#rampart company

[doolallymagpie]

Aayda “Mockingbird” Mehra’s Shadowhawk is done

Fun little nod to one of my earlier concepts for a Rampart force snuck in there

[bagginshieldfamily]

Something I need the fix it AU writers who use Frodo as Bagginsgields child to focus more on:

Gimli meeting a hobbit that looks strangely like Thorin Oakenshield but has the last name Baggins before connecting the dots:

[johnmurphysgirl]

A THOUSAND SUNSETS CHAPTER TWO {AO3 link}

PREVIOUS CHAPTER LINK

THE AIR CHARGES WITH TENSION when Bilbo climbs up onto the rampart, his eyes narrowed in concentration before they widen in disbelief, nearly toppling off it at the sight of Balin. Bilbo smiles sheepishly. He feels like a naughty hobbit boy who’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Balin steadies him with ease, looking at Bilbo akin to the way Gandalf had when he’d insisted on coming back. Bilbo sucks in a breath. His guilt easily read as it flashes in his eyes as he looks at the older dwarf. Damn it. Everything feels wrong. He’s the reason behind the utter wrongness.

Balin places a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder, and the hobbit’s head shoots upwards to look at the dwarf. “You should leave, lad, we're stubborn folk.” He briefly closes his eyes in pain for the hobbit. Balin knows Thorin, and while he should be loyal to his King only, he’s grown to love Bilbo. “When Thorin finds out what you’ve done.”

When Thorin finds out what you’ve done.

All the more reason to stay, Bilbo thinks, while shaking his head adamantly. He crosses his arms across his chest in determination. Bilbo had thought about just staying behind with Gandalf, when he’d made the trek back, and even before he climbed back onto the rampart. There’s a part of him that knows what Thorin will do. It’s the part of him that thinks no matter how he’d had no ill intent, he’s still a traitor and deserves to feel Thorin’s wrath.

The other part of him yearns to catch even the smallest glimpse of Thorin. One last time, and Bilbo prays to Mahal, Manwë, Yavanna, anything that will listen to him that once Thorin has the arkenstone from Bard and the elvenking, then surely Thorin will see reason. Once forced to honor the agreement maybe he’ll see Bilbo. Maybe he’ll be the Thorin Bilbo had fallen in love with.

“No.” Bilbo sighs. “I can’t just leave. I’m part of this company. I swore I’d do what I can.”

That was before you betrayed him, taunted his mind. Before you stole from him. Think he’ll want your help? His mind is laughing at him now. Fool.

Balin’s sympathetic smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You will always be our friend, laddie. Don’t you forget that, even if he does.”

Touched. Bilbo is touched at Balin’s words, and he feels like he could cry. Scream from the rampart, even, but he does none of it. Instead he gives Balin a thankful, watery smile. At that moment, Bard decided to make his appearance known, and with it, Thorin approaches the Rampart. Bilbo feels frozen.

“No,” he whispers. What have I done? And yet, he can’t take it back. There is no going back from this, and now he has to face it. Despite his falter, his wavering smile, and the turmoil of panic and pain coursing through his little veins, Bilbo takes a step. And then another. Until he’s directly behind Thorin, his chest nearly heaving as he ignores the concerned gazes of Fili and Kili. He doesn’t deserve their concern.

“We ask you, King under the Mountain, O King, to rethink your previous answer to our parlay!” Bard calls up to them.

“And why would I do that?” Demands Thorin, looking around his company as if expecting them to laugh at the ridiculousness. Which, some do, minus himself and Balin.

Bilbo sucks in a breath which goes unheard as Thranduil holds up high the sparkling gem of the arkenstone. Thorin sucks in a disbelieving breath.

“Impossible,” he mutters. “A trick! You dare to make it look as if you have the arkenstone when it is in this very mountain? You dare try to trick me, the King?”

And this, is exactly why Bilbo had do this, had to betray them. This isn’t Thorin. It just isn’t. The hobbit closes his eyes and swallows the lump in his throat, but no matter what he does it just will not go down.

“It’s not a trick,” Bilbo pipes up, and he notes in dismay how Thorin’s shoulders tense at the sound of his voice. How Thorin slowly turns around to face him. Bilbo squares his shoulders and meets Thorin’s gaze, steadier than he feels. “I gave them the arkenstone.”

A breath. He could hear it all around them, all the dwarfs disbelief, and loudest of all Thorin’s.

“You?” The words are uttered as if Thorin is breathless, as if he were clinging to the soft wind, begging, pleading for Bilbo to tell him it isn’t true. The betrayal cut him far deeper than anyone could realize. “Why would you do this?” His throat bobs, as if every muscle is restraining from grabbing ahold of Bilbo at this very moment. His veins popping out of his forehead make Bilbo’s eyes narrow in concern.

“You’ve changed, Thorin,” Bilbo says with only brief hesitation. His heart palpitates inside his chest like a ticking time bomb ready to explode, or implode whichever happens quickest. “The Dwarf I know would never go back on his word. The dwarf I know would never turn helpless people away, like you’d been done. The dwarf I..” His voice falters, and he has to choke back a sob. “I took it as my fourteenth share.”

The five stages of grief flicker across Thorin’s face as if he’d been stabbed, and he reels backwards as if he’d been burned. Thorin settles on anger. Before anyone can process what he’s doing, he’s grabbing Bilbo by his collar and shaking him amidst the protests of the Company.

“You know nothing,” Thorin hisses. “Nothing. Do not speak to me about change, and least of all about your share. You can claim nothing you miserable, pathetic excuse of a rat!” With each word, Thorin leads him closer to the edge of the rampart.

“Uncle wait!”

It could’ve been Kili. It could’ve been Fili. In all honesty, Bilbo has no idea, because blood rushes in his ears and all he can see is Thorin’s anger and the hurt, and damn it if it doesn’t encompass the hobbit as if he’d been dunked in the iciest, coldest water.

“Thorin.”

Balin, maybe. Bilbo can’t think, he can hardly breathe.

“Thorin, please.”

Him, now. Begging for a chance, begging for Thorin to see him. Bilbo tries to reach his hand out to run it across Thorin’s face, as if touching him would make this all go away. As if it would wake him up. He yearns to touch him. Yearns to plant the acorn he wanted to give to him, and hold him and tell him that he’d wear Mithril for a thousand years if it meant for a chance at his side. If it meant he could stay. If it meant he had a home, and not the hobbit hole in Bag-End. Erebor. Because there is no home for him in Bag-End if he doesn’t have Thorin.

Wherever Thorin is. That’s home.

“Please,” Bilbo pleads again. “Come back to me, Thorin. This isn’t you. It.. It’s not you.” His voice is barely a whisper and yet full of tangible pain, nearly choking him like dust. His heart aflame in despondency.

“Throw him from the rampart!”

Thorin’s order comes at a shock, not only for Bilbo, but for the rest of the Company as well. Thorin shoves Bilbo away from him. He arches a Kingly brow as if to say ‘well?’ But nobody moves. Bilbo’s eyes fill with tears as he looks to each member of the company, who refused to throw him. Refused to kill him. Even against orders from their king. He does not wish for it to be hard on them. Nor does he wish Thorin’s wrath on them either.

“It’s okay.” Bilbo takes a deep breath, despite Fili and Kili’s shake of their head, or Balin’s watery smile, or Bofur’s distress. Despite Bifur and Bombur’s plead, or Nori, Ori and Dori’s pain. Óin, Glóin.. “Do what you have to do, what he.. what he wishes…”

His own willingness to sacrifice himself is interrupted by the indignant noise of Gandalf down below.

“If you do not like my burgular, King Oakenshield, then return him. Do not damage him!”

While Thorin is distracted, Bofur grabs Bilbo with a wavering hand and urges him to climb. And so climb he does far away from those he called family. From Thorin. The words he could not say trapped behind a fortress.

[the-muppet-joker]

I stare at you, talking about how I cannot speak about muppet piss slavery, I simply just chuckle to myself and take down my hood, revealing that i am infact.....

UNNAMED MUPPET PISS SLAVE.

It's my right to talk about muppet piss slavery fighting against those big companies and spreading the word of mistreatment...

Say, can you see By the dawn's early light What so proudly we hailed At the twilight's last gleaming?

Whose broad stripes and bright stars Through the perilous fight O'er the ramparts we watched Were so gallantly, yeah, streaming?

And the rockets' red glare The bombs bursting in air Gave proof through the night That our flag was still there

O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave

I kick you down to the floor like the alpha I am and shakes his head putting a cool cigarette and smoking it, "Out of all people... I thought you'd understand..." I hop on my motorcycle and drive away into the sunset in my leather jacket and cool ass sunglasses since Im a cool ass lawyer who helps muppet piss slaves out and win against those big companies.

-The one and only, Piss Anon

News flash, asshole! You cannot reclaim Muppet Piss Slavery and speak on behalf of all current or former Muppet Piss Slaves (or those who have kin memories of experiencing it). Writing fanfiction about Muppet Piss Slavery is fucking unacceptable and is irredeemable fiction. You make me sick and your fake fucking patriotism on the day after 9/11 should have you banned from Tumblr and killed by God.

[plussizefantasia]

Hey! Can I get a Thorin x f!reader where the company doesn’t believe in her because of her size and the fact that she’s a woman and then she totally kicks ass and doesn’t care what they think. And he totally regrets ever doubting her? Fluff ending if you can please!!

You Saved Me

Thorin x Warrior!reader

WC: ~3k

warnings: violence, death, it's essentially a botfa re-write so...

a/n: thank you for the request, this was entirely written in a burst of passion at midnight so if they're are any typos I'm sorry, let me know and I'll fix them <3

You were a feared warrior, one with skills you’d been honing since you could walk. Your parents had been killed by an orc pack when you were but a baby and you were taken in by the rangers who found you crying by the bodies of your loved ones. Almost a year ago you were sent a letter by that blasted grey wizard, an invitation, or maybe a plea you weren't sure anymore. Join a company of dwarves on their quest, and keep them safe. That is all he asked of you.

You had tried, you really had tried to keep them safe but when those blasted dwarves took one look at you and decided that there wasn't any possible way you knew anything about fighting, it became difficult. You had several moments where all you wanted to do was clobber them over the head, but you refrained. 

The whole journey was wrought with their endless need to remind you that you were a woman, a bigger one at that. They must’ve thought you hadn’t noticed or something of that nature, for surely they wouldn’t keep bringing it up if not to hurt you on purpose. They never forgot to tell you how much they thought you were soft, incapable, fragile. 

You’d shown them time and time again that this wasn't the case, incapacitating two of the trolls when they were all tied up in sacks ready to be cooked for dinner. You were defending  Ori when you were discovered by the warg scouts before your arrival at Rivendell. You were the first to join ranks and fend off the hundreds of bloodthirsty goblins in Goblin-town. Not to mention how you risked your life for Thorin’s when Azog attacked. You had run in with no weapon, just pure adrenaline and a need to save your leader.Not that you would ever tell him that. Tell any of them that.

Thorin was certainly one of a kind. He was undoubtedly cold, it was his nature, he had lost too much in too short a time to be willing to open himself up to others. Especially when the ‘others’ consisted of a woman ranger he hadn’t wanted on the quest in the first place. You understood though, you too had lost too much.

You wouldn't say that he warmed up to you, but it didn’t seem like he hated you as much as he did in the beginning. You had even caught him smiling once or twice when you cuffed Fili and Kili over the head at their cheeky remarks about your size.

 Over and over again you’ve defended these idiotic men, and yet nothing changed, they still had no faith. Most of them treated you horribly not that you think they noticed. It was hard to ignore their callousness when it came to you, especially compared to the warmth they shared with one another. There were several nights when their words became too much and you had to stray from camp in order to let the tears fall out of sight. But you had promised Gandalf that you would protect them, and if that meant staying even when it was obvious you weren't wanted, then that is what you’d do.

It wasn’t until Thorin, overtaken with his dragon sickness had cast you out that you had finally decided you were done. Done with dwarves, done with being underestimated and belittled at every moment.

“You will never be good enough, you are a burden to all those around you, a burden I no longer wish to be saddled with!” He had yelled from his position on the ramparts as you descended from the same rope that the hobbit had used just moments before. 

Thorin had never been cruel, aloof maybe, but never cruel. You knew deep down that it was his addled mind that allowed this cruelty to spew from his mouth. Thorin may not have known you loved him, but you had thought the two of you had reached a sort of understanding, a mutual bond forged by the danger you’d overcome together. Apparently not.

You joined Gandalf’s side as he spoke to Thorin. You bit your tongue to stop yourself from yelling back at the King Under the Mountain. It wasn't until you heard Thorin’s reply that you couldn’t hold yourself back anymore.

“I will have war!” He yelled.

“You will have death!” You had screamed back “You will have death for you and your kin if you do not stop this foolishness Oakenshield!” With that, you turned and headed back towards the gates of Dale. If there really was to be a war you would be needed, to protect those who could not protect themselves.

You heard the horns of war in the distance and shook your head. Foolish dwarves doing foolish things. You kept running towards Dale hoping to be of some use. 

Arriving at the old armory, you pulled out an old steel sword, one dating back to before the fall of the city. It wasn’t as good as the eleven blades that the elves of Mirkwood confiscated when you were captured, but it was well-balanced. The hilt was wrapped in old black leather, well worn and rough against your skin. 

You didn’t have time to sift for a better weapon, so you took the sword and ran. Bursting out onto the street your eyes scanned for danger. You took in all the rubble, some new and some old from the dragon attack years ago. The screaming of a group of people made you cease your reminiscing and run towards them. 

Taking down several enemies as you run, you finally round the corner into the main square. Landing your sight on Bain, Sigrid, and Tilda. Bain doing his very best to defend his sisters. You run forward without hesitation and trade blows with the monster in front of you, taking him down in no time at all.

“Are you all alright?” You ask rushing towards the girls and helping them down from the cart they had used as a hiding spot.

“We’re fine ma’am” Tilda responds in a shaky voice

“You all were very brave, but now it's time to head to the hall where everyone else is. Take cover, the battlefield is not safe for children I assure you.”

“But-” Bain had cut in.

“No, Bain, I know what your Da has asked of you but I’m telling you to take cover.”

He hesitated but nodded and took his sisters towards the main hall where the rest of the women and children were hiding.

You continue to take down the orcs and their armies as you run toward the main battlefield. 

“Y/N! Y/N!” You hear your name being called, rotating quickly your eyes fall on the hobbit who had become very dear to you over the course of the Journey.

“Bilbo, are you hurt? What’s wrong?” You rushed out

“No. No, I’m fine it’s Thorin.”

“Thorin? What’s happened with Thorin where is he?” Your questioning picked up in intensity.

“The Pale Orc is atop Ravenhill, and Thorin, Dwalin, Fili, and Kili have all gone to kill him.” The Hobbit responded just as rushed.

Without another word, you grab the back of the Hobbit’s coat and drag him behind you. Your eyes quickly scan the horizon, taking inventory of anything that could get you to the top of the Mountain quickly. You spot Lord Dain, on his royal ram, and make a plan in your head.

Hobbit still in your grasp you sprint across the field towards the Dwarf Lord,

“Lord Dain! I need your ram.”

“W-What?!” He sputters.

“I am not asking.” You huff out a frustrated breath and use the hand not currently gripping your friend to shove the dwarf off of his steed, quickly taking his place and beginning your trek to the mountain. Sending a quick prayer to whatever being there might be to keep your love safe. Just long enough for you to kill him yourself.

Once you are sure he won’t fall off you let go of your hold on Bilbo and scan the ground flying past you for any more weapons you could use.

Seeing a discarded elven bow and quiver ahead of you, you steer the ram towards it and scoop it off the ground and into your grasp. Five Arrows, you’ll have to use them wisely, but it’s better than nothing.

You look towards Ravenhill, watching as the dwarves you have reluctantly come to care for dismount their own steed. Pushing your heels into the sides of your own ram you pray to any gods out there that you’ll make it in time. 

You meet a few obstacles on your journey, the occasional orc arrow to be deflected, and even a troll who had fallen right in front of you. Nevertheless, in no time at all you reach the peak and search for the men you came to aid. 

You only see Thorin and Dwalin as they fight their way through hordes of creatures of the dark. You leap into the fray and call out to the two warriors

“Where are the princes?” 

“They’ve gone to search the structure.”

A yell coming from the tower quickly puts that thought to rest. You slash down the last monster before you quickly shift to see a sight that you’ll have a hard time forgetting. The pale orc holds Fili in his grasp. You immediately grasp your bow and nock an arrow. 

The pale orc is too absorbed in his victory speech to notice you pulling back the string. With a deep breath, you let an arrow loose and send a quick prayer that it hits its target. Not a second later you hear a deep grunt and see that your aim is true. The arrow lodged itself deep into the meat of the arm holding the dwarf prince. He drops Fili in surprise and your eyes widen in fear. However, it is short-lived as Fili pulls a dagger out of nowhere and wedges into the stone of the tower, slowing his descent.

Four arrows left. 

Azog staggers back and he catches himself on the wall behind him. His eyes find yours and you try not to shudder at the rage within him. This is a benefit you tell yourself. An angry enemy is a distracted enemy. His rage will be his downfall, you’ll make sure of it.

