#dense dwarves

[penofdamocles]

So I unfortunately did not manage to earn a bunch of gold but instead I'm going to try selling my edibles at a market on Monday and see how that goes. I'm sure as soon as the first review comes in they'll sell out.

#Edibles can be worth a lot if they're dense. #And boy are mine /dense/. #I bet these will be especially popular among dwarves. RIP us and our high-ass CON saves. #..Maybe I should adjust the recipe for safety purposes though. #No Strings (ic) #drug ment

[fuckyeahgoodomens]

Terry Pratchett about fantasy ❤

Terry Pratchett interview in The Onion, 1995 (x)

O: You’re quite a writer. You’ve a gift for language, you’re a deft hand at plotting, and your books seem to have an enormous amount of attention to detail put into them. You’re so good you could write anything. Why write fantasy?

Terry: I had a decent lunch, and I’m feeling quite amiable. That’s why you’re still alive. I think you’d have to explain to me why you’ve asked that question.

O: It’s a rather ghettoized genre.

Terry: This is true. I cannot speak for the US, where I merely sort of sell okay. But in the UK I think every book— I think I’ve done twenty in the series— since the fourth book, every one has been one the top ten national bestsellers, either as hardcover or paperback, and quite often as both. Twelve or thirteen have been number one. I’ve done six juveniles, all of those have nevertheless crossed over to the adult bestseller list. On one occasion I had the adult best seller, the paperback best-seller in a different title, and a third book on the juvenile bestseller list. Now tell me again that this is a ghettoized genre.

O: It’s certainly regarded as less than serious fiction.

Terry: (Sighs) Without a shadow of a doubt, the first fiction ever recounted was fantasy. Guys sitting around the campfire— Was it you who wrote the review? I thought I recognized it— Guys sitting around the campfire telling each other stories about the gods who made lightning, and stuff like that. They did not tell one another literary stories. They did not complain about difficulties of male menopause while being a junior lecturer on some midwestern college campus.

Fantasy is without a shadow of a doubt the ur-literature, the spring from which all other literature has flown. Up to a few hundred years ago no one would have disagreed with this, because most stories were, in some sense, fantasy. Back in the middle ages, people wouldn’t have thought twice about bringing in Death as a character who would have a role to play in the story. Echoes of this can be seen in Pilgrim’s Progress, for example, which hark back to a much earlier type of storytelling. The epic of Gilgamesh is one of the earliest works of literature, and by the standard we would apply now— a big muscular guys with swords and certain godlike connections— That’s fantasy. The national literature of Finland, the Kalevala. Beowulf in England. I cannot pronounce Bahaghvad-Gita but the Indian one, you know what I mean. The national literature, the one that underpins everything else, is by the standards that we apply now, a work of fantasy.

Now I don’t know what you’d consider the national literature of America, but if the words Moby Dick are inching their way towards this conversation, whatever else it was, it was also a work of fantasy. Fantasy is kind of a plasma in which other things can be carried. I don’t think this is a ghetto. This is, fantasy is, almost a sea in which other genres swim. Now it may be that there has developed in the last couple of hundred years a subset of fantasy which merely uses a different icongraphy, and that is, if you like, the serious literature, the Booker Prize contender. Fantasy can be serious literature. Fantasy has often been serious literature. You have to fairly dense to think that Gulliver’s Travels is only a story about a guy having a real fun time among big people and little people and horses and stuff like that. What the book was about was something else. Fantasy can carry quite a serious burden, and so can humor. So what you’re saying is, strip away the trolls and the dwarves and things and put everyone into modern dress, get them to agonize a bit, mention Virginia Woolf a few times, and there! Hey! I’ve got a serious novel. But you don’t actually have to do that.

(Pauses) That was a bloody good answer, though I say it myself.

#terry pratchett #interview #terry interview #fantasy #terry on fantasy #fun fact #<3 #the onion

[gobbogoo]

I LOVE Dungeon Meshi's Realistic Fantasy Races

Ok, I had to stop for a moment to gush about the fantasy races of Dunmeshi, and all the consideration that's been put into them, because they actually follow a degree of natural/evolutionary logic not found in most fantasy stories!

Half-Foots (halflings/hobbits):

So we all know these fellows have excellent hearing and smell, but have you considered WHY? It's an adaptation to counteract their size. Humans (called tallmen in this setting) rely so much on eyesight because we're really tall compared to most animals, giving us a fantastic vantage of our environment. Half-Foots don't have this advantage, and therefore rely on their other senses. It's also much more important for them to be able to detect unseen threats and move quickly, because their size makes them ill-equipped for direct conflict.

Dwarves:

So Dwarves are depicted as MUCH stronger than tallmen despite their size, right? This is because strength is determined not by size, but by mass, and dwarven bodies are very dense! Yet this comes with the downside of their bodies burning more energy and overheating much faster, which is why dwarves are also shown to be heat-resistant, and why they tend to wear lighter clothing that exposes more skin! Their night-vision is also better than humans' due to their semi-underground lifestyle, while their hearing remains about the same since sound naturally carries in caves. Their hairiness is also likely a direct adaptation to counteract magic, as it's been shown to form a natural buffer when left unwashed.

