#bald Moon. shiny head | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

reospeeddragon · 1 year

Text

eddie munson x og female character

Hazy Shade of Winter - a Stranger Things fanfic

Act I: Twilight Zone

"Help I'm stepping into the twilight zone

The place is a madhouse,

Feels like being cloned

My beacon's been moved under moon and star

Where am I to go, now that I've gone too far?"

POV: Winter Reid

I suppose growing up in any suburb in any corner of America in 1986 is largely the same. There are all the markers of a "thriving" small town.

A locally owned grocery market, a brick library building, sheriff cars rolling down quiet streets looking to catch teens getting high in the alleyway outside the movie theater. You will probably pass a quaint elementary school just steps from the high school, where kids park their bikes and teenagers park their cars not too far apart. And, of course, it wouldn't be the 1980s without the local video store.

Inside, two teens stock the shelves with movies about young boys riding their bikes searching for buried treasure, movies about girls who sit in class and pine after the jock with the luscious hair who sits with his feet up on his desk one row ahead of her, or, if it's to your taste, scary movies, ones full of nightmares, kids toys gone wrong, or brushes with something extraordinary and extraterrestrial.

The neon, the flashing lights, the fireworks... it all keeps our heads swiveling. We look incessantly for opportunities to waste hard-earned dollars on the latest trend or gadget.

Madonna and Michael J. Fox.

Walkmans and Weird Science.

Hair Metal Bands and Farrah Fawcett Hairspray.

It's the simple life, right? Everyone is looking for distraction.

Mom sets a casserole on the table at dinnertime and secretly crushes on the lifeguard at the community pool. A teen turns up the radio in her room and sneaks out of the window to meet a boy in an idling Ford outside. Dad grabs a can of beer, leans back in his la-z-boy, and laughs at sitcoms on TV.

Follow the trends, don't look up.

It makes people feel safe. It makes people feel normal. But Hawkins is far from normal.

Ignorance can be bliss. We try not to worry too much about the missing boy from the outskirts of town or how the brand-new mall tragically burnt down in the summer of '85. Those are unpleasant events in small-town life, the dark underbelly living under all the newness.

If you can, you will ignore it.

The illusion begins to waver once you leave the big houses with their long driveways and Reagan/Bush 84 lawn signs. If you travel outwards, you'll pass dense trees and black roads littered with potholes.

A deer struck by a car is left out in the cold, taking its last shuddering breaths in the ditch - its eyes watch the first few drops of rain beginning to fall. This is the edge of Americana, not as shiny or as new, but real nonetheless. A lopsided wooden sign at the top of a sloping dirt drive reads:

Forest Hills Trailer Park

Trailers sit at odd angles like monopoly pieces left out in the mud, abandoned by a careless child. They are identical in their desolation, with the same rectangular shape and dirty exteriors. There aren't any pools or lawns unless you count the clumps of grass spread across the dirt like patches of hair on a balding man's skull.

People live here, too, although no one thinks much of them. We all go to the same schools because there is just one Hawkins High and one Hawkins Middle. Inside the trailers, you'll see people working to live. They get home after a long shift to their quiet box and find comfort in a microwave dinner and a can of beer.

The drink is not entirely cooled because the fridges here are always lukewarm, but they open it and sip nonetheless. They're trying to be oblivious, too, although it's much harder when you don't have all the modern comforts to stack around you and create a wall between yourself and reality.

The air smells different here - it isn't spiced with pies cooling on window sills or the scent of fresh-cut lawn. The wind cuts sharper against the exposed cheeks of the residents. Lights buzz and flicker at random. Stray cats drink out of muddy puddles. Sheets hang on clotheslines, billowing and floating like ghosts in a graveyard.

It's quiet here... well, quiet enough. Eventually, you get used to the sound of the guitar blaring from the Munson trailer or the incessant barking from the Johnson's dog. Even the sounds from the woods, the low groans and chitters, it all turns to white noise at some point.

We do our best here. You learn to accept what you can't change and find comfort in dreams and wishes.

I remember sitting outside on the picnic table a few days after the mall fire. Eddie Munson stood smoking on his porch. He wore cut-off blue jean shorts - a chain hung through the belt loops on his right hip. He held his arms out like a tightrope walker, setting one black hightop converse shoe down, then the other right in front.

He walked heel to toe and tried to maintain a straight line, tongue poking between his teeth in concentration. He wore a white sleeveless band tee - the fabric frayed over his tanned arms.

I was dressed in a pale sundress. My oversized denim jacket slipped lightly off my shoulders and hung at my elbows. I could feel the warm sun graze my upper back as my pencil sketched across the blank page in front of me.

"I can't believe the mayor's precious mega mall is now a pile of ashes," Eddie said and set a cigarette between his lips. He took a long puff and tilted his chin up, blowing the smoke upwards.

"People died, Eddie."

I looked over at him and drew my eyebrows together, bothered by his lack of sensitivity. He met my gaze with a small smile. He always found my tendency towards compassion a little naive.

"What's the official story?" He tilted his head. "Oh yeah... Teenagers break in and set off a Roman Candle through skylight."

His voice boomed like a newscaster reading a scrolling headline. One hand lifted, and his fingers stretched to resemble a firework bursting in the air as he made an explosion sound effect.

He looked at me with his lips pursed into a smirk. I shook my head at him in disapproval. This caused his lips to part into a full grin. He jumped off of the porch steps and shuffled over to me. He sat on the picnic bench, his legs straddling the seat, and faced me. I focused on tracing the stem of a marigold, but I could feel his eyes on me.

"I'd say it's a win in the battle against conservative, conformist culture," he said.

I didn't look up. I was unimpressed by his big words.

He smiled slowly and continued, "Now that they've burnt down their precious The Gap and hot dog on a stick... where, oh, where will the moms go to do Jazzercise now?" He waved a hand dismissively and cigarette smoke curled in the air.

I snorted out a laugh. He leaned in, trying to force me to pay attention to him.

I finally rolled my eyes over to his.

"Well, with any luck, maybe the moms will move their Jazzercise club here. That way, you can watch them from your bedroom window."

He scoffed, "Yeah, that's not really my type."

"Don't lie, Eddie. I know you have a secret thing for Olivia Newton-John." I batted my eyelashes at him innocently.

His hand suddenly reached over and snatched my pencil.

"Hey!" I protested.

He leaned back, the pencil twirled through his fingers and rolled along his knuckles.

"This town is cursed, Winnie," he said, using the nickname he picked out for me when I first moved here... even though I hate it.

"It's just another Hawkins tragedy."

I reached for my pencil. He slid backward on the bench and taunted me by swishing my pencil through the air.

I set my elbow down on the table and leaned my cheek into my palm.

"Just like that boy who everyone thought was dead two years ago. Just like the pumpkins that were all poisoned last Halloween..." I shrugged. "Shit happens."

