loveinhawkins]

”How do you do it?” Eddie asks.

The question slips out far too late at night, anxiety thrumming in his chest—he’s not escaped the feeling ever since the boathouse, when he simply couldn’t sleep, felt like a fox just waiting for hound dogs to get his scent, ready to run—

Steve doesn’t need him to explain further, as if he can somehow hear a whole lot of what Eddie’s not saying: like when he picked up the phone an hour ago and hadn’t even let Eddie tie himself in knots, had just said, so easily, “I’ll come get you,” like it wasn’t a huge inconvenience, like he’d been the one to call Eddie instead.

He’s considering Eddie from where he lies in bed, leaning on his elbow, and he’s still got the covers off pointedly—and that’s a big thing, Eddie thinks, a big thing he doesn’t know what to do with, because they’ve not talked, not really, not got much beyond the dizzying relief of still being alive.

But even fraught with profound lack of sleep, Eddie doesn’t think he’s misreading the look in Steve’s eyes.

I know, those eyes say, illuminated by the warm light of the bedside lamp. It’s okay, there’s no rush. I’m right here.

Eddie’s never seen that kind of look before. Not towards him.

“Sometimes Robin sleeps over,” Steve says thoughtfully. “And sometimes the kids are around, and they’re so annoying and I get, like, three hours, tops.” He says it with all the fondness in the world. “And sometimes I’m alone, and it’s fine.”

“What about the other times?” Eddie can’t help but whisper.

If it were a reasonable hour maybe he wouldn’t dare to ask at all, but exhaustion’s worn down the filter in his head—at this point it’s practically see-through.

Steve shrugs. “Yeah, they’re shit,” he says with such honesty that Eddie nearly asks it again, how do you do it?

“But then it’s, like, a new day,” Steve says slowly, like he’s carefully weighing up what to say, “and I can… drive.” The pause tells Eddie he means go to someone. “Or, like… call, if it’s really bad.”

Hey, I’m glad you called, man, Steve had said when Eddie got into his car earlier, like they were just going to the movies or something normal—like Eddie wasn’t shaking, forehead pressed against the passenger window.

Eddie feels his throat close up a little. Tries to sniff as quietly as possible.

“Eddie,” Steve says patiently. He moves back in the bed. Gives Eddie space. “C’mere.”

Steve keeps the lamp on which helps; this isn’t the boathouse, Eddie thinks, and the slightest bit of tension leaves his body. Even that feels like a miracle.

He’s just resigning himself to lying there, staring up at the ceiling so at least Steve can get some rest, when Steve turns and catches his eye, still wide awake.

“Tell me about The Lord of the Rings,” Steve says.

The tightness in Eddie’s chest loosens; he laughs in surprise. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Eddie turns so he’s facing Steve properly, attempts a casual shrug, knowing already that it’ll be too rigid. “I don’t know, man. We, uh. We kinda lived through Mordor already.”

His hand twists in the bedsheets, knuckles turning white.

I don’t know how to do this. I’ve never had…

Steve’s hand reaches across, eases Eddie’s grip on the sheets, like he’s saying, neither did I. Just give it a shot.

“The shire, then,” Steve says.

Eddie smiles. “Steve Harrington,” he says, suddenly finding enough lightness to tease; he’s missed it. “Are you asking me for a bedtime story?”

“Nope,” Steve says. “We’re just gonna lie here and talk.”

And they do.

Steve asks questions which works out for the best—Eddie can’t quite remember the last time he read the books. To tell the truth, anything that happened before March often has a kind of fog over it.

He’s sure he’s dropped at least a couple of plot points somewhere along the way, but Steve never once complains that he’s not making sense, just gently prompts Eddie until… until…

“Mm, I know what you’re doing,” Eddie mumbles through a yawn that catches him unawares.

“Oh, do you now?” Steve says, sounding smug. God, Eddie loves him. “Is it working?”

“Maybe.” Eddie says. His eyelids are heavy. “Um.” He yawns again. “Where… where was I?”

“Don’t worry about it, man,” Steve says. It sounds like he’s smiling—Eddie would check, but it’s suddenly impossible to keep his eyes open.

It’s okay, he thinks hazily, melting into sleep without even thinking about it. He can ask Steve in the morning.

There’s no rush.

[insomniac4000]

Three Peaks-ChrisMD

I had to write this after the video yesterday despite having some requests still in and writing a Charity match fic....

The brisk morning air bit at Chris’s cheeks as he tightened the straps on his hiking backpack. Standing in the shadow of Ben Nevis, the highest peak in Scotland, the mountain loomed like a gray giant, its summit lost in a wisp of cloud. Chris had his hands clasped in front of him as he always did when he did the introductions to his video, addressing the camera ready to capture the beginning of what he hoped would be one of his second channel’s most ambitious videos yet. He was slightly nervous as it was a shift from his usual football content.

“Alright, lads and lady,” Chris called, spinning to face the group with his usual boyish grin. “Let’s get the obligatory intro out of the way before we regret ever agreeing to this.”

“That’s just every ChrisMD video ever,” ArthurTV clapped back causing laughs and jeers from the group, the group being; Harry Lewis who had already taken the role of morale officer, cracking jokes about the group’s preparedness—or lack thereof. Arthur Hill, visibly unsure about what he’d signed up for, leaned heavily on his walking poles, a sheepish smile on his face. ArthurTV and George Clarkeey exchanged knowing glances, already anticipating chaos. ReevHD was characteristically quiet, scanning the trail ahead with determination like he did with every challenge.

And then there was Y/n.

Chris tried not to let his gaze linger on her, but it was impossible not to notice how effortlessly she seemed to fit into the moment. At 5'2", she was dwarfed by the towering peaks around them, but her petite frame radiated confidence. Her auburn curls were tied up in a high pony tail but already a slight bit of frizz was poking out from the tie, showing her imperfections she embarced and her hazel eyes sparkled with a mix of excitement and mischief.

“Ready to prove short people can climb mountains too?” Y/n teased, catching Chris’s eye.

“Short people?” Harry cut in with mock horror. “You and Chris barely make one normal-sized person!”

The others burst into laughter as Chris groaned. “Here we go,” he muttered, though he couldn’t help but smile.

“Team Hobbit in full force,” George added, slinging an arm around Chris’s shoulders. “Shire squad, reporting for duty.”

Y/n rolled her eyes but played along, giving Chris a playful nudge. “Come on, Frodo, let’s show them how it’s done.”

The group set off, their boots crunching against the ground. The first leg of the journey was deceptively easy, winding through forests and open meadows. Chris found himself falling into step beside Y/n, their conversation flowing as naturally as the babbling brooks they passed.

“This should be a doddle for you considering your videos,” Chris said, stealing a sideways glance at her. “Any near-death experiences you haven’t told me about yet?”

Y/n chuckled, adjusting her backpack. “Oh, plenty. But I’ll save those stories for when we’re at the summit. You know, motivation to keep climbing.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Chris replied, his smile lingering.

Behind them, Harry and George were already trying to outpace each other, their competitive streaks on full display. Arthur Hill lagged slightly, his breath coming in short gasps.

“You alright back there, Arthur?” Reev called, slowing his pace to check on him.

“Still alive,” Arthur wheezed, earning a round of good-natured laughs.

As the group ascended, the trail grew steeper and more rugged, rocks jutted out at awkward angles.Y/n, used to navigating tricky terrain from her travels, moved with practiced ease, her short legs propelling her upward with surprising speed.

“Alright, we get it,” George said, feigning exasperation as Y/n waited for the rest of them at a particularly steep section. “You’re secretly a mountain goat.”

“Just embrace your inner hobbit,” Y/n shot back, grinning.

“Speaking of hobbits,” Harry said, glancing at Chris, “you keeping up, mate? Or do we need to carry you?”

“Funny,” Chris replied, though he was grateful for the excuse to slow his pace. Y/n waited for him, her expression softening.

“You’re doing great,” she said quietly, her voice carrying only to him.

Chris felt his chest tighten, but he pushed the feeling aside. “Thanks,” he managed, giving her a small smile.

By the time they reached the halfway point, the group was a mix of exhilaration and exhaustion. They paused to refuel, pulling out energy bars and water bottles. The wind whipped around them, colder and more insistent as they climbed higher.

Arthur Hill collapsed onto a rock, his face red but determined. “This is... definitely harder than I thought,” he admitted between gulps of water.

“You’re doing better than I expected,” Y/n encouraged, earning a grateful smile from him.

The teasing eased for a while as the group focused on the gruelling climb. The summit felt tantalizingly close yet maddeningly out of reach as the trail grew steeper and the air thinner. Y/n took the lead, her smaller frame navigating the rocky terrain with agility that left the others scrambling to keep up.

Chris stayed close behind her, his own shorter stature making the climb a little easier compared to the taller guys, who were visibly struggling.

“Bet you’re glad to have another hobbit around now,” Y/n teased over her shoulder, her cheeks flushed from the cold and exertion.

Chris laughed, shaking his head. “Never thought I’d say this, but yeah, maybe it’s not so bad.”

The summit finally came into view, on a good day it probably would have been an incredible view but the British weather was typical and as the group had looked out all they could see was fog. Still though, this was the tallest peak and they were at the top.

“We did it!” Harry yelled, throwing his arms in the air.

Y/n grinned, pulling out her camera to capture the moment. She turned it toward Chris, who was leaning on his trekking pole, looking both exhilarated and exhausted.

“How does it feel to conquer peak one?” she asked, the camera trained on him.

“Cold,” Chris deadpanned, earning a laugh from the group.

They spent a few precious minutes taking in the view, snapping photos, and catching their breath. But the celebration was short-lived as Chris checked his watch.

“We’re behind schedule,” he announced, his tone regretful. “We’ve got to get moving if we’re going to stay on track.”

As they began their descent, the mood remained light despite the ticking clock. The banter continued, with the group teasing Arthur Hill for his earlier struggles and Chris and Y/n for their so-called “hobbit couple” status.

Chris found himself walking beside Y/n again, their shoulders brushing as they navigated the narrow trail.

“Think we’ll survive the next two peaks?” he asked, his tone half-joking.

Y/n glanced at him, her hazel eyes warm. “If you stick with me, Frodo, I think we’ll be alright.”

Chris felt a flicker of hope, small but persistent, that maybe, just maybe, this challenge would lead to more than just a great video.

As the group reached the base of Ben Nevis and prepared to drive to Scafell Pike, the teasing continued, but so did the camaraderie. And for Chris, the chemistry he felt with Y/n was becoming harder to ignore.

Chris adjusted the camera, framing himself in the shadow of Scafell Pike, the tallest mountain in England. The crisp afternoon sunlight bathed the rolling hills of the Lake District, a stark contrast to the biting wind they had endured on Ben Nevis.

"Alright, peak two," Chris’s voiceover rang out. “Quick update: we’ve just finished a very cosy van ride—by cosy, I mean crammed—with practically no leg room. But that wasn’t a problem for two of the members of the group.”

The screen then filled with a picture of Chris and Y/n squeezed into a corner of the van, her head resting sleepily on his shoulder while they both grinned. Their legs, stretched toward the camera, showed just how much space the pair had, still having some room to swing their smaller legs, in stark contrast to the rest of the group.

The video then continued and now it showed the group gathered around, fastening their jackets and strapping on their backpacks. Harry stretched dramatically, groaning about his sore legs, while George filmed Arthur Hill struggling to zip his jacket.

"You alright there, mate?" George teased.

"Not really," Arthur Hill admitted, but his grin betrayed his determination to keep going.

As they started the climb, the monumental task settled on everyone once again, time was ticking away from them. The steep incline and rocky path demanded focus, and the chatter from the Ben Nevis climb faded into heavy breaths and occasional bursts of laughter. Y/n, as usual, took the lead, her smaller frame navigating the terrain with ease. Chris stuck close to her, their steps often falling into sync.

It wasn’t long until Arthur Hill faltered, wincing as he leaned against his trekking pole.

"Hold up," Reev called, motioning for the group to stop. "Arthur, you good?"

Arthur shook his head. "I’ve got an old injury and it was worse yesterday, I work up this morning thinking that I was okay but it’s really not good at all,” the musician whined a little, he was well aware he was the one who was slowing everyone down and he was in a considering amount of pain now too.

The group exchanged concerned glances.

"Are you going to sit this one out?" Chris said gently, resting a hand on Arthur’s shoulder.

Arthur hesitated, his face a mix of frustration and relief. "Yeah, I think I have to."

They helped him set up a small camp just off the path, ensuring he had water, snacks, and a comfortable spot to rest.

"Don’t worry about me," Arthur said, waving them off. "I’ll cheer you on from here. Just make sure to take loads of embarrassing photos for me to miss out on."

With a final round of reassurances, the group continued upward, joking at Arthur’s position as he laid still on the grass by a rock. As the group continued the summit grew closer with every step. Chris felt his chest tighten, but this time it wasn’t just the exertion.

His parents were waiting at the top.

They had moved to the Lake District from Jersey recently, and while he loved seeing them, introducing them to his friends—especially Y/n—brought a mix of excitement and nerves.

As they reached the peak George and ArthurTV tried to lighten the mood and keep morale up by making jokes about Chris’s mother.

When the group finally crested the summit, they were greeted by Chris’s mum and dad, both bundled in warm coats and waving enthusiastically.

Harry and ArthurTV greeted Chris’s parents like old friends, their laughter and inside jokes echoing across the mountaintop. Y/n, however, hung back, fidgeting with her gloves wondering why she felt so nervous, Chris was only a friend.

Chris noticed and leaned closer to her. "You alright?"

"Yeah," Y/n said quickly, though her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. "I just… don’t want to make a bad impression."

Chris chuckled. "You’ve got nothing to worry about. They’ll love you."

As if to prove his point, his mum approached Y/n with open arms. "You must be Y/n," she said warmly. "Chris has told us so much about you."

Y/n’s cheeks flushed, but she returned the hug. "All good things, I hope."

"Of course," Chris’s mum replied with a wink.

To Y/n’s relief, the conversation flowed naturally. She found herself laughing with Chris’s parents, sharing stories about her travels and listening to tales from their new life in the Lake District.

"You’ve got a good group here," Chris’s dad said, clapping him on the back.

"The best," Chris agreed, his gaze flicking to Y/n.

After a round of photos and a quick snack break, they began their descent. The steep path required concentration, but Chris took the opportunity to start a conversation he’d been mulling over for weeks.

The voiceover took over again, this time the tone changing to a more serious one as Chris explained he wanted to do more videos talking about mental health he explained his struggles with anxiety for years, ruminating thoughts, intrusive stuff but also what had helped him try and get through it so he was now in a much better place. One by one he spoke to each of his friends about mental health, opening up to each other and it was a change of pace from their usual jokes and banter.

Y/n was someone who had also been very opened about her mental health and their conversation could have lasted for days.

Y/n, walking beside Chris, glanced at him thoughtfully. "How different is it for men, though?" she asked. "I mean, society’s expectations and all that."

Chris paused, considering her question. "It’s hard. There’s this pressure to be… strong, or like, unemotional. But that’s changing. Slowly. What about you? You’ve been really open about your journey, haven’t you?"

Y/n nodded, adjusting her grip on her trekking pole. "I try to be. It’s not easy, though. There’s still so much stigma. But I think the more we talk about it, the more we help people feel less alone."

Chris smiled at her. "You’ve helped me, you know. Just by being so honest."

Y/n’s cheeks turned pink, and she looked away. "You’ve helped me too."

Their conversation was interrupted when Y/n’s foot slipped on a loose rock. She gasped, her arms flailing, but Chris caught her hand just in time.

"You alright?" he asked, steadying her.

"Yeah, just my dignity taking a hit," she said, laughing as she regained her balance.

Chris didn’t let go of her hand right away, and when he did, it was with a lingering warmth that neither of them acknowledged.