Gnomes:

Gnomes are supposed to be evolutionary cousins to dwarves, and it shows! They share a similar height, but are less muscular and have peculiarly-shaped ears, almost mirroring the difference between human and elven ears. Their affinity with nature and spirits also makes sense, because physically they're in an awkward spot compared to the other short races, lacking both the hefty strength of dwarves and the light nimbleness of half-foots. Being less equipped both for fight and flight, it makes sense they'd instead adapt the instinctive ability to read their environments and mitigate its threats through cohabitation.

Elves:

Like gnomes, elves are in a physically awkward place, however it's even more extreme. Their relatively light and weak bodies make them ill-equipped for direct conflict, and while likely able to move faster than tallmen due to weight, they lack the half-foot's danger-detection senses. This makes them seemingly helpless, however interestingly it actually explains why they're so advanced compared to other races! They were basically forced to coordinate problem-solve, and control their environments out of necessity, which is reflected in their more controlling and direct relationship with magic and nature compared to gnomes.

This actually mirrors the real-world difference between humans and neanderthals. Anthropologists believe neanderthals weren't actually dumber than humans, but that their superior strength and durability meant they weren't forced to problem-solve or control their environments like humans, meaning they seemed less advanced.

#dungeon meshi #delicious in dungeon #fantasy #fantasy races #worldbuilding #fantasy worldbuilding

[dungeonmalcontent]

Normalize telling your players to make up their own curses, swears, and oaths that originate from their character's background. Have your dwarf players come up with something like "diamond head" which is a big insult for dwarves because diamonds are extremely common, extremely basic (as far as mineral complexity goes), and extremely dense. Have woodland elves call people they dislike and consider promiscuous "mints" because they reproduce everywhere and smell very strongly.

Player characters are allowed to be (and imo should be) little vulgar bastards. But swearing like everyone is speaking normal English is boring and lacks entertainment value.

#d&d #dnd #dungeons and dragons #5e #ttrpg #fantasy #writing #pathfinder #pathfinder 2e #character building

[mlmxreader]

Wood Carvings | Kili x gn!reader

『••✎••』

↳ ❝ Kili

15 "As long as I'm with you, I'm happy"

18 "You don't have to say anything" ❞

: ̗̀➛ You and Kili get to have some one on one time for once.

: ̗̀➛ N/A

↳ @arthurmorgansballsack

•───────────────★•♛•★──────────────•

The fires burned low, creating a soft crackle that was more akin to a hum than anything else, hardly disturbing the vast woodland surrounding you; it was dark, with the skies an obsidian colour and the stars glittering with silver and steel, the lonely moon sat upon its throne with a slight frown.

The trees were tall and thick, bursting with such great life despite their leaves rotting on the ground below and creating homes for beetles and ants and spiders and woodlice; amongst the proud and steady branches, birds slept soundly as they nestled in their nests and snuggled in for the night.

The trees stood guard and watched proudly, just like the tales of old that had said that, once, there had been huge giants that looked like trees who protected forests and each of its species; those that protected tall and slender trees were tall and slender themselves, and those that protected towering and fat trees with thick roots were towering and fat with thick feet.

But those were just tales from an older time; there were no guardians of the forests and the woodlands anymore. The bushes were thick with life, as well, though; with their spiky arms, they were tipped with berries of black, red, blue and green.

Sweet berries that were protected by brave little spiders who were brown and black with stripes on their backs; the spiders seemed aware of who was friend, who was foe, and who was food as they scuttled away from the berries or closer to them depending on who reached for them.

Trolls didn't dare to go near there, and neither did orcs, for fear that the old stories from an older time were true; dwarves would be on edge, fearing that those giant trees would rise up again.

But in a far off land, there was home. It was so close, yet so far.

Almost able to be sniffed out like the smell of those sweet breads with the dried currents inside them that were always baked on a Sunday by the master of the house; she would grin as she put them down, humming songs of old as she went about baking those sweet breads.

They were a staple of the culture.

Just like the wooden spoons that hung up on the wall of the kitchen; they were carved with dragons and dogs and hearts and words in an old language. An ancient language.

Just like the horse's head skeleton that sat in the attic ready for the new year along with its brilliant white sheet and its plant decorations.

Just like the old songs in the old language that the children would sing when they took part of choir until they were older; most of them would continue singing well into their old age, just like the master of the house.

Home.

The smell of soup made with leeks and herbs dense in the air on cold nights, and the hustle and bustle of the mines throughout the day. It was difficult not to miss home when amongst the woodlands, but when you looked beside you at Kili, it didn't feel so bad.

You could still remember when Gandalf had sought out your employment. An miner by trade, you were more than used to long days in the darkness; a pickaxe in your hand, you could withstand any kind of weather and you had the strength needed for what he required.

He had a burglar, that much was true, but he also needed someone who would be able to help the brothers if they needed it. Somehow, Gandalf had learned about you; from your grandmother - the master of the house - he had learned that you had spent the best part of your life down the mines.

Covered in soot and coal, used to the roar of fires and the harsh weather that came with such a job; it was an important role back home, he knew that, and it had forged part of the identity of the people. But through the owner of the mines, Gandalf had also learned of your other skills; you spoke the old language just as well as you did the language of men.

