#fic idea: the hobbit

[teecupangel]

Desmond in middle earth? Idk, the idea just came to me, but like he is transported there and meets Bilbo (before the quest or after?)

For “Desmond getting booted to Middle Earth”, we have “Desmond takes his ancestors turned kids sightseeing and eavesdrop on the Fellowship” idea and “Desmond becomes the mentor of the Shire Brotherhood” idea in the comments of this post.

Now, you specified Desmond getting booted to Middle Earth and meeting Bildo (before or after the quest), so in this setup, let’s say Desmond gets booted after activating the device and he has no idea where or when he was then he meets an actual wizard. Desmond starts with the whole ‘probably POE related’ then, after Gandalf shows him enough magic to make him go “oh shit, that’s real magic, what the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck”, he’d be sorta lost, unsure of what to do because he’s not just been transported into some other time, he’s been kicked out of his own world.

So he just tags along to wherever Gandalf goes, acts as his sorta errand boy. But mostly, Gandalf teaches him about the world he was in, never asking why he did not know about any of these or why he seemed to be alright with a stranger following him around.

So when Gandalf met Thorin and they agreed in taking Smaug down, Desmond pretty much joined them in ‘inviting’ Bilbo.

Unorganized Notes:

Desmond would definitely feel a kindred spirit in Bilbo’s desire to not be part of any adventure and, while the world he was in had a lot of magical (weird) stuff, Desmond did feel that this was sorta more like a retirement for him. No Assassins or Templars to think about. No Isus to think about.

Bilbo is actually the reason why Desmond joined them on their journey. “Someone has to look for the little guy.”

He does get along with everyone and he understands their reason for wanting to kill Smaug. He does worry about Thorin though, especially when Desmond sees how Thorin tends to forgo reason and go with his ‘feelings’.

Desmond being there does mean Dori doesn’t have to carry Bilbo. Instead, Dori is in charge of keeping an eye on Desmond and Bilbo (to make sure they don’t wander or get into trouble). Balin still gets to be the cool old mentor to Bilbo and Desmond though (mostly Bilbo).

Desmond saw the shinies on Smaug’s pile and it took him all his willpower not to pocket something because, goddamn it, he wants some.

Desmond would probably be the one to notice something is wrong with the ring Bilbo got. It feels… wrong to him. Like it’s a POE but different. POEs to Desmond had never been malicious. If anything, they were always eager to be used by Desmond but the Ring… That specific Ring. It’s like it’s deliberately trying to keep Desmond away.

Desmond doesn’t necessarily know anything about Sauron as Gandalf only gave him a brief ‘background’ and he made it sound like Sauron is some kind of bad dude, not one of the most powerful Maiar still hellbent on conquering everything.

Desmond doesn’t know it but the reason why Gandalf is okay with all his strangeness is because Desmond feels familiar to Gandalf. Not the exact same feeling but close enough that Gandalf believes he is related to Varda.

Instead of Varda (associating Desmond with light and the stars), we can make Desmond feel similar to Mandos to associate him with his death back in his world and the fates that govern his entire life.

[hitlikehammers]

Post S4 Steddie featuring Russian-Hostage!Steve (again) and Ransom Notes Sent to His Family (!)—hilarious

...but is it?

Steve doesn’t remember getting drunk as fuck. In fact, he…

This doesn’t even feel like a hangover, not exactly. There’s the headache, the stomach-lurching, but there’s a, a weight almost. Something in his limbs that feels off and too stiff but also like noodles, if you could make noodles out of lead. This, this kinda feels like—

His hand goes automatically to his neck, near his jaw, tries to see if he can feel—

Ah. Okay. Yep. Already scabbed over the injection site. Must’ve been something else this time, like probably a bigger needle. Sedative to start, maybe. Like the appetizer course.

Steve starts chuckling to himself—no off-the-books truth serum needed to get hysterical, not this time—as he tosses himself to lying back down, only then really clocking the cuffs on his wrists and, well.

At least he’s not in a fucking sailor suit.

——

When he calms down, and no one’s come for him into his very unexciting grey-stone cell for enough minutes to trust in a lull, at least, where he can just…just try and think?

He does in fact think he’s got something of an outline for maybe, like, the first leg of the story: they had to have gotten him after work.

Probably right after work, between locking up and getting to his car. He closed alone last nigh—

Well. The last time he remembers being at Family Video, he was closing alone. If he’s waking up drugged, it’s probably not super smart to just assume it was ‘last night’ by default.

Not that he’s sure it even matters, but.

Everyone knew he was closing. And everyone, except his boyfriend and sometimes Robs, knows to leave him be for a good twelve-to-twenty-four hours to recover when he’s soloing for the late shift on a weekend. Fucking brutal, honestly. Plus there’s a stormfront on the way and he’s had a migraine brewing at the back of his skull for days that was due to explode the minute he clocked out. Rob’s in Chicago scoping colleges, wasn’t gonna be back until midday after his shift anyway. Eddie was doing the same, but in Indy, looking to book gigs—he’d get back around sunup, probably, and he might come by as his first stop home, in fact he usually does and...

If anyone’s noticed Steve’s missing? Or will, maybe soon?

Might…might actually be Eddie, first.

Steve feels…more than a little tight in the chest, in his throat, having to think about it; imagining if the tables were turned.

So he shifts tacks, moves quick to trying and figure out what the fuck he’s been abducted for in the first place—yeah they’re gearing up for the eventual final showdown with Vecna, but once the ash stopped raining, and the sky went back to generally regular colors, and the government paid to fill in enough of the ��earthquake’ damage for the roads that were still drivable to be noticeably better than they were pre-apocalypse? People generally calmed down, so. He really doesn’t know who the fuck’s got it out for him. He actually hasn’t broken his NDA, particularly considering he doesn’t even socialize with anyone anymore who hasn’t signed one themselves, and therefore doesn’t count on the subject of keeping to the terms of service, and honestly? Even peak-Vecna with his clock bullshit didn’t have a real-world army to do his bidding because, like: shit. That’s still the thing he’s pissy about, right? So.