Fili lets go of the dagger and drops the rest of the distance, landing on his feet and quickly running to your side. Moments later, Kili runs from the tower and practically lunges for his brother. 

“You idiot Fee.” The brother's embrace is hard and you’re a little worried they’ll suffocate each other. Eventually, Kili lets go and turns to you, “Thank you. And I’m sorry.” 

“No need for apologies Kili. Gandalf asked me to protect you, and that’s what I’ve done.”

“Still, I underestimated you, I won’t do it again.” You nod at the prince and clap a hand on his shoulder. 

“I have to go help your uncle, don’t follow me, and whatever you do don’t split up. You’re stronger together.”

“Aye.” They both reply and send a single nod your way.

You clutch your bow and scan your surroundings, a trail of black blood and a broken arrow stem point the way to the Pale Orc’s location. 

“Fili, you wouldn’t happen to have an extra dagger would you?” You turn and ask. He smirks and opens his coat. 

“Take your pick Lass.”

After grabbing two matching daggers from Fili you begin jogging towards the frozen waterfall. You are single-minded in your task, ignoring the shouts of battle from below and the wails of the dying. You cannot let yourself get distracted. Distraction means death and you can’t help anyone when you’re dead.

You come upon a scene that you’d only ever had nightmares about. Thorin and Azog facing off on a barren plane. Neither is holding back and you force yourself to push past the terror that grips your heart. As you run towards your king you begin releasing arrows one after the other. 

Four. Three. Two. One. None.

Each arrow pierces the flesh of the monster pushing him back and back. Blow after blow sends him staggering and gives Thorin the advantage. He swings his sword and slashes at the beast.  But Azog does not fall. 

He yells. He stands and he starts returning blows. They are sloppy, his mace has no aim. It doesn’t need to, the force he puts behind it means he really only has to land one blow. 

You can’t run fast enough to cover the distance, especially not on the ice. Nevertheless, you keep pushing. Your legs burn and so do your lungs but you keep going. You race against time and fate to reach the dwarf you love. 

Thorin falls. The orc closes in. You run.

And run, and run, and run. 

You don’t notice the battle cry that rips from your body, but the orc does. 

He looks up and a sneer crosses his face. 

You get closer.

You pull your daggers.

The orc stands. 

You take a running jump.

Azog runs. 

You smile.

This is foolish. You understand that, not even you as skilled as you are could take down a beast such as this. But you’ll try because you made two promises. One to Gandalf, that you would keep the company safe. And another to yourself, that if you survived this you would stop being afraid, you would tell Thorin you love him and… 

Your daggers land in the Pale Orc’s shoulder blades. You hold on for dear life. His roar of pain nearly deafens you but you hold on still. Ripping one blade from his body you jab it at his neck. He grabs the back of your coat and pulls you away, you scratch him but nothing more. He lifts you into the air and looks into your eyes. The rage is still there, along with smugness, bloodlust, curiosity, and then - shock. His grip loosens and you fall to the ground. 

You scramble away from him, grasping the ice with shaking hands. You stand and turn. Azog is still, frozen in time. Except now, there is a sword piercing his chest. Right where his heart should be, protrudes a sword you know very well. 

Azog grips the blade and looks at you, then falls. He doesn’t get up.

Behind him stands Thorin, looking mightier than you’ve ever seen him. His hair is a mess and there is blood on his face and hands. Yet he’s never looked better. You run towards him and throw yourself into his arms. A laugh escapes you and you let yourself feel for a moment. Feel grateful, and scared and everything you’ve been holding back for the past few days. 

Thorin’s grip on you is strong and you can feel the tremor in his hands as he guides them up and down your back.

“You saved me.” His deep timber pulls you from your thoughts. “Why?”

“I made a promise to Gan-”

“No, you fulfilled your pledge to the Wizard the moment we made it to the mountain, yet you stayed. Why?” Thorin pulls his chest away from yours and attempts to catch your gaze with his.

“Is this really the time?” You ask. 

“When else?” He cocks his head to the side.

“Perhaps after the battle is over?” You fully pull away from him then. 

Thorin pauses, perhaps like you, he had briefly forgotten the battle warring on below you in a moment of joy. But he nods to you and walks back toward the lifeless body of your foe. He rips his sword out of the body. He flips Azog onto his back so his lifeless eyes gaze emptily at the sky. Thorin turns to you, “Perhaps you should look away.” he addresses you.

You simply raise an eyebrow at him. He nods and grasps the sword firmly. From one moment to the next Thorin separates Azog’s head from his body. He takes hold of it and walks towards the edge of the frozen lake, which looks out onto the field below. 

He lets out a mighty shout and hoists the fallen orc’s head into the air. Shrieks echo from below and the enemy begins to retreat. 

You’ve won.

Thorin drops his head and turns to face you, a rare smile graces his face and for the first time since you met him, it truly seems like the weight of the world has been lifted from his shoulders, for at least a moment.

It takes you three seconds to get in front of him, one second to grab ahold of his head, and another to kiss him. Five seconds, five seconds of bravery that you will probably never be able to muster again.

Thorin kisses you back with fervor, gripping you as through he thought you might fade away. Eventually, the need for air separates you. 

“That is why I saved you,” you whisper into the space between you, “because a life without you in it is one I do not wish to bear.”

“You’ll never have to.” is his reply before his mouth is on you again. Where the first kiss was full of passion, a burst of adrenaline between two people. This one is slow, like Thorin is savoring the moment like he is trying to memorize what it is like to have you. The moment is bliss, it's everything you wanted and thought you couldn’t have. 

And then it is ruined. A sharp whistle and laugh from across the lake separates the two of you once more. You turn and see Fili and Kili, holding each other and worse for wear but alive and smiling which you’ll take as a win.

The boys make their way towards you, Thorin never releases his hold on your waist.

“Is it over?” Fili asks.

‘It is now.” Thorin responds.

“Now what?” Kili pops up. Scanning the area around him.

‘We live.” Is your simple reply. Like Kili, you take a moment to look around you. And you really like what you see.

[alottanothing]

This is for @twola, who, about a week ago was having a bad day and wanted someone to write a snip of Arthur beating the shit out of someone who made the reader cry; with the addition of some smutty goodness, of course.

Well, this is the first time I've written publically for our dear cowboy Arthur Morgan. And I simply cannot write anything considered a 'snip'. So here's what my brain calls a snip; over 5k words just for you, twola. I hope this makes up for the bad say you had last week. :)

And shout out to my partner in writing crime, @itswormtrain, for making this readable!

Warnings: mentions of blood, violence, smut (18+ MDNI), oral (f!reader receiving)

The sun was beginning to set over the peaceful hills and sprawling trees of Cumberland Forest. Those lingering traces of daylight caress the rugged terrain with whimsy, casting shadows that dance over the dirt path under the hooves of your young stallion. Nature seemed to pause in reverence as the sun gracefully lowered itself behind the distant mountains; the only sound was that of your horse's steady walk and the murmuring babble of the Dakota River in the distance.

It had been too long since you’d enveloped yourself in such tranquility, seemingly always at the receiving end of Miss Grimshaw’s scalding. Any anticipation of exploring the wilderness or going on jobs with the guys was always overshadowed by the necessity of chores.

When you’d joined the ranks of the Van der Linde Gang, you had hoped you’d garner a little more excitement than a seemingly endless cycle of laundry, cooking, and mending. Sure, the mess in Black Water and the threat of the law constantly at everyone’s heels was a form of excitement, concerning, but still excitement. Though, things had died down since all that, and Horseshoe Overlook was truly an awe-inspiring place to call home for the time being. Even so, camp chores remained deeply understimulating.

In truth, you were just antsy; you always were when Arthur was away for more than a couple of days. Your mind always thought the worst, despite knowing your handsome outlaw was more than capable of handling himself on jobs and in the wilds. But that nagging concern never ceases to occupy your mind. His absence at camp was never more cumbersome than when Grimshaw was barking out instructions, or when Uncle’s drunken singing was so off-key, it scraped against your brain like a rusty old knife. You simply couldn’t stand it anymore; you needed peace and quiet—something to scratch that itching thought in the back of your head.

Admittedly, you hadn’t planned to venture so far from camp, or any sort of civilization for that matter. The towering ramparts of Fort Wallace were in your sights before you decided to turn back. Were it not for the shotgun secured in its holster on your saddle, the late hour would have left you feeling considerably more anxious. Arthur had taught you well, and instilled in you enough confidence not to worry as you trot down the dirt path toward Valentine.

There wasn’t a single soul to be seen for the majority of your journey; your only company that of your horse and Mother Nature’s comforting embrace. You almost hated the far-off glow of a town in the distance, over the crest of a hill. Soon you’d be back at camp with nothing to do but laundry and fret over your lover's absence.

“Pardon me, miss.” You nearly jump from your saddle hearing the strange man’s voice. “Thank god for you, would you mind – too terribly – giving me a ride back to town?”

Your heart skips a warning in your chest as you look around, where did he come from? The question dances in your head as you fight to form the words you want. This was O’Driscoll country—a notion you were suddenly very aware of, and your eyes glance at the rifle still tucked securely in the holster on your saddle.

“I was thrown from my horse, ya see—wild beast took off without me. ‘Fraid I hurt my ankle when I fell.” He explained, garnering a wave of sympathy that clouded the caution in your gut.

The stranger wasn’t dressed in the usual black and green of Colm’s gang: just simple trousers and a dirty work shirt and boots. What could it hurt?

“Yeah, alright,” you said, giving the man a faint smile.

“Oh, bless you, miss. Bless you,” the look of relief on his features did well to settle the remainder of the apprehension swirling in your stomach.

With a firm grip, you steadied your horse so the man could climb on, offering your hand to help him up.

And that act of kindness was your mistake.

His grip on your wrist was like a vice, painful, as he yanks you from your horse's saddle, your boots nearly getting hung on the stirrups. A sinister laugh echoes through the tall trees, splitting the serenity with the jagged sound of malice. Your stallion rears and cries, spooked by the abrupt movement, but the stranger is quick to steady him, forcing your horse into a full gallop toward the glow of Valentine leaving you where you fell.

When the shock wears off, you aren’t sure which was stronger, the wave of anger that envelopes you, or the sudden fear of solitude that brings forth the steady stream of tears down your cheeks. Both feelings were justified, you figure. That, and how utterly foolish you feel for trusting a stranger.

You knew better. Your time with the Van der Lindes taught you not to trust anyone, at least not someone on the side of the road pretending to be hurt. That was the oldest trick in the book. One you’d used several times to con someone out of something. Now, you were out a horse and a shotgun.

When the landscape grew darker as night fell, those shadows that you once looked on with awe and majesty, now loom sinisterly.

Stupid! You scolded yourself, more tears searing down your face. It would be dawn before you made it back to camp on foot; if you made it back to camp at all.

Without the security of your shotgun at hand, your confidence in making it home unscathed was growing short. Animals lurked in the trees around you; monsters both beast and man would undoubtedly set their teeth on you if they found you alone and without the means to protect yourself.

A shiver surges through you, a combination of the onslaught of fear and the chill from the mud you’d landed in. If you’d been riding with Arthur, no one would have the gall to steal from him. And if they did, they surely wouldn’t live long enough to get far out of reach.

You wipe the mud from your hands to your skirts before swiping at the tears staining your face. Maybe someone from camp would notice you hadn’t returned yet and send someone looking for you. Why hadn’t you asked someone to ride along with you, Mary-Beth would have, and she would have appreciated the quiet you wanted. But no, all you needed was the shotgun… How foolish you were.

With a sigh, you work yourself to your feet, boots, and skirts caked with mud and dirt. Even with the weight of self-pity beckoning you to stay planted on the side of the road, the rage put fire in your steps. You would make it back to camp, feet surely blistered, if only to lessen the embarrassment of being robbed.

Anger proves to be a useful motivator as you trek down the road before you, lit only by the white light of the moon. The tears had stopped, but they threaten to spill again simply from how much your feet hurt. That glow seemed to have tricked you; Valentine wasn’t close at all. All there was was trees and rocks and dirt in every direction. You were utterly alone; lost in the wilderness with only thoughts of your naivety to keep you company.

Suddenly, the sound of hooves pounding against the earth resonates through the stillness of the wood, sending shivers down your spine and provoking a new wave of tears. With every nearer beat of the rider’s approach, anxiety constricts your heart, sending a whirlwind of possibilities into your mind. Images of dark strangers conjure in your thoughts, each with a fiendish smile and a revolver on their hip, a green bandana tied around their neck. All your anger drains, as you feel fear creep deeper into your being. You wish you still had your shotgun.

“You need a ride, miss?”

Relief crashes into you like a wave against stone; you know that voice, deep and comforting—kind (to you, at least). This time, it was joy bringing tears to your eyes.

“Y/N?” The look of surprise was to be expected on Arthur’s face as he beholds the sight of you, muddy, with tears staining your face. “Darlin’, whattaya doin’ out here?”

Immediately he jumps from his horse, warm hands gently holding the tops of your arms as he gets a better look at the state you’re in. All traces of his hard exterior are swept away, leaving the softer, more compassionate man you fell in love with.

“Camp was driving me crazy without you. I just wanted to take a ride, but some asshole stole my horse—yanked me off my saddle an’ everything. S’why my skirts are all muddy.” You explain, fighting more tears.

Some of the softness fades, still, his voice is gentle when he speaks again.

“Did he hurt ya?”

You shake your head, “no.”

The pad of his thumb dances over your cheek tenderly as he tilts your chin to look at him.

“Darlin’, ya been cryin’.”

“’M just cryin’ at my own stupidity, is all.” You tell him. “Should’a known better than to trust a man alone in the woods.” 

Arthur takes a deep breath through his nose, nodding.

“D’ja at least get a good look at ‘im?” he asks.

“Mhm,” you nod. “He took off towards Valentine.”

Arthur glanced south and nodded too, “Then I reckon that’s where we’ll find him.”

He places you on the saddle and mounts just behind you, drawing you close to his chest as he gives his loyal mare a gentle kick to urge her back onto the road.

With Arthur's arms around you, the darkness of the forest shifts back into the realm of tranquility. The menacing silhouettes of the towering trees became that of gentle giants, swaying gracefully in the night breeze. No longer did the whisper of rustling leaves hold a feeling of foreboding. The forest, in the ethereal silver glow of the moon, was a picture of peace and beauty once more.

Despite what had happened, even Arthur was a beacon of serenity. He hums as you both ride. It’s the same tune Uncle was singing when you left, only Arthur’s melody instills you with a sense of calm while Uncle’s attempt had you on the verge of threatening to remove his tongue. Every so often you feel his lips press to your scalp, leaving soft kisses in your hair and each one helps to remedy every sour thought plaguing you. It never ceases to amaze you just how tender your outlaw could be. To the civilized world, he was quite literally the poster of cruelty and evil, but for you, he was your knight in shining armor.

Valentine was quiet when the hooves of Arthur's horse turn down the main thoroughfare. The muddy roads, churned up by hooves and wagons, were dimly lit by the flicker of oil lamps. In the distance the stirring of livestock in their pens echoes through the stillness of the air, the only other sound coming from the saloon in the middle of town.

Smithfield’s always seemed to clamor no matter what time of night it was. Debauchery never slept, you guessed. The clinking of glasses and the lofty tune of the piano can be heard as you pass the sheriff’s office, a symphony of merriment in the still night air that lent such disregard to the tired citizens of Valentine.

A few men stand outside, bottles in hand as they lament lost love and glory, belching and hiccupping into the cool air. Horses tied to the hitching post whinny and jerk at reins keeping them in place, and there among them was your stolen stallion.

Arthur steers his mare to the front of the saloon, his heavy boots landing with a squelch in the mud as he dismounted. He helps you down, strong hands circling your waist and steadying you in the soft earth.

“I’ll be right back, darlin’,” he says and tips his head toward your horse. “Get yer boy, Imma go take care of some business inside.”

Before you can utter a word he stomps up the stairs of the saloon, his frame taking on the posture of The Enforcer as he pushes through the swinging doors.

His face wasn’t unknown here, it was only a couple of weeks ago he and a few of the other men from camp had gotten into some trouble. You weren’t there to see the fight, but you’d heard all about Arthur’s trip through the window—now boarded up and waiting to be repaired. This time, you hoped it wasn’t your handsome outlaw cast through the pane of glass.

While Arthur is inside, you deftly untangle your horse's reins from the post, gently stroking his mane to soothe his soft whinnying. You smile when he nuzzles you back, happy, it seems, to be back in your care.

“Was that awful man mean to you?” you ask softly, rubbing the coarse fur of his strong neck. “Arthur will handle it, don’t you worry.”

As if on cue, the jovial commotion in the saloon ends; the happy voices now holding anger or shock. The piano playing is lost to the disgruntled sounds inside and a moment later, the man who nearly ruined your night is thrown through the doors.

His bruised form topples down each step before landing in the mud. You watch, unable to quell the sense of pride that surges through you as you watch Arthur swagger through the saloon doors and down the steps, spurs jingling. The confidence he holds as he looms over the thief settles over you warmly. This act of violence was in the name of chivalry; the man deserved whatever justice Arthur planned to dish out.