That old language was said to soothe dragons to sleep, and to cool their tempers; he had heard stories about it. The old and ancient language that was as old as dragons themselves; spoken for thousands of years, it was soft on the tongue and quick in the throat.

Gandalf had heard that it was able to work on dragons of any kinds - from fire drakes to the one that he knew rested within your home. It slept in the mountains, a great red beast with thick armoured scales, much bigger than any other dragon, and much more agile and tough, too.

Along its back, it was covered in thick armoured spikes, with a spear-shaped tip on its tail and its tongue. Its claws could tear apart a mountain with ease, and its great red teeth could easily rip through any building in Middle Earth; with its four legs on the ground, it could extend its massive wings and cause devastating hurricanes and awful winds.

But it stayed asleep in the mountains, waiting.

Waiting for the call of its people to sing for its aid; only then would it stir.

The armour that had been worn by those within your lineage was made of that dragon's scales; it would shed them once every hundred years, and when mixed and forged with steal, the armour was unbreakable. Bright crimson in colour, with a large dragon engraved upon the breastplate.

The sword that your forefathers had passed down was made of the dragon's teeth; it would shed them along with its claws once every ten years, and the people would use them to make weapons. Arrows, bows, axes, maces, pickaxes, swords, daggers.

They were the sharpest in all of Middle Earth, and scarce to come by. Families were protective of their armour and their weapons, as they knew how valuable such a thing would be.

Gandalf hired you, knowing all of that, and although you weren't sure about leaving home at first, when you looked at Kili beside you, you knew that it was worth it.

He was leaning on your helmet as he laid on his side with his arm propped up on the dense scaled armour; he smiled when he looked at you.

His raven hair looked beautiful in the moonlight; dark spiced rum in a glass on a winter's evening, but twice as warm. His eyes seemed to sparkle with the silver steel of the stars, and his smile ripped all the homesickness away from you.

You smiled back, swallowing thickly as you hummed.

"What are you thinking about?"

You shrugged, daring to turn your gaze back to the woodland around you. "Home."

"Do you miss it?" He asked quietly.

You nodded slowly, daring to laugh softly. "I miss it, sure, but... when I'm next to you, it don't feel so bad."

"I should hope not," Kili laughed quietly. "We've spent enough time together."

You rolled your eyes, playfully shoving him onto his back. "Shut up. You know what I mean."

It took everything in him not to laugh loudly as he stared up at you. "Tell me about it - your home."

"We're a proud people, like you lot," you started, "we've had our culture and traditions for thousands of years, maybe more. Our language is older than yours, and we're... we're an alright bunch, really. It's hard not to miss the coal mines and the sweet breads, though..."

Kili hummed. "You said about spoons not too long ago."

"Oh, the spoons," you grinned, nodding for a moment. "We carve our wooden spoons for those we love. Family, friends, lovers. Anyone we love more than life itself - we carve spoons for them."

"And me?" He asked, raising a brow. "Would you carve a spoon for me?"

"I'd carve you a thousand spoons," you whispered softly. "I love you beyond the point of creation."

He smiled, nearly grinning; a familiar warmth in his chest, one that always went with him whenever you smiled his way or laughed at his jokes. His hands shook slightly as he struggled to bite back his glee. "You would?"

"I would," you agreed. "I would carve you spoons with your name in my language, ones with bows and arrows. I'd carve ones with Dwarvish runes. Ones that have the same pattern as your braids. I'd carve you spoons with anything, if only I had the wood..."

"Give me a moment," he murmured, getting up and humming to himself.

You watched him wander away, assuming that he just wanted some of the ripe berries from the nearby bushes; you cringed when he almost kicked Thorin's foot, and again when he nearly kicked Bilbo in the head. You didn't think anything of it, staring out at the woodland as you waited.

Kili grinned to himself as he searched the trees for branches that had fallen off; gathering them in his arms as he beamed and wondered if you would ever teach him how to carve them, too, if he managed to get enough wood.

He picked the ones that were fit for the part - branches that weren't too long but not too short, ones that were fatter than they were thin - and cradled them in his arms as he gleefully gathered up whatever he could carry.

More than happy with himself as he brought them back to you eagerly and set them beside you where he had been laid.

"I got some wood," Kili told you with a beaming smile. "Do you think you could teach me how to carve them?"

"Do you have a knife?" You asked, and when he produced one that he had stolen from his brother earlier, you did you best not to laugh. "Alright, grab a branch. You know what a spoon looks like, don't you?"

"I do," he nodded, his hands shaking as he tried to control his excitement. "I'm going to carve yours with a tree... is that possible?"

"Anything is," you told him, guiding his hand slightly. "Go more gentle at the tip, you don't want the handle to be too thin. Remember, most of the carving is on the handle."

Kili nodded, meeting your eyes as he hummed. "I love you - you don't have to stay anything back, I know you do, too."

"I love you, too," you murmured. "You're... you're part of my home, and as long as I'm with you, I'm happy."

"I'm glad the wizard hired you."

"Me, too," you smiled, shaking your head. "Don't be afraid to carve the end of the spoon too thin - it's not meant to be used for eating."