It’s not like whoever’s-got-him-chained-up-because-if-anything-they’re-more-serious-about-imprisonment-than-he’s-encountered-before—but whoever they are, Steve cannot for the life of him figure out a good reason for them to be after him on Upside Down business.

So, like: the fuck, you know?

He’s trying to figure out property damage, like did he ruin someone’s prize roses when he was driving that RV, or else; was the couple who owned that RV, like, retired assassins and they’d been gearing up for revenge this whole time? That was plausibl—

The door—thicker, heavier than Steve actually was guessing—swings open with a godawful screech before he can weigh the likelihoods of the wife, or husband, or both having been secretly cold-blooded-killers, and in walks…

Oh. Oh, so…it is actually that predictable. Same script, different scenery.

Because Steve knows that fucking uniform, and it’s actually involuntary, swear to god, the way he sighs.

He gets slapped for it, which would hurt less than the first go around—those gut shots had been brutal—if the asshole hadn’t been wearing rings.

Not nice ones like Eddie’s, either. Ones meant to fucking tear skin and peel at the layers beneath it, too. Bear down to the bone, if given the time.

Steve feels the blood drip down toward his mouth, but there’s enough that he tastes it on the air before it even rolls past his lips. He’s panting a little, more for the sake of the impact, like the shock of it, but even then he hears it. The…weird whirring through the open door and he tries to catch his breath so he can focus, because there’s something…familiar about it, something he should know—

“Who do you work for?”

He snaps back to what’s in front of him and fuck, god, so: same script.

But, but: literally.

He instinctively curls his fingernails against his palms; knee jerk reaction. And fucking justified, too.

“Video store,” Steve answers because, what else, and good thing he’s still wearing his vest, was taking it home to wash because it smelled too much like…store. He nods down at the logo on his chest, pulled awkward and lying askew but pretty goddamn clear. “Like VHS tapes. Movies.”

He gets another slap. He’s grateful for even more reasons that Robin’s not with him this time. They’re not even proper Russian cinephiles, she’d be so offended on principle.

“I mean,” Steve decides in a split second to play along, to roll the dice with his chances on his lonesome and be grateful—and maybe because the thought of Robin, following the thought of Eddie and his rings, all weaves together to make him bold, but also make him desperate: he doesn’t want them in danger. Doesn’t want anyone goaded by these bastards into coming for him, wherever he is, and getting themselves hurt. Or worse.

So: maybe goading this captors into thinking he’s not worth the time anymore and making this quick?

Maybe that’s the card he’s gotta play.

“I’m guessing you think I know shit because of Starcourt,” and yep. Eyes get big for that being slid across the metaphorical table so casual. But Steve’s more impressed at himself because the minute he says it? The humming sound, the whirring? It clicks.

It’s what he heard in that underground lab. With that machine. With them trying to, to tear open—

“I don’t, for the record, know anything, Steve clarifies; “but if I’m like, missing for too long? My friends are gonna flip, and last time my friends were with me, y’know, so this time,” Steve sucks at his front teeth and shakes his head, and it fools them while it grounds him: two-for-one.

“They’ll freak, basically. Especially after last time,” his boldness lasts him through tossing his captors—maybe torturers—a judgmental quirk of his brow.

“Probably gonna tell Hopper like, y’know, chief of police,” he adds, blames Eddie for the theatricality buried in it as he purses his lips and nods like he’s considering; tries not to dwell on a deeper reason for why these bastards are letting him talk—nope. Nope, shove those thoughts down, just keep talking yourself, ignore the steady trickle of blood down to his tongue as he yaps.

“And Hopper, hell, it’s not his first rodeo, so he’ll probably call the suits,” Steve presses on Because what else does he have, what else can he do, he can barely fucking move; “you know, like you,” he nods at the medals on the very Soviet-style uniform; “but the American version. He’s got friends. So.”

And Steve manages to stare the fucker down, just eye-to-eye as the man scowls, glances at his associate standing closer to the door and—

Yep: yep. Another slap with those rings. Steve can’t pretend the blood’s not spilling from the line where the impact dug out his skin. He’s glad there’s no mirror; can only imagine what it looks like.

Sure as fuck knows what it feels like.

“I can’t tell you anything you don’t already know,” Steve doesn’t even think he’s trying to reason with them, wonders idly if he’s like, some Russian-identified spokesman now for all things spy-y and otherworldly, like if his picture’s on a cork board with strings going around it as the number-one suspect-slash-target-to-pump-for-nonexistent-info.

Fucking fantastic.

“I work for a video store, dude,” he finishes with, and it doesn’t even come out desperate, or pleading—it’s way closer to resigned.

“We will see.”

The man grabs Steve’s chin rough, too rough and for a second? Steve’s a little afraid he’s gonna try to snap his neck but he just shoved him back, straight into the wall—cracks his spine a little, but. Actually, given his limited range of motion, it kinda gets out at least a couple kinks. Huh.

Silver linings, or whatever.

But then they’re leaving, and something leaps in Steve chest uncomfortably, just as something sinks in his stomach and the whirring, the hum from beyond the door sinking with it, too—ominous—and he’s lunging against his restraints without thinking, cringing for the bite of the metal but there’s…something in him wants more time with these people. To figure them out. Maybe just to stall for time or find the one last straw to break and get himself beaten to death, no longer a threat to his friends by proxy.

“We have Sour Patch Kids, now!” Steve calls out on a freak instinct, a stupid desperate whim as they walk out, maybe more to drown out the whirring, the pit that’s opening in his stomach for all the memories its familiarity dredges up; “can totally hook you guys up!”