“Didn’t need ya to point him out after all, darlin’.” Arthur's words fell from his lips with the ghost of a grin, pleased with the opportunity to put your attacker in his place. “This feller was inside boastin’ to the whoooole saloon ‘bout the horse he stole from a helpless young woman just outside of town.”

Arthur kicks the man as he tries to stand, the thief falling back into the mud with a groan. Folks begin to gather on the wooden porch of Smithfield’s, their faces twisting in looks of both concern and excitement as they watch your handsome outlaw and the man who’d stolen your horse.

“See, normally I don’t waste my time dealin’ with dim-witted horse thieves. Hell, on occasion, I am one. But you see, that weren’t just any helpless young woman ya stole a horse from… that was my woman.” Arthur deals him another kick to his gut, knocking the wind from his lungs a second time as he tries to stand.

“An’ if it ain’t clear already,” Arthur says reaching to pull the man from the ground and holding him by the lapels of his jacket. “I don’t take kindly to anyone hurtin’ my woman in any way. Ya understand?”

The deep timbre of Arthur’s voice works over your skin leaving goosebumps in its wake. He looks so fierce in the flickering light of the oil lamps, the brim of his hat shielding his eyes from you, though you know they were cold, focused on the man in his grasp.

No coherent words fall from the thief's mouth as Arthur holds him nearly off the ground, only a moan of anguish, surely from the two kicks he’d suffered.

“Nod if ya understand,” Arthur demands with a shake.

Anger churns on the thief’s face, but he nods, slow, jaw clenching as he musters the gall to fight back.

“Fortunately for you, all I’m lookin’ for is an apology…” Arthur tips his hat in your direction. “…to the lady.”

The man’s dark eyes glance your way and he sneers, shaking his head with a mirthless chorttle.

“I ain’t apologizin’ for nothin’, especially when your woman is stupid enough ta get her horse stole in the first place.” 

If you cared even slightly about the fate of the man who’d stolen your horse, hearing those words escape his mouth would have caused your stomach to drop knowing the sort of fire he just ignited. But, you want nothing more than for Arthur to beat him into a bloody pulp.

To your surprise, however, Arthur remains steadfast, but his voice is increasingly more sinister when he speaks.

“Maybe ya didn’t hear me. An apology. Now.”

“No.” The thief spat, a fiendish smile turning his lips.

With lightning speed and unyielding force, Arthur’s fist collides with the man’s jaw, unleashing a thunderous crack that has the onlookers gasping. The sudden impact propels the thief backward, his body crashing into the cold mud for a third time.

You expect him to stay there, really if the man had any wits about him, he would have. However, despite the two kicks and the blow to his face, the thief rose from the mud, foolish determination etched onto his bloodied features. Arthur almost scoffs and wastes no time proving the extent of his strength. He strikes him again, obliterating the remnants of the man's fractured jaw, the sound resonating with a deafening crack.

No one rushes to the man's aid when he falls to the muddy earth for a fourth time, wailing in anguish at his shattered jaw. Arthur stands over him, tall and formidable, his presence almost challenging the man to get back up, your outlaw more than prepared to deal out more justice.

“Should’a apologized…” Arthur chides. “If ya had, maybe ya’d have use of that jaw’a yours right now.” 

The man groans in agony, writing on the ground as he holds his broken jaw. 

“But I had ta keep ya from speakin’ ill’a my woman like that. I certainly don’t appreciate when slimy fellers like you use her kindness against her.” Arthur slowly circles the man like a fierce wolf circles their prey. “Then ya had ta go leavin’ her out in them woods, faaar from any sort of civilization, all alone. An’ well. I ain’t takin’ no apologies for that.” 

He stops, one leg on each side of the thief before dropping to his knees, fist poised high over the old leather hat on his head. Arthur didn’t leave your attacker with only one more punch; the man under his weight had committed the ultimate sin in your lovers eyes. He’d hurt you, a crime that warranted the ultimate punishment.

The sound of each punch reverberates through the air as Arthur’s fury drives him to deliver decisive blows. As you watch, pride swelling in your breast, you swear each hit lands with such intensity the ground beneath you trembles. All the folks gathered to watch pass whispers while looks of shock mold their features. Come the morning, the town would be talking again about the stranger who liked to stir up trouble in the sleepy city of Valentine. 

When Arthur finally stands, flexing his surely aching knuckles, the man beneath him is unrecognizable. Blood and bruises distort his face, teeth missing from his gaping mouth. His limp body is unmoving in the mud and you haven’t a care whether he was dead or alive. 

There is a hint of shame on his expression when he drew himself back into your orbit, the coldness in his eyes warming in your presence.

“’M sorry, darlin’.” He says refusing to look you in the eye. In an instant, the Enforcer was gone, leaving only your kind knight in shining armor standing before you, his knuckles red and bloodied from dealing out justice.

“For what?” you say taking his injured hand in yours, wiping the blood from the cuts with a clean section of your skirt.

“For what I done.”

You shake your head and tilt the brim of his hat, looking to meet his lowered gaze. “All you done, Mister Morgan, is protect your woman. Ain’t a lick of shame in that.”

He grins softly, gently caressing your chin and cheek with his clean hand. His expression meets yours completely.

“’M just glad I happened upon ya when I did.” He murmurs and you step closer to him.

His gentle eyes, painted in a delicate watercolor palette of blue and green, softly convey the deep love he possessed for you, along with the ever-lingering fear of losing you. The exquisite blend of tenderness and vulnerability was something seldom seen by anyone other than you. And each time those meticulously built walls of his came down,  you were honored to behold the part of him he kept hidden from everyone else.

“Me too,” you whisper, hoping the look you give him in return conveys the same sentiment.

The lives you lived held no real guarantees apart from a bullet or a hanging rope. You learned quickly to never take for granted a single moment, and this one you certainly weren’t.

“You ready to get back to camp now, darlin’?” he asks, fixing a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

Camp… you almost grimace at the thought of returning to the mediocrity of it all.

“Actually.” Your eyes glance over to the hotel across the way, mischief coating your smile. “Was thinkin’ I should reward my rescuer.”

His brows furrow following your glance, oblivious to your meaning.

Before he can open his mouth to form a question, you kiss him, wrapping your arms around his neck, stretching on your tiptoes to gain the fullness of his kiss. As if on instinct his arms weave around your waist, your feet coming off the ground as he pulls you in closer to deepen the draw of your joined lips. It’s slow and lazy and perfect, his mouth undemanding but firm against yours, making you melt into his very being.

Your head is spinning when he pulls away, placing your feet gently back into the mud, and you can’t fight the smile unfurling over your wet lips.

“I’ll buy us a room at the inn,” you say, batting your eyes coyly. “S’ the least I can do for my knight in shining armor.”

Arthur laughed, heartily. There is an undeniable charm to the sound of his chuckle, as it cascades through the air, enveloping you with an infectious happiness each and every time you hear it. As his eyes hold yours, a playful glimmer twinkles behind them as he swiftly deciphers your not-so-cleverly veiled plan.

“A knight, hmm?” his brow lifts onto his forehead in a deep arch, his smirk firm on his lips.

You nod, “In shining armor.”

He chuckles again shaking his head before scooping you into his arms with ease. You gasp at the swiftness, and laugh too, draping your arms around his neck before planting a kiss on his bearded cheek.

“Well, then, I reckon I should play the part, shouldn’t I, sweetheart?” he says as he steps around your fallen, broken-jawed adversary on his way to the Saint’s Hotel. “Ain’t never been a knight before, just a dirty ol’ outlaw.”

You laugh and roll your eyes. 

He whistles as he trudges through the soft earth for his horse to follow and his loyal mare falls in close on his heel. Your horse follows too, nearly as inseparable from his horse as you were with Arthur.

“Ya ain't old, and ya ain’t dirty…need I remind you who's got mud all over their clothes?” you say kicking up your soiled skirts to get his attention. He just laughs.

“Maybe ya forgot already, but I was on my knees in the mud beating the life outta that fool who robbed you. That makes me just as dirty as you. ‘Sides, I reckon neither of us will be wearin’ them for much longer anyhow.”

His comment, and accompanying bravado surges through you like more wildfire, adding to the flames he’d already been fanning since throwing your attacker through the saloon doors. Arthur’s confidence in his ability to have you swooning with only the low smokey sound of voice and the words he spoke had grown exponentially. Which was both something of a blessing and a curse. You enjoyed the days of flirting and seeing him grow red in the face from your flattery. Now he made you putty in his hands with a few words and a coupling smile.

For that moment, however, you decide it’s a blessing; he’s your Savior in Spurs—a cowboy casanova.

You toss a coin to the innkeeper from the pocket of your skirts and he casts you a key that you manage to catch as Arthur wastes no time making his way upstairs.

In truth, the Saint’s Hotel was no paradise; with its meager accommodations and thin walls, it was hardly a place to find rest. However, that night, that illusion of privacy might as well have been nirvana. You could hardly recall the last time the two of you had a chance to make use of actual walls instead of the canvas flaps of Arthur’s tent. Here, the neighbors were strangers who wouldn’t be casting you looks over the fire the next morning, knowing far too much about what you and Arthur had gotten up to in his tent. You were going to savor every tiny detail unabashedly while you could.

The fire was already burning brightly in the fireplace, warming the room from the cool mountain air outside the windows, adorned with sun-rotted lace curtains. The wooden floor creaked under each step as if to voice its displeasure at the neglect it had suffered over the years. The faded wallpaper, once bursting with colorful patterns, now barely clung to the walls, faded and dusty. The bed, while made with threadbare quilts and pillows, appeared sturdy enough not to break under both your weights, and that was all you truly cared about.

Your boots are the first to come off once Arthur places you back on your feet, discarded with a couple of eager kicks before his hands reach for the fastenings of your skirts. Yours wind around his neck, burying your fingers in his honey-brown hair as you kiss his soft lips.

For all the violence they inflicted mere moments ago, Arthur's hands were so very gentle, plucking at the ties holding your skirts in place, and again as his deft fingers loosened every button of your blouse with practiced ease, leaving you in just your chemise. Despite the warmth of the fire burning in the room, a chill works through you and you sigh, more gooseflesh prickling your skin as Arthur moves his hand to the globe of your breast, thumb sweeping over the covered peak of your nipple.

His featherlight touches make your mind a dizzying vortex of desire. This man, who uses his hands to deal out death sentences, only ever uses them to worship you. His mouth, which often spits out sarcasm and cruelty, paints your skin with tender presses and undeniable words of adoration.

Your hands snake from their place in his hair to the buttons of his blue work shirt, loosening only a few before he swats your hands away gently causing a whine to sound in the back of your throat. He meets your furrowed brow with smirk and a quick peck on your lips before moving your hands back where they were. 

“Feels good, you doin’ that,” he tells you. 

You gently scratch the hair at the nape of his neck. “This?”

“Mhm…” he leans to kiss you again, a slow, worshipful act as though he is trying to memorize every detail of your mouth against his. 

Desire thrums through you ever hotter. You need him. 

“Arthur…” you breathe in weak protest as his lips scour down the column of your neck, his hands pulling your chemise from you. “…I’m s’posed to be rewardin’ you.”

You feel him smile and shake his head as his kisses venture further across your collarbone. When he relieves you of your bloomers, you shiver and moan at the feeling.

“Don’t need no reward, darlin’.” He whispers against your skin between kisses. “Think its you that needs taken care of after whatcha been through.”

Calloused fingers spray over the small of your back as he brings you against him, the hardness in his trousers pressing against your bare form. You feel your own arousal coating your thighs, warm and wet, and begging for the feel of him inside of you.

“Will ya let me do that darlin’? Take care of ya?” his hands explore as he speaks, trailing down your spine before cupping your back side with a little squeeze. 

Your head falls back with a ragged sigh, fingers tugging at this hair. As much as you want to tease and dote on him and show him how grateful you were for his timing, you can’t think when he has you like this: naked and vulnerable to his touch, mind cloudy with desire. 

“Yes, Arthur. Always.” You murmur, lost in the blissfulness of his touches. 

As if you weigh nothing, he takes you in his arms again, hoisting you aloft, and carrying you to the bed where he lays you so tenderly over the threadbare coverings.

You watch, heart pounding against the cage of your ribs as he quickly sheds each of his layers. It is a show you have seen a dozen times and helped with a dozen more, still, your lust-blown eyes gauge him with reverence and awe.

He is truly magnificent, your handsome outlaw; strong shoulders and wide chest dusted with coarse hair your fingers yearned to comb through. Warmth drifts through your body as you drink in every inch of him, eyes landing where his cock juts from dark curls proudly and your cunt clenches in anticipation.

“C’mere, sir knight…” you say stretching across the mattress, smiling, and batting your lashes. “…come an’ claim yer prize.”

Arthur chuckles heartily as he climbs into bed, and you welcome the press of his weight with a happy sigh. He teases your lips with his own, soft kisses that leave you wanting before the press of his tongue coaxes your mouth open. You reciprocate, drinking from his mouth with hungry groans.

Heat pools lower and lower where you want him most; feeling the long pulsing line of him against your thigh was like torture, causing another whine to escape your busy lips.

“Please…” you sigh, a slow undulation taking your hips in search of some form of stimulation.

Once more he obeys, his mouth laying a hot trail down your sternum, stopping to draw your nipple between his lips before traveling further down. The sensation of familiar, calloused palms gliding down the stack of your ribs as his kisses continue their way down, squeezing the swell of your hips and kneading the softness of your thighs have your quiet moans echoing through the room.

Arthur dips his mouth to your center abruptly and draws his tongue up through your slick folds, tasting just how much you need him, and he groans.

“Mmmm, darlin’,” he murmurs before swirling his tongue over the bud nestled at the apex of your cunt. “I don’t do this enough…”

You gasp, a flash of heat pulsing through your center, head rolling against the pillow. He didn’t do this enough, then again, the two of you rarely found yourselves so alone together. And there was barely enough room for the two of you on Arthur’s cot anyway, let alone room to explore other methods of pleasure.

He intensifies his exploration, drawing his tongue over you in wide flat strokes, while your thighs come to moor on his shoulders, heels digging into his back. You feel his shoulders roll as he dedicates himself fully to his task, thrusting his tongue into you, filling you with warm velvet before abandoning your core for the silky nub crowning it. Arthur's tongue curls against it until you shiver and gasp.

“A-Arthur…” your breath hitches, hooking your fingers into his hair.

A low purr rumbles through him as you press against his face, hips rolling in rhythm with his ministrations. Your lover sweeps his tongue over and around your clit repeatedly. Sensation swells low in your belly, feeling yourself nearing the ultimate peak and you tug his hair ruthlessly wanting more. Needing more than just his mouth. His truly wonderful mouth... 

“C’mon, darlin’,” he mutters against your dripping cunt, the gust of his breath billowing over your heated center causing you to shutter.

Without fanfare a wide finger dips into your core, then another, making your back arch and a loud moan spill from your lips at the delightful stretch. For only a moment, your cry reminds you of the paper mache walls surrounding you; no doubt everyone in the Saint's Hotel knows what the two of you are up to, but you cared little with Arthur between your legs eating you out like he was made to do so.

Stars dance in your eyes as you skirt the edge of your undoing. He growls encouragingly when you flutter in warning against his lips and around his fingers.

“That’s it…” he murmurs, voice low and utterly sinful. You can even feel his proud, smirking lips against your center, the image alone snapping the spring coiled low in your belly.

Ecstasy hits you like white-hot heat, tunneling your vision as you jerk against his face, heels digging into his back. His name falls sloppily from your mouth in a flurry of mixed vowels and sounds that hold no cohesive meaning, each one melding into throaty moans.

“That’s my girl…” He grins, removing his fingers to lap up all the juices of your arousal as you ride out your orgasm against his face.

Slowly you come back to yourself, the tremors of aftershock fading as your breath and vision catch up to you. Arthur remains content between your legs, gently kissing the soft skin of your thighs, once more humming the tune he’d serenaded you with on your way into town.

When he smiles at you, lips and chin shining with your nectar, love burning behind his blue-green eyes, you pet his hair, holding that gaze with the same reverence. Slowly a smirk unfurls on your lips.

“Like I said, knight in shining armor.”

[fantasyinallforms]

Let's talk about this scene. It's one of the most popular, and the writers and actors knew exactly what they were doing when they filmed it. This is going to be a LONG, long post because I will be breaking down and analyzing looks as well as dialog. Don't worry, I will add in a cut! Let's start with the look on Bilbo's face. Specifically, I've slowed the GIF down so you can get a good look at his face.

Bilbo stated quite clearly to Gandalf the night before this that he was not afraid of Thorin, but he is not so naive as to think that he will stay in Thorin's good graces after this. Hitched breath, sluggish movement, rapid blinking, and a look of dread on his face. This is a funeral march for whatever future might have been brewing over the course of the journey.

Thorin, by comparison, is almost slow to comprehend. There is doubt about what he is hearing written all over his features. He shakes his head and says "you" like he expected to turn around and see someone else standing there using Bilbo's voice. What I really want to get at is the conversation right after. Because it's always struck me that Thorin and Bilbo are not having the same conversation with each other.

"I took it as my fourteenth share," followed immediately by "You would steal from me?"