Eddie smiled and leaned forward, offering me the pencil back. I reached out for it, but he snatched it back again and quickly tucked it behind his ear. He slapped his thighs and hopped up on the bench. I looked up at him, bewildered.

"What are you doing?"

He held his cigarette in one hand, which hung by his side, the other slowly raised to his mouth, forming a fist. Suddenly, a discordant jumble of sounds fell out of his mouth, causing me to flinch and let out a surprised giggle. His neck snapped left to right, and he continued to produce a sound effect that I gathered was meant to sound like radio static.

He jumped atop the picnic table, towering above me and looking as if he was on a stage. I held my breath in anticipation, unsure what he would do next.

He began to speak softly into his closed fist as if it was a walkie-talkie.

"Status report: USA, Indiana, 1985..." He enunciated every letter in 1985; his body remained still while his eyes darted around him as if he were observing something foreign. "This is Starman speaking. It seems the American dream experiment has gone horribly, horribly wrong. Somehow, the creatures who inhabit this place made a wrong left turn straight into conformism and unchecked capitalism. No signs of intelligent life anywhere, but... plenty of fried foods."

I stared at him in amusement as he pointed his still smoldering cigarette at me.

"I have just found one being with an IQ higher than 75."

I looked behind me quickly, then back at him and mouthed me?, finding it hard to resist playing along.

"She informs me that the outlook here is bleak. My ship crash-landed and is beyond repair. I seem to only have two options," Eddie sighed.

His voice grew low and sounded defeated.

"One, enter the ranks and join a weird ritual where men sweat on each other. I believe they call it a sports team." His eyebrows knitted together. "The creatures of the male variety here seem devoid of any basic communication skills or emotional depth. They seem to have designed an entire system of ball throwing and back-slapping just to allow them to touch one another and express affection without being judged."

He made a good point, and I found myself nodding my head in agreement.

"My second option..." he continued. "Fling myself off the nearest cliff and promptly dive into the unknown."

He lowered his closed fist and raised the cigarette, sucking the smoke into his lungs. He thought to himself for a moment.

He rolled his neck around as if coming to a difficult decision.

He cleared his throat and continued, "This is Starman again. Informing HQ that this will be my last transmission."

I watched as he sauntered to the end of the picnic table, the toes of his shoes tipped past the edge.

He raised his head - a steely determination lit up his deep brown eyes.

Once more, he raised the closed fist to his lips and whispered wistfully, "It has been a pleasure serving with you boys. Starman, signing off. Over and out."

His voice mimicked static again as if the "radio" call had abruptly ended.

He stood on the edge of the table and flicked his cigarette. He turned and gave me a wink and a two-fingered salute, then dramatically fell forward to his "death". I gasped loudly in surprise as he plummeted forward and fell onto his back.

I watched as he lay convulsing on the ground and pretended like blood was spurting from his chest. I slowly brought my hands together in light applause.

"Outstanding performance, Eddie," I shook my head in amusement at his theatrics. "But I think Sigourney Weaver made a better point about the destruction of humanity... and she looked better doing it."

He was still on his back in the dirt, but his eyes rolled over to meet mine. A look of offense passed over his face, and he slowly held up one middle finger in my direction. I laughed and slammed my sketchbook shut.

Was he dramatic? Yes. But he's not totally wrong.

Hawkins is full of people pretending and conforming, but not Eddie Munson. He'll stand on the cafeteria tables at school and give a loud rebel yell while the boys in his Hellfire club are sitting there, watching him with sparkling admiration. Most days, I wish I was more like him. Instead, I clutch my books and walk down the hallway, observing life blurring past me.

Forest Hills Trailer Park's homes are certainly not split-level ranch houses on Oak Street. The first two trailers you'll see as you drive in stand opposite of each other, separated by a patch of dirt. In the back bedroom of the one on the right, a teen boy headbangs while Poison blares in his room. Across the way, a girl sits at her desk and sketches a wildflower while a Fleetwood Mac vinyl spins on the console in the corner.

more chapters published on Wattpad & ao3

title: Hazy Shade of Winter

author: REOspeeddragon

#eddiemunson #stranger things #eddie munson fic #strangerthingsfic #fanfic #eddiemunsonfanfic #strangerthings4 #eddiemunsondeservesbetter #fanficstrangerthings #ogfemalecharacter #Spotify

3 notes · View notes

sturgeontime · 1 year

Text

all the astrology bitches love jack manifold because his shiny bald head reminds them of the moon

#jack manifold

1 note · View note

lady-snow-flower · 7 months

Text

A Weekend at the Hauntley Inn || Part One: Friday

Summary: A familiar stranger checks into the inn on Halloween Weekend...

ft. the Hauntley Staff (@wolf-innsheepsclothing)

It was Halloween Weekend at the Hauntley, a most beautiful and decadent time for a haunted house and all its beloved monsters. Those monsters had been waiting all year for this very weekend. It was a time for them to shed their human faces, stretch out their wicked bodies, and finally relax. One by one, the guests arrived with smiles as wide as half-moons, and Snow exchanged those smiles for room keys. For one weekend, they’d fill her dining room with laughter and conversation – roam the gardens – drink by the fire– and this old place would sing with life. They’d be more than friends to the Hauntley. They’d be part of the family.

And that was why Snow was right there at the front desk, overseeing check-in, even if it wasn’t normally her job. Oh, she’d help out here and there; Snow did so love working the front desk. Whenever she did, it brought her right back to when she was just 18, starting her first ever job at the Green Lake House BnB. She liked the idea that she’d be the first thing that her guests would see– like a perfect first sentence in a novel, or a welcome mat at the door that hinted at the things to come.

“Just two more guests,” said Snow. “Oh, but the Greywoods called, that’s right– they’ll be a midnight check-in.” She nodded, pen scratching over the registrar to make that note. “ I’ll need to have a fresh brew ready for them. I should start that–” Snow checked her watch “--hm, in about an hour? Oh shoot, I’ll run into suppertime then… I could probably squeeze it in after–”

The front door opened as the penultimate guest stepped through. Snow glanced the figure’s way and like always, easily found her smile, as the stranger meticulously cleaned his boots.

Then, the man looked up and Snow’s smile vanished.

She knew that man.

At first, she thought what any innkeeper of a haunted house would think: this man was a ghost. He drifted toward her, unfolding a past that Snow had tried to shove under her bed, or in the back of her closet, all those places where children tried to hide their mess. Yet he’d escaped there somehow, the way that real-life Bogeymen always do. He stopped in front of the desk, lip twitching in a smile she couldn’t read. His chin was covered with days-old stubble, but as he removed his hat, the light bounced off the top of his shiny, pale bald head.

I’m the bald devil. Ha! You’ll know. That was how he’d signed the first letter to her.

“Hullo there, flower,” greeted John in his Irish lilt. “Fascinating the twists and turns the roads take us, eh? For me to show up on your doorstep like this.”

Snow’s heart beat so quickly, she thought she might faint. All she could manage was, “Oh, yes.”