The door shakes the air somehow, but not the walls, or Steve’s chains, when it slams closed and Steve can’t hear the machine anymore, it’s all cut off and—

Holy shit, Steve is so fucked.

——

They keep sliding sandwiches and water through a hole they literally lock and unlock in the thick-as-fuck-special-soundproof door. Steve is reminded weirdly—or not, it all looks perfectly normal—but given the circumstances, he thinks he’s justified to be thrown back to that lime-green battery acid they’d considered drinking in the elevator: and that, probably more than anything, is why he refuses to touch a single bit of what’s shoved into his cell.

Well: that and then also the fact that no one actually comes in for a long stretch of time, and there’s no noise, save for…the hum. Only when they open the little hatch for food, at first but…then it increases. Then it somehow overrides what Steve imagines to be a pretty fucking effective insulation job to make everything thus far so soundproofed; so deadened. The fact that it even bleeds through a little sinks sicker in his stomach than hunger ever could.

Because definitely, one-hundred-percent, in case there’s been any doubts hanging on: it’s the machine, the thing they were using before to rip holes in…the world. As if Hawkins needed any more but—

The Russians want to know who he works for, and they’re trying to unleash the Upside Down. Again.

Jesus Christ.

It might be comical, the repetition after everything, with even less reason—the gates have been shut and sealed now almost a full year and shit, the whole party had been banging on about a cookout to celebrate, to sneak in one good thing before it was time to strike against Vecna for the last time, and Steve really hopes they don’t abandon the well-earned party for the sake of his imminent demise but, point is: it would be comical, almost definitely, if it weren’t so fucking horrifying.

They thought this was over. This part at least, the peripherals. Steve was the last real holdout to be on high alert, everyone was trusting in the alert system that was El and Will and even him and Eddie a little bit from the bats, all connected to some degree with activity in the Upside Down and everyone else was counting on that and trying to live in the middle while they could and…shit.

Look where it got Steve, giving in to the hope for an end in sight, and maybe even a happy one at that.

It runs sick through his veins, now that he’s thinking about it, about any of the possible outcomes and ramifications beyond this cell and…basically Steve’s glad he hasn’t trusted a bite or a sip of anything they’ve left him, lest he have to endure anything worse than dry heaving in captivity.

——

Eveually, Steve goes back to counting out the positives. It’s a fairly safe subject. Morbid, maybe, but what else has he got?

His friends aren’t here. He’s lonely, but honestly, even if that’s a part of his life that’s seen major improvement the past couple years? It’s not something he isn’t used to, can’t work with. But if his friends aren’t here? They’re safe. El or Will can tell there’s something weird with the Upside Down if the machine gets powerful enough, they’ll all be able to come up with a plan and strike when the time’s right, and Steve…

Steve can survive a little longer, at least as a distraction, even if he’s apparently a shitty one since people aren’t coming in to ask about the latest new releases, or smack his other cheek and give him a matching set of bloody gouges.

The machine, also—and why he figures he might not outlive the time it takes for the others to notice a disturbance in the Force—ha, they’re not even here to appreciate his wholly unprompted and almost definitely correct nerd reference, but that’s good: they’re not here, they’re safe—but the machine is humming, and turned on? But even at a distance it should be louder. It should be louder to destroy the world.

They’re not there yet. They’re not there yet; there’s still time, and Steve may not be there to help everyone fight, to protect them but—

There’s time.

And then like, of course, full circle: no Scoops uniform, check—those shorts bunched up his ass like nobody’s business. He cannot forget that as a massive plus, here, because come on, think about it: decked out like a shitty ice cream sailor on an ocean of flavor, Jesus.

Just a flat out shitty way to have to die.

——

“We have sent the ransom demands.”

Steve blinks; he was kinda spacing out. He probably shouldn’t be able to do that. The machine isn’t any louder—yet—but it’s…ambient, in a way.

Morbid, probably. Again.

The lack of eating or drinking might be getting to him. He really should have eaten before his shift.

“The what?” Steve blinks some more because…maybe if he can see clearer he can hear the words in a way that’ll make sense.

Jesus fuck, he should probably start being concerned about his…overall cognitive function or whatever, at this point.

Or something.

“You are a rich man,” the main bastard, with the rings, looms over Steve with a skeevy little grin, cracks his knuckles and how, he’s watched Eddie struggle because it’s so hard to get your fingers in the right position to do it with rings on—

“You’ve got the wrong guy, pal, look at these shoes,” Steve shakes his head while he kicks his feet out: “very last season.”

They’re still fucking excellent shoes, but. High-school-him wouldn’t have been caught dead in them.

Ha. Haha. Graduated-useless-townie-him is gonna get caught dead in them. Ha.

Add that to the positives list, because irony is sometimes funny. He listens when Robin tells him about her boring-ass art movies. Because Robin’s opinions matter, regardless of the topic.

“Property records,” the lackey who stands behind points out and it takes Steve a second to catch up…rich man. Property records.

Ransom note—

Oh fuck, but he cannot help himself. He snorts.

And then he laughs hard enough that both his captors actually look concerned which: fair. If he had information, it’s probably hard to wring anything useful out of somehow who’s totally lost their mind.

“Dude,” Steve wheezes, and then gets back to cackling because it’s too funny, just the picture in his head—

“Dude, no,” he shakes his head over and over and gets a little dizzy but who can even blame him. Richard and Amelia Harrington, paying their failure of a son’s ransom to the Russians?!

Fuck, they’d be better off putting up a shitty politician and soliciting their donations. Like the whole thing with mayor what’s-his-face.

Steve really doesn’t need any black market drugs to find it hilarious and, like, honestly.

Going out laughing isn’t the worst way to die, so. Seriously.

Mark that down for topping the list of goddamn positives.