#mlem writes #kili x you #kili x reader #kili imagine #kili fanfic #kili durin #kili durin x reader #the hobbit x reader #the hobbit x you #the hobbit x y/n #the hobbit imagine #the hobbit fanfiction #the hobbit fic #the hobbit kili #lotr x reader #lotr x you #lotr x y/n #lotr imagine #lotr fic #lotr fanfiction #lotr fanfic #lotr #lord of the rings x reader #lord of the rings x you #lord of the rings imagine #lord of the rings fanfiction #lord of the rings fic #lord of the rings fluff #lord of the rings

[adrianasunderworld]

Okay so I'm sorry for word vomiting here but I've got this AU that I've been developing in my head for the past few weeks. I call it my Disney Crossover/House of Mouse/When I say everyone loves Yuu, I’m talking about the entire Disney animated multiverse AU.

(I’m going to be referring to Yuu as she/her because of my own pronouns)

Basically, Yuu ends up working at the House of Mouse every night for extra money because Crowley sucks. She travels through a magic mirror in Ramshackle. Everyone there loves her: the (human and animal) adults think of her as their daughter, the animals love her (she’s not a beast tamer for nothing), the kids constantly want to hang out with her and even the villains have a soft spot for her (mainly because she treats them like normal people and not as villains. She’s super kind and sweet to them even when they try to scare her). Somehow, they realise that they don’t really know who she is or how she got there or anything so they ask her about it and she’s like “it’s a long story I don’t want to explain the whole thing.”

So due to either Disney Magic™ or one of Professor Von Drake’s inventions, the entire Disney theatrical animated universe watch everything that’s happened to Yuu so far in Twisted Wonderland. So obviously this would lead to lots of questions and everything but that’s not what I want to talk about. Oh no. What I’m getting to is this:

Ship Wars.

Everyone sees how Yuu has got each and every boy at NRC wrapped around her little finger and she’s literally so dense and oblivious to how positively smitten and whipped they are for her so they play a little matchmaking. Obviously The Great Seven™ would want Yuu to get with their own Twisted versions. It was unprecedented. Normally every villain knows not to get on the bad side of the Mistress of all Evil but the second she’s like “she’s my future granddaughter, my Malleus has been courting him the day they met” WWIII breaks out.

The Heroes™ are at first like “why villains though?” before realising that the boys would rather chop off a limb before they would ever think about letting Yuu get anywhere near harm and they’re like “so for their wedding, I’m thinking…” Because what’s the biggest bragging right than having the beloved Yuu getting with someone that’s based on your story.

Listen, because I have ideas™ of villains trying to get their kid (yes, they see the boys as their kids, sue them) with Yuu and the heroes being like “Are you married? No. Move over.” Simba and Nala helping Leona with ‘Can You Feel the Love Tonight 2.0’ whilst Scar and the hyenas scheme in the shadows (the hyenas love Ruggie by the way. He’s an honorary member of the cackle), Aladdin and Jasmine hardcore shipping Kalim with Yuu (Aladdin to the other princes “they rode on a magic carpet and had an elephant parade. Perfect first date material right there.”) whilst JamilYuu shippers Jafar and Iago seethe, Alice may not know much about relationships but she’s got an imagination, an older sister and sees how invested the White Rabbit, card soldiers and the Queen and King of Hearts are with RiddleYuu so she’s going to help. The Dwarves hate Vil. Snow White loves everyone. She just wants Yuu to be happy. Lovable himbo tries to get Idia and Yuu together but Meg just rolls her eyes and Hades yells at him for ruining his plans. Ariel and Eric see Azul, a mer who’s fallen in love with a human and they’re like “our time has come. Sebastian, get your voice ready.” and Ursula’s like “that might be the one good idea you two have ever had”. Maleficent has been MalleYuu Shipper No1 from the start (a title that Lilia had to give up to her after a one minute stare down). She already has a room prepared for the prefect for when she visits the Valley of Thorns. Aurora, Phillip and the three good fairies think that Malleus is a sweet boy and are rooting for him.

Of course, there will be ship wars.

And don’t get me started on the battles that the villainous henchmen/sidekicks get with each other. If I have motivation, I might write something for this AU but I have a bunch of headcanons and scenarios for it. Also, Yuu is an honorary Disney Princess. She gets to sit with them at their table and has a personal invite to visit their castles whenever she wants so that they can have some girl time together. (Mulan and Merida mainly want to teach her how to use weapons and are 100000% ready to hunt down any of the boys that try to mess with her).

Listen, I love everything about this. House of Mouse was one one my favorite cartoons as a kid so i'm all on board for this. (It is an affront that the series is not on Disney+, but at least its on Youtube.)

Mickey tapping on the glass of the Ramshackle mirror: Hey, hey kid. Wanna work at my club?

All i'm thinking of is the episode where Max has a date with Roxanne and everyone swears not to embarrass him, and then proceeds to embarrass with their well intentioned attempts to make it perfect. Like dedicated Sebastian's Kiss the girl performance and setting up a Lady and Tramp style meal for them. That, but with the NRC boy of the week.

Miss Yuu: I'm going to be bringing my friend Azul this Friday. When he heard about the club he was interested to check it out for ideas for his lounge.