John chuckled. “I see you didn’t recognize my name.”

Snow glanced down at her registrar. “You– you never gave me your last name. Before.”

“Ah. So I didn’t. That sounds like me.” John put his hand down on the desk. His knuckles were rough and dirty (Snow could only imagine where he had been. In what graveyards, digging up what bodies?) “But I didn’t mean to surprise you, flower. What a lovely little place this is, eh?” John whistled, leaning against the desk with more of his body weight. “The pictures on your website don't do it justice.”

Next to Snow, Demi cleared his throat. Instantly, that pulled Snow out of her shock. She started.

“Right, well– we should get you set up in your room then!” Her voice seemed to come from somewhere else– from that 18-year-old version of herself, maybe, who stood at the front desk of the Green Lake BnB and never hesitated. Xuemei had no reasons to hesitate, no reasons not to give her smile. She hadn’t touched any dead bodies. She hadn’t met any necromancers. She was just a girl.

Snow fumbled with her papers enough that Demi quickly stepped in. “Here we are, if you could just sign these,” said Demi smoothly.

Snow watched John’s thick fingers grip the pen. His signature was wobbly and clumsy. She wondered if he was a bit drunk already. (He had always been a bit drunk, even when teaching her.)

“And just these as well, please,” continued Demi, as Snow folded her hands in front of herself. “And now the card on file– the one you used to place the reservation. Thank you! Alright, just one more moment, sir…” The keys clacked on the computer. Demi glanced toward Snow, a question in his eyes. She smiled at him as reassurance, but that smile was a lie.

“Alright. You’ll be in the Cinnamon Room. Here are your keys. It’s on the second floor. Do you have any questions for us?” Demi asked.

John gripped the keys and grinned. “Not at the moment.” He put his hat back on, tipping it in Snow’s direction. “I’ll see you later.”

And then Snow’s Bogeyman slipped upstairs, each step creaking as he went. As soon as he was gone, Snow sat back onto the stool behind the desk. What had she done, letting her own personal demon into the inn?

“Miss Song?” murmured Demi.

Snow glanced up at him. “It’s… I’ll tell you later. In the kitchen. Will you get Wolf for me?”

But first, there were guests to attend to.

Snow had always loved that about hospitality– that no matter the disaster, you still had to make the beds, fetch the sheets, cook dinner, and throw open the windows to let the beautiful moonlight in. It was a Friday, same as ever, which meant it was busy and bustling and there was so much to do. Guests had immediate requests and Bones had to start the feast. Snow wanted to talk to her staff right away, but it had to wait. Because her guests were always her priority. Even John.

It was only until the dining room was filled with all the Hauntleys’ guests that the Hauntley staff huddled together there in the kitchen for an impromptu staff meeting where she told them exactly who the man was – John, her first necromancer teacher.

“Is he dangerous?” Demi asked the obvious question. But there wasn’t an obvious answer. At least, not to Snow.

And so she was quiet, first opening the door to the kitchen ever so slightly to peer out at dinner taking place. She found John easily. He’d grabbed one of the tables around the perimeter, ordered the lobster, and had already polished off one glass of ice water. He was working on his second, as he ate in big bites and didn’t talk to anyone else, but that wasn’t unusual. Many people came to the Hauntley Inn alone.

Snow let the door swing closed again and she told them the truth. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. He… we just didn’t end things very well,” she admitted.

The answer darkened Wolf’s eyes. She knew what he was thinking. She was thinking about it too.

The heart. The skull. The loosened hubcaps. Could those things have been John? The pieces fit together, making Snow’s stomach twist, but the motive still made little sense. Why would one necromancer attack another? John had always been so secretive and paranoid– terrified he’d one day be caught and painted the villain. He’d chased Snow away because he believed she was a risk to him. So why would he do something so risky as send her a bleeding heart? Why contact her in any way at all?

“And why would he check in?” Snow asked. “He’s been so careful up until this point, if the threats are him. And now he’s just… going to check in?”

“He could just be batshit crazy,” said Gregoria, a hand on her hip. She clucked her tongue. “I dunno, Miss Song. Maybe just let Wolf throw the bloke out. We don’t need his business when we have a full house.”

“We wouldn’t have a full house if we threw him out…” muttered Demi.

“Well, personally I don’t want a potential ax murderer staying in the Cinnamon room,” Gregoria shot back.

Snow ignored them. “If it is him, then maybe we’ll find out why he’s doing all this anyway. Or he’ll have some demand we can meet and then we can put this whole thing behind us,” said Snow. “Let’s… let’s just give him tonight. Wolf will watch him and Gregoria, you can watch him too, if he walks the grounds. He’s outnumbered here anyway.”

“Are you sure?” Wolf asked. It was the first thing he had said since the meeting had started.

Snow glanced up at him and hesitated again. Gregoria was probably right. It was easier to throw John out. It was safer to throw John out.

But he was a guest of the inn. He had paid. And right now, all he was doing was eating lobster. He was a guest, and Snow was the innkeeper, and she had a duty to him.

“Yes,” she answered after a beat. “Yes, I’m sure. Let’s all talk tomorrow. And until then, let’s do our jobs, okay? It’s our biggest weekend, everyone. Lots to do.”

The meeting was adjourned.

#story #a weekend at the hauntleys #snow wolf #all hallows eve arc

0 notes

toussainttwins · 8 months

Note

Dear ladies, what do you think about motherhood? Would any of you like to be a mother someday?

NISTANA Dear Anonymous, Another question, regarding children, was answered by my lambkin Tanna. Therefore, I hope you would not mind, if I will be the one to take yours upon my - especially shiny today! - horns.