The rest of the descent was filled with lighter conversations, the group joking about their shared exhaustion and Arthur Hill’s missed summit.

As they reached the base of Scafell Pike, Chris felt a renewed sense of purpose. Two peaks down, one to go. They had decided that twenty four hours was now long gone but they were going to enjoy the journey for what it is.

The glow of determination fueled the group as they loaded into the van, but the energy from the morning had shifted. Arthur Hill, sitting on a bench with his leg propped up and wrapped in a bandage, waved them off with Harry by his side.

"Be safe!" Arthur called. "And don’t forget to take a victory photo at the top of Snowdon—preferably one where Jamie doesn’t look like he’s about to pass out!"

Jamie, who had also been struggling a little shot him a mock glare.

With the group a little smaller now, the drive to Snowdonia was quieter. Chris glanced back at Y/n, who had claimed the backseat corner. Her head leaned against the window, her auburn curls falling softly over her face as she watched the scenery blur into darkness.

“You alright back there, Y/n?” Chris asked, his voice low.

She turned and smiled, though it was softer than usual. “Yeah, just thinking about how this’ll feel tomorrow when my legs refuse to work.”

The van erupted into knowing laughter.

 “This isn’t about the time,” Chris said as they stretched at the base of the mountain, the cold night air biting at their exposed skin. “It’s about finishing what we started.”

Y/n gave him an approving nod. “That’s what it’s all about. Let’s do it.”

The climb up Snowdon was quieter than the others, the fatigue settling deep in their muscles. The darkness added a layer of challenge, with headlamps and flashlights casting eerie shadows across the rocky path.

“Watch your step,” Reev warned as they navigated a narrow ridge.

There were a few stumbles—George slipping onto his hands and knees, ArthurTV catching himself on a low rock—but no injuries. Every so often, the group paused, catching their breath and sipping water, their chatter growing lighter with every stop.

At last, the summit came into view. The cold wind whipped around them as they reached the peak, and for a moment, no one said a word.

Then Reev broke the silence. “We actually did it.”

“Almost,” Chris corrected. “We still have to get down.”

“Oh, don’t ruin the moment,” Y/n teased, nudging him lightly.

The group broke into hugs, laughing through their exhaustion as they celebrated. Chris lingered in Y/n’s embrace, feeling the warmth of her against the cold air.

Someone snapped a photo, capturing their silhouettes against the starry sky.

The descent was slow and careful especially as night was falling now and torches were failing. The rocks, slick with evening dew, made each step treacherous. Y/n stuck close to Chris, their headlamps bobbing in unison as they navigated the terrain.

“I don’t know how you talked me into this,” Y/n joked, her voice hushed in the quiet of the night.

“You’re the challenge queen,” Chris replied. “I thought this would be your idea of fun.”

She laughed softly, shaking her head. “I usually have better planning, fewer risks of breaking an ankle in the dark.”

Chris smiled but noticed her pensive expression. “You okay?”

Y/n hesitated before answering. “Yeah. I just… I’ve been thinking a lot on this trip. About where I’m going, what I want. It’s hard not to when you’re staring down mountains, you know?”

“I get that,” Chris said, his voice thoughtful. “Climbing a mountain does have a way of putting things in perspective.”

They walked in silence for a moment before Y/n continued. “I’ve been doing YouTube for over a decade. I love it, but sometimes I wonder if I’m just… running away from things by traveling so much. Like, maybe if I stop, I’ll have to face everything I’ve been avoiding.”

Chris’s chest tightened at her honesty. “I don’t think you’re running away,” he said softly. “I think you’re just searching for what makes you happy. And that’s not a bad thing.”

Y/n looked at him, her hazel eyes reflecting the beam of his headlamp. “You really think that?”

“Yeah, I do,” Chris replied. “You’ve inspired so many people—including me. You’ve got this way of making even the toughest situations seem like an adventure.”

Y/n smiled, a genuine, heartfelt expression that made Chris’s stomach flip. “Thanks, Chris. That means a lot.”

They walked a little further before Y/n asked, “What about you? What are you searching for?”

Chris exhaled, his breath visible in the cold air. “Honestly? I’m not sure. I’ve spent so much time focusing on work, on videos, that I’ve kind of lost sight of what’s next. But being here, with you guys, it reminds me of what’s important. It’s not just about the videos or the views—it’s about the connections we make along the way.”

Y/n reached out, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “That’s a good answer.”

Chris chuckled, his heart racing at the contact. “Glad you approve.”

As they continued down the mountain, Chris couldn’t help but glance at Y/n every so often. She looked tired but content, her curls glowing faintly in the moonlight. Chris couldn’t help but think this trip was very special for a multitude for reasons.

In the comments, viewers had plenty to say.

“Y/n and Chris definitely have something going on. The chemistry is undeniable!” “Chris catching Y/n when she slipped? Literal couple goals.” “The ‘hobbit couple’ strikes again! Just admit you’re perfect for each other already.” “Loved the mental health chat. So important to hear men like Chris opening up. Thanks for this, mate.”

Chris scrolled through the comments later that night, a smile tugging at his lips. He glanced at his phone, debating whether to message Y/n.

Before he could decide, his phone buzzed with a message from her.

Y/n: “Can’t believe we actually did it. Thanks for being my rock on the trip. (Haha get it?) 😊”

Chris grinned, his fingers hovering over the keyboard before typing a response.

Chris: “That was awful, but really couldn’t have done it without you. Hobbit squad for life. 🏔️”

Chris bit his lip as he then typed out the message “Dinner?” three times before deleting it each time. Something had changed in him one day but was he ready for another challenge?

[apoloadonisandnarcissus]

Let’s talk 1x08 and 2x08 epilogues and how they set up next season

Allow me to explore this idea: what clues can 2x08 epilogue give us on what to expect for Season 3, taking 1x08 epilogue as an example? In TV shows, the epilogues of season finales are meant to set up the events and the tone for the next season.

Let’s start with Season 1 finale, and how it translated in Season 2:

1) Setting up the feud between Elrond and Galadriel in Season 2:

2) Setting up Celebrimbor’s pride as the reason for him to fall prey of Sauron’s deception:

3) Setting up Eregion (mainly the forge) as the one of the major locations of Season 2:

4) Setting up Sauron’s connection to the Three rings of power:

5) Setting up the forging of the rings of power plot in Season 2:

6) The red herring:

Now, let's take a look at Season 2 finale epilogue, and what clues it might give us for Season 3:

Sauron and Fëanor Hammer:

To me, this scene is quite straightforward: it’s foreshadowing for Sauron forging the One ring in Season 3. Because the show can’t postpone that to Season 4 (Fall of Númenor), really. We know this from Tolkien lore. 

"A sanctuary. Protected... by the Elven Rings":

This location will definitely be Imladris (more known as Rivendell), and, if Season 1 finale is anything to do by, it will be one of the major locations in Season 3. With Elrond building it, and becoming an Elf-lord of his own right.

Gil-galad: Sauron's armies are roving across Eriador. All Middle-earth is within his reach now. Even Lindon. We must decide whether to attack and bring the fight to him... or to fall back, to prepare our defenses. Galadriel: The sword or the shield. Elrond: Many of Eregion's bravest fell. The few who survived are all but broken. In body or spirit. They have little strength left with which to fight. They barely had strength to flee. Arondir: What course would you advise, Commander Galadriel? Galadriel: I would remember the counsel of our dear friend, Celebrimbor, Greatest of Elven-smiths. And remind our people... that it is not strength that overcomes darkness, but light. And the sun yet shines.

From Tolkien legendarium we know several things: Sauron will attack Lindon, and lay siege to Rivendell (“First Siege of Imladris”). The Elves will also fight back, and this will culminate in the Battle of the Gwanthló (probably Season 3 finale), where Sauron allows himself to get captured by Ar-Pharazôn and brought to Númenor as prisoner, kicking off Season 4.

Will there be consequences to Morgoth’s crown wound?

What consequences will this wound have on Galadriel?

In “Fellowship of the Ring”, Frodo is injured by the Witch King of Angmar, using a Morgul blade. In spite, of being healed by Elrond, this wound never fully heals, even after the One Ring is destroyed and Sauron is defeated. On the anniversary of receiving the wound, Frodo becomes seriously ill, and he's unable to lead a normal life (like Sam, for instance). This leads him to go to Valinor, at the end of the story.

“Alas! there are some wounds that cannot be wholly cured," said Gandalf. "I fear it may be so with mine," said Frodo. "There is no real going back. Though I may come to the Shire, it will not seem the same; for I shall not be the same. I am wounded with knife, sting, and tooth, and a long burden. Where shall I find rest?” The Return of the King

Frodo: It's been four years to the day since Weathertop, Sam. It's never really healed. The Return of the King (2003)

This wound forever changes Frodo, and it’s only a blade forged by Sauron, what consequences will Morgoth’s very own crown, a object filled with dark magic, have on Galadriel? And can 2x08 already have provided us with some foreshadowing on this?

These shots can imply blood binding theory is correct, and Sauron might have transferred some of his powers to Galadriel. This is not mere “camera work”: in the first screenshot it’s Sauron looking down at Galadriel, and the second is Galadriel waking up. The effect on both is the same; hinting a sharing power between them.

In Tolkien lore, Galadriel is a powerful elf-witch, an Elven queen of great magic and power, however in "Rings of Power" we haven't seen her either dealing nor displaying any kind of magical abilities. Yet. Having her blood bound with Sauron can be the show’s explanation for her source of magical power, as well as to why she never faces him directly, working against him from afar, and why Sauron couldn’t conquer Lothlórien unless he went there, himself; as well, as to Sauron’s grouping of her mind for thousands of years into the future, and how Galadriel is able to see into his mind, too.

The Three Elven rings of power: 

Season 2 finale epilogue also focused on the Three Elven rings of power, and this is not random, because Sauron will try to get them during the “War of the Elves and Sauron”. If blood binding is correct, Sauron might take advantage of this to have Galadriel handing the rings to him.

This scene is meant to symbolize the end of Galadriel and Elrond feud over the rings, but also to showcase that Elrond trusts these rings, now.

I’m not sure if this is also foreshadowing for Elrond getting Vilya next season because it seems a bit premature, so in on the fence with that one.

Gil-galad worried expression:

This expression recalled me of Elrond’s on Season 1 finale, which makes me wonder what it can mean. Is this look connected to the rings of power or with these characters?

Gil-galad is the current ring-bearer of Vilya, and, from that perspective, it doesn’t seem to make sense for him to worry about the rings. Especially since he used its power (+ Nenya) to heal Galadriel, earlier. So, it can be related to the characters, yes. And from his angle, it can point to one in particular: Galadriel.

Where is Gandalf headed next?

Woman: Goodbye, Grand-Elf. Gandalf: Grandelf? Nori: They've never seen an Elf before. Never even left home before. [...] And what to leave. If I had my druthers, we... We'd walk the wastes of this world. Eatin' snails and beetles till the sun run out of days, but it's high time. I walked my path, and you walked yours. Gandalf: We are very different creatures, Nori. When all is said and done. Nori: Not so different at all, if you ask me. Nori and Gandalf part ways, 2x08

Can this dialogue be foreshadowing or set up for Gandalf meeting the Elves in Season 3?

Is there a red herring like in Season 1 finale?

Yes, I believe so. And it’s Galadriel appearing all victorious and light after her fight with Sauron. This can parallel Sauron Season 1 finale red herring; where he arrives at Mordor, also looking victorious and ready to take over the place (we all know how that turned out).

If this is, indeed, a red herring what can it mean? That Galadriel will find herself struggling harder than ever with the darkness in Season 3, as a consequence of Morgoth’s crown wound.

[novelmonger]

Continuing with the Production/Post-Production audio commentary for TTT, with Barrie Osbourne (producer), Mark Ordesky (executive producer), Andrew Lesnie (director of photography), Mike Horton (editor), Jabez Olssen (additional editor), Rick Porras (co-producer), Howard Shore (composer), and Jim Rygiel (visual effects supervisor). Here are my notes for things that were new to me:

There's actually very little CG involved in the transition from the aerial shot of the mountains in that first scene to the inside of Moria with the Balrog. The mountains were obviously shot from a helicopter, and then they built a little tunnel set that they moved the camera through, and then they just slapped them together so it would look like you're basically going through a crack in the rock to get to the cavern where the scene is happening.

Originally, Sam's knot in the Elven rope untying was going to be a CG shot, but someone on set on the day figured out how to tie the right kind of knot that they could just pull apart like that and make it look believable.

Okay, this is why I love what Howard Shore did with the soundtrack so much. When talking about coming up with Gollum's theme, he said he wanted to take an instrument that's used in the Shire music and incorporate it into Gollum's music, because Gollum was once something like a Hobbit. He ended up choosing the hammered dulcimer, because it has a very tremolo quality to it that seemed to fit Gollum's character. But there's still an echo of what he once was.

In that beautiful shot going up Barad-dur, they shot this huge miniature they'd made that was 166th scale and stood almost 7 meters tall. Even though it was so huge, they had to get the camera very close to capture the detail; it was never more than three or four inches away from the surface. The main challenge was keeping the lighting consistent, because you'll notice the camera moves almost 180 degrees around the tower. So they actually had to move the light source with the camera as they twisted around the tower.

The Wild Men are played by a biker gang! XD

It was a little confusing how this was said, but I think this is what he means: Almost all of the dialogue in these movies was rerecorded, because the nature of the action going on or the conditions of the location or having to speak through prosthetics and whatnot made the dialogue recorded on the day unusable. The only characters they never bothered recording ADR for were the mother who sends her children to Edoras on the horse, and the girl. The conditions that day were good enough, and the girl's performance was so good on the day, they knew they would never be able to recreate it in a recording booth, so they used what they recorded on the day. But everybody else had to rerecord lines. That doesn't mean all the dialogue you hear is necessarily ADR, but something like 85% of it is. I think they did a really good job of not making it sound like it's all recorded in a booth!

Something you sort of unconsciously notice but maybe don't consciously think about it is how the lighting in Edoras reflects Theoden's mental state. In the beginning, when he's completely under Saruman's control and is on the verge of an unnatural death, the hall is kept very dark, and the colors are all muted, with lots of yellowish and greenish tints to make you feel slightly sick. But then once Gandalf comes and releases him from Saruman's control, there's much more light and vibrant color in the hall.

Three of the times Viggo kicked the infamous helmet, it hit Andrew Lesnie's leg XD He says he winced every time it went past, and it's a wonder he didn't jiggle the camera when it happened.

They mentioned it's really difficult to get a horse to stomp on top of a camera underneath plexiglass. You can train them to do it for days, and it's kind of a toss-up whether they'll actually do it on the day, because they really don't like doing it. So I guess it's pretty cool that they managed to get that shot of a horse almost stomping Pippin!

I have trouble identifying the voices, but someone said, "You've got to throw out preconceived notions of how to make movies when you're working with - either with Peter, or with a giant tree guy holding a couple of Hobbits."

They talked about the importance of foley for selling Gollum as a real character who was really there in the same place as the other actors. At first, the foley guys performed him the way he looks, with very light movements since he's so skeletal. But then they went back and made the movements sound heavier after all, because it just made him feel more real. Another thing they did sometimes was make the movements of Gollum's hands with wet hands or putting their hands on wet rock. They had some samples to enhance the vocal work, what they call "sweeteners" (another example of which would be putting animal growls in with the orc voices). But actually, Andy Serkis did most of the sounds so well with his own voice, they didn't really need any sweeteners for Gollum.

Gandalf's battle with the Balrog was originally going to be longer. You would see not just them crashing into the water, but then they would come out of some kind of lake, and the Balrog's flames would be extinguished, leaving behind just a slimy black monster. You would also see several Watchers like the one in the pool outside Moria from FotR, scuttling away because they're afraid of the Balrog. Personally, I'm glad they didn't bother doing all of that, not least because it would have probably dragged on too long.