Now, it's, of course, important to note that Thorin is at peak dragon sickness at the moment and not in his right mind. That said, Bilbo stealing something from him was truly the last thing he could have possibly imagined happening. He suspected his kin less than a day ago but never Bilbo. I've said this in a previous deep dive, but the way that the dragon sickness reconciled Thorin's love for Bilbo and the gold was to place them in the same category. You don't expect what is entirely yours to be capable of theft. We're going to skip ahead slightly in the next GIF.

Ok, so this is where we start to see the conversation diverge. Bilbo says, "Steal from you? No, no. I'm a burglar, but I like to think I'm an honest one." Clearly trying to articulate to Thorin and the entire company that he didn't do this as a betrayal or out of greed. Thorin's response is chilling and very telling.

In the first GIF, I have no subtitles because I want you to look at his face, not what he's saying. This is the laughter and smile of a madman who just had the last thread tethering him from true madness cut. He descends very quickly from here.

Now, "You have no claim over me" is a very strong statement. In his mind, the gold is his and bound to him in every way. Bilbo, after this, is desperate. His words are desperate, and his expression is desperate. But what's more heartbreaking is the look in Thorn's eyes. Like the real Thorin is trapped behind those pretty blues, helpless to do anything.

Then, finally, after all of this, we have the full snap. The final break.

"Throw him from the ramparts."

This single line gives us probably the most heartbreaking look in the entire movie. To me, even more so than Thorin's death. This is the true "end" the final break. Bilbo's head was bent low. He was willing to take the vitriol the hate. He understood where it was coming from and was prepared for it. But those 5 words ended everything. Thorin is gone, and Bilbo knows that now.

We haven't seen true fear in Bilbo. Not once. The closest we got was when he was about to charge an orc but even that was not fear alone. There was determination and resolve that colored his expression.

That last hollow look in Bilbo's eyes is properly terrified yet if I had to name this GIF I wouldn't name it terror I would name it

Loss.

[conkers-thecosy]

Little character-building HCs I like to use in my fics...

Bilbo prefers ale, and Thorin prefers wine. Bilbo doesn't mind wine and Thorin doesn't mind ale, but they both have a strong preference for the other. When they both order drinks, they have to swap as the bar tender will always assume it's the other way around.

Bilbo has been insulted many times throughout the journey, but being called a "ferret" by the trolls offended him more than anything. It's also subconsciously the reason Thorin calls him a "rat" on the ramparts later...

Thorin sleeps in, and Bilbo rises early. Bilbo is from a farming community, and hobbits would be up with the dawn - how else would they eat first breakfast at 7am every day? Dwarves are more likely to be night owls, I think, and therefore sleep in later.

Thorin's birthday is January 12th! This one was pinned down mostly by the excellent and lovely @ladyrionaofthelake who came up with a whole heap of reasons for the date, after I mentioned I thought he was a January baby, and asked if she wanted to pick the date for me to use in fic!

Bilbo is a hairy little fella - just look at those feet! He's not smooth as an eggplant under all those clothes, for sure!

Hobbit vision is better in the day, and Dwarven vision is better at night. They both have excellent hearing, but a hobbit nose isn't to be matched, and therefore Bilbo is more likely to pick up scents than any other member of the company.

Bilbo is demisexual. I always felt like he was on the ace spectrum somewhere, but this suits my personal headcanon of how Bilbo approaches romance in general. Maybe I'm projecting a little with this one, but well... I just really like the idea!

In the sun, Bilbo tans and Thorin burns. Hobbits are outdoorsy folk, and dwarves aren't, so it just makes sense that way around, I think!

[doolallymagpie]

Might do Rampart Company as a Pride Month project

Get all those ‘Mechs, choose flags based on vibes, paint ‘em up, boom

[underdark-dreams]

Thank you everyone who has read this fic along its life! I finally got up the courage to tie it up with a bow. Here's the final chapter of my Rolan x Tav series Sage and Soldier, with links to the other pieces:

Blades and Spells [Fluff - First Meeting]

Good Night for Company - [Pining - Feelings Realization | NSFW] [ch1] [ch2]

[ch1] - [ch2] - [ch3] - [ch4] - [ch5]

A Strand to Climb - Ch.6

After the end of the world, there's a wizard's tower in the Upper City.

Tags: Mild Angst, Fluff, NSFW | Word Count: 4.8k [Read on AO3]

There was no time to celebrate the death of the Absolute—not when Tav and her companions stood trapped on its back like one of the doomed cities of Netheril. Not when her ears had already begun swimming and popping from the breakneck speed of their fall.

Tav yelled something back to the rest, some stupid bit of encouragement meant to keep them all on their feet. What else could they do but hold on, after all? They were all helpless, exhausted from battle, keeping their footing however they could as the brain’s pulsating flesh descended from the sky.

When they punched through the misty cloud layer below, Tav’s stomach leapt straight up into her throat. They were sailing across the Upper City, and the high spire of Ramazith’s Tower was rushing forward to meet them.

Too soon, her ears rang with the sickening, rib-shaking crash as the dying Netherbrain collided with the column of the Tower. Her shout of horror was lost to the explosive crumble of masonry and the whip of wind. She had only a second to fear the worst. 

The impact spun the creature on its descent; Tav was knocked hard to her side, forced to scrabble for purchase on the monster’s slimy flesh as it careened sideways. Her limbs skated ineffectually over the brain’s folds—she was sliding toward the edge—

Not like this, her mind screamed in protest.

Tav yanked the sheathed dagger at her thigh and plunged it into the dying Absolute. Two hands gripped the hilt with all her might, even as her legs swung over the side of the Netherbrain like those of a limp ragdoll.

“Hells, we’re headed for harbor—!”

Behind her, Wyll’s yell of warning cut through. Tav understood at once—if they hit the Chionthar still standing on the back of the Netherbrain, its mass would pull them deep underwater with the strength of a vortex. She craned her neck blindly.

“Gale!” Tav shrieked for him, mad with panic. What if he’d fallen in the Upper City? What if he was gone, and she was beseeching a void?

Then she heard Gale’s voice call out for the Weave, and his spell hit hard along her spine. Her boots lifted unnaturally, the feet within them tingling with the power of flight—

The Netherbrain banked hard over the central City Wall. They were low enough now that Tav could make out figures with upturned faces—people watching the monster’s fall from the sky and fleeing away on foot, as if all pushed back by the same bank of wind. With one more lilt, the fleshy ground under her veered straight for the ancient wooden river docks.

A sharp glint of hope. If they timed their jump just right—if Gale’s spell lasted—

“Fuck this—” Beside her, Karlach was of the same mind. She was crouched low for balance, inching forward to the edge of the Crown for a better position. 

Tav used her dagger for leverage to push herself crouched. “Aim for the roof of the Counting House!”

She heard the others fighting to their feet behind her. Gravity was accelerating their fall; sharp rain and river mist buffeted against her face as they swung rapidly for the water. But first, they passed beside a wide expanse of flat stone ramparts.

And then—they jumped.

—

Tav’s limbs cried out in exhaustion; her rain-soaked leg plates jangled heavily with each boot tread. She dragged herself through the streets of the Gate on adrenaline alone. 

Those streets were in chaos. Though the battle was newly won, each corner she rounded brought a fresh skirmish. 

Newborn mind flayers stumbled about in swarms, hungry and rudderless without direction from their Elder Brain. Many still dripped with blood from the death of their human forms. Those Baldurians who weren't running from them with crying children in their arms had snatched up tools and blades alike to run the creatures through with the ruthlessness of survival. 

The chaos helped. Grit and blood and thudding bodies distracted Tav from the one sight she wanted to turn her head to, yet couldn't bear to see. 

As her boots climbed the cobbles north toward the Upper City gate, Rolan’s tower crumbled over and over in her mind’s eye. She felt like retching. Her lungs were on fire.

Please let him be alive, please let him be alive, please let him be alive—she prayed to any god who might still be listening.

A child’s scream brought her up short on reflex.

Silfy—the timid one from the Grove, the little girl who cried when Tav caught her stealing a worthless trinket. A young mind flayer was reaching for her, one long-fingered hand directing its neural heat where she stood frozen in terror.

Tav’s teeth ground in her skull. She was so thoroughly fucking done—her longsword scraped out of its scabbard and arced straight toward the creature’s throat. 

Just as the blow connected, an arrow shaft pushed out between the mind flayer’s dark eyes. It crumpled lifeless to the pavement in a heavy heap. Silfy turned tail without a backward glance; Tav squinted through mist and smoke, trying to identify the Flaming Fist who still held her shortbow poised.

“Lia!” Tav could have sobbed in relief. “Thank gods—is Rolan—?”

“I don’t know—” Lia’s voice was desperate as she ran closer. “Cal and I took the Sundries portal to fight with Cerys. Last we heard, Rolan was up manning the turrets.”

Tav could have swayed and collapsed where she stood. Only adrenaline kept her upright.

“I’ll find him,” she shouted above the surrounding chaos, half to herself, half to wipe that terrible fear from Lia’s face. She pushed away into a sprint without another word to her. 

He’s not dead—he wouldn’t die like that—

Would she even be able to find Rolan’s body in the wreckage if he was? Tav’s knees wanted to give way at the thought. She gasped air into her lungs, wresting that image of him out of her mind with everything she had.

When she rounded the road from Flymm’s Cargo, a powerful wall of heat nearly knocked her back on her rump.

The ancient prow of the Blushing Mermaid was ablaze. Flames the height of ten men towered into the gray skies above, unaffected by the steady drizzle of rain. Her steel chestplate grew painfully hot as she forced herself up the crest of the hill.

Shouts and acrid air clouded her senses as she dashed beside the scene. Tav caught sight of Zorru and Danis, leading a bucket line all the way from Gray Harbor; their voices cracked from heat and smoke as they yelled directions.

All at once, like the emptying of a giant basin over their heads, a crash of water fell over the blaze and its surroundings. The cobbles under her feet were abruptly drenched; Tav slipped and careened forward, catching herself hard on both hands in a clang of plate armor.

There was a deep, ominous creak from somewhere above her. Knocked breathless, Tav nevertheless craned her head back. 

The heavy wooden spindle on the ship’s prow that jutted over the street was already weakened from fire; now it was soaked through from the magical downpour. As she watched dumbstruck, it splintered with a slow twang. Then the wood snapped clean down the middle, and the length of it swung downward, straight for her legs.

Tav scrambled forward on hands and knees. Her boots and gauntlets scraped over the wet stones toward safety—

Footsteps were sprinting closer. There was a shouted incantation and a flash; Tav smelled roses as the Weave enveloped her completely for the space of a blink. Then she landed flat on her stomach in the middle of the street.

Thoroughly winded now, she coughed and wheezed for breath. The blaze and heat of the fire was strangely distant from where she lay. 

As her lungs finally filled again, Tav realized she wasn’t just lying on pavement—something soft under her torso had cushioned the fall. She lifted up with a groan to look down at what she’d fallen on top of.

Rolan was entirely covered in soot and masonry dust from horn to foot. The effect was that he blended almost completely into the gray cobbles at first glance. Only when he opened his eyes did she recognize the two golden flames staring back at her.

“Tav!” 

Rolan sat up so suddenly his horns nearly collided with her forehead. His hands gripped around her forearms with bruising force. “The Brain—I thought you’d—”

Her body had begun to violently shake as she took him in, each inch of his face strained with anxiety and streaked with dust and thoroughly alive—

Unable to go another second without him, Tav threw both arms around his neck. Rolan gripped her ribcage in turn, so tight and so long that her vision went spotty from lack of air. She couldn’t care less; in this moment, she would have dissolved right into him if she could have.  

“I thought you were dead, Rolan,” she gasped into his shoulder. “Your Tower—the Netherbrain crashed right into it.”

“Only the observatory.” Rolan’s voice was muffled against her hair. “Never planned to use it anyway—not much of an astronomer—”

Tav could have laughed hysterically if she wasn’t so out of breath. Rolan continued against her neck. 

“I was following it to the harbor, Tav, I had no idea what became of you—but then the fire, there were people inside—”

“You had to help,” she finished. She felt tears streaming fast and hot down her cheeks. The strength of her relief could’ve bowled her right over again. “I know, I know, just—”

They released each other at the same time. The kiss was stained with sweat and grime, yet it was the most satisfying one Tav had ever felt. She gripped Rolan’s face between two gauntleted hands, crushing his mouth against her.

“Lia’s okay,” she gasped out when Rolan’s lips finally left hers. “I met her south of here. She and Cal went with Cerys. Cal must be fine too, she would’ve said,” Tav added in a rush.

Rolan jerked his head in acknowledgement, his expression punch-drunk as he took her in. He was smoothing her hair back with both hands as if the motion was the only thing keeping him grounded at the moment.

“Are you all right?” Her voice was very small.

Rolan nodded at her again. Clearly spell-spent and dusted in plaster, he looked like his own ghost. “Are you?” Despite all that, his baritone reverberated warm and familiar in her chest.

“It’s so quiet,” she whispered hoarsely. Her words fell in almost comical contrast to the distant sounds of shouting, fire, and steel meeting illithid flesh. 

But she could tell from the way Rolan’s eyes moved over her expression that he understood. The tadpole was finally gone—her mind was entirely her own again.

Rolan’s spark was beginning to return. “Can you stand?”

As he rose, Tav wobbled experimentally to her feet along with him. Her knees were bruised from the tumble, and her calves threatened to cramp from exertion—but she put on a brave face. 

Unconvinced, Rolan kept an arm looped behind her back just in case; one hand fastened along her waist. Walking with him close at her side, the adrenaline began to ebb in her veins. Bone-weariness was instead closing in like a shroud. 

“We should find Cal and Lia,” she said, trying to sound purposeful. Her boots dragged with each step.

“Yes,” Rolan agreed. He was holding her very firmly—practically supporting half her weight. “And we should be sure your friends made it safely from the docks.”

Tav gave a mumbled assent. It was difficult to care about any of that now, though she knew she should. She found herself staring up at his profile beside her. 

“Rolan?”

He looked down in concern. “What is it?”

“After that…will you take me home?”

“My darling—” His lips pressed firmly to her brow. “Yes.”

—

Tav shifted on top of him with a mumble.

Rolan froze with arms still looped around her; perhaps the crinkle of scroll parchment had awakened her. 

But then her face snuffled back into the bare crook of his shoulder. The dead weight of her across his chest assured Rolan that she was still fast asleep.

It was a lucky thing that he’d settled with reading material at arm’s length—the small pack of rare scrolls Tav herself had gifted him. She’d been out cold since dawn, when they all made it back to the Tower. It was nearly twilight now, and the sun’s last orange rays were fading fast through the high windows of Rolan’s bedroom. The distant streets had grown quiet as the city retired to nurse its wounds for the night.

Rolan hadn't seen much of her battle with the Netherbrain. Tav hadn't been in a state to tell many details once it was finally over, either. She could barely keep her eyelids open. The only thing clear was that she was completely exhausted from it.

Before anything else, Rolan coaxed several very potent healing elixirs down her throat. Then he drew them a bath and helped her out of her bloodied armor. She leaned heavily against him under the water. By the time he wrapped her in a towel to dry, he practically had to carry her back to his room.

The only hint of her fire came out when he’d tried to guide her toward the bed for sleep. Tav refused to go anywhere near the large four-poster frame that had belonged to the Tower’s previous archwizard. In fact, she declared that the whole thing was to be burned, mattress and all. 

Rolan couldn’t decide whether he was more amused or touched by her vehemence.

Instead, she’d grabbed a fistful of the blankets and dragged them away in order to fall against the massive direwolf pelt rug in front of the fireplace. It was no feather bed, but still leagues more comfortable than how either of them had slept on the road to Baldur’s Gate.

Especially so with Tav draped over him, Rolan had since decided. She’d promptly held him to her and drifted off. Her bare torso was a comforting weight on his chest. Her cheek pressed against his shoulder as she slept, little steady breaths tickling against his neck.

Home. That’s what Tav had called this, hadn’t she? Silently, Rolan leaned his cheek against her hair as he read.

Lia and Cal had moved all their things into the Tower the same day its ownership changed hands. The few of Rolan’s possessions remaining in their Heapside flat had been left in a little pile just inside his bedroom door. Among them was the small leather scroll pouch Tav had gifted him on her arrival to Baldur’s Gate. 

By this point, Rolan was certain he could find a much larger wealth of arcane knowledge in his new library. Still…it felt important to study from these first. 

For one, they were certainly beyond anything he’d managed to teach himself from hand-me-down textbooks back in Elturel. Whoever she’d stolen them from must have been an advanced practitioner of the Weave. Or perhaps just a man with the wealth and fancy to build a collection, much like Lorroakan had been.

They were also a gift from Tav. That simple fact made them more valuable to Rolan than most of the wealth he’d inherited along with Ramazith’s Tower. 

Had she collected them one by one in her travels here, thinking of him while she did? A warm affection bloomed in his chest at the thought. He’d have to ask her when she finally woke.

It was as if she sensed the thought. 

With a deep inhale, Tav arched and stretched full-body against the length of him under the covers. Her hands both landed to tangle in his hair against their makeshift fur bed.

“Morning,” she purred sleepily against his neck.