——

He doesn’t actually know how long it’s been, but the time does come where he gives in, and is therefore eating the morning and the afternoon sandwiches he’s been left—they don’t take the uneaten stuff until he’s sleeping, given that he’s never seen them do it and the old food’s always gone. He’s only guessing that he gets three plates a day, and…well. He remembers something Erika said about three days without water being the limit for the human body and it sure as fuck felt like it, and poison seemed a better alternative than thirst as reasons for kicking the bucket, so.

Least it wasn’t the neon acid; little mercies. Gotta remember that.

But on an empty stomach it had gone down easy and quick for desperation, but fuck if now it didn’t hurt which: in for a penny, or whatever the saying was. He didn’t understand it. Just knew it fit the situation. Kinda.

Probably.

He’s curled up now, though, kinda moaning super pathetically, almost loud enough to drown out the machine’s hum even, for the way his stomach roils and he tries to distract himself; tries to think…

He is just clearheaded enough to recognize how morbid he’s being, again—but it’s the first thing that comes to mind. And also it’s relevant, so fuck you, morbid-police.

But: Max’s letters. They’re what comes to mind.

He doesn’t have paper. Or a pen. Or something to etch into the floor with. So it’s just a…thought exercise. That’s what they’re called, right?

Whatever. Distraction. He cannot die covered in his own puke, that’s one bridge too far, so he needs to focus. Not on the state of his intestines.

So…start with, who should he start with?

Hmm. Hmmmmmm.

El. She’ll figure things out first so:

Dear El

Solid start. Good job, Steve.

You are fucking extraordinary, and it’s not for being able to move stuff with your mind. You’re so strong, and brave, and selfless. I look up to you. I like when they call you Supergirl, but, like, those are the reasons why. Keep finding reasons for laughing, remember you’re entitled to extra because of all the dark years you came back stronger from. Remember the way you are and the way you think and the things you do are awesome and you don’t have to relearn anything you don’t want to, or change anything you don’t want to, to fit in. People should be trying to be more like you.

Love you, Supergirl.

P.S. there’s a freezer in the basement fucking loaded with Eggos. All yours. 

Hey. That’s a solid letter. He’s not bad at this.

Then his stomach lurches and apparently he’s not even allowed to celebrate his wins, okay, fucking cool.

Who’s next, who’s next…

Dear Dustin, and maybe that’s the best way; this is gonna hurt like hell just thinking about so maybe, like, that’s the best way to distract himself.

Okay. Okay. All or nothing.

You die, I die was a general feeling, thing, not a real thing. So take care of yourself, for real, okay? Lean on people. If the other shitheads aren’t what you need, turn to Robin. Turn to Eddie. Promise me you’ll be everything you’re meant to be. I’m so proud to know you, man, always. All the things about you are things worth being proud of.

Talk to Eddie about tone, though. Like, when the time’s right.

Thanks for being the first person to show me what family’s really like, what it’s supposed to be. You’re mine, y’know. Like, you’re my brother, but then, you’re also my friend. Thanks for that, too. I love you, man.

P.S. They discontinued The Hairspray. Be on the lookout for a good replacement, and conserve what you have for special occasions. 

The cuts on his cheeks are apparently not yet healed over enough not to burn when the tears streak through. Awesome.

Definitely fucking distracting so…run with it, he guesses.

Dear Max,

Thanks for the idea. 

Cop out. Absolute cop out. He means it, this is helpful, he hasn’t barfed yet which is really the point but.

He’s being a coward, now. Seriously.

It needs to hurt. If he actually put himself into writing Max’s it’d be ugly, but…

Go big or go home. And he’s never going home again, is he, so:

Dear Robin

Fuck. Fuck, his breath catches with just those two words.

I’m really glad we never figured out how to meld into a single being, because I don’t want you here when…you know. When.

But I wish you were here in a safe way, if that makes sense, and somehow were possible. They don’t call them soulmates for no reason. And I never called you mine without meaning it.

If there’s anything after, I will miss you through all of it with everything I am and hope like hell when the time’s right—like at least 90 years from now and no less, you understand?—I get to see you again. Maybe then we can work on the melding thing and get it right.

I liked being your dingus. So much. And I will always be your capital-P soulmate.

I’m sorry. 

He doesn’t even remember his stomach hurting from the sandwiches, anymore, or drinking the water too fast. He’s sick for so much bigger reasons, now. Everything fucking hurts.

That’s the point, he reminds himself, that’s the point, so:

Dear Eddie—

He chokes on the air, just for the thought, because here’s the tipping point. Here’s where he breaks.

He can’t. He can’t.

He loves all of them. All of them.

But he’s only in love with one. Like he’s never loved before. Like he’s never been loved back before, not ever.

He doesn’t know if it’s possible to pass out from heartache, or if it’s more the not eating, or drinking, or if he’s feverish, maybe the cuts on his cheeks from the rings are infected and he’s on borrowed time in more ways than one.

Doesn’t matter. He can’t write a letter to Eddie, not even in his head. And he doesn’t want to think about what it means, such a nonexistent-mental-letter.

Someone told him once that if you were falling to your death, you’d pass out before impact. Like…like self-preservation in your last few seconds or something.

Steve thinks—with the way everything fades to black in seemingly seconds—he thinks this is…kinda like that.

So the big question now is:

DOES HE SURVIVE? SHOULD HE GET RESCUED?!?!