For the scene where the Black Gate opens, naturally the mountain trolls that open it were CG, but they had little foam-rubber models there while filming the miniature. At one point, someone set them up so they were playing chess while they waited for the signal XD

They put a lot of thought into how much sunlight they should have in and around Mordor. For the story, Orodruin is sort of belching out these unnatural clouds to hide the sun so the orcs can be outside, and then there's also the symbolic significance of the encroaching darkness. But the problem is that, if everything is always dark all the time, the darkness actually either becomes distracting (hello, all movies and TV shows these days where you can't even see what's happening!) or you become so desensitized to it that you don't notice it anymore. So they often made the decision to have some sunlight breaking through the clouds despite everything, just to provide some contrast so you'd really feel how dark the darkness is, so to speak.

Somebody said: "On some level, we're used to looking at movies and seeing real photography. We know what it is. We may not be able to define it, but we know it when we see it. And so if you're looking at a film and you don't see what we perceive as real photography, we start to worry at some level. We start to wonder, 'How did they do that?' or 'Why does this look the way it does?' or 'Why do I not feel that this is quite right?' When that happens, you've lost the audience, because you're not doing good storytelling. Our job is to tell a story. It's just to tell a story. It's not to show off and show how cool we are at making a digital image or how cool we are at making miniature shots. It's to tell a story and then walk away and erase our tracks."

Uma Thurman was once thought of for the role of Eowyn and Ethan Hawke was going to be Faramir?????? ఠ ͟ಠ

Bernard Hill told one of them that it really mattered that they bothered to go the extra mile and actually construct things when they could have done it digitally. He said it informed his and the other actors' performances, because if they thought it was worth the trouble of going out to some remote location and spending 5-6 months building an actual Edoras when they could have done it all on a set with bluescreen, then it must be worth the actors giving their performances every bit of effort they possibly could.

Sometimes they had to digitally fix the color of Gandalf's nose, because it was a prosthetic, and sometimes it would react differently to the light and would be really obvious that it wasn't his real nose XD

It took 98 takes to get the simbelmyne falling to the ground just right!

All the fires in the Golden Hall, including the one in the center, were gas fires so they could be completely controlled. Not a detail I ever considered before!

Apparently there was some friction between Peter Jackson and Viggo Mortensen about how he played the scene in the stables where he calms Brego. I guess Peter wanted the scene to be more about Aragorn and Eowyn's relationship, while Viggo felt (and played the scene) that the focus should be on Aragorn and Brego. 100% horse girlie behavior XD

During the storyboard stage for the warg battle, one guy was sketching out some ideas for beats in the scene, and at one point he had Aragorn's horse get killed, not knowing the plans for emphasizing the bond between Aragorn and Brego. And Peter Jackson just kind of looked at him and went, "You're going to kill Brego?!" Obviously, they didn't go with that idea.

Apparently they often struggled to keep Orlando Bloom in focus, because he does a lot of "intense Elvish staring," as they described it XD So basically, Orlando's feet would hit the right mark, but then because he's supposed to be giving a sharp glare or looking intently farther than the human eye can see, he would often sort of lean forward, making it difficult for the camera operators to anticipate exactly where he would be so they could keep him in focus.

An interesting observation that the Uruk-Hai's pikes give you more of a sense of how many there are than the actual orcs themselves.

Peter Jackson got the idea for the lamps the Elves hold when they leave Rivendell the day before they were going to film that scene, so the props department worked overnight and made them all in time for the shoot! @_@

Most of the sets were built from foam - specifically, a kind of blue foam that is used to insulate refrigerated trucks. It's very dense and firm material that is easy to carve and also very light, which makes it easier to transport pieces of the set if necessary. Most of the miniatures were also carved from foam, except for the Barad-dur miniature, because it had to be at such a small scale. If they tried to carve the miniature at the level of detail they needed, the foam would have just fallen apart, so they had to work with a harder material (he didn't say what).

An interesting issue that cropped up in the Helm's Deep battle I never would have thought of is the part at the beginning where all the Uruk-Hai are banging their pikes against the ground. Most of them are CG, created by the Massive program that was developed for the army movements so they wouldn't have to be individually animated. So they could program Massive to make the Uruk-Hai bash their spears against the ground, but it was the program that would choose the rhythm in which they did it. It makes for a realistic shot, as anyone who's tried to get a crowd to clap along in time with some music can tell you, but it led to some headaches for the sound team when the rhythms Massive chose were different from what the actual extras did on the day. They had to overlap the sounds of the rattling spears in such a way that it would sound believable with what you see.

They added in a lot of digital arrows to the battle of Helm's Deep, as you might imagine. But some of the arrows were practical ones that were really there, light ones that were blunt and wouldn't hurt anyone - which is great, but unfortunately that means they don't necessarily fly as well as sturdier arrows meant to kill things. One of the difficult things the editing team had to do was choose takes where none of the practical arrows flew astray, so the digital arrows could be added in without having to do the extra work of painting out arrows that weren't going where they were supposed to.

They made a weird comment about that part where Aragorn's like, "How long do you need?" and Theoden responds, "As long as you can give me." Apparently, it was originally "How much time do you need?" but they thought that would be...anachronistic? Like people in Middle Earth, with a more or less medieval level of technology, would have no concept of time itself? People were keeping track of time by sundials and candles and things (not to mention just looking up in the sky and noting the position of the sun) in the Middle Ages, so I have no idea what they're talking about.

Massive and motion capture footage worked really well together. They could motion capture an orc climbing up a ladder, for example, then put that movement into the Massive program, and it would have the other figures react to it like any other Massive figure. I imagine that made things a lot easier for directing the battle the way they wanted it to go.

The part where Legolas shoots down one of the ladders was completely made in the editing/post-production stage. They just found a clip of Legolas shooting, painted out whoever he was shooting at, and instead put in the digital shot of the Uruk-Hai on the ladder.

They shot a whole storyline of Eowyn helping Morwen (the mother of the two children who run away from the burning village) give birth in the caves, and because of this they have to stay behind while all the other civilians escape out the back way. Then some Uruks come, and Eowyn has to fight them off. Uhhh...I wanna see that!!! I totally get why they cut it out of the movie, but...still!

Some of the close-up footage of Aragorn during the final charge was actually originally from the warg battle.

I think I noted this from one of the previous commentaries, but I still marvel over it. For Sam's speech at the end that ties the three climaxes together, all they had of that in the original shoot was the parts where you actually see Sam looking through the window. The part where it's just voiceover while you see the montage of everything else that's happening? All of that was added in later, with just Sean in a recording booth. And, as Mark Ordesky put it as he was talking about it, now you can't imagine it any other way.

[lacrymatoryao3]

First Time for Everything

One Shot Smut with Little Plot

Charles and Arthur awkwardly explore each other. Still working on my main fic, but also am on a Charthur jag.

1,557 Words (AO3 Link)

They needed somewhere private, but not in Saint Denis or even Rhodes. Those were still too close to Shady Belle and would risk the rest of the gang hearing rumors from locals. After hushed private discussions, they agreed to make a return to Valentine under the guise of having a robbery lead. Charles was the one to ride in first to get a room at the hotel. He wasn’t there during the shootout with Cornwall’s men, so the owner wouldn’t cause a commotion with him like he probably would with Arthur.

Arthur waited outside the town, on the side of an infrequently used trail that led to the Dakota River. He smoked two, maybe three cigarettes in a row to calm himself with his binoculars on the side of the hotel waiting for Charles’s sign from the window. As the sun set it arrived. From the upper floor in the room the owner always seemed to put people in, he saw the curtains be pulled back to block out the view of the street below.

He urged his horse forward and into Valentine. He pulled his hat down to make it harder to see his face, hoping no one remembered the great black Shire he was sitting upon. He hitched him beside Taima in front of the hotel and walked to the side of the building where there was an outside staircase to the top floor that avoided the lobby all together. Once he was in the hall the door to the room was on his immediate left. He took off his had and smoothed out his ash brown hair, taking a deep breath and lightly knocking on the door.

Charles answered with his long black hair still damp from his bath. No wonder he took so long. He put on fresher clothes, different from the weathered light blue with white dotted shirt he wore during the long and dusty ride, an outfit he started wearing when they arrived in the South. The one with the black trousers, a faded burgundy red overshirt that he only fastened at one bottom button, and a tanned leather vest that was embroidered with small colored beads in a tribal pattern in strips on both sides down the front.

Arthur just stood there, staring at the man in front of him as if he turned him into stone. He could only utter a strained and nervous “hey”.

“Hey,” Charles replied, a soft and equally clumsy smile breaking from his plump lips, “You, uh, should probably come in.”

Arthur nodded, hastily stepping over the threshold so Charles could close the door. He took off his hat and set it on a wooden chair next to a large standing mirror in the corner of the dimly lit room. His ragged satchel joined it, but not before he went into it and produced an unopened bottle of Kentucky Bourbon.

“I… Brought somethin’ for us.” Arthur said, waving the bottle to Charles.

Arthur opened the bottle and took a sip. The burn calmed the fluttering he had in his stomach, though his heart was still racing. He handed it to Charles, who also took one. They passed it back and forth until there was nothing left.

Charles set the bottle on the mantle of the fireplace. The flames caught his figure and created a blazing halo around his wide, strong, and athletic body. A golden glow washed over his dark skin. Despite having little belief in them, Arthur felt like he was looking upon an angel. His doubts possessed him like ghosts manifesting from the shadows. His heart began to race and get caught in his throat.

What if he embarrasses himself somehow? Neither of them knew what they were about to do. He had only been with women and he couldn’t even remember the last time – 5 years at least. In the world they lived in, two men lying together in the same way was seen as unnatural… An abomination to those religious type of fools.

Another thing was Arthur didn’t see himself anywhere near attractive. When he looked in the mirror all he saw was scars, blemishes where the sun he was almost always under kissed his skin, his crooked nose and chipped teeth from so many brawls, lines that set his scowls into the flesh, he still saw the stains of blood that he shed despite them being long washed away. If it came to that, would Charles even still be attracted to him when he shed his clothes?

It was only a moment that felt like an eternity, with both feeling apprehension and doubt, before Charles returned to him.

“You ready?” Charles asked, more bashfully than Arthur had ever heard from him.

“Yeah…” Arthur responded, “If you are, anyway. We don’t got to if you ain’t.”

“I think we’ll be okay.” Charles assured him, resting his large and shaky hands on Arthur’s waist. He pulled him closer, until their chests were crushed and they both could feel their pounding hearts.

Arthur nodded and breathed, “If you change your mind at any point durin’ this, tell me and we can stop…”

The air became thick as they gazed into each other’s eyes, their minds letting go of any preconceived notions they were taught by the world. Instinctually, their faces grew closer. At first their lips traced, savoring the sensation and heat of their breaths and bodies, until they pressed together. They tried to go slow, soft, building up the flame. It didn’t last very long. Arthur took Charles’s face in his hands, his thumb tracing the large scar that snaked along the right side of his face, kissing harder. He slipped his tongue into Charles’s mouth. He grasped Arthur tighter, greeting him with his own. Their faces burned with a hunger and passion neither of them expected to experience with another man.

With eager hands, Charles gently took hold of the kerchief around Arthur’s neck. He untied the knot and pulled it away, dropping it onto the floor. He unbuttoned his shirt, exposing his broad chest. Arthur let out a low grown as he felt Charles’s rough, calloused hands explore his hair covered flesh.

“I’ve always been jealous of you for this…” Charles muttered, circling the bare halo around Arthur’s nipples.

Arthur chuckled, his face and ears turning a bright red, “Ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

They became emboldened enough to fully undress and joined each other in the bed. In Arthur’s arms Charles felt so warm, his plush skin hiding the hard and well sculpted muscle underneath. It excited him more than he expected, his cock beginning to pulse as it swelled. He refrained from touching it, focusing on Charles instead. He pressed his mouth to an area behind his ear, working downward to his neck.

Charles never experienced such tenderness, such attentiveness to the most sensitive areas on his body. His breathing increased, Arthur’s coarse fingers messaging his breast. His head tilted back for a moment, his throat letting out a soft yet high pitched moan. The ache was becoming too intense to ignore. He reached down, taking hold of his own cock and started to slowly stroke it. He looked down and saw how hard they both were. Arthur’s was slightly longer, but incredibly thick. The skin was pulled taught away from head, which was almost purple at the edges. From the tip, a clear fluid wept in long tears that dropped onto the bedspread. Charles took one of Arthur’s hands, leading it downward to replace his own. In return he took Arthur’s. He looked deeply into his beautiful blue eyes, pupils blown in lust.

Charles filled Arthur’s hand. With each movement his shaft throbbed, eliciting a sigh or grunt from the man it was attached to. Christ… It was the most foreign and erotic thing Arthur encountered. It wasn’t enough. He took Charles’s ass and pulled him closer, until their sensitive members brushed. Arthur couldn’t close his fingers around them both. Their hips moved in rhythm, spreading Arthur’s precum until it covered their cocks and they slid against each other with ease.

Words became rendered useless. The only thing Arthur muttered between the two men’s moans was an often unused ‘fuck’.

Charles started to buck more in his grasp, panting with beads of sweat on his brow. His cock was constantly twitching, begging, desperate.

“Arthur…” Charles gasped, “Arthur, I’m going to-”

“Come for me, Charles. Let it go.” Arthur whispered. He was dangerously close too, fighting to keep it before he was ready.

A few more aggressive thrusts, then Charles tensed. His cock erupted, his seed splattering both of their stomachs. It was joined soon after by Arthur’s. He shook, riding the intensity of their orgasms until they were spent. Arthur let go, rolling onto his back and huffing to catch his breath.

They laid in a stupor for some time, paralyzed by blissful relief. Arthur got up to fetch the towel hanging off the washing stand. He wiped Charles off first before himself, throwing it across the room. He opened his arms and Charles rolled over to rest his head on Arthur’s chest, the two embracing.

“What did we tell Dutch we were goin’ out for?” Arthur asked drifting off into sleep.

“We’ll figure it out tomorrow.” Charles replied with a soft and tired laugh.

[wakingupthetrees]

the fellowship of the ring and how they are on a night out drinking (obvs tw for alcohol mentions!)