We are not sure how children come to be, why one are beautious and the other ones are horrendous to behold. We succubi have no mother or father to speak of, and we cared not to ask our older sisters, who looked after us and brought us nuts and berries, merry songs and wise warnings when we were little does. Naturally, we were more interested when our horns would grow twisted and large and when we could begin sipping tasty emotions. Young succubi, as you must be aware, have a different, rather bland, diet. You can say that the forest, where we lived all together, was our father. As for mother, we never thought of one, until a human woman, who taught us how to spin, sew and tailor began telling us fairy-tales. She lived in the village close to our forest and we thought her to be their Unseen, for she dwelled in loneliness, had many lines across her face and inspired fear and high regard among her kin. She caught us one evening, when we were trying to ...borrow... a jam tart from a windowsill for Natanis. Ah, we thought both our tails and horns were going to fall off! So keen was our terror! Luckily, she was also kind, and our punishment was a merry one. We mended beautiful clothes for her and made pretty patterns in silk, when we leaned a few tricks from her hand. Her eyesight was poor and she thought us to be little daughters of a woodsman who lived at the other end of the forest. Succubi are quick to learn anything, if it catches our fancy long enough, and our tiny horned heads were captivated by long dresses and bright ribbons, like we had never seen in the forest! In our lady's tales mothers were often rather grand. One even turned into a tree and gave her forlorn daughter three wonderous dresses to enjoy herself at a ball! I and Natanis liked this tale a lot. The other one was imprisoned by Vodyanoi king because she could create wonderful clothes with her needle, but she escaped the underwater kingdom because the king was ugly, and didn't let her see or play with her child, whom she loved dearly. When our lady came to know we were at loss what a mother is, she grew cross in her manner, but we both tasted a great sadness in her. That summer she taught us how to make special patterns at the sleeves and the collar and the hem ( for protection ), how to add laces to a dress ( it was the first time we saw laces, and wondered if they were clouds or snowflakes caught by magic ), and gave us each a human dress at "lambs day". I suppose, we can call her our mother, for she did everything mothers did in fairy-tales. She even died. Our other mother could be Moon - mother Tiur - she also dies, but comes back and makes us and our horned sisters even more beautiful with her smiles each night. In a nutshell, we understand that to be a mother you must learn to weave protection magic and love someone very rather much, and enjoy them loving you back. It is very hard to choose which of my sangbonbons I love most of all, and I dread, positively dread, to imagine how downcast the rest would be, if I forsake them. And I can't ask all of my sangbonbons for children, even if Natanis helps and we share and include one and all, because then we would need a very large forest to raise them all, even bigger than our Caroberta Woods! Besides, what if a child is crafted in an ugly likeness, have no horns or hoofs or even a tiniest tail? I don't want to be a cruel mother and make such a nasty gift to my child, only because I was not schooled to create one properly. And what if she appears with my golden long hair, while she wants my Tubbynubs' bold bald shiny head and gorgeous muttonchops? How is one to ask? What if I and Natanis make children that will not look alike and the children will be sad and lonely? It is a path ripe with dangerous questions, we still have no answers for!

Still, many of our sangbonbons spoke sweetly of their mothers; their hearts began beating with a softness that was like a dandelion fluff and a gentle light of the moon. Even our strapping and silent lover from Skellige, whose voice grew as soft as the sea-lambs, when he told me the medallion, he never took off, was a gift from his modron. I suppose, if not for the confusing question of children, I and Natanis would love to be remembered with such nourishing and delicious fondness, as many remember their mothers.

#♥horns and hoofs ( toussainttwins ic answers )#♥deeds&diet (toussaint twins headcanons)#thank you for such a challenging question anon #hope it is amusing and not too long

1 note · View note

silveringofrose · 1 year

Text

A Comedy of Egg-pic Proportions

Once upon a time, in the bustling city of Wordville, there lived a self-proclaimed literary genius named Bartholomew Bumptious. He had an ego the size of Mount Everest and an attitude as sour as pickled lemons. Especially when someone called him Barty, which unfortunately for him, everyone did.

Now, dear reader, I must tread lightly as I describe him, for he was a man who believed himself to be exceptional in every conceivable way. So of course, he would not stand for anyone disagreeing with him about anything ever (even though everyone did, and often at that).

Incensed by the audacity of these uneducated buffoons (his words, not mine), he would head off into hours-long repetitive rants affirming his own superiority over anyone foolish enough to try. His demeanour (and his mouth) demanded respect, and by golly, he would get it if it was the last thing he did (not to spoiler the ending or anything, but it would never be a thing he did).

So let us begin this tale of absurdity and ridiculousness by delving deeper into the intricacies of Bartholomew's peculiarly unremarkable existence. Picture, if you will, a man of middling height, his dumpy figure clothed in garish suits that clashed with the vividness of his imagination (and everything else to be honest).

But despite the glaring faux pax that was Barty’s dress sense, this was not in fact, the most remarkable thing about his appearance. For you see, dear reader, Barty was possessed of a head as bald as the moon, polished to a gleaming perfection that could rival the most lustrous of hard-boiled eggs.

His oddly shiny pate was the epitome of his misguided confidence, a beacon of narcissism that invited mockery. Though he remained blissfully unaware of the laughter that so often followed in his wake (or rather, he remained blissfully unaware of the true reason for the laughter).

You have to understand, dear reader, that his baldness was indeed a thing of marvel. Many would spend hours in front of a mirror, wrestling with hair products and styling tools, in a desperate attempt to tame their unruly tresses. They would mourn the loss of even one strand of their luscious locks. But not our Barty, oh no!

Instead Barty embraced his lack of follicular abundance with an unwavering (and completely unjustified) confidence. His gleaming dome, devoid of even a single wisp of hair, became the pièce de résistance of his appearance, an emblem of his unique charm—though, perhaps, charm is not the most accurate word to describe the effect (it is definitely not the most accurate word actually).

Whenever Barty entered a room, his bald head would precede him, catching the light like a beacon of questionable taste. Followed as it was by his attempts to disguise his expanding waistline with ostentatious patterns and outlandish accessories, this pure lack of fashion sense (or any sense really) was doubly reinforced.

But it was his baldness, oh that gleaming head, that truly captivated the attention of all who encountered him. Its lustrous sheen was a sight to behold, dear reader, and yet, the man himself somehow remained completely oblivious to the effect it had on those around him.

Like a moth drawn to the flame that would ultimately destroy it, the curious souls who encountered him couldn't help but be captivated by the brilliance of his shining pate, the garishness of his outfits or the outlandishly pompous proclamations of self-importance.

Nor could they ever quite hold back the incredulous whispers of disbelief to their companions, no matter how many times they had encountered him before. And yet, Bartholomew remained blissfully ignorant of the truth, his narcissism shielding him from the mocking whispers and stifled chuckles that followed in his wake.

In his mind, his bald head was not a subject of ridicule, but rather a symbol of his unique individuality. He believed that its polished perfection set him apart from the mere mortals who dared to sport a full head of hair (or, to be fair, a single strand).

In his misguided self-assurance, Bartholomew prided himself on his head's resemblance to a hard-boiled egg. He boasted to anyone who would listen about the similarities between his shiny dome and the smooth surface of a perfectly cooked breakfast delicacy. Oh, the comparisons he drew!

He would go on at length, using culinary metaphors to describe his head's reflective allure, as blissfully unaware as ever of the absurdity that echoed in his words You see dear reader, Barty fancied himself a writer of unparalleled talent, convinced that his prose would reshape the very fabric of the written word.

He spent his days hunched over his typewriter, pecking away at the keys like an overzealous chicken, convinced that he was penning the next great masterpiece. The clattering cacophony of keystrokes echoed through his dusty study, serving as a symphony to the inflated ego that was matched only by his deflated talent.

In Barty’s twisted universe, he was destined to achieve a level of success eclipsing even that of the once billionaire author Who Deserves No Name. He fantasized about book signings with mile-long queues of adoring fans, clamouring for a mere glimpse of his genius. Literary awards, Pulitzer Prizes, and Nobel laureates were mere stepping stones on his path to greatness. Oh, the world would tremble before his mighty pen!