The entire cast of the little mermaid:

There is not a speck of chill in that establishment. Sebastian's going to perform Kiss the Girl. Ariel and Eric get the bright idea to invite them to sit with them like a double date. Ursula and batting the other villains from interfering with a stick. It's a mess.

Rinse and repeat every other week with a different student.

Imagine Hades trying to teach Idia how to be a quick smooth talker to get Yuu to go out with him and its just failing miserably. Or Yuu just glaring at the Magic Mirror in the lobby.

Or ladies night at the House of Mouse, and all the princesses insist Yuu sit them and enjoy the show, and Minnie assures her she can take a break for a while. Then upon Clarabells suggestion in the episode, they do a bachelor auction, Only the Bachalors are Vil, Malleus, Leona and whoever else they could rope into it. Only all the princesses are bidding on their favorites and then giving the date to Yuu.

And like you said, everyone sort of adopts Yuu in their own way. But Goofy especially is going full dad mode for Yuu. Just comes to her defense at any moment like he does with Max and its very sweet.

#twisted wonderland #miss yuu #the house of mouse

[acefaun]

Can you write a drabble about my King Under the Mountain, Lord Smaug? 🔥🔥You need more dragons on your page, mlady Faun 🐉

Smaug~ Treasure Hoarding

Synopsis: Accidentally coming across the lonely mountain in one of your escapades, you find your idol, Smaug, the King Under the Mountain. Making a deal with a dragon who hoards treasure would be beneficial for a little thief like you, wouldn’t it? 

🍃Masterlist🍃 Gender neutral MC!

A/n: I should never expect less from a dragon… Well, my liege, I hope you're impressed! You were a bit vague on the details… but I assumed you wanted something good and not an angsty piece about after his death… 😁 So, you get a dragon friend! …Or whatever Smaug is to you!

–Word Count: 2,359 –

The wind practically whistled beside your ear as the arrow brushed past your head. You should have used a little more caution when passing through the little fishing town, but it was nothing you couldn’t handle. Well, they weren’t shy in pursuing you well outside of their city, but they were certainly falling behind. You thought men on horses would have a better chance against someone on foot carrying bags of gold. To be fair, you had more than a few bags, but the rest of your collection was waiting for you beside the mountain just across the lake. As soon as these men left you alone, you wouldn’t squander your chance to get back there and add your recent findings. 

Lucky for you, those humans seemed to know when enough was enough and failed to follow you closer to the mountain. 

You jovially hummed to yourself, heading over to your hidden wagon, dripping with gold coins and various other treasures and jewels. Though, you knew your beloved treasure would get attention, so you decided it was time to find a good hiding place to settle down. Nothing, you thought, was better than a mountain where humans were wary to follow. Besides, if you were lucky, you’d find treasure already in there. All you’d have to do was fight off whoever owned the treasure. Then you’d have both treasure and a mountain to hide. Besides, this had to be one good mountain for a thief considering no one else dared approach.

Densely neglecting and disregarding the surrounding scenery, you excitedly entered the entrance of the mountain, a wide opening which looked like it should have had closed gates. Lucky for you, this seemed to be a mountain abandoned by dwarves. Giddy with excitement, you pulled your load of treasure behind you, traveling deep into the mountain. You’d only settle for the best hiding place for your collection. After all, you couldn’t have someone just happening across your belongings and mistaking them for unclaimed things; they were yours. 

However, it seemed the deeper you went, the heavier the air became. It was as if some magic hung over this place… Ah well, that was none of your concern. If there was a foreboding presence, then there was no doubt your treasure would be safe from intruders.

Standing in the door to another hall, you paused, your eyes glittering. With the lone bag on your back, you abandoned your cart in the hall, sprinting for the large doors before you. Your wide eyes scanned the room you found yourself in, flickering to and fro across the sea of gold. You’d have missed it before had it not been illuminating the entire area with a sheen of golden light. 

This was perfect. If those humans didn’t dare enter and find this trove then how could they dare to follow you and find yours? Feeling cocky and certain of yourself, you left your wagon at the door, carrying with you a few bags of gold, the start of your collection if you were to find a good hiding place. You didn’t want to just dump it in with the rest of this collection, you’d never be able to sort yours from the ones already here. Besides, you were prideful and wanted to keep track of how much treasure you personally collected before happening across this magnificent trove of sparkling wonders. 

The path was tricky and you, too many times, slipped upon the piles of gold. It was more difficult than walking upon sand dunes; these coins would like to devour you whole. Though, you thought you were having a fairly easy time of it, until the ground beneath you shifted. 

Frantically, you clawed at the mountain of coin to gain proper footing, but it was all in vain. Tumbling down, down, and further down the clattering gold, you were nearly buried under the tumbling coins. It was all you could do to keep your head above them, scrambling to free yourself. You suppose people weren’t exaggerating when they said too much gold could kill a person. You hadn’t taken it literally before now as you dug your way free from your shimmering prison. 

Feeling a puff of air blow your hair into your face, you froze in place, realizing just why no one had pursued you. This mountain… was the lonely mountain. You were in Erebor. And this dragon that gazed down upon you as if you were a mouse was none other than Smaug, the King under the mountain.

You should have been terrified, you should have feared death, but you could only kneel in awe of your idol from the stories. Once again, your eyes were glittering in delight, and this dragon seemed to sense that odd emotion coming off of you—it wasn’t fear. 