Aragorn;

likes a range of different drinks but tends to stick with beer

normally the most sober in the group, unless its just the three hunters, in which he is smashed to prove a point to gimli

drunk crier when hes alone

designated driver (arwen ends up picking them all up most of the time anyway)

holds his alcohol like a champ, never once seen throwing up even after the craziest nights

gets crazy hangovers though

Legolas;

loves a good fruity cocktail or wine

though he'll drink pretty much anything

and i mean anything. you could hand this elf a mixture of beer, moss and horse hair and he'd down it with an 'aight bet'

stomach of steel

somehow still pristine even after way too many shots to be healthy for anyone

only gets drunk on elf wine

hangovers? what's that?

the type to wake the others up at 7am the morning after to make him food

Gimli;

similar to aragorn, likes beer but will drink anything as long as its alcohol

gets WAY too into drinking games, one tease from a hobbit or elf and suddenly theyre 5 pints in

does not hold his alcohol that well, no matter what he says

passes out at a certain point and does not move for at least 10 hours. like he becomes a whole rock. just there. one time sam freaked out because he thought gimli was dead

wakes up in pain but soldiers through, makes THE best hangover pancakes

Boromir;

cider enjoyer

normally one of the more sober of the group at the start, then the first to descend into madness

is the one to suggest they play the drinking games, chaos unfolds

always ends up being dared into something dumb, later denies this

eggs the others on, also later denies this

wakes up with a killer headache

'im never doing that ever again' proceeds to do it again

'ill take this one easy guys' spoiler alert he does not take this one easy

offers to carry the hobbits home, they make it one street before getting picked up by the others

Frodo;

likes a good old pint from the green dragon

honestly anything thatll get his mind off of Things

happy to just sit and watch the chaos

gets weirdly philosophical after a few too many, dont let him near legolas they will start speaking in riddles even gandalf is lost on

always prepared with hangover remedies bilbo recommended him

Samwise;

the sensible one

also likes a variety of wines

likes to sing songs with everyone

gets anxious over getting too drunk

doesn't really know whats going on is just here to be with his friends and have fun :)

makes sure everyone drinks plenty of water and gets home safe

if he gets REALLY drunk he might cry over his potatoes. dont worry though, mr frodo, he knows just how to grow more even better next season

Merry;

another who'll drink literally anything, though he has lots of opinions and recommendations on what the best brands are

gets louder the more he drinks, especially once the songs start

him and pip are a 2 hobbit band, once they start a song theyre off.

on the tables, singing and drinking with a full planned dance routine to match

loves a good gossip, shares all the tea from the shire

do NOT let him and pippin start with the shots it will not end well for anybody

is one of the drunkest and yet never gets a hangover

Pippin;

drinks whatever the others order

a very giggly drunk

tries to sneak in a few pranks, always gets caught but no one really minds

plays all the games, sings all the songs, is just there for a good time

first to start singing, the first to get up on a table

needs to be carried home, will collapse laughing at some point and not get up

avoids the hangovers by just sleeping for hours and hours, always mia until the next evening after a night out

Gandalf;

prefers his pipeweed to drinking

though hes been seen with a glass in his hand at more than a few events

only person im the fellowship whos seen him drunk was pippin, who witnessed him shove a wild squirrel up his hat before winking and running away

everyone thinks pippin is joking, except legolas who's just been around long enough to think 'yeah that checks'

pip now has a phobia of squirrels ('but merry, what if he enchanted them!! what if he has a secret squirrel army!!')

[holyratrimony]

Bergamot Baths and Soft Sheets

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Fem!Reader

Summary: you’ve been bedridden with a fever for almost a week when Arthur decides you need a bath and a proper bed

Word Count: 1.4k

Warnings: non-descriptive nudity, not beta read

A/N: Thank you so much to @cowboydisaster for this request, I really enjoyed writing this soft, sweet fic :)

The steaming, bergamot-scented water lapped at your collarbone as you sunk deeper into the tub. Your muscles that ached after almost a week of doing nothing but laying on your stiff cot began to relax ever so slightly. 

You’d been bedridden with a fever for almost a week now. You’d fallen in the river on the way down from Colter. The wagon hit a rock as you crossed one of the many cool mountain streams. The movement was enough to knock you from the back of the wagon where you sat with the other girls. 

The water was freezing, weighing down your layers of dress, and saturating your petticoats. As Arthur was caught at the back of the procession with Charles and Hosea, Javier had been quick to pull you from the river. Placing you back in the wagon as Abigail and Miss Grimshaw fussed over you. 

But despite the warm blankets they wrapped around your shoulders after you shed your soaked layers, you fell ill with a fever not even a day later. The cot you usually shared with Arthur became solely yours when the heat started to rise beneath your skin. 

After days of being caught between waking and sleeping, Arthur insisted that you needed to get a bath and a real bed to sleep in. You quickly agreed to his suggestion, your body feeling fractionally better at the promise of sweet soaps and a soft mattress. 

Arthur had gathered you onto his horse, Rowan, a towering black shire, and held you to his chest as the two of you made your way to the nearby town of Valentine. When you arrived in front of the hotel he had helped you down from the horse, and taken you inside, requesting a bath and a room from the man behind the desk.

Now you melted into the soapy water, the feeling soothing your skin. As you rested your head on the lip of the tub, you heard a knock at the door.

Where you’d been expecting the light, gauzy voice typical of a bath girl, Arthur’s low timber filled the air. “Ya wan’ any help in there?” 

“That’d be lovely,” your voice was slightly scratchier than normal, due to lack of use. 

The door creaked open, Arthur entering with it. He quickly closed it behind him to keep your naked body from the eyes of any passers-by. He looked handsome in the low light of the room, his green eyes shining just beneath the brim of his gambler's hat. 

He crossed the space between the door and the bath in just a few strides before crouching down next to it. 

“Hello, darlin’,” his voice drawled, a small smile gracing his handsome features as his hand reached out, brushing against your cheek. Your eyelashes fluttered as his fingers caressed your feverish skin. Despite being sweethearts for the better part of three years, you still felt butterflies when he touched you. You leaned into his touch slightly echoing back his greeting. 

“You need a hand washin’?” You nodded gently at the question. 

Through your lidded eyes, you watched him roll up the sleeves of his blue shirt. His tan forearms were roped with muscle, muscle that rippled with each small movement. You studied him closely as he grabbed the sponge and soap that had been placed near the tub. 

“You checkin’ me out, woman?” His voice was light and teasing as he shot a faux stern look in your direction.

You nodded in response, grinning lazily as you leaned your head back against the rim of the tub. “How could I not?”

His rough and calloused hands were contradicted by the soft and soapy sponge as he began to scrub your arm. He started near the shoulder, making light gentle circles, creating a thick and foamy lather on your skin. 

A deep and content sigh left your lips as you felt the grime and sweat of the past week be washed away by loving hands. 

You began to get lost in the drag of the sponge on your skin, only really coming back when his hand disappeared into the water, his grip wrapping delicately around your ankle. He pulled it out of the depths, resting your heel on the edge of the tub, the murky water helping you keep your modesty. He moved the sponge across your calf first, the small circles he traced sent a tingle through your body. 

Each brush of the soap over your fevered skin sent relief and relaxation through you. The love the man felt for you was communicated through every touch of his skin against yours. 

Arthur meticulously worked his way up your leg, each swipe inching higher and higher. While normally touch like this would get you riled up, now it seemed to just be drawing you closer and closer into the arms of sleep. The soothing patterns he traced along with the sweet nothings that left his lips lulled you into a middle state between asleep and awake. 

What brought you back to alertness was not when Arthur placed your legs back in the water, nor when his touch left your skin, but when you felt a brush of his lips against your forehead. Then followed by his hands on your shoulders, thumbs digging into the tense muscles there. You couldn’t quite stop the soft groan that left your lips as he massaged away the deep ache that had settled into your upper body. 

The sickness and exhaustion that had settled into your body over the past week had been eased by the warm water, instead being replaced with a drowsy contentedness. 

“How’re you feelin’ now, darlin’?” Arthur’s voice was gentle as he spoke. 

“Like a new woman,” you joked lightly, your eyes opening slightly. 

“The water’s goin’ cold. Think it might be time we getcha to bed.”

You nodded in response. You felt Arthur’s hands leave your shoulders as he stood up, stretching his arms. “D’ya want help getting dressed?”

Again you nodded, extending your arm out for him to help you rise out of the tub. He had grabbed one of the towels the hotel provided and began to help you dry off. He was just as gentle as when he helped you wash, touching you as if you were something precious and delicate. 

“So beautiful,” he murmured, the words barely loud enough for you to make out.

The room he rented was right across from the bath, meaning you were unlikely to run into other people. Arthur helped you put on your chemise, the fabric was thin and light on your warm skin. He gathered the rest of your clothes in his arms before reaching for the door.

The two of you were quick darting into the hotel room, the door shutting solidly behind you. The room wasn’t anything fancy but compared to the cot you spent most of your nights on, it seemed lavish and extravagant. Arthur pulled back the sheets on the bed, gesturing for you to get in. 

The linens were soft against your freshly scrubbed skin. As you burrowed into the blankets, Arthur took a seat on the single chair in the room. You shot him a questioning look over the edge of the sheets.

“Now jus’ what are you doin' all the way over there, cowboy?” you teased.

“Well seein’ as yer still sick I thought I’d give ya some space, darlin’” 

“There’s plenty of room for both of us. Now quit bein’ chivalrous and come to bed.” 

He shook his head at your insistence, a small smile playing across his face. He stood from the chair, the candlelight in the room illuminating his body in soft, golden hues. You watched like a hawk as he stripped down to his union suit. 

Despite your body being heavy with sleep, you managed to lift the blankets for him, allowing him to slide in next to you. You turned towards him, the two of you laying face to face. 

“Thank you for this, Arthur. I needed it.” Your voice was soft as you stared into his jade-colored eyes. 

His hand moved to caress your cheek, his gaze dripping with fondness. “I’d do anything fer you darlin’.” 

Despite the sickness still residing in your body, you felt a peace and calm that you hadn’t felt for many years. The two of you, alone, in a real bed, with no gang or Pinkertons to worry about, it made you crave a different way of life. But those thoughts became fuzzy as the veil of sleep overtook you and your dear cowboy held you in his arms.

[scotianostra]

6th December 1593 saw a Clan battle at Dryfe's Sands in Dumfries-shire.

The Maxwell and Johnstone clans had for a long time waged a bitter feud for the supremacy of the Scottish West March. This feud culminated in a battle at Dryfe Sands close to Lockerbie.

Lord Maxwell, with 2000 horsemen approached the Johnstone town of Lockerbie being constantly harassed by small detachments of Johnstones and their allies.

The Johnstones attacked the vanguard of the Maxwells and then retreated, provoking them to pursue them.

The Maxwells obliged. The main body of the Johnstones, which had been kept out of sight of the enemy, then suddenly charged and caught the enemy off guard. Their disordered vanguard was sent reeling into their main force and in the resulting confusion, the Johnstones pressed home their attack.

The fleeing Maxwells were pursued through the streets of Lockerbie and beyond. At Dryfe Sands the slaughter was completed.

Wiki put the caasualties at around 700 Maxwells killed, the Johnstone's dead is marked as "Heavy" with a figure of on 160 surviving Some years later, in 1608, a meeting of reconciliation was arranged between Sir James Johnstone and Lord Maxwell, son of the chief who was killed at Dryfe Sands. The meeting was carefully supervised. Each party could bring only one attendant. Then during the meeting. Lord Maxwell suddenly drew a pistol and shot the Johnstone chief in the back, killing him instantly. Lord Maxwell was initially captured and held at Edinburgh Castle, but he escaped and made his way to France

On his return to Scotland in 1612 he was arrested, and attempted to make peace with the Johnstones by proposing a marriage between the two families. This was unsuccessful and he was beheaded at Edinburgh on 21 May 1613

The Border ballad "Lord Maxwell's Last Goodnight" is based on his actions.

“Good, my lord, will you stay then about my father’s house And walk into these gardens green? In my arms I’ll thee embrace. Ten thousand times I’ll kiss your mouth, make sport and let’s be merry.” “I thank you, lady, for your kindness, trust me, I may not stay with thee.

For I have killed the Laird Johnstone, I care not for the feud. My loyal heart did still incline, he was my father’s death. By day and night I did pursue and all on him revenged to be; Now I have gotten what I long sought, trust me, I may not stay with thee.

Adieu Dumfries, my proper place, adieu, adieu Caerlaverock fair; Adieu my castle of the Threave, and all my buildings there. Adieu Lochmaben’s gates so fair and the Langholm shank where the birk bops bonny; Adieu my lady and my only joy, trust me, I may not stay with thee.”

Now he has taken a good gold ring whereat hang signets three, Says, “Take you this, my own dear love, and aye, have mind of me. But if you wed another lord while I am on the sea, His life is but a three day’s lease, though I may not stay with thee.”

The wind was fair, the ship was clear, the good Lord went away; The most part of his friends were there to give him fair convoy. They ate the meat, they drank the wine, presenting in that good Lord’s sight. Now he is over the floods so grey, Lord Maxwell’s taken his last goodnight.

[kodaloveschris]

Parents for a Day

Part 2

Summary: Nick, Matt, and Chris try to convince you to let them take care of your newborn daughter for a day for a video.

**Thank you for such a positive response on part 1. Here is part 2 😋* *

While still trying to process what they said, she responds by saying “explain to why you need Shire for a video and why I should trust you three with a newborn.” Since this was Matt’s idea, Chris and Nick let Matt take the lead with explaining the video idea to Y/N. Matt takes the hint and starts off by looking at Y/N directly in her eyes and states “Fans have been asking for awhile if we could adopt a kid for a day and see how we would do as parents. So, I thought about asking you if we could use Shire for the video. We understand if you don’t want us to use Shi for the video, we completely understand or if you let us still use her and don’t want her face shown Nick can always blur her face. We also don’t have to say her name and can give her a nickname.” While Y/N is processing what Matt just said, she notices that Shire is done eating and fixes herself underneath the blanket before grabbing the burp cloth on the coffee table and burping Shi. Chris looks at her and says “What do you think, Y/N/N? Can we pretty please use Shi!! We will be extra careful with her and obviously we will hand her over when it’s feeding time. You can also be in ear shot just in case something does happen or you can stay off frame just in case if you are more comfortable.” Shi lets out a really big burp which ends up making her spit up. As Y/N is cleaning up from Shi, she looks at the brothers who have desperation in their eyes and says “I know you guys most likely need an answer soon because you leave for Boston in a couple of days but can I at least have the night to think about it please.” Nick, Chris, and Matt all look at each other and agree. “Of course, Y/N/N!” Nick says. “We don’t want to pressure you to do something you don’t want to do. In reality she is your child, so you have to say what goes and doesn’t” Matt adds. Nick responds by saying “take the night to think it over and let us know in the morning.” With that Y/N starts to pack up all of the baby stuff that ended up getting scattered throughout their house and starts to put Shire in her car seat to go home. Nick, Chris, and Matt all took turns saying goodbye and good night to their “niece.” After all the baby loving, it’s Y/N turn to say her goodbyes. “Goodbye guys, I will see you in the morning. You will definitely get an answer tomorrow. Good night.” The triplets each said a good night and good bye and helped Y/N carry all of Shire’s stuff to her car and Chris loaded Shire into the car then went inside.

Part 3 coming real soon 😜

[labyrinth-runner]

Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2024

Hello, hello! I had the greatest honor and pleasure of participating in this event this summer. I worked on two pieces.

The first piece is A Walk in the Shire inspired by this lovely piece of artwork by @littlesweetdressmaker of Thorin walking with breakfast. A Walk in the Shire is a spicy one shot of about 5500 words. It is a Reader x Thorin piece where Thorin lives at the end and visits the Shire to see Bilbo and meet his cousin, the reader, whom he is instantly smitten with. Rated M for Mature. I absolutely adored working with this artist and it was so wonderful to see the kitchen I saw in my head come to life for everyone else to see, too.

My Second Piece is Estel and the Evenstar inspired by a piece of work by @allythistle. I was hesitant to choose this piece at first because I hadn't read The Lord of the Rings yet (I'd only seen the films), and I was worried that the story would run away from me and I wouldn't finish it in time. I asked the mods if they could ask the artist how she felt about the idea of doing tableaux works, because I had the idea of crafting Aragorn and Arwen's story in between what is told in the Appendix and thankfully she took my idea and ran with it. So I chose this art and then read all three books in about three weeks (I made myself a reading schedule) and what resulted was this piece consisting of five chapters that told the story of Aragorn and Arwen in a deeper way than what we got in the books. I kept it fairly PG, as Tolkien originally wrote them, but I gave us some closure that we didn't get in places. And I got a great friend out of it, too.

[dewdropdinosaur]

Can I have three one-shots based LOTR franchise?

1. Frodo x M reader by the end of the journey, when you know Sam reflecting about Rosie, Frodo reflects on how much this journey tested his and M reader’s romantic relationship. To the point when Sam and M reader recused Frodo from the orc tower, M reader got stabbed and had a near death experience. So Frodo worries of his boyfriend dying of his wounds where he defended Frodo. So as the three, weakly wait eagles Frodo tenderly holds M reader hand. Can flash forward to him waking and yes everyone celebrating the ring being destroyed, yet unfortunately M reader not going to make it, but he does tell Frodo how much he loves him and reflects on the journey. Another time skip in the Green Dragon where Frodo, Sam, Pippin, and Merry reflect, Pippin with Merry and bits of Sam and Frodo, give an on the spot speech to M reader, and Frodo cheers to singing. Frodo could be looking down at his hand with tears as a makeshift ring from M reader gave him as a promise ring made of rope, when the fellowship broke, and Frodo kisses it thinking of M Reader. If can transition to him opening his eyes on the boat and sees Sam, Merry, and Pippin gives a teary smile as he goes to the Grey Heavans? (I am sorry if so emotionally I just want a some angst ).