In every social interaction, Bartholomew believed himself to be the life of the party, the centre of attention that none could bear to look away from (which they couldn’t, but not for the reasons he believed). Oh, how they stifled their laughter, dear reader, as Bartholomew regaled them with his inflated tales of literary grandeur. They exchanged knowing glances, their eyes sparkling with mirth, as his gleaming head bobbed up and down with each animated gesture.

Oblivious to the suppressed giggles and bemused smirks that trailed in his wake, he waltzed through life with a spring in his step and an unwavering confidence that defied logic. To him, the world was but a stage, and he, its shining star.

Alas, dear reader, reality had a cruel sense of humour it seemed. The truth you see, is that Barty’s writing was nothing short of catastrophic. His prose was as captivating as a tax form instruction manual and as riveting as watching paint dry on a dreary afternoon.

Every sentence he conjured had the elegance of a new born fawn attempting to navigate an ice rink, and his metaphors were as clumsy as an elephant on roller skates. But Barty managed to somehow always elude this glaring truth, even when the reality of his complete lack of talent made every effort to bash him over the head with the unequivocal evidence of his uninspired and lacklustre storytelling.

And beneath this façade of imagined grandeur and mind consumed by delusion? A heart teeming with bitterness and an unfounded obsession with another writer, a young and vibrant talent named Zara Scribbleton, who just happened to possess a gift for words that far surpassed Barty’s feeble attempts at literature.

Her words danced upon the page like graceful ballerinas, enchanting readers with their effortless charm and leaving them yearning for more. Her subtle feminist undertones wove a tapestry of empowerment, casting a spell of inspiration upon all who dared to immerse themselves in her narratives. Her debut novel was set to be released, and whispers of its brilliance had spread like wildfire throughout Wordville.

Barty, in his self-absorbed bubble, saw Miss Scribbleton as nothing more than a threat. He convinced himself that she was out to sabotage his path to literary superstardom (or a phantom saboteur poised to steal his moment in the spotlight depending on the day of the week).

In his warped mind, she was orchestrating a diabolical plot to hijack his half-baked ideas, weaving them into her own tapestry of success. The irony, of course, was that Miss Scribbleton was barely aware of Barty’s existence, let alone harbouring any ill will toward him. At least, she was at the beginning of this story.

As fate would have it, Bartholomew's larger-than-life personality and laughable antics as he stalked her all over social media and the literary world, caught the attention of our budding author. In her insightful wisdom, she recognized the comedic potential of a character like Barty. And in a delightful twist of irony, Barty unknowingly became a muse for Miss Scribbleton's first novel.

She crafted a bumbling buffoon named Bartleby Bluster, a laughably villainous character that bore a striking resemblance to our dear Barty. She wove him deftly into her tale, using him as a means to satirize societal expectations and an unwitting source of amusement that provided readers with a character to both loathe and laugh at (which every tale worth its salt should have if it wants to be truly successful).

But our tale does not end there, dear reader. In another peculiar twist of fate, Barty managed to procure a coveted ticket to Miss Scribbleton's highly anticipated book launch party. With an unwavering determination, he donned a suit that seemed to have been stitched by blind lemurs and stepped into the venue with his familiar air of misplaced confidence.

The room buzzed with anticipation as Bartholomew's arrival sent a ripple of disbelieving whispers throughout the crowd. For though she had never confirmed nor denied it, everyone who had ever encountered Barty was sure he was the inspiration behind the villain everyone already took gleeful pleasure in absolutely detesting.

The moment his eyes fell upon young Zara, his heart raced, his palms grew clammy, and his delusions reached new heights. "Ah, Miss Scribbleton," he exclaimed in his typically boisterous and painfully loud way, as if his presence alone was a gift to her. "I must say, your success has been...inspiring. Although, I assure you, once the world lays eyes on my literary genius, your little novels will fade into obscurity like old chewing gum under a park bench."

Miss Scribbleton, a vision of grace in her resplendent gown, swallowed a knowing smile and politely extended a hand. "Thank you for your kind words," she replied, her voice carrying the warmth of genuine gratitude, though Barty would never know why. "It's always wonderful to see fellow writers supporting one another."

Bartholomew, blinded by his own delusions, misinterpreted her words as a cryptic acknowledgment of his superiority. He spent the rest of the evening circulating through the party, regaling unsuspecting guests with his convoluted theories about his own greatness. The room buzzed with an electric combination of bewilderment and stifled laughter as he rattled on, blissfully unaware of their amusement.

Days turned into weeks, and Miss Scribbleton's novel soared to the top of the bestseller lists, capturing the hearts of readers far and wide. Meanwhile, Bartholomew's manuscript languished in a dark corner of his attic, gathering dust and cobwebs. His dreams of literary stardom, once so grandiose, were dashed against the jagged rocks of his own inadequacy.

One fateful day many months later, Barty was seeking solace in the dusty shelves of a local bookstore that he had once considered buying. Not because he wanted to share the written word with everyone, but because he wanted at least one place that would have no choice but to sell his written words.

While wandering the near empty shelves, he found himself picking up Miss Scribbleton's novel. As he leafed through its pages, realisation dawned like a lightning bolt of irony striking his inflated ego. Fragments of his own persona were interwoven into Bartleby's antics, a clever parody that exposed his shortcomings for all to see.

That fact, of course, was lost on him, as he believed it to be a testament to his influence on the literary world — which of course he did. And never, not once in all the years that followed, did the truth seep into Bartholomew's consciousness. His ego remained unyielding; his delusions steadfast in the face of every single ounce of evidence to the contrary.

As Bartholomew continued to bask in the illusion of adoration, he remained oblivious to the fact that he was the laughing stock of the literary world. He believed that his gleaming bald head was a symbol of his uniqueness, his shining dome an emblem of distinction.

Little did he know that it had become a running gag, a visual cue that brought a smirk to the faces of those who witnessed his grandiose presence and knew that it was only a matter of time before he began announcing proudly how he was the true inspiration for the most reviled character to ever meet the printed word.

And so, our tale comes to a close with Bartholomew Bumptious forever trapped in the confines of his self-delusion, unaware that his quest for literary greatness had become nothing more than fodder for the amusement of others. Meanwhile, Miss Zara Scribbleton continued to pen her whimsical stories, delighting readers and leaving a lasting mark on the literary landscape, all the while casting a knowing smile at the universe's wry sense of humour.

In the tapestry of life, dear reader, there are those who unknowingly become figures of laughter, providing mirth and amusement to those around them. Bartholomew, with his bald head gleaming like a hard-boiled egg, was one such unwitting jester. And as the pages turn and the laughter continues, let us relish in the irony and satire that colour this peculiar tale, a gentle reminder that sometimes, the greatest comedy lies in the simplest of observations.