Rolan decided then and there—he could very much get used to waking up like this. However, it seemed the right thing to correct her. 

He kissed her brow. “Evening, actually.”

Tav raised her groggy face from his chest then, wiping one corner of her mouth. His eyes left the page to watch her blink around his bedroom in a daze. The blood-orange light of sunset was stretching long and dim across the floorboards now.

“Oh,” she said softly, a single word holding great recognition. Her wide eyes flicked to his face. 

“Have—have I been laid on top of you like a dead fish this whole time?”

“I’d never call you that,” Rolan assured her calmly. “But yes.”

Tav looked at him in appraisal for a long moment. 

“I think you like it,” she decided, and laid her head back down over his heart. He chuckled to himself and raised his free hand to smooth the hair back from her face.

Tav sighed happily at the gesture. “What are you reading, Rolan?”

“One of the scrolls you gave me.”

“Oh? Tell me about it, then. I’m curious.” One hand had gravitated suspiciously close to his ear. Sure enough, her thumb and forefinger began tracing along its edges to the pointed tip.

“You don’t have to do that, you know,” Rolan sighed. He’d always been unable to ignore the shivers that flowed down his spine when she touched him there. “I’d tell you regardless.”

“I'm sorry—” Her touch fell from him immediately. “I don’t do it on purpose, really. They’re just so pretty.”

Rolan cleared his throat. “It’s fine. You can—go on. If you like. Just know it’s a bit distracting.”

After a moment, her fingers cautiously returned. She was careful to keep the motion smooth and predictable this time. Rolan focused back on the page he’d pressed to fall flat before she woke.

“This one teaches a technique for arcane portal conjurement. The linking of two locations with a path carved through the Weave.”

Tav swiveled on her chin to look up at him. “Like the one from the Sundries to your library here?”

Rolan hummed in assent. “I've read about wizards who linked much more distant places together. The distance from here to Waterdeep, for instance. It requires a tremendous bit of spellwork.”

“How on earth?” She frowned at him in curiosity. “Where do you put a portal if you can't see where it's going?”

“Not sure yet,” Rolan mused, already being drawn back in by his reading despite her affectionate intrusions. “Most likely it requires two casters to sculpt the spell properly. I’ll need to understand the basic mechanics first.”

“You’ll figure it out,” Tav replied. She snuggled back into to the warmth at his neck.

“Of course I will.” Rolan shook the parchment out with his hand to punctuate the statement. 

Tav let out a quiet exhale of laughter—but she said nothing to question him. It made Rolan swell with pride a bit.

He held her for another quiet moment as the fire snapped and danced in the hearth beside them. Its light seemed to burn brighter and even warmer now, with the sun finally gone behind the horizon.  

When Tav shifted further over his lap, he didn’t think anything at first. Perhaps she was still trying to get comfortable on their makeshift sleeping arrangements.

Then she ground the heat between her legs over his half-hard cock, and a reflexive sound was pushed from Rolan’s throat.

“Tav,” he groaned.

“I’ve always loved that confidence of yours.” She had propped herself up with hands on his chest to gaze down at him. The covers fell back to bathe her lovely bare shoulders and breasts and stomach with firelight. “You don’t understand, it’s like catnip to me.”

“Where's this coming from?”

“What? Is it not enough that I just woke up naked with the most handsome, brilliant young archwizard on the whole Sword Coast—”

As she showered him with teasing flattery, Tav canted her hips harder against his own. Rolan leaned back against the tips of his horns with another involuntary groan; the scroll fell away dangerously close to the fire, forgotten.

“Tav,” he repeated more forcefully, pushing himself up on one elbow. Her face above him was full of mischief. “You’ve just been through hells—are you sure you’re well enough to—?”

“Yes.” She threw her head back in a moan with the word. Rolan’s hands flew instinctively to her hips. She was already rocking and grinding in rhythm against him, leaving a wet patch of heat where their hips slotted together.

“You’re unbelievable—” Rolan held her arms back insistently, forcing her to look at him. 

Tav panted and bit her lip as they watched each other. He was of half a mind to return the favor. Look at the pretty hero of Baldur’s Gate, fresh from battle and already writhing on my cock—but the clear desire between her legs had rather scrambled his own thoughts. 

Instead, Rolan did what he could manage to tease her. “Tell me how you feel right now.”

“Hot.” Her voice was low and tempting; her eyes were dark with desire. “Wanting you. Needing you inside me—”

Even without leverage from her palms, Tav managed to shift over his ridges in a way that made Rolan twitch and shudder under her.

“Good gods—I want you too,” he heard himself gasp out. 

It was all the encouragement she needed. His grip had gone slack in distraction; with one hand guiding him, Tav angled herself up and sank down over the hard ridges of his length.

Her tight, wet heat all around him nearly knocked him breathless. Rolan lay back and ran his hands up her thighs. The firm muscle there led him straight to the lovely swell of her hips, and he gripped each hand with nails dimpling into her flesh.

Strong and soft—Tav was somehow both of those things at once. As she sat adjusting to him, her eyes certainly had never been softer than they were now, moving over his face.

“I missed this,” she breathed. 

Rolan nodded in silent agreement. From tonight on, he swore to himself, neither of them would ever have a chance to miss this.

When she began moving, it was slow and deliberate. Her hips glided up and down to take him—so warm, so perfect. Rolan glanced where their bodies met, watching his length disappearing into her again and again. The sight was almost too much; he felt compelled to close his eyes.

Instead, Rolan pushed himself seated. He couldn't be close enough to her. 

Tav folded her arms around his shoulders at once, adjusting to the new angle without breaking rhythm. Her face was bathed in firelight.

As he took in every inch of her, Rolan caught sight of an old blade scar under her jaw. He’d never noticed it before now. He leaned to press his lips against it.

She tilted her head with a soft sound, opening up the rest of her throat to his mouth should he want it. And he did—Rolan kissed and nipped at the flesh there while Tav rode him, her voice softly gasping and whispering his name over and over like a prayer. 

The rhythm of their hips together increased to something desperate. Rolan felt heat licking under his skin, burning like flame everywhere their bodies touched. She clutched desperate fingers over the deep ridges along his shoulder blades.

“Come in me,” she gasped. “Please.”

That one little word was his undoing. Who was he to deny the woman who had just saved everything he loved in the whole Realms, herself included? 

Rolan forced his mouth away from Tav’s throat to watch her come apart. She was already close—he could tell from the way her mouth fell open, the way her walls twitched and gripped him tighter each time she bounced down onto his lap. 

“I love you—” 

He wasn’t sure she heard with the way she arched and tensed into him—but then she already knew, didn’t she? Tav’s arms were trembling around his shoulders when she came, as if he was the only thing keeping her anchored down to earth. 

When he felt the coil inside him unraveling, Rolan buried his face into her shoulder again. She was whispering praises against the tapered shell of his ear—things too sweet to even commit to his own memory. Rolan clutched at her back with both hands as he finally shuddered and spilled inside her.

He kept his arms locked tight around her middle as the twitching waves at his core echoed and subsided. Then they tipped backward together, their bodies still connected, to land in a soft pile of fur.

For a long moment, the only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the way they both panted against each other. Lying on top of him again, Tav’s lips brushed against the trail of ridges below his collar bone.

Soon enough, one of his long fingers began tracing over her back. He practiced the shapes of his somatic spell components along the empty expanse of her skin. She was so soft and smooth there—so unlike the way Tieflings were formed.

He felt goosebumps raise where his fingers touched. Tav shivered against him. 

“That tickles,” she mumbled into his chest.

“Apologies, darling,” Rolan told her. Some other time it would be very interesting to investigate how ticklish she was. For now, he stilled to press his palm against her lower back instead.

Tav heaved a deep sigh against his chest. “What are we supposed to do now?”

Rolan crooked his head down at her. “What do you mean?”

“Now that it’s over.” Tav propped her chin on both hands to meet his eye. “I can barely remember what it feels like to just…live my own life. You know?” 

Rolan carded one hand back through her hair. He understood the feeling well. 

“There’s still plenty to occupy both of us,” he assured her. “I need to complete the Tower repairs before the next storm, which could be any day knowing Sword Coast weather. And the Lower City is in a state of absolute ruin. I’m sure you’ll have a hundred people knocking on my door come morning, asking for their hero’s help with a hundred different things—”

To his surprise, Tav sat up on his lap in a huff. The motion reminded him he was still softening inside of her. 

“There you go spoiling my fun,” she complained good-naturedly. “Here I expected you to be thrilled at the prospect of finally having me in your bed day and night, with no mortal peril hanging over either of our heads, no less. And you only want to discuss Baldurian civics—”

Rolan felt himself beginning to laugh at her, a relaxed and throaty sound. “Is that what’s troubling you? Tav, I thoroughly intend to fuck you often and well.”

“You’d better,” she warned, but the corners of her mouth had begun to twitch. He wanted to devour her.

“And since you’ve declared my own bed permanently off-limits—” 

In one motion he rolled their bodies to pin Tav under him. It earned him a little ‘oh’ of surprise; he was conveniently still buried between her legs. “You’ve put me in the position of having to be resourceful.”

“Big change for you, that?” Tav teased. But her legs crossed behind his flanks to keep him close. As they did, one of her heels inadvertently rubbed against the sensitive base of his tail. 

Rolan hissed in air between his teeth. He saw her eyes spark with recognition, and leaned down to kiss her senseless before she could do anything wicked with this new information.

By the time they surfaced from lips and tongues and teeth, he was already achingly stiff inside her again. Her hands ran down his front, flowing over each concentric pattern on his chest with open want. It sent a shiver all the way down his spine, from neck to tail.

The way Tav looked at him—the way she touched him as if he was perhaps the loveliest thing she’d ever seen. He decided it would take him years to get used to. Maybe he never would.

Rolan kept still regardless, waiting for her to finish her explorations. All traces of teasing were long gone from her now. 

Tav’s eyes reflected the warmth of the dying fire as reached up for him. She passed one more deliberate hand over the planes of his face, as if she’d like to memorize the feel of them. Her fingers landed to gently clutch around his jaw.

“My wizard,” she said softly. 

Rolan had never been one for pet names; even from the people he cared about most. Those words should have sounded diminutive and sentimental to him, even spoken by Tav. 

Instead…

They fell sweetly against his ear, flowed like honeyed wine down his throat, and nestled into a space that glowed with warmth somewhere behind his ribs.

And why shouldn’t they? He was her wizard, after all.

[pursuitseternal]

Introducing “In the Monster’s Shadow:” Shadowheart x Ascended Astarion dark!fic… where power, pain, and pleasure go well together

Ascended Astarion x Shadowheart (BloodLoss?) | E | 1.5K chapter

Summary: Shadowheart wakes far from alone, in the belly of the Monster’s lair—that monster he has become since his Ascension. And now, she’s in his clutches.

CW: Biting, blood kink, jealousy, sexual tension, general dark!Ascension behavior (assumes Tav left him), defiant Shadowheart

Read on AO3 | Astarion Masterlist

Chapter 1…

🩸🖤🩸🖤🩸🖤🩸🖤🩸🖤🩸🖤🩸🖤🩸🖤🩸

For a dungeon, this was far from the dank and musty one she recalled that day…

Back when he became a monster.

His Ascension.

No, she couldn’t even recognize this place. Warm and soft and bright with torches and a burning brazier. Empty but clean. Of course the thought had crossed her mind during these hours, maybe days of languishing in her binds, that the fire could be used for more torturous activities than heat and light and comfort.

But… regardless, this was a far cry from the mouldering walls of Cazador’s decrepit pit of death. Of sacrifice and death.

Shadowheart had been trying to forget the faces of those spawn, all seven-thousand of them that had died to make her former… friend… into the monster he was now.

It changed him.

Or was it the fact that his true love had abandoned him… abandoned them all really… once the final battle was over. Shadowheart would never forgive Astarion for becoming what he did… that he chose power and ascension over just being him… over keeping that love of his.

Maybe he wouldn’t have become so vile. So evil.

She shook her head, arms beyond numb from the way he had her chained. But that was all she felt. Numb. Such unique chains… somehow the metal seemed softened, enchanted perhaps… but even as her body grew tired, arms reduced to pin pricks above her head, she never once felt the bite of metal into her flesh.

Not that you would mind the edge of pain, Princess…

She could almost hear his voice. Taunting and goading them all. Not towards her in the way it always had been aimed at the one he had loved. He saved all his most lustful comments, his fangs and his body for her.

Not that she had deserved it in the end.

Shadowheart shook her head, clearing the fog that had kept her under. Time passed strangely. There were no guards, no prisoners. No sounds other than the crackle of fire. Not even the chattering of a rat or the stench of neglect. She sighed to herself twisting as she scanned the barred room. Her cell. “For a dungeon, it’s actually rather cozy,” she muttered, meant for no one’s ears but hers.

“One may even mention just how… luxurious… it appears, isn’t that right, little princess?”

That velvet voice. That dripping, seduction, only amplified now with his power—a power that was only magnified in the bowels of his palace.

He crept from the darkest corner, the densest patch of shadows almost materializing into his body.

Just as lean and wiry. Exuding that same flow of limitless power. His face’s lines caught the flickering light, all sharp bone and quirking brows, all glowing crimson eyes and flashing fangs. “I wasn’t expecting your company,” he hissed, eyes narrowing as he closed in on where she dangled. “Imagine my surprise when my thralls and servants found you on my ramparts, crawling around like a vagrant. Come to kill me or convert me, Shadowheart?”

She held her tongue, glaring daggers at him instead.

“I didn’t silence you…” he purred, striding closer slowly, hands clasped behind his back. So unassuming, except for the brilliant red glow of his eyes in the shadows. “I just… relieved you of your magic and charms. Until you find a way to earn them back... or perish in the process.”

“You fucker,” she finally broke, spitting in his direction. “I should have killed you, should have thrown that dagger through Cazador’s dead heart instead of letting you carve that infernal to take his place as Vampire Ascendant.” She strained at her bonds, forcing herself a step in his direction, where he leered at her just out of reach. “How does it feel to be alone, hmm? To have all your friends disown you for the monster you became. Even her…”

There, that’s the monster—the way his eyes flared, his fangs snapping as his hand flew to clench around her throat. “You don’t… get to mention… her… or I’ll…”

“You’ll what?” She swallowed beneath his chokehold, her breath ragged and thin. “Cause me pain? Kill me?” She grinned, craning against the pressure of his hand to shove her face closer into his. “You should know, as well as any of us, I do not mind the pain… I crave it. And if you want to add my soul to your vast inventory, then who am I to stop you, might Vampling? Not even the woman you did love would stop you, and you all but killed her…”

Fingers clawed her chin, jerking her head to the side. His teeth were like ice, chilling and tearing into her skin, but not to kill.

To feed. To drink her blood.

She shuddered. His hands gripped so hard, she had no place to escape. So she laughed. “So this is what all the fuss has been about,” she cackled, not even recognizing her own voice. “I always wondered what it was that Tav craved to let you into her bedroll every night…”

He lifted his mouth, biting down again even harder against the top of her shift. Just where breasts began to peek out.

That made her squeal. “That’s a good little princess,” he purred into her flesh. “I’ll take your cries of agony over your ceaseless, pointless words any day. You don’t get to speak about… her.”

“Why not? she hissed back. “Afraid you’ll have to own up to the way you always kept the corner of your eye on me? Have to admit how you always made sure I heard your nightly activities… made sure I caught you staring at my breasts when I would have to bend over the campfire….”

“Too late for any of that,” he growled into her skin. “Tempting as you may have been, you’ve shown your true colors, princess, sneaking into my palace, intentions unknown, and now…” he lifted his head, his chin covered in her bright red blood, his tongue equally coated as he licked it clean, “…now I get to have you anyway, my enemy, chained so prettily for me to keep here…” His hand swept down her body, touching the skin of her thigh, teasing up the bottom edge of her shift, “…for me to do with as I see fit.”

“And what are you going to do to me, Astarion?” she sneered in reply, totally unphased by the bites in her flesh or the blood that trickled from her wounds. “You going to turn me into a mindless spawn like you wanted to turn her?” She rattled her chains, breasts heaving as she worked herself into a frenzy. Her white shift stained red with her blood, the thin material clinging to her skin as she grew sticky with it and with her sweat.

“Not unless you ask very… very… nicely,” he purred, closing in on her, pressing his body to crush her against the wall, one hand yanking her chains hard enough to make her cry. “Not unless you beg for it, to be mine, little princess of Shar, to serve me as all creatures crave,” his eyes flashed down at how their bodies melded, how her supple curves caved against his hard planes, “in one way or another.”

“You want me?” she spat, “you want what you could have had a lifetime ago, it seems. And what if I don’t? What if I came here to end your miserable existence, to make you pay for the seven-thousand and some souls that made you a monster?”

“Let’s be clear, I don’t want you.” That stung, her face flinching as his voice rang, cold and exacting. “I don’t… want… you. You’re cold and cruel and self-righteous. You care only for pleasing your goddess,” he gave a little disgusted shake of his head. “Why would I want you if you have no interest in pleasing me?”

She held her breath.

“Seems… pointless,” he released her, withdrawing a step. Out of reach again. Close enough for her to smell that scent of him, more powerful and heady than he ever smelled at camp. Undiluted perfume of citrus and brandy and rosemary. He turned on his heel, heading for the gate to her cell.