2. Frodo x M reader in what it be like to date Frodo and this version can have M reader live(maybe he waited for Frodo too as opposed joined the journey, but like in the books fought with Hobbits against the Orcs envision to protect the Shire) and the two reflect on how different things were before the quest. Like the two were very more lovey dovey men kissing under fireworks being bashful to be PDA, but not mind. Compared after the war, the two yes are more confidently open in hand holding, but have a more matured love. Like walking together and reading by the other in front of a fire. Sure unfortunately the war still ways heavy on the two but you know they are both reflecting the growth they have made.

3. Awern x M reader. Now before anyone sends hate she and Aragon I agree are a great pair, but cut a guy slack for wanting to have a one-shot of a date with Awern leading to very VERY romantic sex. The song that inspired this was Broken Iris’ “Forevermore”, the lyrics are such poetry.

Hi there!

Of course! Since this is a series of three requests, expect as always a two to three-week return wait on the first one and then a subsequent two to three-weeks for the next one and so on and so forth.

I am so happy to write my first non-Hazbin requests!

Love,

Dewdrop/Dewy

[merlyn-bane]

Fic / Art Masterlist

Figured it was finally time to give in and make one of these. Links will all be under the cut with pared down summaries to prevent this thing from being a monster on people's dash. Probably just going to leave them in the order they were posted just to make it easier to update as I go.

Standalone Fics:

Traveling Song - Star Wars, Din Djarin/OC, M Din Djarin gets to know his sometimes-ally a little better, and ends up a lot over his head. Jedi Lineage Shenanigan Collection - Star Wars, T A collection of mostly unrelated and out of order one or two-shots revolving around Jedi, their families, and the nonsense they all get up to. Tren's Xenoanatomy - Star Trek, Jim Kirk/Leonard McCoy, T Jim likes to watch trashy television to cope when he's had a bad day. Bones has some opinions on the medical accuracies of one of his favorite shows. They maybe hook up about it. Foelu - Star Wars, Obi-Wan/Cody/Waxer/Boil/Rex/Helix, E As the only one of his kind in the Order and perhaps only the third in its history, almost all of what they know about Obi-Wan's people is limited what they've been able to observe as he's grown up. When his implant expires and wartime shortages make it impossible to get their hands on a replacement, Obi-Wan learns about something else his body can do--for better or worse. - Snippets & Extras On The Caretaking And Debauching Of Your Senior Field Medic - Star Wars, Obi-Wan/Helix, E When his CMO is benched with an injury and his SFM becomes even more overworked and irate than usual, Obi-Wan Kenobi takes things into his own hands. Killing Time - Star Wars, Bo-Katan/Fennec, E Fennec Shand finds herself trapped in a vault with Bo-Katan Kryze for several hours after they both break in with the intent of stealing the same artifact. Fennec suggests a way to pass the time. Electricity Blew - Star Wars, Obi-Wan/Cody/Waxer/Boil/Helix, E The core of the 212th's officership falls into bed with their Jedi general, and learn some very interesting things about Force users in the process. home (is where you build it) - Star Wars, Obi-Wan/Cody, Obi-Wan & Quinlan, E Obi-Wan Kenobi is a state away and halfway through his master's degree when his sort-of father dies unexpectedly, leaving Obi-Wan's two adopted siblings with no other family to take care of them and Obi-Wan short on options that don't involve him having to move back to a childhood home that he only visits twice a year for a reason. But with a best friend willing to make the move and help shoulder some of the burden with him, and an opening teaching a subject (or two) he loves at the same high school he went to himself, and a very handsome volunteer firefighter just across the street, maybe...maybe it won't be all that bad. - home (but x-rated this time) Whumptober '24 (Foelu) - Star Wars, Obi-Wan/Cody/Waxer/Boil/Rex/Helix, M A whumptober-themed AU of my fic Foelu, wherein Anakin shares classified information regarding Obi-Wan's biology with the Chancellor and Obi-Wan suffers the consequences.

Series:

Order 63 (2022) - Codywan

Monday - Middle Earth AU, art & fic Obi-Wan forgets about certain cultural traditions when she returns to the Shire with Cody after three years at war. She Plays Bass - Band AU, art & fic Up-and-coming rockstar Cody Fett is touring with well-established Obi-Wan Kenobi for the first time, and may have developed an extraordinarily predictable crush--much to the amusement of her bandmate, Fox. When the tour's booking agent messes up their hotel reservations, it leaves Cody in something of an interesting predicament--and in much closer quarters with Obi-Wan than intended. Wednesday - Star Trek AU, art Captain Obi-Wan Kenobi and her First Officer, Commander Cody, stumble upon strange flora on an away mission. This is nothing new, and neither is Obi-Wan's ill-advised urge to touch it. Cody fondly wonders if perhaps her Captain was not promoted to command simply to distance her from the scientific field where she started. Thursday - Sports / Roller Derby AU, art What's a little friendly competition between girlfriends, anyway? Friday - No O66 / Jedi!Cody AU, art A warm, cozy morning in the Jedi Temple, and a playful battle for the shared kettle.

Thank God You Introduced Me To Your Sister - RexObi

Thank God You Introduced Me To Your Sister - Sapphic Modern AU, fic Rex is feeling underappreciated in her relationship with her best-friends-with-benefits. Good thing his very attractive older sister's back in town on break from school, huh? Thank God For You - Sapphic AU, fic It's Rex's turn to take care of Obi-Wan.

SubObi Week (2022) (also contains Obi-Wan Omegaverse)

Day One - Jangobi, Omegaverse AU, fic Obi-Wan Kenobi's suppressants fail for the first time in his life as he's en-route to Kamino to investigate the attempt on Senator Amidala's life. Fortunately for him, there happens to be an Alpha available in the facility. Unfortunately for him, that Alpha is Jango Fett. Day Three - ObiMaul, Sith AU, art Day Four - Codywan, Omegaverse AU, fic Jango Fetts's intelligence provides the Republic with better footing at the start of the war. It is not the only thing he's left Obi-Wan with. Day Five - Codywan, Omegaverse AU, fic Obi-Wan Kenobi's pussy saves the galaxy. It just…takes a roundabout sort of path to get there. Also known as Obi-Wan Kenobi Gets To Have The Beginnings Of His Happy Ending, As A Treat. Day Six - Codywan, Omegaverse AU, fic Obi-Wan Kenobi's happy ending continues, just with a brief intermission as an old acquaintance resurfaces. Day Seven - Jangobi, art Some Jetii just look so pretty with a hand around their throat. Day Eight - Bail/Obi/Breha, art Bail and Breha Organa are unable to conceive on their own. They approach their dear friend Obi-Wan for a specific kind of assistance. He is more than happy to help.

Year of the OTP - Spirk

On Social Maturity Across Species - fic The Enterprise crew are sent to negotiate a new planet joining the Federation. Unfortunately for the Captain and First Officer, the people of Ektros IV don’t consider unattached individuals to be full-fledged adults and will not meet with Jim at the negotiation table unless he can prove his marital status. On Automatic Adrenal Responses - fic The crew of the Enterprise are sent to investigate reports of a rogue scientist developing illegal chemical weapons. Commander Spock becomes an inadvertent test subject. Spending All Our Time (Trying To Get Back Home Again) - fic In which the events of Beyond never take place, and Jim takes the Admiralty job. He manages to survive behind a desk for about a year before the need to be out there once more becomes too much for him to bear. But how will his old crew take his return to his post as Captain of the Enterprise?

They Told Me I Couldn't Bag A Jedi (And I Took That Personally)

Like A Puzzle - Codywan, fic The beginning of Marshall Commander Cody's Slut Era [Affectionate]™ You Think I Wouldn't? - CodyQuin, fic Marshall Commander Cody's Slut Era [Affectionate]™ Continues. A Fast And Dedicated Learner - Cody/Luminara/Shaak/Depa, fic Cody is invited to give batting for the other team a try. Still Got It - Cody/Mace, fic Cody decides to take some initiative as part of his Slut Era, only sort of because his brother basically dared him. Expanding Horizons - Cody/Obi/Kit, fic Cody's Slut Era™ Is Equal Opportunity

Art:

AO3 Postings

Too Spicy For Tumblr - Art

Tumblr Postings

2022

Fox Day Merry Christmas Hardcase Ides of March Padmé

2023

Ari Sketch Commander Cody Phase Knives Awful Little Carnivore Baby's Second Paleoart Stewjoni Wooley Bird Perserverence Window (gift for @lttrsfrmlnrrgby) Major Bent ObiMaul Hockey AU Foelu Art - Obi's Robe, Baby Kai-Tal, Obi's Pregnancy Outfit (gift for @lttrsfrmlnrrgby), Cody Civilian Clothes, Obi-Wan Halloween - Ms. Frizzle She Plays Bass Art - Kissing On Stage, Goofing Off Backstage (gift for @goddammitjim) Butch Lesbian Codywan (gift for @meebles) Leera Rain Day Barrisoka Fic Writer/Podcaster AU Codywan Monsterfucker Christmas Codywan Dinosaur AU (co-created with @meebles) (Extends into 2024) - Kissing on Boga, Boga 'Grooming' Obi-Wan, Kissing on the Bucking Parasaurolophus, Cody and Sunny Kulinday, Codywan's First Meeting (for Codywan Week '24)

2024

Curvy Lady Painting 2024 Clone Pin-Up Calendar - January, February, March, April Nautolan!Obi-Wan (gift for @meebles) Coday Art - Coruscant, Cody With A Steel Chair, Kamino, Civilian Clothes, AU Shaak Ti/Luminara Wound Tending Codywan Mermaid AU Kiss (gift for @meebles) Kesett Art (gift for @lothcatthree) Codywan Lift & Carry Kiss Cloud/Barret CodyQuin Art (gift for @lothcatthree) Expression Requests - Sleepy Quin, Laughing Shaak (De-Twinkified) Shibari Obi-Wan ObiBail Art McKirk Art Werewolf AU Girlies - Sleeping on the Couch Sugar Baby Fox Cody In A Gown Clone Art Requests - Crys Dyeing His Hair, Wooley Skateboarding, 17 With A Cadet, @lttrsfrmlnrrgby's OC Muffin, Sinker and Boost Pudding Makeout, Sleepy Cody, Bly Tripped, Cody and Bly Karaoke Codywan Mermay Cody With Baby Codywan Week Paleo Pines AU Halloween Paleo Pines Carnotaurus

[sunnyrosewritesstuff]

Round 3, Poll 1

A Mother's Curse v. Ambassador to Madness

THE POLL IS AT THE BOTTOM OF THE POST! CLICK "KEEP READING".

A Mother's Curse: (Reverse Werewolf AU)

He and Falco silently slipped off into the woods, getting as close to Bywater as they could before Bilbo would need to prepare for the transformation. When the eastern sky started to show just the tiniest glimpse of light, Bilbo quickly stripped down and handed his clothes to Falco who stuffed them in his pack for him.

“Hey! What’s that?” His cousin asked, pointing to the bead hanging around his neck.

Bilbo clasped it in his hand to hide it feeling unnecessarily protective.

“Just a gift from a friend.” He answered.

Falco’s brows shot up, and Bilbo found himself annoyed by the reaction. He was allowed to have friends after all.

“I guess you really do know what you’re doing then. I hope your friend takes good care of you, Cousin.”

Bilbo’s expression softened, and he pulled Falco into one last hug as the first rays of the sun began to touch the earth. Bilbo fell to the ground, gritting his teeth as the transformation took him. His back arched at the shifting of bones under his skin, his body became warm and itchy at the new growth of hair all over, and his cry of discomfort tapered off into a howl. 

Bilbo slowly stood back on his four paws, shaking out the pins and needles, falling into a comfortable form once more. And wasn’t that a depressing thought. That he was more comfortable as a wolf at this point. Falco knelt down, scratching behind Bilbo’s ears, a sad smile on his face.

“I’ll miss you, Bilbo.”

Bilbo licked at his cousin’s hands whining at the tears forming on his face. He chuckled, wiping them away with a promise to get his bag to Gandalf. Bilbo watched him go, his ears lying flat against his head coming to the realization that this was it. As soon as he took a step, he was surrendering himself to the mercy of the dwarf’s quest. He would be leaving his home. 

He didn’t know how long he would have sat there contemplating his future, but the Shire was coming to life around him. He heard the whistling tune of the miller coming down the road, and Bilbo seamlessly melted into the shadow of the forest. It would be okay. He would be with his friend.

***

Bilbo picked his way southwest to the Three Farthing Stone, making sure to bypass Bywater. He assumed the dwarves would take the East Road as it was the main road in and out of the Shire, and at least at the Three Farthing Stone, he wouldn’t miss them. He wondered when they planned to hit the road. If his Aunt Chica was having to fuss over dwarves in her dining room for a hearty first breakfast. Honestly, Bilbo was realizing he knew very little about this quest.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t any place to hide by the Three Farthing Stone, and he was beginning to feel exposed. Bilbo took to pacing, then falling into the tall grass when he heard someone nearby, back to pacing, and sprinting for the treeline.

Ambassador to Madness: (Arranged Marriage AU)

Where he considers him a friend. What was he thinking by jumping into a courtship that could have disastrous results? If all that happened was Bilbo and Thorin revealed to each other that they were incompatible as partners, how awkward would that make the remainder of their marriage?

  Of course, Bilbo conveyed none of these worries to Ori. Instead, he spouted the story that Thorin and Balin approved.

“My husband and I’s relationship was a rather whirlwind affair, and while we did everything right the hobbit way, we never got the chance to court the dwarven way. And the terrible romantic that he is, feels obligated to hold true to his promise even now that we’re married.”

Bilbo had always been a well-practiced storyteller and he added just the right amount of fond chuckles and exasperated shaking of his head that the dwarf had perked right up in understanding.

“That is rather romantic.” The young dwarf ducked his head with a slight blush. “It would be my honor to assist you...only…”

Bilbo frowned. “Only?”

The dwarf blanched. “No! Not only! Of course I am happy to be of service, and will perform my duty to the fullest of my abilities. I just...well I am terribly curious if you wouldn’t mind sharing the story of how you courted the hobbit way after I finish?”

Bilbo fought to keep a neutral expression. Of course he would ask that.

“I-It’s not a terribly entertaining story.” Bilbo tried to laugh off.

“Still, as a scribe, I’m always interested to hear about other cultures. Besides, I think this soft side of our warrior prince ought to be recorded. At least just to offer perspective for future generations.” 

Bilbo tried to resist  the urge to sigh. “Of  course. You teach me to court the dwarven way, and I’ll be more than happy to teach you to court the hobbit way.”

Ori beamed as if Bilbo had just presented him a gift at Yule. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

“Bilbo.” He corrected once more. 

Ori nodded, but didn’t look the least bit sheepish. A wry grin split his face as Bilbo tried to rehearse the story a few more times to himself before he said it out loud. 

Bilbo began by telling Ori about the courting practices of hobbits. That there were essentially three gifts that had to be given and they were all flowers. The first described you as the suitor, the second described how you saw your intended, and the third described how you saw your lives together. Other than that, it was usually expected to share a few meals together, maybe even eat off each other’s plate if you were feeling bold. And of course, share a dance in front of everyone under the Party Tree.

Ori was scribbling down notes about as fast as Bilbo could provide them. 