The great dragon hissed, “What mortal dares to enter the domain of the Great Smaug?” He meant to intimidate you, but you adored the intensity of his voice. He had astonishingly accomplished the complete opposite of what he intended.

“My Lord Smaug,” you praised him as though he were a god. “I should have realized sooner—an embarrassing mistake on my part that I shan't make again,” you promised vehemently. Despite your mortification at not recognizing the domain of this great King, you soon collected yourself as you continued to praise his magnificence, “The stories speak for themselves, your excellency! The ability to steal a trove of treasure but in a single moment…” You trailed off, ogling the great dragon. 

“And you dare threaten to steal from me?” Smaug tilted his head, regarding you with his sharp, serpentine eyes. “I will not part with a single coin; not one piece of it.”

“Of course not, my Lord!” You waved him down from a near tantrum, well aware of just how territorial dragons could be of their gold—you weren't all too different from him, after all. Eagerly, you presented your bag of treasure to him. “I… have a request, otherwise,” you timidly suggested. “I'm not here to steal, but rather… I'd like to strike a deal with a wise and powerful dragon. If you were to permit me, your excellence.”

Your heart raced as his head drew nearer to you. He was so much larger when he was hardly a foot away from you. But the sudden puffs of air that fluttered your hair made you quickly come to realize that he was sniffing you.

“This treasure is not of this mountain,” he huffed, pulling away and laying back atop his hoard. Luckily, you weren't perceived as a threat for the moment. “Speak, mortal.” 

“Well, then, my Lord, I just so happen to be a distinguished thief! Similar to you, my great excellency, I, myself, have accumulated a vast wealth of treasures over my time!” You proudly proclaimed your accomplishments, despite many of those treasures being lost. “Well… I've had the misfortune of never having a great place to safekeep them exactly… Until now! Great Smaug, with all your wisdom, would you allow me, a poor soul, to add my bountiful treasures to your hoard for your safekeeping?” 

It was quite agonizing for you, waiting for him to deliberate and contemplate. However, only after willingly displaying your wagon of treasure was a deal struck. You were a fortunate soul to be able to store your various treasures in the hoard. Of course, you had your own pile, separate from his on a ledge that hovered over the large trove. 

And day after day you would leave, sometimes you wouldn't return for days, but when you did return it was always with trinkets and treasures and gold to add to Smaug’s unnoticeably growing treasure hoard. 

However, your back and forth traveling only leads others to become interested in the abandoned, lonely mountain. After all, if someone like you could go in and come back out alive then surely the dragon had either fled or perished. So certain of their beliefs, they entered the mountain after their notorious thief, determined to get back their gold and steal from the limitless and bountiful riches within the depths of the mountain.

Unfortunately for them… You led them to exactly where they wanted to go, only to vanish the minute they lost themselves in the heaps and mountains of gold. 

“L- Look at all of this… We'll never have to work a day in our lives!”

“But that bastard thief… We can't have ‘em snatchin’ our gold. Where's that little rat?!”

“Here,” you announce, revealing your position atop a pile of gold, high above where they stood. You held a sword in your hands, but you weren't intending to use it. Your eyes narrowed, but the smile on your lips betrayed your glee. “You've made a mistake in coming here. This gold is not yours for the taking.”

“We're not here to ask for permission, thieving scum!”

“I can't pity a poor soul like you,” you solemnly replied, unconcerned with their approach. “Your excellency, these mortal men mean to steal from you.” 

The men froze at the foot of the gold lump, their eyes widening as the gold coin began cascading down like a waterfall. However, the more gold that fell, the more horror filled them. 

“That… That’s the dragon, that is!”

“Smaaaauug! We're gonna die!”

Their squeals didn't last long as blazing heat filled the room, burning the foolish men to a crisp. The sight enthralled you as you grinned, standing atop the head of your beloved King under the mountain. “We surely make a great team, my Lord.” You hummed in content, sitting down as you leaned against his horns. He too burrowed himself beneath the cool coin that surrounded him, relaxing atop his hoard. “You know,” you added thoughtfully, “I put a lot of my stuff in here and I really owe you for taking me in and protecting all of it. If there's anything you ever want, lemme know! Nothings off limits!” 

Though Smaug remained silent, his inaudible rumbling revealed his intrigue to your offer. Finally, he revealed his desire, “There is a golden ring that interests me… A golden ring of power. It is easy to recognize… Should you come across such an invaluable treasure as this, I should command that you bring it to me.”

“Yes, sir, my Lord! That ring is as good as yours if it ever crosses my path!” Your promises are always well kept, though he knew the chance of you coming across the ring was slim to none… He had to demand it. 

Well beyond that day, you continued to bring to him your trinkets and treats for months… years… centuries. Such a long, long time. Smaug would have otherwise not cared for the passage of time were it not for your coming and going, and his occasional leaving the mountain. 

Again sitting with you amongst the piles of gold, he commented, “You… are an odd human.”

You inclined your head curiously to regard his larger figure. “Human? My Lord, I'm half human.” 