0 notes

tarotwithdanise · 2 years

Note

Hello Dani! First of all thank you that you're also giving us that didn't receive the full depth reading a chance that's so cute of you honestly ༎ຶ‿༎ຶ I really wanted to congratulate the ones that received one but I was too scared to congratulate them personally so I'd like to congratulate them this way: Congratulations to you <3 I hope you'll enjoy your reading

Anyway Imma get to the point my Initials are IA

Uhm for my Zodiac Sign Imma put my Big 3 ? Taurus Sun , Virgo Moon , Cancer Ascendant

( I think that's how I should do it even tho im Sun, Mars, Uranus Dominant does that matter?)

This is my favourite Emoji: 🗿 but the emoji I use the most is probably this one: 😨

Thank you for taking your time and energy to do this •́ ‿ ,•̀ I hope you get to rest enough with the requests you'll be receiving.

Hello there, you are very welcome. Here's your reading, enjoy! Feedback is optional, i'm fine if won't give comments about your reading since i don't force you to do it.

🌼; a message from sushisuri : CONGRATULATIONS to all winners. #shushisuri

I.A future spouse physical appearance and personality

Their physical appearance:

Ngl, this person likes part of their body is their head and styled their hair often. I think it's depends on their mood sometimes like for example this is what i'm getting — it's bald/shaved , on the other day it's dyed mostly and while for the other month it's curly,permed, spiral, wavy or ringlets (their hair grow fast too) something like that since they really love styling it. If they hair the colors will be black (raven), red (ginger) , brown (champagne) and grey (silver) it will be smooth, shiny and neat. If they're a man, they might have a facial hair. Skin color will be in the tones of light to medium colors, they might have a problem with their it can be ; blemishes, a lot of pimples, sweat or if they're woman they have stretch marks. Lips will be color of brown in the shape of cupid's bow with the texture of soft and thin. Hands will be strong and rough, nose will be in grecian shape, wide and dainty. Face will be sculpted in the shape of oval, someone who has medium build of body or can be fat and strong. Ears will be pointed or attached love, they might have piercings.

Their personality :

positive and negative traits

Gracious, neat, formal, honourable, comical, sensible, belligerent, dynamic and dependent.

Right off the bat, this person has dark sense of humor, lol. Sometimes you won't understand them and feel like they're some sort of weirdo, they had evil personality within themselves and very pompous. They has mo life plan and just go with the flow of whatever they gonna do, they're harsh to themselves. Even though, they're like this person is very loyal, no matter what happened or where they're if they know they already taken they won't entertain others. You can share your secrets with them too.

current emotional state : jubilant

significant number : 4

made with love, danise

Take what resonates and leave doesn't please♡︎

#444 followers game #🌷danise games

0 notes

airoarts · 2 years

Photo

was thinking about regional variants and also ive wanted to redesign the eeveelutions for a long time so here are some [NAME PENDING] regional versions of eevee and its evolutions, which are dual-type! im quite happy with all of these designs :) which would you evolve your variant eevee into?

more thoughts under the cut

eevee: i pretty much just thought a floppy eared eevee would be cute, its also more fluffy than normal eevee. i wanted to keep it simple, but distinct enough from normal eevee that you can tell if youre getting a normal or variant evolution

if it were up to me all of these dudes would evolve by stone. fire, thunder, and water for flareon, jolteon, and vaporeon respectively of course, but also leaf, ice, sun, moon, and shiny for leafeon, glaceon, espeon, umbreon, and sylveon respectively.

flareon: i feel like this design is the least original but i think it looks okay. its stats would be more bulky and physical like its rebalance in renegade platinum, and it would benefit a lot more from tough claws. it could learn dragon claw, but probably not any horn moves because those are not really suited for attacking, more for show.

jolteon: definitely completely rain team designed. it would be able to learn hurricane as well as thunder i always thought jolteon would benefit from its neck thing being more of a thundercloud like raikou and making it flying type is just... well.... just give it cloud wings lol. i think it looks distinct enough from raikou or altaria, and im happy with how the drawing turned out

vaporeon: pathetic sopping wet little meowmeow. i dont think i originally planned on making it look that pathetic but it really works imo. he’s like one of those fucked up greyhounds

espeon: i originally wanted to give rock to espeon and steel to leafeon but then i came up with the shield thing and then i realized i could make espeon contrast with vampire umbreon with the cloaks and im very happy with that. when sheathed its shield would probably float a bit above its back or maybe it just puts it in like a psychic pocket dimension idk. i think it would have a more defensive stat spread because it has that huge shield, but would still be a special attacker. also it would learn kings shield i think. sorry aegislash.

umbreon: making it vampire themed and poison type just seemed so natural, i had some issues designing the cloak without it looking too goofy but i think i pulled it off in the end. eyes were originally red but it looked bad so i changed it to yellow. probably would be a lot more offensive than vanilla umbreon (which makes sense cause espeon is now defensive), and it would learn like... all the biting moves. which is why strong jaw. also dry skin is more cause of vampires hating sunlight and less cause it actually has dry skin

glaceon: i kind of hate glaceons original design cause its like bald on the back of its head. i think glaceon should be a fluffy good boy. and its ground type and still a special attacker i think. would learn earth power. would fit on a hail OR sand team.

leafeon: i actually came up with the bark thing while sketching it cause making it have actual rock armor wasnt working out the way i wanted. and i made the leaf parts spiky just cause. i think it would learn head smash and wood hammer, to make it an absolute monster with rock head :3

sylveon: making the ribbons into fists was always the plan. i removed the ribbons on the chest bow cause i always thought they were too cluttered but they would be more so with giant fists on the end!!! and originally its tail was gonna be like a wrecking ball but that was too much so i just gave it its original tail. obviously would be a physical rather than a special attacker and learn all the punches just like umbreon learns all the fangs. i feel like it would have a natural rivalry with umbreon since umbreon is sort of evil here.

can u tell ive thought about this a lot teehee anyway i have a savage raid in ffxiv soon so i have to go now ty for reading if you have :D

#pokemon #eevee #eeveelutions #flareon #jolteon #vaporeon #espeon #umbreon #leafeon #glaceon #sylveon #pokemon variants #regional variants #fakemon #art #2022 #thats a lotta tags...

869 notes · View notes

dbzebra · 3 years

Note

measure the brightness of how shiny krillins bald head is in comparison to a celestial object

Krillin’s head is canonically at least as bright as the moon to the point where it can transform people 👀

81 notes · View notes

deathblossomart · 2 years

Text

Has anyone made this theory yet?

I think that was Primo's mother. The end scene where she has the moon over her uterus, mephistos and Primo's pointy ears, the time period.. The moon being reminiscent of Primo's shiny bald head..

#The band ghost #The band ghost spoilers #I love the song tho #impera #ghostbc #the band ghost impera #call me little sunshine #papa emeritus i #papa i

48 notes · View notes

trivialbob · 2 years

Photo

Dry January is over. I finished with a moderately-sized participation trophy.

Tonight I am celebrating my award with one of the beers my son Matt brought from New Mexico when he visited over Christmas. He lives in Santa Fe. The beer is New Mexico Piñon Coffee Porter from the Rio Bravo Brewing Company in Albuquerque. I’m a big fan of beers brewed with coffee. This one is excellent.