“Okay, now tell me about you and the prince.” Ori beamed.

Bilbo chuckled nervously hoping he was remembering their fake story correctly. 

“Right. Well you know that we met after I found him wandering the Old Forest by himself?”

[burningknucklecraftworks]

I discovered a wonderful Etsy shop called ChadMakes, where Chad Healey sells Healey's Hidden Hangers and EZ Sheaths - a series of 3D printed magnetic products designed for sword enthusiasts and HEMA practitioners. His EZ Sheaths are awesome but he sells them with nylon straps. Perfect for HEMA, not as good for SCA people who are really into the look of leather. I asked him if he'd sell me four without straps for my shire fencers and he readily agreed!

I was expecting to just keep ahold of these for three months or so but I needed a little, simple leatherworking project for mental health reasons, so I did a test build with one using some chrome tanned utility hide, copper rivets, and a couple of iron rings from Menards. So far so good!

The only sword it doesn't work with is my personal rapier because the balance is totally wack, but I have an idea to fix that with a simple hook hanging from a third belt loop for catching the pappenheimer holes. But every other sword holds really nicely.

I'm definitely gonna have to do some sparring practice with this to make sure that having a bigass magnet on my hip won't affect how shots land. I can already imagine the comedy of someone trying to hit my leg and just magneting the tip of their sword to me instead.

Go give the maker of the EZ Sheath some love if you like this little project. I'm really impressed with both his designs and his customer service. I also tried one of his Hidden Hanger wall mounts and it is super nice. Makes for an insanely clean sword mount. https://www.etsy.com/listing/1267690423/ez-sheath-deluxe-sword-suspension-system

[hottpinkpenguin]

The Way of Winter - Chapter 5

Joel Miller series Female reader insert A/n: takes place at the end of episode 6 (spoilers if you haven't seen!). I took a few liberties with the location. Took a (suuuuper) long hiatus - but I'm back! Taglist (Since it's been so long, if anyone doesn't want to be tagged anymore pls let me know!): @missdragon-1 @this--is--music @caravelofthesun @ishouldclean @mezmerwrites @babypeapoddd @ay0nha @tpwkstiles @one-sweet-gubler @coolninjavoid @ameliabs-world @superflymaterial @p-muffin @s1xthirty @flightlexsbird @nataliemdixon @krisviciousx @notsosecretspy @freerangesweets @partyofone3413 @angelfxll @bojana-aa04 Word count: 2,351 | Tags: slow burn | Warnings: graphic descriptions of brutality, violence, child death, torture; cursing

“We have to go back to Jackson.” 

You fought the urge to reach over and kick the girl off her horse. You still didn’t know her name - you noticed Joel was careful not to use her name around you. 

You ignored her, guiding Rambo deeper into the snow-blanketed woods along the hunting trail. You knew these woods well, although you’d never been here in the winter. You came out often in the fall, using the old deer blinds you’d patched up to hunt the elk that passed through here. Although they didn’t offer much protection from the elements, the deer blinds were the only place you could think of to go to. That plan apparently didn’t meet with the girl’s approval. She’d been chirping incessantly at you for the last three hours about going “back to Jackson”. 

“Y/n, we have to. Joel’s going to die out here!” 

Behind you, Joel let out an indignant groan of protest. 

“Please! We have to turn around! If you care about us at all, you’ll turn us back.”

You felt your already stretched patience snap like a taut rubber band. You jerked on Rambo’s reins, the massive shire horse’s neck straining in protest against your unusually harsh movement. You reached out, grabbing a fistful of the girl’s dirty sweater around the neck and pulling her towards you so violently she almost fell out of the saddle. 

“Listen to me, you ungrateful little bitch,” you spat, cutting off her startled whimper. A distant part of you regretted treating a child like this, but that regret was too weak to break through your fiery rage. “If you want to haul your ass back to Jackson, you can take your half dead not father and do it without my horse, my dogs, my guns, my supplies, or my help. I am not fucking going to Jackson.”

The teenager’s dark eyes widened in abject fear at your outburst, but you saw the minute flicker of her pupils darting to something next to your head. You heard a pistol click softly as Joel cocked it next to your left ear, the cold muzzle coming to rest against your temple.

“Let her go,” he commanded. Your lip curled, the anger still boiling in your veins mixing with scorn at being caught off guard by a man mere inches from you. You shot a dark glare at him from the corner of your eye as you roughly released the now silent teenager. She jostled in the saddle a bit off balance, but didn’t fall out. 

The gun didn’t drop from your temple, Joel’s hand surprisingly steady. You knew he was probably straining through pain from his still-oozing popped stitches and woozy from blood loss, although it didn’t show. You felt a grudging admiration for his grit, the determination with which he protected that strange and obnoxious girl. 

“Put the gun down, Joel. I’m not gonna kill your brat,” you sneered. The muzzle didn’t move, still pressed against your temple. 

“She’s right,” Joel murmured quietly after a few moments of tense quiet. “Jackson is our best bet.” 

Rage turned to white hot fury. Your hands clenched into fists on the pommel of the saddle, your nails digging into the cold leather. Black and the other dogs growled uncomfortably next to you, recognizing your rising temper and waiting for a signal. 

“Then get off my horse,” you whispered through gritted teeth. You pushed against the pistol to turn your head to face Joel. The two of you were so close you could feel his ragged breath fanning on your face. His gaze was just as hard as your heart felt, the two of you testing the depths of each other’s determination. 

“My brother is there,” Joel offered, his voice softening somewhat. “They’ll welcome y-”

“You fuckers don’t listen,” you growled, fighting against the urge to reach for the hunting knife you kept strapped to your thigh and gut Joel on the spot. “If you’re going to Jackson, you go without me.”

“Why?” His voice was flattened by fatigue. “What’s so bad about Jackson?” 

You closed your eyes tightly against the onslaught of memories that threatened to swamp you. Your sisters, her boys, the sounds of their screams mixed with gunfire… 

The pistol dropped from your temple, but Joel didn’t relax completely. Your eyes opened as you forced your mind to refocus on the moment. Joel kept the gun hovering a few inches above your shoulder, the muzzle tipped up to angle directly towards the side of your head. Behind the layers of protective rage and pain, you saw a flicker of empathy in his green eyes as he looked at you. 

“Either we keep going, or you two give me my guns and get going.” You jerked your chin over your left shoulder, back in the direction you’d come from. “Jackson is a three day ride that way.” 

You watched as indecision flickered across Joel’s face for a second. With a decisive move, he retucked the pistol into the back waistband of his pants and swung a leg over Rambo’s rump to dismount.

“We’re not going without you.” 

The sound of the girl’s quiet voice caught both you and Joel off guard; you’d both forgotten she was there. You turned to give her an incredulous look, Joel shooting her a matching expression of disbelief.

“We owe you our lives,” she announced matter-of-factly. “I for one don’t think we’ll get far without you.” 

You snorted, nodding softly in agreement. Joel’s expression turned sour as his disbelief turned to withering rebuke.

“Joel, you know I’m right,” she chided. 

Joel glared at her, hovering halfway off the back of the saddle. His face looked gaunt and pale, his arms shaking slightly with the effort. A twinge of worry plucked at you as you saw the strain in his face, pain threatening to break through. 

“Fine.” Joel’s concession was begrudging. He grunted as he let himself down onto the ground next to Rambo. Your horse chuffed gratefully at the lesser weight on his back. He was a strong mount, but you’d been pushing him hard on very little feed. 

“But I’m not going anywhere until you tell us why we can’t go to Jackson.”

Your eyes narrowed as you glared at Joel. His challenging tone echoed in the darkening woods as a thick, stifling silence fell over the three of you. The girl shifted nervously on her horse, her gaze darting back and forth between you and Joel as the two of you stared each other down. 

“Why do you care,” you spat back. Your mood was turning blacker by the second as the faces of your family flickered past. 

“I want to know who I’m riding with,” he replied simply. You kept your eyes trained on his face, but didn’t miss the way his hand casually slid up the side of his thigh towards the handgun he kept tucked in the back of his jean waistband. His suspicious mind was getting the best of him, you realized. He wondered if you were intentionally leading him and his ward - whoever the unnamed teenager was to him - out into the wilderness to kill them. 

“If I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead already,” you told Joe, trying to sound conciliatory. His hand didn’t stop its slow progress towards his handgun. He couldn’t understand your reluctance to go to Jackson, a place he knew as safe. You’d have to throw him a bone. 

Finally breaking eye contact with him, you bit back tears as you stared down at the pommel of the saddle. You’d never spoken about losing your sister or her two boys. You had no one to speak about it with, but nevertheless, the silence you’d kept on the topic was your last defense against the grief that threatened to break you loose from reason. You took a deep breath in, resentment towards your two traveling companions clashing with the irritating urge to stay with them and protect them. When you finally looked back at Joel, you knew without needing to hear him say a word that he knew the grief you felt. He’d lost too, and like you the losses were carved bone-deep into his memory. 

“Jackson killed my family.”

Your lip trembled pathetically and you angrily swiped at the hot tears spilling down your cheeks. There had never been a greater understatement of the truth, but you didn’t know how to tell Joel and the girl what really happened. That all of you had been weeks into the doldrums of winter, bellies unnaturally bloated with starvation beneath rib cages that seemed ready to break through your thin skins. Your sisters and nephews were foraging for food and roaming further from your home than you’d ever been before. Half delirious with hunger, they’d stumbled on a scraggly deer carcass with its leg caught in a trap and hadn’t thought twice about who the trap belonged to before they started eating the days-old meat raw. Some riders from Jackson had found the three of them gorging themselves on the putrid meat and had initially thought they were infected. No one had stopped long enough to ask questions before your sister and eldest nephew were dead. Her other son, Adrian, had been only seven at the time, and he’d cried out for you in the forest. You’d heard his scream in the forest as you’d been racing towards them, the sounds of earlier gunfire drawing you in. Why you’d been separated from them, you couldn’t even remember now. All you remembered was the way he sounded: alone, terrified, and desperate. 

You’d crested a steep, frozen-over creekbed just in time to see one of the Jackson riders put a bullet through Adrian’s skull without so much as a flinch. You’d never forget the man’s face: dark hair with a finely trimmed mustache, thick dark hair down to his shoulders. Empty eyes. He’d turned and left their bodies where they’d been shot. It wasn’t until your sister started moaning in pain, her dying moments bleeding out in the snow next to her two sons, that you truly understood just how deep the rot ran in Jackson. The riders had stopped at the sound of your sister clawing across the snow towards Adrian, grunting in agony from the slugs they’d buried in her gut. You’d watched them watch her for a few moments the way someone might watch an ant in water. Then, the empty eyed man had gotten down off his horse. For a split second, you wondered if he was going to help your sister, if maybe he’d finally realized that she wasn’t infected, just ravenous. He walked towards her, his boots crunching in the fresh snow. Your lungs had turned to bricks in your chest, cowardice rooting you to the spot. He knelt beside her, his head cocked at a coldly curious angle. Your sister sputtered as blood dribbled out of her mouth, her arms reaching futilely for Adrian. The man had laughed once before he’d reached down and grabbed a fistful of your sister’s hair, hauling her up by the scalp. She couldn’t stand on her own, her body beginning to shut down, so he held her small frame upright like a ragdoll. She was mewling in pain, reaching for his hand to try and free herself, her eyes rolling back in her head. He’d laughed again, the others joining in, before he dug a finger into one of her bullet wounds-

You gasped, the air completely expelled from your lungs. You hadn’t realized you’d been talking - the crystal clear recollections of that horrid day spun like a tornado in your mind, wiping away any awareness of what you’d actually spoken aloud. 

Long, heavy silence settled around you. Neither Joel nor the girl said anything. You avoided looking at them, staring into the cold woods around you and forcing yourself to settle. 

“That’s why we’re not going to Jackson.”

You went to reign Rambo forward, but Joel’s hand was faster. He reached out, grabbing Rambo’s bridle. Your horse shook his head in irritation, but Joel’s grip was steely. He tried to catch your eye. You didn’t trust yourself to look at him, so you stared at the ground and grit your teeth.

“How do you know those people were from Jackson?” he demanded. His voice was hard. 

“I followed them,” you replied. You felt detached from your voice, as if you were listening to yourself speak from a distance. “I meant to kill them. I followed them as far as Jackson. Waited outside the gate for days. Never got my revenge. So I left.”

Your ears were ringing despite the silence of the snow-blanketed woods. The memory of your sister’s guttural shrieks split your concentration like an icepick. You saw Adrian’s lifeless body like a shadow behind your eyelids. You clenched your fists so tightly that you felt a rivulet of blood spill down your palms from where your nails bit into your skin. When you spoke, your voice shook with fury.

“If either of you ask me to explain myself again, I’ll fucking kill you.” Now you caught Joel’s eyes. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly at your words. Both of you knew those words were true. There was an ugly blackness in your soul, and if Joel and his teenager tested it again, you’d let it loose on them. 

You swallowed heavily and dug your heels into Rambo’s sides. He yanked free of Joel’s loosened grip and took off trotting down the narrow hunting trail, deeper into the woods. You heard Joel grunt in agony as he hauled himself up on the chestnut mare with the teenager. You didn’t slow to wait for them, or check to make sure you hadn’t lost them in the deepening twilight of the cold winter woods. You felt yourself crumble inwards, fury and emptiness howling like a hurricane inside your chest. You rode all through the night, ignoring the girl’s protests to stop. By the time the sun rose, you didn’t know if you’d ever find yourself again…

**read chapter 6 here more chapters coming soon! let me know if you'd like to be tagged (or untagged) if you like this series, check out my Last of Us masterlist for other works

[kissunderthemountain]

Comprehend, the kind of love of which I speak

The detail that had taken the most time (as small as it was), were small oak leaves. Three spanned the width of the bead, so no matter which way it was twisted one would always show. A symbol of the strength and resilience of a king, forever embedded in this little bead, personally handcrafted by Bilbo.

In which no small act of observation goes wasted, Thorin yearns like he has no other purpose, and Bilbo's act of kindness saves the line of Durin.

It all began in Mirkwood, really. Well, if Bilbo was being honest with himself - and really, he should’ve been honest with himself much sooner, as what good was a burglar who couldn’t see what was right under his nose - there had been signs much sooner, as early as the Carrock if not before even then, but, well…

The real, notable start had been in Thranduil’s dungeons.

When, in between scrambling for dark corners, foraging for what scraps he could find, and trying to get a sense of exactly how to get them all out of this madness, Bilbo had settled in front of Thorin’s cell. Just a breather. He thought to himself, slinking to the ground in a pathetic slouch. Just a moment to catch my breath, and then…

And then what? That was the issue, really. Weeks spent in this shadowed version of the world, not speaking - fearing breathing, for crying out loud, too afraid to make a sound. This underground fortress of a palace was a maze, cold and unfeeling as its king, filled with precipices around every wrong turn. Not to mention the guards. Really, Bilbo was lucky that none were within throwing distance of him right now - else he wouldn’t take this chance, magic ring or not. He hoped, distantly, that Erebor was more welcoming than these halls. At this point he would take practically anything, but hearing how the dwarrow had spoken of their home had given Bilbo some kind of peace, and some other feeling he couldn’t quite place. All that would be for naught, however, if he couldn’t get them out of this blasted dungeon!

Dropping his shoulders in frustration, Bilbo thumped his head against the bars. At the sound, Thorin, who previously seemed to have been dozing in a sort of half-sleep, jolted awake. Muddled in confusion he first gazed blankly out of the opening and, finding nothing, came to sit in front of the bars in a position that unconsciously mirrored Bilbo’s.

Bilbo froze, and moved to shuffle back, only remembering after a moment that-

Ah. Of course. He can’t see you, you fool, there’s no need to alert him with more scuffling sounds.