His hums of intrigue vibrated the gold you sat upon as he mused aloud, “That explains the odd inhuman scent that follows you. An impressive little mortal.” Only being half human, it was no wonder you could accomplish the feats you did and bring back as many gifts as you have the past centuries. 

“I’m sure I smell profusely of dragon and gold at this point,” you couldn’t help but joke in response. But even if you did smell of nothing but dragon and gold, you were proud of it. You’d wear this scent like a badge of honor, proud to be the mortal companion of the great and powerful King under the mountain. “I’m glad to be with you, my King.”

You sat relaxed atop a gold hill, a reddish scaled tail trailed around you, peeking out from beneath the thousands of golden pieces. Beside you was a full view of your dragon friend amidst his hoard. You were determined to stay by his side and continue bringing him treasures until you found the ring he once mentioned. It was the only desire he’d ever named to you and you were determined to one day come across it and gift it to him.

Smaug, on the other hand, was content with you going and coming with your menial treasures as if you, yourself were a mouse-sized dragon with your own nest-sized hoard. You were oddly adorable, something he didn’t imagine he could feel about another living creature. Knowing what he knew… it was safe to say he was fond of his little half-human. 

His tail coiled further around you, not ensnaring you or trapping you, but comfortingly surrounding you, claiming you. “My precious little treasure…” His voice came out as a low rumble as he buried his head further in his pile of gold. 

You were convinced he was muttering about his hoard of gold, ignorant to the way his tail curled possessively around you, the scales nudging against your back. You simply took this as an affectionate brush, leaned further against his tail, patting his scales in return. How were you supposed to know that you’d suddenly become a part of a dragon’s hoard? And should you fail to ever return to him… Well, those unfortunate cities would understand why it is unwise to part a dragon from his treasure.

#the hobbit #lord of the rings #lotr smaug #middle earth #the lonely mountain #the hobbit fanfic #lord of the rings fanfic #smaug x reader

[whorinsmokenshield]

Malalkhrukûn (January)

Summary: Bilbo Baggins is a hobbit. Just as grass is green, the sky is blue, and the Lonely Mountain is tall, Bilbo Baggins is a hobbit through and through, and no one would know this better than himself. Yet strangely, while underneath the dwarf whom he calls king, he’s never been more acutely aware of just how much of a hobbit he is.