*chews nails, or hair, or—*

yeah, like that

For @devondespresso, who requested 'Nightmares' at my HOBBIT-STYLE BIRTHDAY MONTH PROMPT FEST (sorry it's in the contexts of LIVING ONE OUT) and incidentally also for @steddie-week for the Day Two prompt 'Hands' (which okay if you DO NOT want a rescue it's only in mean violent ways but...he could be rescued)

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @pearynice @hbyrde36 @slashify @finntheehumaneater @wxrmland @dreamwatch @perseus-notjackson @estrellami-1 @bookworm0690 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @nerdyglassescheeseychick @swimmingbirdrunningrock @goodolefashionedloverboi @sanctumdemunson @theheadlessphilosopher @lawrencebshoggoth @mensch-anthropos-human

divider credits here

ao3 link here ✨

[thorin]

i wrote a little something that i have no idea if i'll continue, but i just really wanted to write a bagginshield fic through kíli's point of view, i thought it'd be fun. so enjoy!

tw: a bit of angst, mention of blood, but nothing too graphic, or excessive.

Contrary to popular belief, Kíli was not stupid.

He knew there'd been something going on between his uncle and Mr. Baggins the second he saw him break a smile —which was already suspicious— at Bilbo at the Carrock before hugging him —even more suspicious— after he'd defended his uncle from what was certain death.

Now don't get him wrong, he was more grateful to Bilbo than he could ever say. He saved Thorin's, and Fíli's, and his life too many times to count. He'd stayed after the battle had died down, and helped the healers, elven and dwarven alike, tend to the wounded and bury the fallen. He'd spent his entire days helping Bombur cook food at the makeshift camp they'd set at the base of the mountain, and when he wasn't cooking, he was stealing peaches and apples from the elves' food carts just for him and Fíli when they were bedridden. And he'd sit beside Thorin and wait for him to wake up when his nephews couldn't be there for him.

Kíli really liked Bilbo. He'd grown on him, all of them, truly. He just couldn't believe someone so small could be so brave, and feisty!

Which is why he was extremely confused when he'd heard Bilbo would be going home after Thorin had woken up.

His first reaction was that he felt abandoned. How could a member of their company simply choose to leave after all they'd been through together? He almost shouted his disagreement, before Fíli took his arm, shaking his head, and looked right at Bilbo: tear tracks on his dirty face. Maybe he wasn't leaving by choice.

He looked to his uncle, sat up against the wooden bedpost. His jaw was set and his adam's apple bobbed, as if it were physically hurting him to not speak up. His eyes were transfixed by Bilbo's back, like if he tried hard enough, his eyes could tell Bilbo all he wouldn't say.

Understanding flashed through Kíli's mind in a second. But it was too late. He tried speaking up again, aware of this new piece of information that he'd uncovered, but Thorin wouldn't have it. And it was frustrating Kíli greatly, because he'd never heard his uncle, his brave, tenacious uncle, speak with such a small, hoarse voice before, and say that if Bilbo wishes to leave, then he is free to go, with his blessing.

None of it rang true. How did no one notice? Why wasn't anyone saying anything?

By the time he'd looked at Bilbo again, he was already out of the tent, backpack on his shoulders.

Kíli was not proud of how he acted. He'd shouted at Thorin, painfully aware of his uncle's feeble health, but unable to contain his grief: he'd killed hundreds and seen another hundred killed, he'd almost lost his brother and uncle, and almost left his mother all alone in this world, and now his friend was leaving him, leaving them all. He'd fought relentlessly for months, why couldn't his uncle fight just a little longer, a little more? Why wouldn't he fight for his family like he said he always would?

Oin kicked Kíli out of the tent the second he saw Thorin's bandages become red. He was horrified. He'd never dream of hurting Thorin, but everything felt wrong. He'd never once cried on this journey. Not when his uncle was knocked unconscious by that foul orc, nor when he'd lost the rune stone given to him by his mother. But now he couldn't hold it in. It all came pouring out as someone —his brother, surely— held him, kneeled down on the ground. He wept until the stars came out.

────────

Months had passed ever since Azsâlul'abad was reclaimed. The harsh Eastern winter had finally given way to spring's sunshine rays, and although the mountain's citizens couldn't say they lived an easy life, they had food and a roof over their heads, which was more than they'd had for years. More and more dwarves were coming home from all over Middle-Earth, as word of Smaug's death was starting to spread. Reconstruction was slow, but steady, and life had shaped itself into a vibrant routine under the Lonely Mountain.

Kíli and Fíli had been crowned princes, and Thorin had been crowned king. His mother had finally come to join them on a caravan she lead from Shahrulbizad, and each member of the company was appointed to some sort of important position in the king's court. It was difficult for Kíli and his brother to get used to their new lives as royalty and the responsibilities that came along with it, and Kíli was grateful for any moment of respite he could have away from the eccentric Iron Hills nobles and Balin's royal classes. His days all looked the same, and yet he found he just couldn't get used to this new life.

Thorin, Kíli had noticed, clearly felt the same, though there was no running away for him. For any person that didn't know his uncle, they'd think he looked perfectly normal, if only a little stern. But Kíli knew that look. It was the same one he'd wear on his face when he attended feasts, sat at his throne, silent, while everybody around him drank and laughed. Or when he attended meetings with the court. Or when he watched Bilbo leave, a winter ago.

Kíli was not stupid. He saw how much his uncle suffered, and how much every single member of the company missed their friend. He missed Bilbo, too.

Which is why he sent a letter adressed to Bilbo Baggins of Bag End in the Shire, pretending to be Thorin II, King Under the Mountain, begging him to come back.

Surely that would solve everybody's problem. Right?

[atlantablack]

from a groundhog day fic I may or may not ever finish

He’s alone in the throne room when Bilbo finds him, a miserable look on his face. It’s been quite some time since he’s seen Bilbo look this unhappy and even with the arkenstone forefront in his mind he still finds the space to worry about it. Focuses on the tight lines of his mouth and the trembling of his hands and feels nothing but worry. 

Bilbo who helped him reclaim Erebor. Who is as precious to Thorin as the gold in the next room. Once the arkenstone was found and the thieves at his front door were dispersed, once he had time and space, he would make sure that Bilbo had a place of honor at his side. 