Guilt shot through Bilbo, smoother than an arrow. Here Thorin was, finally getting some rest, and Bilbo just had to go and- and muck it all up!

Yet as Bilbo looked closer, Thorin didn’t seem all that awake. His eyelids drooped, then fluttered, then blinked firmly as Thorin forced them open again, watching for an unseen danger. Those eyes, though dulled and darkened by the dimness of these caves, were still blue as the Shire-water in spring. Blue as the morning glories that crept up persistently around Bag End, and no less resilient than those pesky vines. 

He watched as Thorin’s eyes closed once again, not more than a breath away.

Yavanna, Bilbo was close enough to count his eyelashes! Bilbo thought to himself with a start, and so his gaze wandered downward. To check for injury, he told himself. To reassure himself that, though this situation was horrid in and of itself, Thorin was doing alright.

Scrapes and bruises and dazed looks aside, there was nothing to be found, and for that Bilbo breathed a sigh of relief. Just one - but to his horror, he saw Thorin’s nostrils flare. He froze as Thorin inhaled fully, paused, and lifted his head a bit higher, eyes searching for something. Someone? Bilbo didn’t dare hope it was him, and anyway, he was far more focused on a smaller detail - that Thorin’s braids were undone, with no beads to fasten them in place.

Those tree-shagging bastards! Those- those filthy, rotten leaf lovers -

He had never held contempt for elves, not really (as someone had to keep a level head between Gloin’s disdain and whatever Kili was doing), and though he had never learned the exact significance of dwarven braids, anyone with eyes could see the level of disrespect it took to remove them. And - having been by the rest of The Company’s cells on brief occasions - Bilbo noticed now that it seemed only Thorin’s had been removed. And so Bilbo hatched a plan. Finally the wheels of his mind were turning, set into motion by the sight of the King - he didn’t dare say his King - in such a state.

Of course, there was the plan that got them out of there. Quite well thought out, if one were to brush past the lack of a barrel for Bilbo himself and the surprise Orc party.

But the other plan - his own secret, private project, was another matter. It was a matter of a whittle (in Bilbo’s case, a small Elvish knife swiped off a table when no-one cared enough to look), and a scrapped piece of wood no bigger than his thumb.

There was no thought in Bilbo’s head about propriety when he had been stealing for his life. In a way, this was much the same, he reasoned with himself, in that it was a necessary gesture that Bilbo had the time and energy to spare to do when no one else did. When there were bigger issues to worry about - Kili’s leg, for one, or making it into Laketown, or of course the Lonely Mountain itself. 

No, this was something he would do, for he had noticed something, and now couldn’t let it go.

Thorin lay alone. In Laketown, in a bed far too tall for his size, he lay still, hands folded on his chest mimicking a body and not a person, and thought.

Unbidden, his gaze wandered to Bilbo. When he looked at Bilbo, really let himself look (and this night he did, as there was no telling what tomorrow and the Lonely Mountain would bring), he thought not of gold, not of the throne awaiting him in the depths of that mountain, not of his home, but of far more lonesome things.

Of how the eye was Mahal’s loneliest creation, the whole world passing through it and yet holding nothing. Of how there was another eye, just like it, an inch away, just as hungry. Just as empty.

He thought of the firelight shining in Bilbo’s eyes and remembered nights around a campfire. Remembered the gentle crackling of the flame and nonexistent sunlight found in the hobbit’s hair, remembered warmth. How, after borrowing Thorin’s furs, and rolling this and that way during the night, there had been a patch of ground heated gently by a body - Bilbo’s body - all night long. How he, guilty in every touch, had reached for that earth, desperately seeking a remnant of that heat, that touch, that embrace they had shared on the Carrock. How he had laid there until the only heat left was his own, and the ground grew cold and unforgiving beneath him, and the sun had risen. And then they had to leave.

In Mirkwood, in weeks trapped beneath the forest, it felt as if Thorin had been given endless time to think. Yet now, on the precipice of his home, of his destiny, there was no time at all. 

What time he did have was spent on Bilbo. Was spent wishing, wondering, if there was something more. If like that other eye, Bilbo, too, felt this yawning chasm within him, a hollowed-out sort of feeling that Thorin sensed couldn’t be filled. 

Oh, it came close sometimes, of course, seeing his sister-sons laugh, seeing hope for the first time in a long time within his people, within his Company, but it wouldn’t be satiated by anything less than a lifetime of… well… Thorin let his head drop back to the pillow, heavy with an equal mixture of desire and regret. He would’ve been happy with remaining by Bilbo’s side, he mused to himself, could’ve felt satisfied drinking in that radiance and living for it alone. But now, with his future, his destiny, his people, hanging by a thread, there was nothing to be done. He would live and die by this yearning.

Going lax, Thorin heard footsteps. Barely heard them, as quiet as the hobbit moved across even creaky wooden floors, but heard them all the same. He did not will his eyes to open, only shifted his body over slightly to one side. An opening. An offering, really. One he didn’t dare hope would be noticed or… accepted.

“Thorin?” Bilbo asked, voice soft as anything. When moments passed and no response came, Thorin felt a dip in the mattress. An additional weight on his bed. This made his eyes open finally, and when they did, he watched as Bilbo frowned slightly and moved to get up.

Out of instinct, Thorin found himself latching onto Bilbo’s wrist with a tenderness that frightened him and that only made Bilbo frown more. But it also made Bilbo settle back down on the bed and lean over Thorin, so he took the successes as they came, even when they came with a lecture.

“Are you feeling alright? You haven’t gone and gotten yourself sick, have you? I’ll go get Oin if I have to, I know you wouldn’t want to slow anything down but we cannot have you-”

“Bilbo.” Thorin interrupted when Bilbo’s hand had already landed on his forehead, feeling for a rise in temperature that wasn’t there. He raised his eyebrows, and Bilbo’s hand drew back at the motion. “I’m alright. But thank you. Your concern is…” Here he paused, swallowed, throat dry as anything. “Touching.”

Touching. All that time and all he could come up with was touching. Forget being a king, hopefully his future would end here and now through being swallowed up by the floor.

Bilbo’s eyebrows furrowed. Mahal, that expression. “If you say so, but if there’s anything I can do…” His words hung in the air and for a second Thorin felt suffocated. Anything. Yes. If I could request anything of you I wouldn’t ask for much at all. Just forever. Forever with me. Intertwined. Something of that pain must have shown through in his expression because between that moment and the next, Bilbo’s fingers were smoothing his hair away from his temple in feather-light strokes. 

“It’ll be okay, you know.” He continued, and it was so intimate that Thorin was torn between cringing away from it (because it was too much, like a campfire on an already scorching summer night) and throwing himself into it, helpless, a moth drawn to a flame. Instead, he settled somewhere in the middle, somewhere in resting his eyes on Bilbo’s face and resting his head for Bilbo’s hand.

“I do know.” Thorin said, his voice the rumble of distant thunder and his tone something so weary that Bilbo sighed and shook his head.

Fingertips lingering somewhere just above Thorin’s ears, Bilbo tapped lightly. “You might know, but you certainly don’t believe in it.” Saying this, Bilbo’s nose scrunched. “I don’t know what to tell you to make you believe. That’s more of Gandalf’s thing, I think.”

Thorin smiled, feeling small in the stillness of the night. “Our resident burglar, lost for words? Wasn’t sure I’d ever see the day.”

“Ah, well, don’t go getting used to it. Doesn’t happen often, that.”

The both of them smiled, then, and Thorin felt something well up in his chest. He fought back the urge to press a hand there and check it wasn’t physical - for he knew it couldn’t have been something as simple as blood or sweat, but an emotion he still couldn’t place beyond want.

Bilbo deserved more than want.

Feeling Bilbo drawing away, Thorin spoke once again in a desperate attempt - with that same reaction as when he had latched on to Bilbo’s hand. “I fear…” He cast his eyes down, suddenly far too ashamed to look Bilbo in the eye. “This bed feels too empty for me to sleep well tonight.” “I understand.” Bilbo said, to his surprise, forcing that hope - the one that whispered that he wasn’t quite as alone as he felt - to surface again. “After all, after months of only sleeping in shifts around a fire, I would feel the same.” Thorin hesitated. “Do you… feel the same?” Bilbo met his gaze, then. He had the slightest curl of amusement to his lip. “Are you asking me to share your bed, oh King Under the Mountain?”

Mahal have mercy. Strike me down now.

“Well, Master Baggins,” Thorin cleared his throat, breaking that eye contact yet again to stare at a wooden beam across the room. “I would understand if it would not be considered proper by your people, but considering, well, your previous statement, I would think…” And there, sparing him from further embarrassment was Bilbo, sliding under the cover and making room for himself. Barely thinking about it, barely thinking at all, really, Thorin shifted over to make space, and Bilbo gave a happy hum.

“You would be right - in that it isn’t considered properly done - but I would consider these extenuating circumstances. And, to be frank, it’s awfully hard to resist when you dwarves give off more heat than the earth in Wedmath.” His eyes crinkled with a kindness Thorin hadn’t felt in ages and Thorin fought to reconcile the idea of the Hobbit who’s home he’d invaded months ago with this one.

In a beat, Bilbo took on a grave sincerity (the same he had shown repeatedly - after escaping the Misty Mountains, or when vouching for Thorin just a day or so prior) and shifted to face Thorin. 

Helpless, Thorin held still, and waited.

“You’re my dearest friend, Thorin.” Bilbo said, quietly, like it was a secret between the two of them. “And I’d do anything for a friend.”

“Even face down a dragon?” Thorin choked out before having thought about it, caught in the look in Bilbo’s green eyes (Emerald, his mind whispered, Emerald, moissanite, tourmaline) and the warmth and weight of his body beside him.

Those green eyes twinkled. “Especially that.” He smiled, like it wasn’t going to be his doom, like his life wouldn’t end in fire and ash. “So really,” Bilbo continued (cutting off Thorin’s spiraling thoughts rather rudely), “This isn’t much at all.”

Thorin felt that same feeling creeping up, stuck in his throat. 

You don’t understand. There is nothing I wouldn’t give. My kingdom, my riches, my blood. In my deepest heart of hearts, I wish we never would’ve come. That you could have stayed in the Shire, in Bag End, never knowing what it is like to face a violent death and stand tall.And yet, then we wouldn’t have met.I thank Mahal that we are given this night. That I am given this night to lay beside you as your friend. If you name me your dearest friend, then your dearest friend I shall be.

He didn’t speak a word. He just breathed out, long and placidly, and that seemed to say enough.

A heavy weight sat in Bilbo’s chest, made to match the heavy weight in his jacket.

He had woken the dragon. His actions had directly killed many in Laketown - people who had already been suffering, starving at the hands of their Master. People he and Thorin and the rest of The Company had given hope to for the first time in a long time.

And yet in the face of all of this, Thorin felt nothing. He could tell Thorin had changed. He had changed the very moment they had set foot in this wretched mountain. 

Erebor, though once a splendid kingdom of wealth and warmth and home for so many, had become a hollowed out shell of its past. 

Between the way Thorin prowled (and really, there was no other word for it, considering the tense set of his shoulders beneath that gaudy fur coat and the distant look in his eyes) and the way the mountain bled coldness and stunk of death like an infected wound, it was a wonder Bilbo found air comfortable enough to breathe.

When he wasn’t sorting through gold for the very item he already held or avoiding the feverish gaze of The King Under the Mountain (for could that dwarf really be called Thorin Oakenshield anymore?) Bilbo sought comfort in one small object.

Palming it, Bilbo considered the details. There wasn’t any work left to do on it, really, unless he wished to risk the integrity and carve deeper than he ought to. His deft fingers had worked carefully away at it for months, angling a small knife (that he swapped out rather cleverly at Laketown, lest anyone harp on him about carrying yet another blade of Elvish make) just so and now, with countless sections of downtime spent, he was left with this.

One small wooden bead sat in his hand. The size and shape was close to that of Thorin’s original beads, or as close as Bilbo had remembered (as Bilbo knew little about hair fastening in this fashion and didn’t want to risk making something that couldn’t work well at all), but that was where the similarities ended.

Despite having studied what dwarven runes and designs he’d seen intently, Bilbo decided to stick with what he knew best, and made it personal. After all, especially now with Thorin’s… condition, there was no guarantee it would ever be worn. So, he took comfort in it, and whittled the only way he knew how.

The detail that had taken the most time (as small as it was), were small oak leaves. Three spanned the width of the bead, so no matter which way it was twisted one would always show. A symbol of the strength and resilience of a king, forever embedded in this little bead, personally handcrafted by Bilbo. A bead that would likely never see the light of day, if Bilbo allowed himself to face the stark reality laying before him for more than a moment to admit it.

Holding it up to what little light reflected in these stone halls, he peered at it, admiring his handiwork for once. Only a few of his previous skills had carried over to this quest and, somehow, he was glad this was one of them.

Then there was a sound, nothing so undignified as a scuffle but scraping, like the drag of claws (Smaug’s claws, he thought to himself, with a shudder) on the rock’s surface, and Bilbo was startled enough to drop the bead back into his palm with one sudden move.

Thorin stood in front of him, tall and regal and unreachable beneath his layers of garish golden metal and furs. “What,” he growled, every bit as animalistic as Bilbo had feared. “Is that.”

He made no clarification but his eyes (that same river blue gone cold and distant like that wretched winter the Brandywine had frozen over) fixed on Bilbo’s hands, clenched tight around his last shred of hope and comfort in this dark and desolate place.

“It’s nothing.” “Show me.” Thorin demanded, and with this King Under the Mountain towering over him, Bilbo had nothing to do but to obey.

His fingers (which were not trembling, no matter what anyone thought) unclasped and he offered, palm up, the bead. Thorin’s bead, really.

At once, there was a small clarity in Thorin’s eyes, in his face. A touch of guilt, maybe, for such a bold confrontation, and something else. 

“A wooden bead,” he mused, and his voice, though rough with harsh use, was the gentlest it had been since that night in Laketown, when he’d confided in Bilbo, and they had shared a bed for crying out loud. “Wherever did you pick this up?” “I, ah, made it. Actually. Myself. Took quite a bit of time.” Hearing this, Thorin’s hand brushed the underside of Bilbo’s, guiding it up so he could look closer. Nearly flinching, Bilbo just held still, and breathed as Thorin examined his work. Thorin sounded tender and Yavanna, almost fond, as he spoke. 

“You made this?”

Latching on to this fragment of humanity he’d found, Bilbo continued with reckless abandon, throwing any sense of secrecy to the wind.

“Yes, just in my downtime, over the last few months. Always had a bit of a knack for whittling, one of the few crafts I’ve gotten comfortable enough with so far. Made it as a gift, actually, I was going to give it to someone- ah- sometime-” “You’re going to give it to someone?”

In that very moment, it seemed as if Thorin had disappeared in the complete opposite direction. 

Where there had been rivers warm in spring or frozen over in the dead of winter was a stormy sea Bilbo had never been privy to witness. That tender touch had become a claw, holding a level of fury he had yet to see in Thorin (even after getting himself flung off a cliff!), and yet, when Bilbo dared to drag his gaze to meet Thorin’s, there was a level of devastating desolation spreading on his face that Bilbo just had to do something, anything to get a drop of that Thorin (his Thorin) back.

“It’s yours,” he said, prying Thorin’s hand off and open enough to let the bead tumble into his tensed fingers. “I made it for you. Please. Take it, Thorin, it’s a gift for you.”

Bilbo watched Thorin’s eyes, cautious. He watched as that same lust, that gold sickness clouded them for but a brief moment, and then startlingly, he watched as they cleared. As how Thorin, gazing at the bead anew with a sudden clarity in his eyes, whispered in a halting voice, “For me?”, and how his other hand slowly reached to rub at some ache in his chest. The touch reminded him of the cloak he was wearing, and, with a warring flicker of disgust and avarice, he cast it to the ground and closed his eyes completely. Bilbo didn’t miss Thorin’s eyelashes going wet, nor how he seemed to weaken at the knees. 