“You’re going to leave me like this?” Shadowheart screeched.

“Darling, I can leave you however I want,” he gloated, flicking his gaze over his shoulder. “And today, I want to leave you to know the meaning of hunger, a lesson I learned over the course of centuries.”

“Yes that’s right, continue the cycle,” she jeered, cocking her chin in defiance as he turned to face her completely. “Become the next exalted vampiric master in all the ways that made you what you are.”

Crimson eyes steeled over, he raised his fingers to snap loudly. Her chains released, a small table of warm food and clean water appeared before her. Out of thin air.

“You are going to learn hunger, little princess, and I am going to find out why you were creeping around my walls…” he turned to continue, not even needing to unlock the door to the cell to walk straight through it. “There are so many more forms of hunger, Shadowheart. And you’re going to learn them all before we are through…”

And then he vanished into mist.

[alleksistrash]

The Stone On The Wall

What if instead of giving the Arkenstone to Thranduil and Bard, Bilbo waits to give it to Thorin on the ramparts?

Chapter 1 of (?)

I will also be posting this to my AO3 once I figure out how to format over there (it has been so long)

@stellarfoam

@its-night-of-rain

@marvelruinedmyspirit @moralesmarkers

AO3:

Bilbo wasn’t sure what he was thinking, but here he was. Climbing up to the ramparts to join the dwarves, Thorin cursing at Thranduil in Khuzdul. He’d have to ask Balin for some books to learn, maybe use it to surprise the others after this is all over. What was Thorin yelling about? Bilbo had been late climbing up, having difficulty maneuvering around the broken statues used as steps. The Arkenstone felt heavy in his jacket, a reminder as to what they were here for. Thorin switched to the common tongue, bellowing out for all to hear. “I will not part with a single piece of gold from this mountain, not until we find the Arkenstone! Then, I will be king under the mountain. I will have no further talk with outsiders. Leave!” This was it. This was the opportunity to show Thorin the stone, maybe then he would come to his senses and work with Bard and Thranduil. Pulling together all the courage he had, Bilbo clambered up to stand on the stone wall shielding the dwarves. “Wait! Thorin, wait. I found it. I found the Arkenstone,” Bilbo breathed out hastily, pulling the stone from the inside of his jacket to show Thorin he was telling the truth, “Don’t burn the bridges you’ve barely built, we can work together!” With that, he held the stone high for all to see. The company cheered, Thorin loudest of all.

Bilbo was grinning ear to ear, starting to pull the stone closer to him. That was when he felt it, a small stabbing pain in his back. He staggered forward, losing his footing on the barrier. He felt himself start to slip off the edge, just as he was slipping from consciousness. The last thing he heard were the dwarves and Gandalf yelling before he succumbed to the darkness.

Nori was the closest to Bilbo when he started to slip, and he lunged forward to grab the hobbit by his ankle. The others were cursing, and he could see Kili stringing his bow, trying to see what had caused the hobbit to collapse. Bofur rushed to Nori’s side, grabbing Bilbo to help pull him up. Down below he could see chaos unfolding. Thranduil and Bard were trying to figure out if one of their men had attacked while Gandalf charged towards the wall. Once Nori and Bofur had pulled Bilbo up and over the wall, they placed him down on his side while Oin rushed over to check for wounds. As Oin got down to look properly, he noticed something sticking out of Bilbo’s back. He pulled it out and saw it was a dart with a barbed tip, possibly coated in a paralyzing agent. It was crudely made, so it could not have been from an elf. He looked up as he heard Fili shouting at Kili, “Over there! On the side of the mountain!” Kili released his arrow, hitting the orc trying to escape square in the back of his head. Looking back down, Oin rolled Bilbo onto his back to check for any severe side effects of the dart. There were no obvious side effects, so Oin relaxed a little at that. He looked up to see what was happening, only to notice Dwalin and Dori holding Thorin back from throwing himself over the side of the rampart.

“Get ahold of yourself Thorin! We have bigger problems to worry about than the Arkenstone right now!” Dwalin was trying his best to control his best friend’s temper while also holding him back. The Arkenstone had fallen over the wall with Bilbo, but it had been forgotten about while Nori and Bofur scrambled to save Bilbo. Thorin roared in anger, still fighting against the two dwarves. He needed to see what had become of the stone! It was his birthright, the one thing proving he was worthy to be king. He stopped resisting once he heard Gandalf. “I have the Arkenstone, Thorin Oakenshield. Check on my hobbit, or there will be dire consequences!” Who did Gandalf think he was? Threatening a king, worrying over a mere burglar. Still, if this is what it took to get the stone back, he would do it. He shook Dwalin and Dori off of him before turning towards where Bilbo had been laid down. The rest of the company had gathered around, making sure their burglar was still alive and seeing if Oin needed anything to help him. They backed away when they saw Thorin making his way over, giving him room to drop to his knees to look at Bilbo. 

“What happened?” He barked at Oin, before noticing the dart lying beside Bilbo. Anger surged through him again, realizing his burglar had become a target once he revealed the Arkenstone. ‘His burglar’, Thorin thought to himself. He hadn’t noticed when he started referring to Bilbo as this, instead of just the burglar, but he knew it was not a new development. His head began to swim, anger and concern filling his body. He shot his head up, barking orders. “Fili! Kili! See if any more orcs are waiting to attack, and take Dwalin with you.” They nodded before taking off down the rampart. “Oin, take Nori and see if there are any supplies that can be used to help Bilbo. Do you think he can be moved safely?” Oin furrowed his brow before responding, “I’m not sure what was used on the dart, but he should be brought down so I can examine him better.” Thorin nodded, before slipping his arms under the burglar, standing up while lifting Bilbo with him. He made sure to not jostle him too much, unsure of what the dart had caused. Oin and Nori rushed down the steps, Bofur and Ori following, turning around now and then to make sure Thorin didn’t slip while carrying Bilbo. Dori and Balin followed close behind, leaving Gloin, Bifur, and Bombur on the rampart to stay on the lookout. 

Upon reaching the bottom of the steps, Thorin noticed that Bofur and Ori had moved some of the debris to the side to create a spot for him to place Bilbo. Kneeling down, he gently placed Bilbo onto the hard stone. He thought about taking off his coat to place underneath the hobbit but thought against it as he did not want to draw too much attention to the care he was giving. He stood back up, just as Oin and Nori came back with bottles of various medicinal herbs and liquids. He stepped to the side to give them room to lay out the bottles and work, but hovered nearby to make sure nothing went awry.

Oin busied himself with the herbs he and Nori gathered, throwing some into a bowl before grinding them into a paste. He wasn’t exactly sure what was on the dart, but he could narrow it down since he knew it came from an orc. If it had been elvish, then Bilbo was in deep trouble. Oin set the paste aside before motioning to Nori to help him roll Bilbo onto his side again. He lifted the coat Bilbo was wearing, along with the mithril shirt Thorin had given him. The dart had somehow hit him in just the right spot to get through some of the chains in the mithril. It didn’t penetrate deep into his skin, but it was enough to get whatever was on the dart into his system. He could feel Thorin glowering above him, and had a feeling that if Bilbo were conscious, he would feel Thorin’s eyes boring into him. He made quick work of applying the paste, making sure to fully massage it into the wound. Once he was satisfied with his work, he applied a bandage to cover the paste, allowing it to absorb into the hobbit’s skin without risk of it being rubbed off. He pulled the mithril and his coat back down, before rolling him back onto his back. It would take awhile for the medicine to work, if it did, but in the meantime he would try to come up with something for the hobbit to drink once he came to, to help with any pain or drowsiness. Looking closely at the bottles, he picked out one containing a blue liquid, and mixed it with one containing an orange liquid. Swirling this around, it became an earthy brown mixture that smelled sweet. He set down the bottle and sighed, rubbing his face before smoothing his hair back. All they could do now was wait, and pray to Durin that this worked.

Thorin was pacing now, fidgeting with his hands. He was unable to stay still, trying to think of what could have spurred this attack from the orcs. They knew they were coming to Erebor, but how did they know Bilbo would be the one with the Arkenstone? His head shot up at the sound of pounding footsteps, pulling him from his spiral. Dwalin, Fili, and Kili had returned, out of breath. “Well?” He didn’t even give them time to say anything before continuing, “Are there more? Should we prepare to attack?” Kili spoke up, “We couldn’t find any more scouts nearby, but the elves are growing restless outside. What do you want to do uncle?” Thorin threw his hands up in the air in disgust, “Those filthy tree huggers! They will wait until Bilbo wakes before I even think of going to talk to them. And what of Gandalf? Did you see him with the Arkenstone?” The dwarves looked between each other, worry etched onto their faces before Dwalin stepped forward, “We did not see the wizard, or any sign of the stone.” Before Thorin could spit out more Khuzdul to curse Gandalf, Balin interjected, “Maybe it is best that the Arkenstone is with Gandalf for now, he knows of its value to us and will protect it until he deems it safe enough in our hands. For now, we should focus on the elves and Bilbo.” With that, everyone turned to said hobbit, Oin still sitting beside him watching for any signs of movement.

‘Ghivashel, please awake’ Thorin thought to himself, praying to Durin that his hobbit was alright. He shook his head when he realized what was going through his mind, trying not to dwell on the matter. The burglar had done his job. Thorin was just making sure he kept to his end of the contract, give him his share of the gold and send him home. That was all, nothing more. Before he could turn away to continue pacing, he noticed a twitch in Bilbo’s face. Looking closer, he could see his eyes moving behind his eyelids, as if trying to wake from a deep slumber. He held his breath without realizing it, hoping for another sign that Bilbo was alright. His face broke into a wide grin when the hobbit began to groan and his eyes fluttered open, “Good morning, master burglar.” Bilbo looked around, eyes squinted, before landing on Thorin. “What happened? Where’s the Arkenstone? Were we ambushed?” Thorin’s heart swelled, after everything Bilbo was still most concerned about the company and the Arkenstone.

“Calm down lad, we’re still figuring everything out along with you. You just stay there for a moment while Oin looks you over before we talk a plan.” Balin made quick work to soothe the hobbit, as being the oldest he always knew what to say to calm the others. Oin began to fuss over Bilbo, coaxing him into sitting up so he could drink the medicine without choking. Bilbo coughed a bit at the taste, but managed to get it all down without complaint. “That should help with any pain ya got, especially from hittin’ the wall on yer way down.” Oin collected his bottles and stood up, giving the hobbit room to collect his bearings and breathe.

Bilbo’s head was throbbing, and knew he would have a lump wherever he smacked it. He had faith that the concoction that Oin mixed up would kick in, he just couldn’t think straight at the moment. He looked up at the company, “What exactly happened? I remember being on the wall and then it was like a light went out.” The dwarves exchanged glances, before Thorin cleared his throat. “You were targeted by an orc scout. We believe the moment you held out the Arkenstone, they blew a dart at you, we don’t know why yet.” He held Bilbo’s gaze before continuing, “Fili, Kili, and Dwalin went out to make sure it wasn’t an ambush, and came back with nothing. The Arkenstone fell, but Gandalf claims to have it secured now.” Bilbo felt ashamed at this, he had one job and he had messed it up. Bofur seemed to notice the hobbit’s mood sour at this, so he chimed in, “We were more worried about losin’ you with it, so Nori and I grabbed ya before you were a goner.” He smiled at Bilbo, hoping to cheer him up even if just a little bit. 

Gloin came running down the steps, drawing everyone’s attention. “Thorin! Thranduil and Bard are demanding to see you, and Gandalf is back.” Thorin turned back to face Bilbo once more, “The wizard wishes to make sure you are well. Will you accompany me to show him you are still breathing?” He held his hand out to help the hobbit up, and was glad when it was accepted. After making sure he was steady on his feet, Thorin led the way to the passage out the side of the mountain. Behind him followed Bilbo, Balin, Dwalin, Fili, and Kili. He assumed Balin was coming to make sure things stayed civil, and the others were coming in case it didn’t. He had no idea what was going to happen when they got out there, he just needed to make sure it ended with him getting the Arkenstone back.

Next Chapter:

[notallthoseinheadspace]

Another little fic, kinda my prediction for the finale. PG, extreme tension, angst at the end.

Now also on AO3!

HEARTBEATS

“There is… something else you should know.”

The hesitation in Emerie’s voice does not fill Echo with confidence. “I’m sure there are a lot of things I should know,” he answers, aware that he’s growling the words out and making no particular effort to change that. “What in particular are you referring to?”

“What do you know about the CX assassin project?”

Echo knows cold. He’s been frozen in carbonite, suspended in cryo-stasis, and neither of those made him feel the same level of frozen horror as that question. “More than I’d like, but less than I need to. Why?”

-

The stormtroopers shift, all three of them aiming their weapons at Rampart’s head, fingers steady on the triggers.

The middle one tips his helmet, surveying the former Vice-Admiral, before scoffing softly. “Edmon Rampart. Supposed to be in the company of Clone Force 99.”

The left trooper looks to the center one, the movement brief. “We supposed to be bringing this one in?”

The center trooper’s helmet centered again, hands tightening briefly on his blaster. “The defective clones we capture. Orders for Rampart are to shoot on sight as a traitor to the Empire.”

Rampart, already drawing himself up to argue the use of his name rather than his lost title, froze as the blaster muzzles pressed forward.

Three shots rang out.

-

“Get me a secure comm channel,” Echo ordered. “Now.”

“I don’t - we’re not supposed to communicate outside the base!”

“Still ‘just following orders’, huh?”

Emerie’s shoulders sagged, then straightened, and she pointed wordlessly to the necessary panel. “You should be able to have access from there, but it will alert base security.”

“How long will it give us?”

“A matter of minutes. Five at the most, unless something else happens.”

Echo gritted his teeth and bent to scomp in. “Let’s hope something else happens.”

-

“Wh - ” blinking in bafflement, Rampart stared at the three stormtroopers lying stunned on the ground before him before whipping back around to stare up small hill.

Crosshair shouldered his rifle and glowered down at him. “Get up. Wrecker’s injured and we’re wasting time.”

“Wh - why did you save me?” Stumbling to his feet, Rampart futilely attempted to dust off his uniform and stumbled towards Crosshair, shoes slipping on the dirt of the hill.

“I told you I’ve changed, it’s your own fault for not believing me.” Another moment, and Crosshair sighed deeply, reached down, and hauled Rampart bodily up the hill by the front of his jacket, ignoring the slaps the man aimed at his wrist. “You should be grateful, you know. My Imperial self would have thrown you out an airlock as soon as we’d secured the coordinates.”

Seeing Rampart draw himself up and inhale deeply, no doubt in preparation for another self-aggrandizing lecture, Crosshair seized him by the wrist and began dragging him back down the narrow game trail to where he’d left his brothers.

Shockingly, Rampart did not argue.

-

“Hunter? Hunter, come in!”

“Echo? What’s the situation?”

“CX-2 is in play. Do not use lethal force!”

-

Hunter, having tied off the bandage around Wrecker’s chest, peered out of the knot of roots where they’d taken shelter. The energy signature of the base was near enough to be a painful, staticky hum in the back of his head, and the warning sense of danger-danger-danger throbbed like a migraine behind his eyes.

“Do not use lethal force!”

It all happened far too fast - a whiff of Crosshair’s familiar scent, growing closer, Rampart’s sour fear-sweat odor close behind it. A rustle, faint but far too loud in the pervasive quiet that followed the rampage of a large, angry predator.

The sound of an exhaled breath and the squeak of a glove.

The whine of a blaster shot far too close far too close danger screaming in his mind and a shower of splinters sharp and hot against his face as the bolt struck the root beside his head.

A curse, a shriek, the sound of Crosshair’s Firepuncher stock squeaking against the pad on his chest -

“I repeat, do not use lethal force! CX-2 is - ”

Hunter flung out a hand, too late, too desperate, even as Crosshair’s finger tightened on the trigger - “Crosshair, wait!”

The bolt hit home.

CX-2 wavered, for a moment, rifle falling from his hands as a curl of smoke drifted up from the armor over his chest. His crouch on the broad tree limb above them became unsteady, and, achingly slowly, he fell.

The crack of his armor against the branches as he fell was nowhere near as deafening as Hunter’s pulse in his ears, and the broken helmet rolled away as the shadow trooper tumbled to a stop on the ground before them.

Hunter struggled to draw a breath, barely aware of Crosshair dropping his rifle as he fell to his knees beside the body, Crosshair’s hand shaking worse than ever as he reached out to touch that familiar, beloved face.

“ - Tech!”

[rynneer]

Blood of Durin: The Complete Edition

Chapters 15 & 16

Y/N doesn't know how she found herself in Middle Earth, how she found herself among the Company of Thorin Oakenshield, or how she let herself be captivated by the elder Durin prince-but she does know one thing: she's carrying his child.

Updated weekly, or read the full version here

Chapter 15: Broken Crown

so crawl on my belly ‘til the sun goes down, i’ll never wear your broken crown. i can take the road, and i can fuck it all away—but in this twilight, our choices seal our fate.