“Bilbo,” he says, blinking furiously as he tries to stay focused. “Are you well? Has something happened?” 

Bilbo shakes his head and comes to a stop in front of the throne, dropping to his knees in front of Thorin. It’s so out of character that for a minute Thorin’s vision tilts. 

“Bilbo,” he says again, softer, pressing a hand to Bilbo’s cheek and tilting his head up. While it is a dream to have Bilbo in front of him this way he doesn’t like the grief filling his burglar’s eyes. “Tell me, what has happened?”

“I’m sorry,” Bilbo says, a sob working its way out of his mouth after the words. “I keep messing up and I’m going to mess up again but I’m trying.” 

He frowns, not sure what Bilbo is speaking of. “I do not understand.” 

Bilbo smiles at him, tragedy written in every line of his face. “I know. But I needed to say it anyway.” 

“This isn’t going to work, but, I’m going to try anyway, okay?” Bilbo pauses, studying Thorin’s face like he’s looking for something. Thorin doesn’t know what but he would give it to Bilbo if he can. 

“Just,” Bilbo swallows, presses into the hand Thorin still hasn’t removed from his face. “Just, please, don’t hate me, okay?” 

“I could not,” he says, wondering what could have happened to make Bilbo think otherwise. It does not once occur to him that betrayal could come from the one in front of him and more fool him. He is blinded by his regard for the hobbit and so, when Bilbo reaches into the pocket of his robe, he has no expectations. 

None, until he catches a glimpse of light playing off of Bilbo’s fingers. No, he thinks, breath catching. The room tilts dangerously and he doesn’t realize that his fingers are digging into Bilbo’s face until he whimpers. 

In the end the most remarkable thing about having the arkenstone pressed into his hand is not the arkenstone at all. It is the tears silently streaming down Bilbo’s face as he presses the stone into Thorin’s hand, his fingers curl over Thorin’s, the stone hidden between their hands. 

“How long have you had this?” Thorin asks, knows his voice has gone dangerous, but he’s helpless to stop the fury licking at the base of his spine.

Bilbo closes his eyes and in the smallest voice Thorin has ever heard from him says, “From the beginning. I found it almost as soon as I went into the treasury.” 

Thorin can’t breathe, the betrayal so strong he feels as if he’s going to drown. For all that he had thought someone would take the stone he had not truly believed Bilbo capable of such a thing. “You,” he says. “You would steal from me.” 

“No, no, I didn’t steal it,” Bilbo says and he sounds as if he believes this. “I was scared to give it to you, Thorin. I’m still scared. You’ve gone somewhere I can’t follow and I don’t know how to help you.” 

“I have gone nowhere,” he says, frowning and realizing that it’s true, Bilbo is terrified, is shaking under Thorin’s hand. It doesn’t erase the fury but it tempers it. He is trying to understand. Feels as if there’s a fog in his mind as he tries. He wants to understand though, does not want to believe that Bilbo could betray him so thoroughly without a reason.

Bilbo tries to shake his head but Thorin’s hand holds him steady. “You’ve gone away into your own mind,” he says, looking up at Thorin with wet, pleading eyes. “You’re sick Thorin. I need you to break out of it.” His voice breaks and he’s a liar, a pretty liar, but a liar nonetheless. 

Thorin pulls away, holds the arkenstone up to his face and finds it as beautiful as he remembers. He looks back down at Bilbo and finds nothing but grief looking back.

“Get out,” he says, the words heavy in his mouth. “Leave Erebor. I will grant you safe passage only because you did, in the end, give me what is rightfully mine.”

But Bilbo is already shaking his head. “No,” he says, a stubborn tilt to his mouth. “No. I’m not leaving you.”

Thorin barely thinks before backhanding him “GET OUT,” he roars. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, there’s shrieking. Dwalin and Nori come running in and for a minute stop dead in the doorway.

Bilbo’s sprawled on the dais, one hand to the blistering red of his cheek, but he still sits back up, eyes terribly wide and betrayed, and says, “No.”

Thorin can see him trembling. Can see Nori, his jaw set, creeping towards them as if Thorin would not notice. “You will leave,” he says, leaning down to the hiss the words in Bilbo’s face, “or I will make you.”

Bilbo’s chin tilts up. “Then make me, Thorin.” And then, like he has no concept of how much danger he is in, he tips forward and presses his forehead to Thorin’s. “I can’t leave you,” he murmurs into the space between them. “I can’t watch you die again.”

Thorin feels frozen. The press of Bilbo’s forehead to his overwhelming. He clenches the arkenstone in his fist until it bites into his skin and dimly, he thinks that he should be concerned about breaking it.

“Get out,” he says again, voice gone unaccountably soft. “I do not want you here. Traitor.”

“Like I said, make me,” Bilbo says, leaning even closer, the words ghosting over Thorin’s mouth.

Bilbo’s mouth, when it finally brushes his, is soft. He presses against Thorin so sweetly and for a minute Thorin wavers. Presses back. Thinks, please, thinks, let me have this one beautiful thing. He wavers—

—and then he pushes Bilbo down the dais stairs. It is not a long fall but Bilbo falls easily and with a resounding thunk as his body hits the bottom. Nori is at his side before Thorin can blink, pulling him to his feet and pulling him towards the door. Thorin feels so dizzy he could fall over.

“You’re a fool,” Dwalin says from the bottom of the stairs.

“I am king,” he says, voice raspier than it should be. “I will not tolerate thieves and traitors.”

“Aye, but you have always been my king. Even without that stone. You used to know that.”

“Get out,” he snaps.