It took minutes before either spoke, standing there, Thorin weathering his storm and Bilbo helplessly caught in the tide, watching, waiting, until Thorin gained breath enough to speak.

“Bilbo… Mahal , what have I done? This mountain, this gold, this- this blasted crown … I have succumbed to the very same madness of my forefathers.”

“Thorin-” Bilbo stilled as Thorin wrenched the crown from his head and tossed it to the floor, a loud clatter echoing in the barren space. “Thorin, do not stand in front of me and say you have succumbed when I can see you looking at me like a new dwarf. You are not your grandfather and you will not yield while I draw breath.” 

In his tirade Bilbo had cleared the space between them and stood almost chest to chest with Thorin. 

“Your company needs you. I need you,” and at this, Thorin gave some strange shudder, shaking his head with his eyes still closed. “Thorin Oakenshield, the same dwarf who threw himself off a cliff's edge to save a lowly burglar.”

There he paused, and waited, barely blinking with the intensity of his stare.

A hair's breadth away from him, Thorin drew in a trembling breath, and opened his eyes. “If,” He began, voice unsteady, then cleared his throat. “If that is truly all you think you are, all of us have failed.” And in that one sentence, Bilbo relaxed more than he had in days. 

Though Thorin was still shaky, and his hand still clutched Bilbo’s bead like a lifeline, he was more himself than when they had entered this mountain, and Bilbo had never been so relieved in his life.

Pinned to the ice, Thorin struggled under the weight of Azog bearing down with his bisected blade. His block had been nearly a second too late - another breath and the tip of that blade would be in his throat. Though it seemed now that would be his fate regardless.

Gritting his teeth, he weighed his options very quickly. It would be a warrior's death, he decided, fit for a king indeed, slaying his enemy at the price of his own life.

And what a life it had been. How weak he had become, buckling under the weight of all the gold in his mountain. In- in the mountain, that was. That mountain (and the gold within) would pass to Fili and Kili, if they managed to survive their wounds.

Oh, his sister-sons. He grieved, now, not only for them, but for Dís, for the knowledge that she very well may be left alone and how he had robbed her of all remaining family with this quest. What good was a home, no matter how grand and beautiful, if there was no one worthwhile to share it with? If it had come at the cost of her sons, of her brother? 

How could he, already so disgraceful in every way, leave this unfinished, leave Azog alive to hunt down the rest of his family, what little remained of the line of Durin?

Thoughts racing, Thorin’s forearms began to burn under the strain, and he had made up his mind.

About to slacken his grip, Thorin felt a weight in his shirt, that which was closest to his skin - unmistakably a bead, the one Bilbo had made for him. Had given to him. The miniscule weight of that, of such a promise, made him - Thorin Oakenshield, who had faced down this mighty orc not once but three times now, who had lept from a narrow ledge to save a stranger with barely a thought, who had taunted a dragon - that bead made him hesitate. And that hesitation was just enough of a break that it gave room for one brave Hobbit to dive in, letter opener flashing in the harsh winter sun and a fierce look in his eyes. Though the weight of a Hobbit was nowhere near enough to make an orc fall, it caused Azog to stagger, thus releasing Thorin from his death sentence, and pulling the focus onto Bilbo.

No. Oh, Mahal, no, not him too. Thorin could think of nothing else, couldn’t tear his eyes away as he lay sprawled aside and momentarily forgotten. He watched, helpless, as the elven dagger was knocked out of Bilbo’s hand, and Bilbo fell to the ice, fumbling for something - a ring? - that skidded across the frozen surface before sinking down into frigid, endless waters. He prayed that the Mithril under Bilbo’s coat would be enough, that his gift (though nowhere near as priceless, in his mind, as the bead he had been given) would protect Bilbo when he couldn’t.

Azog seemed to read his very mind, as his foot slammed down on Bilbo’s chest, knocking the breath out of him with a wheeze that struck Thorin in the depths of his heart. Struggling to his elbows, Thorin stopped dead at the blade pointed to Bilbo’s vulnerable throat.

The orc smiled, a sick and terrible thing that twisted his face into a horrendous mass of teeth and pale scarring. Thorin had never been so afraid in all his life.

“The line of Durin,” Azog snarled, “brought so low by a halfling . Lay down your weapon, dwarf, or I shall kill him.” That smile grew wider. “Brutally. In front of you. Surrender or the ice will be red with his blood.”

In his right mind, Thorin knew there was no reasoning with an orc. That no matter what he did, their deaths were inevitable at the hands of such a foe in this circumstance. Yet that didn’t stop his hand loosening around Orcrist, willing him to yield as he had to the trolls that threatened his burglar’s life so many months ago. The sword was dangling from his very fingertips when Bilbo, trembling with effort, dug his nails into Azog’s flesh just above his shin armour and pulled. The shock gave him a moment to claw his way up Azog’s leg, surging out from underneath a slackened pin, and sink his teeth into the meat of Azog’s thigh in one deep bite.

Staggering to his feet, Thorin put weight on his injured foot (that was still sluggishly leaking blood onto the ice) and pressed forward, through the pain, through the fear, gripping Orcrist ever steadily and dodging a strike from Azog that aimed to slice across his chest.

One swing took Azog’s head clean off.

One swing and he fell back, back, and for a horrifying second Bilbo fell with him until his jaw released and he, too, lurched, but away from Azog, and onto the ice a distance away from Thorin.

Thorin collapsed, releasing Orcrist from his grasp. Reduced to an ungainly, helpless crawl, as if he were naught but a babe, Thorin dragged himself to Bilbo’s side. “Bilbo,” At first was all he could say, hands nearly numb with the cold clutching at every part of him, feeling for wetness, for blood and wounds, and finding nothing, he rested his hand between Bilbo’s narrow shoulder blades. Bilbo was hunched over, sputtering, trying to rid his tongue from the taste of orc blood and flesh.

Thorin panted, voice nothing more than a rasp, and said “Sorry about the blood in your mouth,” I wish it was mine. It should’ve been mine, is what he didn’t say, though he thought it and they both heard it. I should have died in that fight. It would have been a noble death. A worthy death. Now I must live an unworthy life - unworthy of my kingdom, of those around me, of Bilbo.

Bilbo looked up at him. His teeth were stained black. Thorin had never found him more beautiful.

Alive. We’re both alive. Mahal, how I thank you. How I thank the strength of mithril, the strength of hobbits.

Tears rose to his eyes unbidden. Too overwhelmed to feel shame (though he had not truly cried in an age), Thorin bent his forehead low and touched it to Bilbo’s, the stinging of his cut only making him press closer. “Bilbo,” He began, voice thick with emotion.

Bilbo shushed him, gentle, one hand finding the back of Thorin’s neck. Both of them were frigid, and they clung to each other there on the ice, breathing the same air until the eagles came.

Of course, lots of work had to be done. Cleanup, for one, and things Bilbo knew far too little about to help with - structural integrity of a mountain kingdom wasn’t really his forte - but also healing and dying and mourning. Not a day went by that Bilbo didn’t gaze at Thorin and feel that overwhelming sense of relief wash over him, filling every crack and crevice in his very soul. When he looked at the boys, Thorin’s sister-sons, battered, bruised, and bloody, but still so alive, warmth filled his chest and stayed there, keeping him shielded from the growing cold better than any liquor he drank ever could. 

It all could have turned out so differently.

The taste of orc blood still lingered in Bilbo’s mouth (when he thought about it too long), turning to ash in the dark stillness of the royal family’s medical tent and flooding his senses (the bitter winter wind whipping in his hair, a persistent smell of death that would probably stay on the terrain for years to come, frigid ice beneath his feet that did nothing to quell his fevered memory of the Fell Winter, and above all else, desperation like he had never known).

A moment later to have intervened and Thorin would have let himself be gored on that ice. A second later to have, in a rather shameful way, (if it hadn’t been for the fact that it had saved Thorin’s life and the way Thorin had looked at him after, orc blood smeared on his teeth, like he was seeing all of Bilbo for the first time and liked what he saw) pulled himself up and Thorin would have let Orcrist slip through his fingers. After everything.

And so Bilbo sat, breathing through it, until Thorin woke and stared at him in a way that felt like it said many more things than Bilbo understood, and that strange gravity Thorin carried with him everywhere grounded Bilbo once again. Somewhere in there his hand had found Bilbo’s, holding it tightly, his thumb running in patterns over the hair on the back of Bilbo’s hand.

It wasn’t proper; Bilbo couldn’t find the energy to care. Along the way his propriety had vanished (maybe between being used as a troll hankie and sharing a bed with a future king for no real discernable reason), and at this very moment, it struck Bilbo.

I will never be at home in the Shire ever again.

Of course it would be familiar, worn to golden like a well-loved statue or a doorknob that had seen many guests and many good days. But family - a family that made him feel like he belonged, and not like something to shy away from or take pity on, but someone to embrace, a family like he had seen with all of the brothers, and Thorin with Fili and Kili, something… something he could be a part of. Here. In Erebor.

Bilbo stared at Thorin. Thorin stared back, unwavering emotions behind his eyes and a steady hand holding Bilbo’s.

The days went on like this, until Thorin could put weight on his foot without flinching (and Yavanna, how utterly murderous Bilbo had felt, seeing that angry scarlet split in Thorin’s pale, smooth skin) and Fili and Kili got out of their cots far too fast (ending up sprawled on the floor, as Fili had been using Kili for support to stand and they went down together as always), and after living in the mountain for a season proper, Bilbo had broken the news of his intent to stay.

Erebor, once a barren relic of its people, was once again filled with chatter, an ever-present heat from the working forges, children (or ‘pebbles’ as Bilbo soon learned they were called), and a burning sense of home Bilbo hadn’t felt since he was young.

The brief trip back to the Shire in order to retrieve some belongings he couldn’t do without long-term only confirmed what he was already sure about, and his return to Erebor was met with a set of misshapen doilies, handcrafted by the members of The Company with visibly differing levels of skill. Each one warmed Bilbo’s heart nonetheless.

One unusually balmy night saw Thorin at Bilbo’s door. Though Thorin appeared majestic as ever, the way his hands clasped tightly at the small of his back betrayed his nerves in a tell that, miraculously, never showed in court and always showed in front of Bilbo. It was either that, or the wild look in his eyes, like he had just seen something too good to be true.

“Master Baggins,” Thorin started, elegant as ever with his sudden starting and stopping of sentences. 

“Thorin,” said Bilbo, cheerfully deadpan as ever. “What can I do for you?”

Thorin’s mouth quirked (and Bilbo couldn’t look away), “Many things, apparently. Stand in front of orcs and dragons and goldsick kings alike.”

“Like I said, anything for a friend.”

Flushing a little at the reminder of how brazen he had been that night (really, Bilbo, extenuating circumstances?), Bilbo opened the door wider to allow Thorin inside in an unspoken invitation. 

When he had turned back around to face Thorin, having shut the door, his breath caught in his throat. Thorin had shed his outer layers, wearing a thin tunic that clung to his softer sections and would have left him looking gentle had it not been for the tense set of his shoulders.

“You…” Thorin halted, once again, casting his gaze to the floor. “You have been living here for months, yet you know little of dwarven customs.” Confused, Bilbo took a step forward. “Now, Thorin, I wouldn’t say that…” “You know little of dwarven courting customs.”

Well. That was true enough. Bilbo didn’t quite see how it was relevant, or that it was really such a dramatic matter. Yet Thorin, bathed in the gentle light of a candle, had gone from nervous to determined (almost battle ready, for crying out loud!), and set his jaw. His hands opened in front of him to reveal that bead Bilbo had painstakingly carved all that time ago.

“With this bead, you not only saved my life - for I am sure I would have fallen much farther into gold sickness otherwise - but likely that of my family and my kingdom. I am forever in your debt, for I don’t know how to even begin repaying you.”

Bilbo opened his mouth to interject, to say that there was no such debt owed, that Thorin had saved his life as well and other true things, but at that moment Thorin looked up and the honest bashfulness on his face startled Bilbo into silence.

“I am aware you did not know of what such a gift means to a dwarf. That a bead - a personal, handcrafted bead, whether it be welded or carved or molded, is most commonly given as a proposal to begin courting.” Here Thorin’s face began to grow red, and, nervous, he sped up his explanation. “So while I am fully aware you meant nothing of- of that nature- by your gift, I come to you this night to give a completely unreasonable request.”

Aware that he was still staring, wide eyed and silent, Bilbo’s heart lurched in his chest. 

“Anything,” Bilbo said, and meant it, as he had meant every word back in Laketown. 

You’re my dearest friend. And I’d do anything for a friend. Except, this wasn’t just being friendly anymore, was it? 

Oh how traitorous his heart had become - to consider Thorin attractive, beautiful even, was one thing (one thing practically anyone with eyes agreed on, he had moaned to Dwalin on an exceptionally drunken night), but to long for him, to love him, was another entirely. Now there was nothing left to do but to let those eyes, blue as a river and just as ensnaring as the fiercest rapids of a spring flood, push him to do one more risky thing.

Bilbo closed the distance between them almost entirely, slipping his hands into Thorin’s own. Panicked like a fawn caught in an open glade, Thorin startled, breath catching audibly in his throat. Bilbo held still.

“Thorin?”

“Please braid my hair.” Thorin all but whimpered, pressing his forehead against Bilbo’s hands, forgetting himself entirely in a rush of hushed embarrassment and desperation. 

“So that- so that I may never forget what led us here, how my greed nearly became the downfall of us all, so that I may display your- your work, your commitment and bravery and loyalty in that braid, Bilbo, will you braid your bead into my hair?”

What fools we both have been, he thought, watching Thorin’s shoulders tense and straighten as perhaps some of his sensibility came back to him.

Thorin lifted his head, but looked down still. “It doesn’t have to mean anything,” He said quietly, sounding far more like he was trying to convince himself of that than Bilbo.

“And what if I want it to?”

Yavanna, how sick Bilbo was of propriety. So many of his habits had all but disappeared on the road, travelling with dwarrow. But moreso than doing away with things like salad forks and matching ties with pocket squares, he had finally begun to speak his mind, truly and honestly without layers of social suitability nonsense in between.

Thorin just looked at him, stunned. “What?”

“What if I want it to mean something, Thorin?”

Here Bilbo met his eyes and raised one hand, tracing his fingertips behind the shell of Thorin’s ear and tucking stray hairs back in what he assumed to be an incredibly intimate gesture for dwarves. It appeared to work, when, instead of giving a verbal reply, Thorin just shuddered, eyelids fluttering, then melted all at once. He didn’t lean into the touch, but when his eyes found Bilbo’s once again, he whispered soft and sweet. “Yes, Bilbo, any… any braid you place in my hair I will wear with pride.”

“Even if I find some way to make it say you’re absolutely ridiculous?”

“Even that.”

“Even if I let it show you have an unbelievably flawed sense of direction?

“Well, it would be true.”

“Even if I make it so the whole kingdom knows I am truly, horribly, smitten for their king?”

“Especially so.”

Thorin smiled in a teary-eyed way then, and by that point Bilbo had no other option but to kiss him thoroughly until Thorin forgot his shame, and his madness, and his lonely desperation and allowed himself to just experience this simple feeling. It was only later, with Bilbo sat in his armchair, feet wide apart enough on the floor for a dwarven king to kneel between them, his hands in Thorin’s curls, that they truly spoke of feelings. That Thorin confessed, in one flood of words as he was prone to do, of late nights looking up at the stars and a hollow feeling inside and most endearingly (as his face flushed red) how he had felt all this time. And Bilbo, hands caught weaving a deceptively complicated braid down Thorin’s hair, kissed his forehead and smiled and told him about sitting in Thranduil’s dungeons. 

Told him about looking at Thorin’s eyes and thinking of water.