-Broken Crown, Mumford and Sons

The commotion on the rampart grows louder as you rush up the stairs, going as fast as your diminished stamina lets you. You arrive at the top with a gasping breath, seeing Thorin already holding Bilbo atop the wall, staring down at Gandalf approaching from the gathered troops.

“If you don’t like my burglar, please, don’t damage him!” he booms. “Return him to me.”

God bless that wizard, you think to yourself. God bless that fucking wizard and his timing.

“You’re not making a very splendid figure as King Under the Mountain, are you, Thorin, son of Thrain?” Gandalf observes.

Thorin looks at him for another moment before letting Bilbo slip from his grasp. Balin and Fíli help him to his feet. The hobbit flings a rope over the wall, Bofur pushing him forward urgently, and scurries down.

“Never again will I have dealings with wizards,” Thorin shouts. “Or Shire-rats!”

You flinch at the venom in his words. Thorin’s eyes find you lurking by the wall. “What?” he demands, storming forward. “Do you have something to say?”

He’s nose-to-nose with you, daring you to defy him. You search his face, hardly recognizing the dwarf who begrudgingly accepted you into his Company, who shielded you from fire and wargs, who welcomed you into his family.

“This is wrong,” you whisper. “This isn’t you.”

Thorin is silent for a moment. “Then go,” he spits. “Go join your kin amongst Men. You are no Durin.”

Though you know his mind is twisted by the dragon-sickness, it doesn’t soften the blow against your heart. The other dwarves look at you in dismay.

After a moment, your face hardens, and you stand tall, standing exactly level with Thorin. “Fuck this,” you say quietly, pushing past him, rougher than necessary, towards the rope. “I’m not dying over a fucking rock.”

He sneers at you and turns on his heel to storm back into the keep. The dwarves pat your arm firmly as they pass, Balin squeezing your shoulders. “Be careful,” he murmurs.

Fíli and Kíli stay put, looking at you helplessly. Kíli grips Fíli’s arm. “Fíli…”

Fíli turns to his brother. They stare at one another wordlessly, then he grabs Kíli’s hair and pulls their foreheads together, whispering something in Khuzdûl.

Kíli nods, pulls back, and wraps you in a tight hug. “Be safe, little sister.” He withdraws and starts down the stairs, turning back one last time before vanishing.

It’s just you and Fíli on the wall now, watching the backs of Thranduil and Bard’s troops as they make for their camp. Tiny flakes of snow speckle Fíli’s armor, and his breath billows out in frosty clouds.

“Now what?” he asks.

Your mind whirls. In the book, the Durin clan dies standing together. In the movies, they die standing alone. I don’t know if I can save them all, you think, but I know I can save one.

“Come with me,” you urge, grabbing Fíli’s arm.

He tenses. “Y/N, I… I can’t just leave him… I’m his heir, the crown prince—it’d be the highest betrayal!”

You lean in close. “He’ll forgive you for leaving,” you whisper in his ear, voice trembling. “But I won’t forgive you for staying.”

“He’s family,” Fíli pleads.

Your heart twists in your chest, but you know you need to hit him where it hurts. You seize his hand and put it to your belly. “We are family too,” you insist. “Please, don’t leave me to raise our baby alone.”

Still, he hesitates.

One final weapon. “Fíli. If you stay, you die.”

Fíli’s eyes widen. “You said you’d never tell us our fates—you wouldn’t change the story!”

Your hold on his wrist tightens to a death grip. “I’m tired of pretending like I’m not part of this world,” you hiss. “I’m done acting like I’m not part of the story. I’m not going to let you die here, Fee.”

A look of anguish crosses his face. Your vision starts to swim with tears as Fíli looks from you, to the rope, to the doorway Thorin had stormed through, to your stomach. The anguish hardens to resolve, and he nods slowly. “Alright,” he says with a deep, shuddering breath. “Alright.” He shifts his belt so his sword is along his back and wraps an arm tightly around your waist, hoisting you onto his hip. “Hold on tight,” he grunts.

You cling to his neck and he grabs the rope, throwing a leg over the wall and slowly belaying down. Heights don’t normally bother you, but you bury your face in his shoulder, unable to look at the ground far beneath you. Your bag sways and bumps against your back with each of Fíli’s bounces downward. The descent lasts far too long, but at last you feel solid earth beneath your feet.

No sooner than you land does a hand seize your collar and pull you into the shadow of the wall. “What are you doing out here?” a voice hisses in your ear.

Tauriel! “I thought you were dead!” you choke out.

She releases you and Fíli, who grabs your upper arm tightly, ready to flee. Tauriel looks down at you grimly. “It will take more than dragon-fire to put an elf of Mirkwood down.” Her eyes shift to Fíli. “So, you abandon your kin, dorn?” [dwarf]

Fíli bristles, but you place a hand on his chest and push him behind you gently. “We need to get somewhere safe. Can you help us?”

Tauriel regards the pair of you with a measured gaze. “Is Kí—is your brother safe?”

Fíli nods, and Tauriel visibly relaxes. She looks back up at Erebor, then across the field in the distance where the white top of Thranduil’s tent is just barely visible in the quickly fading light. “Follow me. Quietly now, and swiftly.”

You make your way across the frozen ground until you come to a halt in front of a pair of elven guards. They seem astonished to find Tauriel standing before them, intact, if a bit charred. Nevertheless, they cross their spears to block your path. “Daro!” they cry in unison. [Stop!]

“We seek an audience with the king,” Tauriel explains.

“The king has no interest in communing with traitors,” one snaps. “Perhaps the gornoth will take pity on your plight.” [dwarves (derogatory)]

“Please,” you beg, stepping forward. “At least let us talk to Bard, or–”

“My goodness, could that be the voice of Lady Y/N that I hear?” A wizened hand sweeps open the tent flap and Gandalf steps out, his eyes twinkling in the torchlight.

“Gandalf!” You duck under the spears and rush forward, throwing your arms around him in sheer relief.

Gandalf seems mildly surprised by the gesture and pats your back. He raises a bushy eyebrow when he notices Fíli, and pushes you back gently by your shoulder. “Does Thorin send you to parley?”

“No, we come of our own accord. To seek refuge,” Fíli adds, indicating your belly. He swallows. You know how hard this must be for the proud dwarf prince.

But as you await Gandalf’s response, it occurs to you now that he has no knowledge of you and Fíli’s relationship, and certainly not of your pregnancy. You hold your breath.

The wizard looks down at you, then back to Fíli with a frown. “Come in from the cold and we shall discuss this… development.” He ushers you inside, where Bard, Thranduil, and Bilbo sit at a small table.

The elven king is on his feet immediately. “Why have you brought a–” but his demand ends in a sputter when Tauriel enters behind you.

She meets the king’s eyes steadily and dips her head. “Your highness.”

A small smirk crosses Fíli’s lips at Thranduil’s stunned face.

Gandalf brings forward a small chair, gesturing for you to take a seat. You do so with a grateful smile. Fíli moves behind you and rests his hands on your shoulders. You take one with a squeeze.

Gandalf sits as well, leaning forward with his hands folded. “Am I correct in assuming that…?” he waves a hand in Fíli’s general direction.

You swallow hard and nod. “Things… things happened.”

“And what of Thorin and Company?”

“We can reason with him,” Fíli cuts in. “Now that you have the stone, there’s some bargaining power, surely!”

“It’s dragon-sickness, Fee, there’s no reasoning with dragon-sickness!” you snap.

“Y/N?” It’s Bilbo. “Do you know what comes next?”

You frown and dig in your bag for The Hobbit. Thranduil and Tauriel exchange looks of confusion.

“It’s a… power of prophecy, of a sort,” you mumble, thumbing through the pages. “We’re only a few pages into chapter seventeen…” you trail off as a dark word consumes your mind. “Orcs!”

Thranduil leans forward. “What?”

“Orcs. That’s—that’s it, that’s all I can think about—fuck!” You bury your face in your hands. “I can’t see it. I’ve changed the story.” You take a deep breath. “Orcs are coming. I don’t know when, I don’t know how many, but they’re coming.”

Gandalf rises swiftly, retrieving his staff from the corner of the tent. “Then we must be ready. Is there any possibility of reasoning with Thorin?”

You rub your temples. “I can’t be sure. I think he recovers—maybe Fíli leaving will speed it up?”

Fíli flinches slightly.

The wizard nods. “Ready your troops. Be prepared for battle by dawn. We will not be caught unawares.”

Thranduil and Bard offer their agreement, Bard standing to leave for his own lodgings. He pauses, glancing at you and Fíli with a curt nod. “Congratulations.” With that, the archer is gone. Thranduil is swift to leave as well, Tauriel falling easily into place behind him.

“Someone needs to warn Thorin,” Fíli says. He places a hand on the hilt of his sword and makes for the exit, but you snag his wrist. He twists against your grasp, and you hold tight, fingers digging into his sleeve.

“You’re staying here,” you insist.

“I’ll go,” Bilbo says quietly.

Fíli scoffs. “They’d skewer you with an arrow as soon as you’re within sight of the gates.”

“Well, I did manage to sneak in and out of Erebor without a terrible dragon noticing,” Bilbo points out. “I think I can get past a few dwarves.”

The dwarf just snorts in response.

Gandalf eyes the hobbit curiously, watching Bilbo’s fingers fidget in his pocket. “Very well then, Bilbo. As for the pair of you,” he raises an eyebrow in your direction, “I was just about to put on a pot of tea, and I believe Lady Y/N and her little one are sorely in need of some proper nourishment.” He dips his head and ducks out of the tent.

A long, shaking sigh escapes you. You lean against the back of the chair, weariness plaguing your bones. Fili returns to your side and presses a kiss to the top of your head. Then, he separates out a thin section of your hair, carefully beginning to weave it into a braid.

You let out a small gasp, covering his hand with your own. “Fíli? Now?”

He smiles, gently pushing your hand aside and continuing. “If I’m to go into battle at dawn, I want everything to be proper.” The braid complete, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a tiny, wooden bead with delicate etchings.

You take it from his outstretched hand. The wood is rough and unsanded, but you can make out a crude attempt at your and Fíli’s initials in English, as well as runes you vaguely recognize as Khuzdûl.

He folds your fingers around the bead and sinks to one knee in front of you. You blush—you didn’t think your human courtship lessons had taken hold.

His eyes sparkle as he gazes up at you. “Will you marry me?”

Your eyes fill with tears. “Yes,” you whisper.

Fíli grins and takes the bead back, securing it in your hair and kissing it gently. You yank him in by the collar and press your lips against his. He melts into the kiss, fingers tangling in your loose hair.

Applause from the corner makes you pull back with a jump. You had forgotten Bilbo was still in the tent. With a lopsided smile, you stand and push the hobbit out towards Gandalf and the fire. “Give us some privacy!” you chide good-naturedly.

Fíli chuckles and rises as well, pulling you close. He kneels back down, lifting your tunic and kissing your stomach, making you flush even more. “You take care of your amad,” he whispers to the unborn dwarfling. “Adad’s got to go scout out the perfect place for our wedding.” He grins, and you grunt, when the baby kicks.

You sigh again and kneel with him, leaning into his arms. You’ve changed the story so much, the future is dark to you now—all that is left is to place your faith in the strength of the dwarves.

Chapter 16: From Now On

and we will come back home, and we will come back home. home again.

-From Now On (From “The Greatest Showman”), Peter Hollens

Stray shafts of pale dawn light peek through the tent flaps. You haven’t slept a wink, cradling a cold cup of tea in your lap. You’d downed three already, chasing the rush of caffeine to get you through whatever is to come. The others would not hear of you participating in the battle in any fashion. It’s frustrating, though you know in your heart that they’re right—the battlefield is no place for a pregnant woman. Still, you felt a twinge of dismay when Fíli left you in the tent to go practice some battle techniques.

Gandalf sits across from you, stirring his own cup. “So,” he begins lightly, “how long have you and Fíli…?”

You gulp, dreading the conversation in fear of judgment. “Since Rivendell,” you say quietly. “Everything happened so fast. We didn’t know if we’d ever get the chance to have a real life together. But maybe now…”

“Does this mean you no longer seek a way to return to your own world?”

That’s not the direction you expected the discussion to go. “I hadn’t thought of that.” You search within yourself, as if rummaging around in your very soul. “But I don’t think I can anymore—if I ever could.”

Gandalf raises an eyebrow.

“When I first came here, I felt this… this pull within me. As if some part of me was missing, like I left part of myself back in my own world. Like maybe I would wake up back at my campsite at any second. But now, I don’t feel that anymore.” You pause. That’s only partly true, isn’t it? You haven’t felt that pull in a long time. Not since you discovered you were pregnant. Your eyes grow misty. “All of me is here now. I… I don’t belong there anymore.” It’s painful to say aloud.

Gandalf seems to understand your conflicted feelings, reaching out a hand to pat your knee. “I’m sure you will be well looked after here in Middle Earth,” he comforts you. “Fíli seems quite proud.”

You smile weakly. “He is. Kíli too, for his part. I just hope Thorin–”

“Y/N! Y/N, Fíli, where are you?”

A shout rings out from outside the tent. You leap up and dash from the tent, recognizing the voice of Ori. The young dwarf in his ill-fitting armor huffs and puffs as he jogs toward you.

Fíli sheathes his sword, stepping forward and putting an arm out to shield you—just in case. “Ori? What are you doing here?”

Ori bends over, hands on his knees. “Thorin… Thorin wants you back… both of you,” he wheezes. “He… says he’s sorry… wants you by his side…”

Gandalf emerges from the tent. “Has the King Under the Mountain regained his senses, then?”

Before Ori can reply, you hear a tremendous roar from the gates of the Lonely Mountain. The troops of Dáin, who had arrived during the night, raise up their weapons. Even from far across the field, you hear them clearly. “Oakenshield! Oakenshield!” they chant jubilantly.

Fíli looks at Gandalf. “I think that’s your answer.” He dashes into the tent and grabs your bag, looping it over your shoulders. “Come on, then!”

Gandalf stops you with a hand. “Y/N. Are you sure this is wise?”

You swallow. “I’m not sure of anything anymore,” you admit. “But I’m not staying here if I can be with my… my family.”

He withdraws his hand. “Then move with haste and caution, and give my regards to the king.”

You nod, squeezing Fíli’s arm and falling into line behind Ori, who keeps adjusting his helm awkwardly as you make your way towards Erebor. The shadow of the mountain looms over you, and you shiver. Fíli rubs his hand up and down your back comfortingly. “We’re going home for good, Y/N,” he whispers. “I promise.”

You open your mouth to reply, but a rumbling interrupts you. From the north, you see them approaching, armor clanging and weapons beating against shields. The army of Azog.

A look of horror dawns on Fíli’s face. The three of you break into a sprint, as fast as you can manage. When you arrive at the wall, a rope falls down in front of you. Nori’s face peers down from the rampart. “Up, quick!”

You stare at the rope, then up at him, gesturing to your belly helplessly.

Fíli rolls his eyes and crouches down. “Come on,” he grunts.

You wrap your arms around his neck in an awkward piggy-back, clinging on for dear life as he slowly clambers up the wall. Just as you feel like your arms are about to give out, Nori’s hands grab yours and haul you over the rampart. “Welcome back, lass.”

“Where are the others?” Fíli puffs.

Nori waves down to the ground, where you can see Thorin and the rest of the Company at the front gate, their communion with Dáin interrupted by the approaching orc army. A thrill of hope and terror fills your heart when you glimpse Bilbo’s tiny figure among them.

“Y/N.” Fili grips your shoulders and kisses you firmly, fingers running along your courting braid. “I must fight.”

Throat tight, you nod. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

He flashes you a smirk. “I would never!” Fingering your bead one last time, he turns and rushes down the stairs into the tower, grumbling something about climbing up the wall just to go back down. Nori follows.

Ori looks at your hair with delight. “You have a braid! And a bead! Congratulations, Y/N!” He chuckles. “Dori owes me—I wagered Fíli would propose before November’s end.”

You smile, but it fades quickly as trumpets sounds below you. The orc army is near now, and the combined men, elvish, and dwarven forces surge forward with a roar, Thorin at the head. A tiny blonde head bobs and weaves through the ranks, Fíli hastening to join his brother and uncle. You lift your hand as if he could see you.

Ori taps your shoulder and thrusts a crossbow into your arms. “Just in case.”

“Aren’t you joining them?”

He shakes his head. “We’re the defensive forces,” he says, puffing out his chest proudly.

Great.

You never realized how loud a battle really was—even though you had to adjust the volume when watching the movies as they bounced back and forth between quiet dialogue and triumphant fights. Up on the wall, it’s mostly calm, though you get the occasional shot in at a few particularly dimwitted orcs who stray too close.

You’re sitting against the wall when you hear it—a loud roar of rage, far too close. Scrambling to your feet, you peer down. At the base of the wall, among a circle of corpses, stand Thorin and Azog. Your heart leaps in your throat. Just like in the movie, just like in your dream, Azog drags Fíli by the collar. Hardly thinking, you grip your crossbow shakily and level it at the enormous orc. But you’re no skilled archer, and this is no ordinary foot soldier; your shot lands at his feet. It draws Azog’s attention, though, and he looks up at the mountain.