Dwalin leaves and Thorin stares down at the arkenstone for a very long time. Feels like his head is splitting apart. Feels like his heart has torn itself asunder. He’s not sure when he falls to his knees in front of the throne but he’s listening to Bilbo’s voice on repeat, You’ve gone somewhere that I can’t follow. Thinks of Dwalin’s words and the grief that had seemed to pass from Bilbo to Dwalin. A shared grief that Thorin can’t understand, doesn’t want to understand. You’ve gone somewhere that I can’t follow.

The arkenstone, when he throws it across the hall, does not shatter, but Thorin’s head feels clearer than it has in days and so of course, the guilt comes pouring in. By the time Bard and Thranduil arrive the gold haze has almost completely cleared from his mind.

It doesn’t fix anything.

——

“Thorin,” Bilbo gasps, sliding to his knees next to Thorin. “No, no, you can’t do this, not again.”

“Bilbo,” he sighs, reaching for Bilbo’s face despite the way it exacerbates the pain. “Amrâlimê, there is nothing to be done.”

“No,” Bilbo says, voice choked. “You can’t do this. You need to live. I need you to live.”

The side of Bilbo’s face is an ugly mess of blues and purples and Thorin’s heart manages to find the energy to clench. “I have done you a disservice,” he says, struggling to get the words. “You were right to keep the arkenstone from me for as long as you did.”

“No, don’t do this,” Bilbo says and he’s fully crying now. “I can’t do this again, please.”

Thorin presses his palm to Bilbo’s face, says, “I wish to part from you with you knowing that in any other circumstance I would have returned your affection.”

“Thorin,” Bilbo whispers, leaning down to press a furious kiss to his brow, to cheek, to his mouth. “Please, just hold on for a little longer. The eagles will be here soon.”

“Go home, master burglar,” he says, wishing he were not leaving Bilbo to such pain. “Go home to your armchairs and your books. Go home and live a good life.”

Thorin dies. Thorin dies and then—

[fanartka]

imagine that Thorin and Bilbo live in the Shire and have adopted little Frodo. Thorin had to go somewhere on business for a few months, maybe help his nephew Fili with royal affairs (in my headcanon, one of Thorin's options for marrying a hobbit was to abdicate and move to the Shire). And here Frodo joyfully runs to meet after a long separation. On the third picture, by the way, could be Fili himself.

I really love these pictures.

[fistfuloflightning]

meeting a legend

[myths0f01d]

Hobbits were secretive little creatures. They closely guarded one thing. Two things. Ok they close guarded a lot of things. But so did the dworrow. So can you really blame him when the company finds out their supposedly loved burglar has the magic of earth at his fingertips?

[toupee-or-nottoupee]

Very random but what sort of sweets do u guys think the Company likes? like i 100% think Fíli is a chocolates sort of guy

[trianna-phoenix]

I’ve just barely started writing the draft for my bagginsheild fanfic based on Snow White and now beauty and the beast it’s staring at me expertly from the corner…

Like what do you mean I can’t write a fic where bilbo stumbles upon a castle under the rule of a dragon-esk monster who turns out to be a dwarvern king gone mad and he has to find love in something other then material possession to break his curse, and Oop here comes bilbo

[queerofthedagger]

The First Step Was a Stumble

[Aragorn/Legolas | T+ | 4,9k]

Written for @aralas-week Day 1: Before the Fellowship, with marvellous art by @magicinavalon! <3

Tags: Pre-Canon, Meet-Ugly, Falling in Love, Banter as Foreplay, First Kiss

Summary:

He breathes in. Turns on the exhale, the tip of his sword coming to rest against an unblemished throat. Grey eyes stare back at him in a mixture of genuine shock and amused surprise. “Impressive,” the elf says, raising his hands in a mock gesture of peace. --- Legolas joins the rangers. Or—five times they misunderstand each other, and one time they finally get it right.

[catofadifferentcolor]

An Incomplete List of Lord of the Rings AU Fic Ideas

All Those Frustrating Fools: In which Legolas and Gimli are surrounded by Middle Earth's most oblivious idiots

Everything (Between Us): In which Legolas and Gimli secretly wed before the quest

First Age Legolas: Born as Doriath falls, Legolas is one of the oldest elves left in Middle Earth - a child of war, and grief, and loss

Half-Elven Legolas: Born Eluréd Diorion, war and truama-induced amnesia lead to his adoption by Thranduil during the First Age

Half-Maia Legolas: Born of Thranduil's relationship with a handmaid of Oromë, the only two people in Middle Earth who know the identity of Legolas' mother are Thranduil and Legolas himself

Of Aerandír and his Coming to Arda: PJO/LotR crossover, in which Percy’s presence in Middle-Earth changes everything and nothing

Princess of Dol Amroth SI: In which a Modern Woman in Middle-Earth changes almost nothing - but still makes a difference to her nephews

Second Age Legolas: Born as Númenor sank beneath the waves, Legolas serves as his father's regent during the War of the Last Alliance - a child of suffering and survival

Third Age Legolas: Born after the fall of Erebor, Legolas is one of the youngest elves alive, coming of age during the quest

More Terrible Fic Ideas

[smoking-old-toby]

"the greatest kingdom on middle-earth... Erebor" wow bilbo isn't biased or anything lol

[mintedwitcher]

For some unknown and unknowable reason, my brain has decided to taunt me with the idea of all the 'eligible' Dwarves in the Company having a crush on Bilbo. Naturally I only know the movie canon which treats all of them as simply walking exposition dispensaries and not characters with their own personalities, so I'm making a lot of things up on the fly here.

I've already got Ori trying to 'woo' Bilbo with books (Bilbo is utterly and completely unaware of said 'wooing'), but I'd love to get ideas for the others.

For clarity, the Dwarves being featured will be: Ori, Nori, Bofur, Bombur, Fili, Kili, Dwalin, and Thorin.