Earlier today I was at my dad’s place to help him with some things. One thing I “fixed” was the self-closing front door. It’s a pain. It’s also required under “housing code.” I spoke to the building’s maintenance guy (whom I will call Keith, not his real name). Keith explained that he can’t legally remove devices that close the doors.

He explained, “I am not allowed to remove those four screws on the door, and the two screws on the door frame, then place those screws in a plastic bag which I save next to the spring loaded unit that closes doors, so I don’t lose them and can find all the parts shortly before the fire department does an inspection, and the device has to be reinstalled to the door.”

This Keith, I like him.

For my camping trailer I have a canvas tool bag with an assortment of basic things I like to have on hand. That bag of tools is what I took to my dad’s. Some other stuff I put in my backpack, because my hands were full.

When I left for the day I was wearing a dark sweater but no jacket. My shiny bald head was covered with a dark colored knit cap. With the canvas bag in one hand, and a full backpack on my back, I think I may have looked like a burglar (or at least Hollywood’s version of one). Perhaps that’s why I had this odd desire to smudge my face with grease so I’d be less visible in the moon light?

#If you are a firefighter #Or a city instpector #I was totally kidding about that door

34 notes · View notes

soyeahitsmiddleearth · 3 years

Note

hello! i was wondering if you could write the following request; you are a member of the Brotherhood, the most dangerous assassins league of Middle Earth. To say that the Company of Thorin Oakenshield is both impressed and intimidated is an understatement.

The Company/Reader: Killer Good Looks pt.1

Trigger Warnings: Referenced assault and child abuse, murder

----

To say you're an excellent fighter would be a gross understatement.

You're the very definition of a rogue; you like shiny things, you're stealthy, cunning, persuasive, what are we missing...? Oh! And you're also an infamous deadly assassin for hire, and you get hired alright.

You're wanted (in more ways than one), for people are always looking for someone to fulfill their dirty deeds for them.

Almost everything is on the table with you; you'll steal things for people (and yourself), kill if the price is right, infiltrate and lie, and many other things, however, there are some things off limits.

For example, you won't kill kids. You never have and you never will, you flat out refuse; you also don't sell yourself to others for pleasure or other things of inappropriate nature; and, most importantly of all, you don't kill those whom you have a relationship with (meaning you don't kill friends, though those are few and far between).

When you were but a child your parents sold you off to put bread on their table, and you knew nothing but torment from that moment on.

For months the lady's husband would sneak into your rooms at night, and she would always pretend not to notice; she took to releasing her frustrations out on you under the false pretense that you were an issue, beating you, berating you, yelling, abusing; they were horrible people taking advantage of a 10 year old child in every way imaginable.

You felt no remorse when you finally gathered the courage to slit their throats one night, and to this day you still don't.

The news of your deeds spread quickly, for they proved to be quite shocking and a wonderful topic for conversation.

A mere child servant manages to kill their masters unseen and unheard, escaping into the night never to be seen again? That would catch anyones attention. And it certainly caught the attention of The Brotherhood.

They found you, took you in, and honed your sloppy skills to make you into the perfect, lethal weapon.

You've killed more people than you can count, stolen more than even the richest man has, and lied to everyone you've ever met at least once.

It's safe to say that you're not exactly a stand up citizen.

Your name, as well as the name of the organization who taught you all you know, is well known throughout Middle Earth which is why you were, ultimately, employed to assist and protect the line of Durin in their journey to reclaim Erebor...

Except, unbeknownst to them, you have ulterior orders from The Brotherhood regarding the operation.

Once the dragon is either confirmed dead or slain and the mountain is reclaimed, you are to kill the Durin's (and anyone else who stands in your way) and claim the mountain for The Brotherhood.

When you were first given this assignment you had no qualms with it.

Yes, dwarfs are strong, brave, and resilient, but you are fast, intelligent, and one of the best fighters in the organization because of your early start and ability to disconnect yourself from almost every situation. Also, you don't know them, any of them, and you've never had trouble killing royal, powerful people before.

It was supposed to be easy.

You joined the group in a cute little place called The Shire in a hobbit hole belonging to one Bilbo Baggins, and when you met everyone you figured that killing them would be easy, but as time went on you began to forget about your mission.

Everything started out simple. You didn't talk much and they stayed away from you for the most part; partially out of intimidation, but also from reservations on disturbing you.

You're a private person, and they'd hate to make you dislike them by being nosy or prying.

Gandalf is the only one who knows of your past, but even knowing who you truly are, he never for a second suspected what your true purpose was.

It's around the time you all leave Rivendell and return to the road when things start to change.

Thorin wanted to keep a schedule and reach the Misty Mountains before the end of the 4th week, and halfway into the 4th, you're already there are the entrance to the mountain pass.

Because the group makes such excellent time Thorin chooses to reward the group with a day and night full of rest to spend restocking supplies, regrouping, and relaxing, which is something that benefits you all greatly.

By this point, you've worked up enough 'trust' to actually sleep in short bursts around them, and you take full advantage of this day of rest to regain your strength.

At some point during the night you manage to fall asleep, and hen you wake you find that you managed to pass out for a good 4 hours.

The very first thing you notice is Dwalin sitting not far from you, and the blanket draped over your resting form.

To say you're taken off guard would be an understatement, for you never expected to be treated with such tenderness (or at least, tenderness by your definition considering the life you've lead).

"Dwalin...?" You call after a time of looking ahead, wanting to find out his motivations.

His gaze snaps over to you and a small, greeting smile falls upon his lips, "Good evening. It is mid-night, I'm sure you'd like to know."

You glance briefly up at the sky and observe the position of the moon and stars and find that he's correct, then your gaze returns to his face. "I see. What are you doing over here, though?"

The balding dwarf looks a tad more sheepish when you ask your question, and his voice contains slight embarrassment, "Well, we know you don't much like sleeping around us, or in general, so I thought that keeping watch here may help you feel even a bit safer."

Those words shock you to your very core.

"You'll always be safe with us, you should know. You protect us in waking, so the least we can do is return the favor in sleeping."

Any and all responses that come to your mind in this moment seem inadequate in comparison to his declaration, so you're left sitting there looking at him with a blank, yet dumbfounded stare.

"You needn't say anything in response. I just thought you should know." Another smile graces upon his lips, and then his attention turns back out towards the darkened tree line surrounding the mini camp in a half circle. "Sleep more if the desire is to suddenly strike you."

And, for some odd reason, you do.

---

For the first time in what has to be years, you sleep through the night and do not wake again until the sun beckons you to do so.

When the first light shines through the trees and makes the forest sparkle with morning magic, you arise and find that a new dwarf, Ori, has taken the place of Dwalin.

A feeling, one that you can't identify, rises within you, and you find yourself unable to handle it.

"Ori." You greet curtly, "I am going to depart for a time. Expect me back in 20 minutes."