You load another bolt, struggling against the draw weight. Ori lends you his strength, and the arrow snaps into place. The distraction gives Fíli enough of a window to stab at the arm holding him, causing the orc to drop him reflexively. Fíli rolls away quickly and springs to his feet, taking his place at Thorin’s side. Kíli is there too, bow already drawn and aimed, but Thorin holds out an arm to stop him. This is his fight.

The dwarven king and Azog circle each other slowly. It’s hard to see what’s going on from the wall—you can’t bear it any longer.

“Y/N! Where are you going?” Ori cries as you sprint down the stairs, dashing through the halls from the tower to the gates.

Snow stings your face, and vomit rises up in your throat at the smell of death all around. You push past it, pressing your back against the wall to remain unseen. I just need to see what happens, you tell yourself. No closer.

Thorin and Azog still haven’t attacked each other, but Azog has gained a flail since you made it down to the battlefield. He spits something in Orcish that you don’t recognize, lashing out with his sword arm. Thorin ducks under the swing, slashing at the orc’s torso. Azog twists away and brings down his flail. He narrowly misses the dwarf and snarls in frustration. Blood spatters the snow from the stab Fíli inflicted.

Your breath shakes. They’re so close, so, so close. With sweaty hands, you raise your crossbow again, aiming right for the orc’s back, and fire. This time your arrow flies true and buries itself in the meat of Azog’s shoulder. He growls and whips around, tiny eyes pinpointing you against the wall. He takes a great, lumbering step forward.

Shit shit shit.

But as the giant orc approaches you, a little hobbit appears from thin air, throwing himself at Azog’s feet and causing him to stumble. The orc barely has time to register what’s beneath him before a blade rips through his chest. It withdraws and plunges through again and again with a fury until Azog sinks to a knee with a bloody gurgle. And suddenly, a jagged line appears across the orc’s neck, and his head drops to the ground with a wet thud. He remains upright for a heartbeat before collapsing.

Thorin plants his boot on top of the orc’s body, breathing heavily and gripping a glistening, bloody Orcrist. He spits on Azog’s corpse and raises his sword with a triumphant shout. “For Thrain! For Thror! For Erebor!”

The raging battle around you pauses, orcs and goblins gaping at their headless general. Somewhere, one shouts, and they start a hasty retreat. Bodies drop among them as elvish arrows pierce their armor and dwarven axes cleave through their helmets, leaving few to escape the battlefield intact.

Thorin lifts his head and meets your eyes. He lowers his sword and begins to approach, but stumbles as Fíli pushes past him in a sprint.

“What are you doing down here, ghivashel?” he scolds breathlessly, crushing you in his embrace.

You cling to him as if your life depends on it. “Saving your idiot uncle,” you choke out.

Kíli picks Bilbo up and brushes the hobbit off, mussing up his hair. “That was stupid of the two of you,” he says with a grin, pushing Bilbo forward. He embraces you tightly as well.

You squeeze your eyes shut against tears.

“Y/N.”

They blink open as Kíli releases you.

Thorin’s face is battered and dirty, blood dripping from a gash across his forehead. “I owe you my deepest apologies.”

Instead of replying, you reach out and wipe the blood away from his brow. “You look awful,” you reply with a wobbly smile.

He pauses, then smiles and claps you on the shoulder. “We did it, Y/N. Welcome home.”

[elvain]

At The Heart Of Time

            On the night Thorin had arranged to meet with the Revna and Frár’s secret informant, it rained as hard as it had in the Misty Mountains during his first lifetime. Standing upon the ramparts of Erebor, he heard the echoing screams of his Company carried along by the howling wind. The crashes of thunder in the distance were nothing to him but the sound of two stone giants locked in an epic battle, with Thorin and his Company trapped between them. The battle of the stone giants really been only a trifle compared to the rest of the perils he had led Bilbo and the others into.

            Perils, Thorin thought grimly, that ought to have come to an end long ago. Thorin’s people had come home at last. Their years of suffering and homeless wandering were at an end. Never again would Durin’s Folk be reduced to making deals with Men, to sneaking out of Elvish prisons, to relying on Hobbits to win back the heirlooms of their people. Thorin had done what was necessary to create a happy ending for him and his Company.

            As another flash of lightning glowed against the distant horizon, Thorin wiped the rain from his eyes and bit back a sigh. Perhaps there was no such thing as a happy ending after all.

read the rest on AO3. chapter 17/40. reblogs encouraged & appreciated.

taglist below the cut. requests to be added or removed can be directed to dm's + asks.

@lordoftherazzles @mirkwood @gondolindon @hobbitwrangler @glamdolf

[linasofia]

A Shooting Star

Part 1 l Part 2 l Part 3 l Part 4 l Part 5 l Part 6 l Part 7

Fandom: The Hobbit

Relationship: Thorin Oakenshield x OC Vega

Summary: Lady Vega loves to sneak out to Erebor’s rampart to study the night sky, but one night, an unexpected visitor joins her. It is the beginning of a story whose end only the stars can tell.

Warnings: none

Special thanks to @lathalea & @legolasbadass for all your support and feedback. 💙⭐️

A small gush of wind met Vega, daughter of Vimar, as she climbed the many stairs to the rampart. Since she left her lantern by the wall, her only guidance was the moon. Thankfully, it was a clear night, and the pale light coming from the grand silver coin in the sky was enough to illuminate her path. As she silently entered the rampart, she felt the usual excitement tingling in her body. She knew she was not allowed to be there, but it was the best place for stargazing, if she did not count the mountain slope outside the gate, and it was worth the risk of being discovered. Without making a sound, she hurried to her secret spot, hidden behind a large block of stone—remains from a battle long before she came to live under the Mountain.

Vega rested her back against the rough wall and took out her book from the pocket in her skirt. She was grateful for choosing her warm stockings of finest mountain goat wool; the wind on the rampart was colder than she had expected. Her long winter shawl covered her upper body, and she pulled it tighter. She should have taken the heavy cloak instead, but it was too late to go back now. Besides, she had endured worse weather on the rampart. Vega opened the book carefully, found the most recent of her notes and peered up. Her trained eye easily located the stars of her people’s most important constellation; the magnificent Durin’s Crown. Every year, when a feast was held to celebrate Durin’s Day, the constellation could be seen right above the Mountain. Now, however, when the days were much shorter, it was set far to the west. She smiled. A handful more full moons, and then she would close the circle and be back at the first page in her notebook. She had stood on the rampart many nights and studied the constellations' quiet movements over the sky. It was a fascinating hobby, but not completely without danger. The rampart was high, and the darkness could be compact, at least when the new moon resembled a curved, thin chain of mithril. In addition, there was obviously always the risk of being discovered. Vega preferred not to tell anyone about her own private escapades. Especially not her father. In his eyes, she was still a young girl with little or no understanding of what was considered dangerous. The fact that she followed in her mother’s footsteps and refused to marry any of the lords she was presented to, out of duty, only fueled the old man's conviction that she did not understand what was best for her. Her mother, on the other hand, supported her strong will and constantly defended her daughter’s decision in public.

Vega grew up in the Blue Mountains, and as the daughter of a trusted construction advisor to the king, she lived what many would describe as a relatively comfortable life. Their home was always filled with her father’s construction drawings, books, and strange tools. During her first years, her father would not let her near his precious drawings, but as she grew older, he opened up another world to her, where the symbols, numbers and lines started to make sense. Vega believed it was her father’s work that laid the foundation for her interest in trying to understand things written or drawn by others long before her time. When she found an old map, she instantly tried to visualize the places, and eventually, she started to dream about adventures far beyond her people’s borders.

After King Thorin and his company had reclaimed Erebor, it did not take long before a messenger with the king’s summons reached the Blue Mountains. Vega’s father quickly answered the call and packed his most important belongings. Then, less than a year later, he arranged for his wife and daughter to make the same journey. She still remembered the excitement she felt as a young woman when their caravan set out toward their new home. Vega had heard many old tales about the great treasures of the Lonely Mountain, but also songs of unspeakable grief. She could not wait to see the great halls with her own eyes, and her mother repeatedly assured her it would be worth the long absence of her father. He had an important role to take on as the King of Carven Stone had returned to the Mountain. That was now many years ago, and Vega had grown, both in body and mind, since then.

Suddenly, the sound of heavy boots reached her ears. She drew nearer to the large stone and hid in its shadow. Her heart was banging in her chest, and her throat tightened, making it hard to breathe, as if she was deep down in the dusty coal mine under the Blue Mountains—a place restricted to the strongest miners among her people. Was this the night she finally was to be discovered? A tall shadow appeared on the stone floor in front of her, but she could not see the dwarf for the massive block of granite. She waited, desperately trying not to make any sound, as the shadow slowly moved closer. Then a broad figure walked right by her and stopped only a few arm’s lengths away. The pale light of the moon fell upon the male, and it made the rich fur on his cloak shimmer. It reminded her of a tale she once heard; about a rare fox who changes color—from almost black to white—when the first snow falls. From behind, the cloak in front of her looked vaguely familiar. In the darkness, all things appear to be grey, but Vega instinctively knew she had seen that cloak before. Admired it, even. The man searched his pockets and pulled out a long, thin item. A small flash of light tore the darkness apart, and when he turned his face to shield his pipe from the wind as he lit it, Vega stared—horrified—at the dwarf’s regal profile. The tobacco glowed as he inhaled loudly, and then a thin cloud of white smoke seeped from his nostrils. The dark, pleased hum that followed made something stir in her lower body, and Vega let out an involuntary gasp. The king instantly turned his head towards the dark corner, and her heart almost stopped. With a hand over her mouth, she held her breath.

“Who’s there? Step out of the shadow!” the king demanded, his voice raised, but not to its full capacity.

Vega took a deep breath and forced her feet to obey. When she stepped out from her hiding place, the moon appeared to be brighter, and she gracefully curtsied as the ruler of Erebor’s piercing stare met hers. The look on his face shifted from annoyance to surprise.

“Good evening, My King.”

“My Lady, I did not expect to meet anyone here. What in Mahal’s name brings you to this dark place?”

Vega hid her book behind her back. “I’m simply looking at the view.” She tried to control the tremble in her voice, but the rush of adrenaline made it impossible.

“The view?” The king looked over the edge of the rampart. He could see lights from the city of Dale, but other than that, the night offered nothing spectacular.

“Surely you must struggle to see anything interesting at all.”

Vega gazed up with a broad smile. “Not that view. This!” She pointed above their heads, where countless stars silently stared back at them.

Silence fell heavily between them. Thorin smoked his pipe while searching his memory for constellations he learned long ago, when he was a much younger dwarf. He could only remember a few of them. Back then, Frerin was much more interested in these stars and always waited patiently for his older brother to locate Durin’s Crown. Thorin’s heart ached at the memory. His brother’s death had removed the joy from so many activities, stargazing was only one of them.

He glanced at the lady standing beside him, her chin lifted and her eyes fixed on the sky. She seemed lost in her thoughts, and the smile still lingered on her lips. Her dark hair was braided in a beautiful pattern—the style popular among the women from the Blue Mountains—and then he spotted a bead with her family's name. He smiled. When he first saw her, he was unsure who she was, but as he looked closer, he could clearly see the resemblance. She was truly her father’s daughter, but beautiful and with a disarming smile.

”Is Lord Vimar aware of your late visit to the rampart?” He could hear her surprised gulp, and she quickly turned her focus on him instead. She had not realized he recognized her, and Thorin met her startled gaze with a calm smile. ”Do not worry, My Lady, your secret is safe with me.”

”Thank you, My King.” She smiled back, a sweet and slightly mischievous smile. ”No, my father would probably lock the door to my chamber if he ever found out what I was doing during the nights.”

”Nights? Are you telling me that I could have had the pleasure of meeting you here on other nights previous to this one?”

Vega wanted to smack herself. Why did her mouth speak too much as soon as the king rested his captivating azure gaze on her?

”I…” she did not know how to continue. How could she explain the thrill and the longing to do something forbidden? What it felt like to slip out in the cover of darkness and just be alone with her dreams and imagination. ”I’m afraid that is the truth,” she then admitted.

”Did you bring a book to read in the dark as well? Your eyes must be much better than mine.” The king sounded almost amused when he spotted the leather-bound piece in her hand, and Vega instantly pressed it against her chest.

”It contains only a few hasty notes I made for myself to read, together with drawings of constellations I have seen. It is nothing of importance.” Vega tried to gain control of her own words; she always spoke too much when she was nervous.

”Would you allow me to see it? I am certain your handwriting is neat and a pleasure to read.”

Her heart hammered again, just as it did when she was hiding, but this time it was not from fear. Was the King of the Longbeards really interested in the stars, or was he only being polite? She searched his face for the truth but found only honesty in his eyes. For a short while, she allowed herself to admire his prominent nose and full beard before she remembered she had no right to gaze upon her king like that.

”My King,” she hesitated, but was tempted to share her findings, if only to make him stay a little longer. Never before had she spoken to someone with such powerful charisma, and he made her very curious. ”It is nothing like the maps in the Royal Library of Erebor,” she then heard herself say. ”But I will be honored to show it to you.” Her hands trembled slightly as she opened the book, but when she tried to offer it to him, he took a step closer.

”Please, My Lady, explain it to me.”

Vega had to take a few deep breaths before she mustered enough calmness to explain her notes. When she spoke, the king listened intently, but every time he pointed at one of her drawings of Durin’s Crown, she couldn’t stop herself from staring at the heavy rings adorning his thick fingers. He had the hands of a warrior—large and calloused—but something in the way he let his fingertips glide over her stained papers told her those hands could do more than just harm.

The notes were indeed created for her eyes only, but after the initial insecurity, Vega found herself growing bolder in the king’s presence. As he leaned a little closer to her, no doubt to see better, a faint hint of pine and leather caught her senses, and it made her head spin, just like the strong tobacco she once was persuaded to try. She promised herself after that single time, to never smoke anything equally strong again. But she wouldn’t mind feeling this type of warm dizziness again. Then Vega shook her head to clear her mind. Who knew the alluring scent of the mightiest of all dwarves alive could evoke such delusional ideas.

”Considering all constellations, which one do you find most mesmerizing?” His question came unexpectedly, spoken in a much lower voice than before. It felt very personal, and Vega shivered. She knew what he probably was expecting from her, but eventually, she decided to answer honestly.

”Of all the constellations and the tales told, I must say I have two favorites, next to Durin’s Crown, of course.” She smiled warmly when a thick black eyebrow rose in surprise. ”The first one is The Hammer.” Vega pointed to the east, where nine stars proudly formed a large hammer.

Thorin nodded, remembering the constellation from Frerin’s rare attempts to actually teach him something useful. He was not sure about the tale; Frerin sometimes changed the story, only so he later could claim that Thorin remembered it wrong.

”And the second?” he asked, gently holding the unusual emerald gaze of the lady beside him. Thorin found her truly fascinating, and the way her voice enchanted him, as she spoke passionately about the stars, made him wish she was a member of his council instead of her elderly father. The endless discussions would be much more bearable if she was.

”The second one cannot be seen now. You will have to wait until spring before you can spot Raven’s Nest in the east.”

”Is it easy to find?”

”If you know what to look for, I supposeit’s easy. It’s one of the smallest constellations I know of, but I love the tale.”

Thorin smiled. He wanted to question her about the tale, just so she would keep talking, but he realized he could not ask her to stay on the rampart all night. The icy wind was growing in strength and the hour was late. He had gone to the rampart for the possibility of clearing his mind after a long evening session with the council. Instead, he had stumbled right onto Lord Vimar’s daughter’s secret stargazing spot. He had completely forgotten his manners and did not introduce himself properly. And what was even worse—he had no name on the lady in question.

”My Lady, even if your father sometimes speaks of his family, I do not think I have ever heard your name. May I ask for it?” His words were soft, and less formal than their initial conversation.

Vega stared at the king. Had he just showed interest in knowing her name? She could not understand why, but she had no intention of denying her king. The unexpected warmth in his eyes made her weak. His raven hair rested against the fur of his cloak but as he turned his head, the wind caught strands of it and blew life into the dark locks. She briefly wondered if his hair was as soft as it looked.

”Vega,” she almost whispered, her voice suddenly failing her as a result of her improper thought.

”Lady Vega, you have been most kind and shared your private notes. I thank you for that. But I’m afraid I need to ask you to return to the warmth of your chamber, before you get too cold.”

”Of course.” She averted her gaze, afraid he would see the disappointment in her eyes. The most exciting moment in a very long time would soon be over, and Vega pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. She could do nothing to stretch their chance meeting further.

”I bid you a good night then.” He gave her a short nod.

”Good night,” she echoed as she made a poor attempt to curtsy. Her knees wouldn’t cooperate. Thankfully, King Thorin didn’t seem to notice, or care. All he did was grace her with another warm smile.

”And Lady Vega, do not hide in the shadows next time. I might mistake you for an intruder.”

She mustered one last smile in return. Then she watched him disappear from her—no longer—secret spot on the rampart. His cloak's movement as he rounded the corner was the last thing she saw of him. Vega took a deep breath and the cold air in her lungs made her cough. The king was right; she really should get back home. As she climbed down the stairs and found her lantern at the same place as she left it, she couldn’t stop thinking of his last words to her. Next time. Would there really be a next time?

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