(I'm leaving the others out due to either age, personal headcanons on their private lives, or canon relationships)

So if anyone has ideas for how the others could attempt to 'woo' Bilbo, feel free to jot them down in the notes and I'll use my favourites (with credit)

[edwardallenpoe]

concept: meeting the family

We already know that Bilbo has met Fílí and Kili of course, but meeting Dís? What would that be like? I've read fics that they hit it off or are neutral about each other but like. What if she's unbearably stoic and off putting and cold and skeptical because she thinks that him and Thorin are together and she's testing him. Like maybe it's a dwarven tradition that immediate family members to the dwarf courting/being courted are hounds of hell to their partner. Fílí and Kili wouldn't act this way because they've SEEN him prove himself a million times on the way to Erebor. And what if he accidentally proves himself to her and suddenly for no reason she adores him. And he has no idea why. While Fílí and Kili are cracking up.

And what about Thorin meeting Bilbo's family? What would that be like? Would they be polite? Would they be passive aggressive? And what about Lobelia Sackville-Baggins? I haven't read any fics where Thorin and her interact for more than two seconds and I just. I love meeting the family as a fic concept. I eat it up everytime.

[lonelyvermonster]

Winter Lull

As described by Mr. Bilbo, the place were hobbits truly lie is in "peace and quiet and good tilled earth". Hobbits are often seen spending much of their time outside in their gardens under the sun. However, what about when the sun only shines upon hobbit kind for a few hours?

Just as hobbits are drawn outside during spring by the sunlight and development of new life, during winter hobbits act much like most everything else in nature; they slow down. If one were to take a stroll through Bag End during the snowfall they would notice the residents spend most of their time deep within the comforting warmth of their homes. Letting their bodies rest; sleeping and relaxing with family before the breeze turns warm and the garden soil once again beckons.

The other species of Middle Earth do not feel this instinctual need to pull inward toward community and relaxation. Most elves or dwarves, if asked, are very unlikely to even know about this endearing habit of the smallest of middle-earths people. Of course, this was no problem. That was until one particularly adventurous hobbit brought a pack of dwarves to Bag End just before winter.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

The Battle of the five armies had taken a lot from the dwarfs but in the end, they were able to reclaim their home. Bilbo could hardly walk away from the dwarves he had come to care for as his family. There was too much to do in Erebor; Thorin may have been capable leader, but even the best of kings could use a little help. After all Bilbo had seen and experienced, what would a few more days away from home be?

Months later, when the work slowed, Bilbo made plans to return home. It was intended to be a simple affair but after the twins caught word of the upcoming trip, Bilbo found himself with a party of dwarves to see to his safe return. (Dwarfs who completely ignored his insistence that after getting rid of a dragon and riding into war, he was more than capable of handling a simple walk home.)

The slow transition of Bilbos behavior was not first noticed by his friends. The trip back to Bag End wasn't the rushed and desperate affair that their last journey had been. Bilbos 2nd meal helpings and afternoon naps didn't faze a single one of them. After all, he had done so much for them! Who were they to begrudge him a touch of leisure? They hardly experience any conflict during the trip. That was until they got to those quaint little rolling hills to discover that Bilbo's home had been picked clean of each and every possession.

It was quite a sight for residents of Hobbiton. A troupe of angry dwarves banging down doors, demanding the return of possessions to a hobbit that they had declared dead months ago. After so long having to sit in dull meetings and mourn the loss of far too many of their own a bit of mischief and trouble making was exactly what the Twins needed. Even Thorn himself almost seemed to enjoy staring down Bilbos more precocious relatives. With the neighbors to intimidate and possessions to reclaim, the sedate nature of their hobbit continued to go unnoticed.

Oddly enough Killi was the first to take note. One day, Bilbo fell asleep hardly 20 minutes after he had eaten breakfast. A few days later, when he slipped into a nap after luncheon, Balin was rather concerned that it took a considerable racket to wake him back up. Before the quest none of them had spent any significant time around hobbits. They didn't know what sickness looked like in someone who wasn't a dwarf. Worry spread among them all that something was terribly wrong with their dear friend. The dwarfs began once more to make trips to the doors of the other hobbits in hopes to learn about the illnesses that was afflicting Bilbo. But as each of them went from one door to the next hardly anyone was awake. Those who answered acted as if something had been slipped into their pipe weed. Whatever had happened to Bilbo seemed to have spread to all of Hobbiton almost overnight.

When supper came Bilbo finally seemed to have enough energy to truly engage with them. The Twins would hardly move from his side and Dwalin kept pressing mug after mug of black tea into Bilbo's hand. Even more worrisome was the fact that Bilbo was deeply confused as to why they were acting this way. Eventually it was Bofur who broke. His eyes began to water as he told Bilbo how much he will be missed when this illness brings his end.

This led to a several hours long (and rather exhausting) lecture from Bilbo about the intricacies of Hobbit sleeping habits.

To this day Thorin insists he knew all along that Bilbo was fine.

[morporkian-cryptid]

I !!!

HAVE !!!!

FINISHED !!!!

🌸🎴 HANAFUDA !!!!! 🎴🌸

After 3 years and 9 months of work, including exactly 2 years and 9 days of writing, it stands at a total of 101 835 words and 255 pages, with the as-of-yet unpublished Part 3 - Kiku making up roughly half of the written content and half of the writing time.

My friends, I cannot believe I have spent that amount of time on this story. It feels like much shorter, even though this fic has accompanied me in one form or another through almost my entire time in the Lupin III fandom. It is, bar none, the longest story I have ever written (although my very first long fanfic, You Only Live Twice, from 2016, came very close).

I still have a fair amount of editing and polishing to do. Part of it still needs to be beta-read (J, if you're reading this, no rush, and thank you so much for your amazing work <3), and I need to draw the cover art.

And then...

Off to AO3 with it!!

(In the meantime, you can already read Part 1 - Sakura and Part 2 - Botan!)