The young dwarf looks up at you and nods shallowly, not even entertaining the thought that you would need an escort. "Alright. Get back safely."

His words linger with you after you leave, for the act of being cared for is alien to you.

When was the last time someone genuinely cared for your well-being and not just what they would lose if you were to perish? When was the last time someone thought of you as a person who could be harmed instead of a weapon that maybe tarnished every-so-often?

These thoughts plague your mind as you go to search the game traps you lay around the camp the morning before, and you find that the prize is well worth the early journey.

3 rabbits, 2 squirrels, and a wild hog around 2 feet long and a foot wide. The hog you caught along the way, actually. It had been sniffing around one of the game traps you sent (the trap wouldn't have been strong enough to hold it anyways), and you wasted no time in throwing a dagger straight into its' head.

You string up the rabbits into a line of rope and carry the hog over your shoulders (it's really heavy, so you made sure to evenly distribute the weight), and then you head straight for the group with your prizes in hand.

When you enter the clearing you're noticed immediately, for the game hanging from your body draw a lot of attention.

"Odin's beard!" Gloin exclaims, jumping up from his spot once his eyes fall upon you, "Look at all of that!"

All eyes are on you as soon as the red-haired dwarf alerts them to your presence, but you maintain a mask of nothing even despite your discomfort with being the center of attention.

"Where did you get all that?" Fili calls, getting up and approaching you to help carry the load.

You shrug off the line of rabbits and squirrels to him when he begins to tug on it and bring the hog to the middle of the camp, dropping it down heavily.

Bombur looks up at you with a grand smile and praises you in his low, baritone voice, "Well will you look at that! Now that's a hog."

You dip your head in acknowledgement of his compliments and offer right after, "Do you want me to skin them?"

"Oh, no, no! You have done more enough for us, we can manage that at the very least." The older dwarf assures you, patting the fat belly of the swine, "Thank you, lass. We haven't had a commendable meal in months, so this will be a real treat."

You received so many compliments and acclimations that you almost began to blush, but that's an unconscious ability that had left you a long time ago.

Everyone traveled with full bellies that afternoon, and there was plenty of leftovers to last everyone well into the next day as well.

Things like this are seldom the topic of talk or praise in the organization you work for, and you can never rely on anyone. You're all thieves, after all. Liars, tricksters, murderers... how could you trust someone like that to have your back? But... somehow, they trust you to protect them and their precious royal friends.

You: the liar, trickster, and murderer.

They sleep in your presence as if you hadn't stolen millions in treasure, product, and money; as if you hadn't killed a quarter of the people you've met in your lifetime. They trust you, the real you (or at least the realest version of you that there is), and it's a truly foreign feeling.

Of course, even though these good feelings long since lost to you have returned for a time, you keep yourself in check with the thoughts of what they would do to you if they found about your true intentions.

The images of their betrayed, angry faces, the disgust that would shine in their eyes when they realize what you're truly capable of... you're always sure to not lose sight of your end goal; the Mountain of Erebor and its' lost treasure. If you're to fail, you're certain that you'll be killed (either by the dwarfs or The Brotherhood), so you don't even entertain the thought of abandoning your mission.

---

Later in the day, during the trek up those horrible, treacherous mountains, you're approached by Bofur, the hat wearing dwarf with a smile more contagious than any sickness.

"Hello." You greet curtly when he falls into step beside you, eyeing him in your peripherals. "Is there something I can help you with?"

"Oh, no." He shakes his head no and reaches up to straighten his fur hat, "You just looked a little lonely, is all."

Lonely, huh?

You don't reply right away and look ahead with your usual blank expression and dull eyes, though you do feel an uncomfortable, appreciative feeling swell inside of you. "I am not lonely." You inform him matter-of-factly, though when you glance down at his face you see that your words have slightly hurt his feelings.

Your heart twists slightly painfully when you see his saddened countenance, and before you can even think about it you're blurting out, "But I welcome the company regardless."

His frown is immediately replaced with a brilliant smile and his eyes positively shine with enthusiasm; you never thought your acceptance would garner such a reaction from him (much less anyone for that matter).

The dwarf practically talks your ear off while the 15 of you travel up the Misty Mountains, telling you everything he possibly can about his homeland, family, and feelings regarding the journey (as well as other things), and while all this incessant blathering would normally irk you, you actually find that you quite like it.

Bofur's excited speech does eventually die down when it starts to rain, though, for he and yourself both think it safer to concentrate on the hike as its level of danger grows.

It isn't long before night falls, and once it does the rain becomes a much more dangerous obstacle.

There is lower visibility and the rocks become horribly slippery, though neither of these things could ever hope to top the giant stone beasts that begin to battle right in front of you all.

The stone giants don't seem notice any of you, and if they do then they simply don't care, and you all barely escape with your lives. They throw huge boulders bigger than any building you've ever seen, and their hand-to-hand combat leaves you all shaking against the mountainside, fearful of falling to your deaths as you sway every which way.

To your, and everyone else's luck and great joy, a little cave in the mountainside appears before you all (after a horrible death scare with half of the company), and it becomes your resting spot for the night.

You, like usual, choose a spot closest to the cave entrance with rock that covers both your back and left side and fall asleep effortlessly. You plan on only resting for four or so hours, hopefully until the rain passes, and then you can resume watch so the others may regain their strength (they're heavier and bigger than you, so they need more rest and food).

Those 4 hours (and an extra half!) pass by without issue and your internal clock eventually wakes you up.

One of the first things you see when your eyes flutter open is the stone ceiling of the cave hovering above you, and the next is Bofur who sits in the little watch spot right across from your sleeping area.

You sit up as soon as your sleep addled mind clears and your blurry eyes gain focus and call softly, "Bofur, go ahead and take a rest. I can resume your watch."

The dwarf jumps slightly when your soft voice breaks through the silence and reaches out to him, but he doesn't move to get up. Instead, a small smile upturns the corners of his lips and he whispers back, "No, you do a watch of your own every night and refuse to wake anyone else up often enough. Please, go back to sleep."

He noticed that?

You can't even keep the surprise from your face, for your eyes widen almost imperceptibly and your lips part slightly. "I..." You've been shocked speechless, something that you thought impossible.

"We have all noticed, in case you're wondering. Now, go ahead and resume sleep. I've still got another 30 minutes of watch."

And, for some reason, you don't protest.

Sleep calls to you and tugs at your eyelids, making them heavy and causing your eyes to burn. What spell have they put you under to make you tired again under a simple command, you wonder?

You fall back asleep despite yourself, but it doesn't last long, for within 20 minutes after Bilbo tries to leave and the storm begins to quiet, the floor opens beneath you all and swallows everyone whole.

#the company x reader #thorin oakenshield #bofur #dwalin #bilbo #fili #kili #assassin reader #reader insert #the hobbit fanfiction #the hobbit #bofur x reader #thorin oakenshield x reader #dwalin x reader #bilbo x reader #kili x reader #fili x reader

394 notes · View notes