Rating: Explicit

(Hi I wrote this for the Year of Bagginshield prompt 'Body Worship' for January. Prompt list by @acorns-and-oakleaves. Ao3 upload here)

~~~~~~~~~~

If Bilbo Baggins were ever able to meet the Valar of his choice, he would choose Aulë, for he would like to shake his hand and thank him in-person for the creation of the dwarves.

There was not a race in Middle Earth, not even the elves, that was able to match up to the raw strength, presence and stature that the average dwarf possessed (at least, in Bilbo’s opinion). They came in a variety, but most shared the same notable characteristics: arms like stone columns, chests like barrels, stout height, thick fingers, and cords of granite-dense muscles strapping every inch of their bodies. Bilbo has long thanked Yavanna that no one in the Shire had ever caught his eye, for had he been married when he laid eyes on his first dwarf there’s no telling what he would have done. Bilbo has similarly thanked Aulë every day that he was blessed enough to even be able to lay eyes on one in his life. Not to mention laying eyes on a particular dwarf; a mighty specimen of a king who might have been carved out of marble, with oiled raven-black locks and piercing sapphire-blue eyes. That Bilbo existed on the same plane as Thorin Oakenshield was an uncountable blessing in itself.

That Bilbo was currently situated underneath Thorin Oakenshield was a turn of events he would not have arranged in even his most fantastic dreams.

The steps that came before being pushed into the king's bedchambers were a blur of hot touches and gravelly whispers that skittered down Bilbo's spine like chills. Bilbo did not know what he had done to catch Thorin's eye that day, but he had half a mind to ask him so that he might do it every day. The scorching wall of Thorin's body had crowded him through the parlor of the royal apartments to the king's bedchambers, moving like a juggernaut until Thorin could kick the door closed behind them and turn the golden lock. At once Bilbo was grabbed by his shoulders, spun around, and kissed within an inch of his life.

Thorin leaned over him and ravished his mouth, beard scratching the skin of his chin and cheeks in the best possible way, then Thorin bit Bilbo’s bottom lip to trick him into opening his mouth.

Bilbo was making cut off moans and noises that were frankly embarrassing, worse still as he let the king dip his tongue into Bilbo’s mouth and take him for a dance, but Thorin was no better. Thorin was groaning from deep in his belly and grasping Bilbo’s arms like he thought Bilbo would sink into the floor. (Which, if Thorin were to keep kissing him like this, Bilbo just might). When the king retreated to gasp for air he would drone little words under his breath that made Bilbo’s body vibrate. There were ones that Bilbo knew: bunmel, the beauty of all beauties; ghivashel, the treasure of all treasures; kurdel, his heart of all hearts. Then there were ones that Bilbo didn’t know, ones that he’s thought before that Thorin was keeping a secret on purpose; galthûn, àrsûn, úkrad, and others. Each one being whispered into his lips made Bilbo feel like flint being struck against steel.

Bilbo was urged backwards, for he was just a sheep against a shepherd’s rod, until the backs of his knees hit the bed and buckled so that he hit the mattress on his back. Thorin climbed over him, hot breath heaving, hands on either side of Bilbo’s head to prop himself up. Bilbo had his own hands up and around Thorin’s neck, cupping it like something precious then thrown around his shoulders as if afraid to fall. 

He kissed Bilbo again, again, long and heavy and blindingly hot. Thorin’s hair fell around him in a black curtain and created a pocket of just the two of them, panting and staring up and down into the other’s eyes and at the other’s lips until they inevitably reconnected with twin moans of pleasure.

Thorin hoisted himself further up onto the bed on his hands and knees, trapping Bilbo’s body with his own, and Bilbo thought he could die like that. Under Thorin Oakenshield, on top of royal down sheets, there was little that could compare. Bilbo was the most blessed creature in Middle-Earth.

Then Thorin shifted his weight and dragged his knee up so that it split the space of Bilbo’s thighs, and if he thought his noises were embarrassing before, it was certainly nothing against the whimper of anticipation he let out when Thorin pressed against him.

“M-Mercy…” Bilbo stammered, bringing his hands down to grip Thorin’s tunic. He’d worn it at the guildmaster’s meeting that morning, and all Bilbo could think about was what lay underneath. It was beautiful Durin blue, but couldn’t hold as much as a candle to the carved majesty that it covered.

“Do not speak to me of mercy,” Thorin replied with a teasing, throaty tone that set Bilbo on fire. He dotted every other word thereafter with a trailing kiss from his lips down the column of his neck, and a grind against his hip. “Wearing the crown, made by my own hands, in this fitted robe. The way you spoke to the master of textiles, I should have taken you over that table.”

“Oh, Thorin- Thorin!” Bilbo squeaked as Thorin nipped at the skin in the hollow of his throat and made him squirm. “Y-you said it was a circlet, n-not a c-crown- oh. A-And I don’t even remember what I said to the master- oh, please Thorin!”

Thorin’s hand had decided on its own to wander, and while Thorin ravished every inch of exposed skin above Bilbo’s collar his fingers had begun to play at the hem of his trousers, running along the seam and dipping under just enough to make Bilbo want to beg for him to stop or go.

“To be frank, marlel,” Thorin kissed him to catch the whimpers that were falling from his lips. “Neither do I.”

Thorin’s knee had been creeping higher and higher up the bed and by now was firmly against his overly-clothed cock. Bilbo couldn’t help himself, and his hips moved to grind against Thorin’s muscular thigh. He wasn’t the only one that was overly clothed.

“Off. Now. Please?” Bilbo tugged at Thorin’s collar and coat with each word, and added a bit of a whine to the last one that he knew would turn Thorin into a dwarf of action.

“Your wish is my command,” Thorin bestowed one last smooch, sweeter than the ones before it, and pushed up onto his knees to strip his top half.

Bilbo would have bemoaned the loss of his dwarven roof if not for the show that he was immediately gifted. He laid flat on his back and watched with rapt attention, relishing in Thorin’s heated eye-contact, as Thorin shucked his coat and outer tunic and bared his beautiful, stone-carved arms to the room. Smith’s arms, warrior’s arms, arms that have beaten steel, silver, goblins and orcs into submission. Thorin tore off his undershirt and Bilbo was left winded.

His chest was as firm as marble, and looked nigh unpierceable (if Bilbo didn’t painfully know better). Crossed with puckered scars that were the furthest opposite of revolting, he looked like a battle-tested breastplate. His belly was large and strong, and Bilbo couldn’t help but crave to drag his hands over it- to run his fingers through the dense, coarse hair that darkened it in a mat from his collar to his groin. Bilbo was awed by the sheer majesty that radiated off Thorin’s skin. If he walked around just like this, Bilbo had no doubt every man elf and dwarf from here to the Blue Mountains would not hesitate to bend their knees. Bilbo sure didn’t.

All of this, not even to mention the outline that Bilbo could see against the fabric of Thorin’s trousers. Hard as oak, thick, mouthwatering. They’d done this before, of course they have, but each time Bilbo felt like he was seeing and feeling it anew.

“What are you looking at?” Thorin’s voice breached the fog that had settled over Bilbo and glazed his eyes. Bilbo couldn’t believe he was being teased at a time like this, as if he could get any harder or more desperate.

“You are the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen in my life,” Bilbo mumbled drunkenly. And by Yavanna, he thought he saw a bit of red dash across Thorin’s cheeks.

Thorin shook his head with fondness. “Hobbits and their honeyed words.” 

“You know other hobbits?” Bilbo asked, bemused and teasing. 

“I do not need to, for you are the pinnacle of them all, íbinê.” Thorin stepped out of his trousers and pants and knelt back on the bed in a smooth set of movements. “No other would even compare.”

Bilbo swallowed, half at Thorin’s words and half at- well…

“Well, then,” Bilbo said for the sake of saying something.

“But as sweet as your words are,” Thorin said, and settled back over Bilbo so they were hip to hip, his bare chest pressing against Bilbo’s cured thrice-damned robes, his breath brushing against the hollow of Bilbo’s ear. “I prefer it when you’re speechless.”

Bilbo trembled in his hands. “Oh.”

Thorin put his nose back to Bilbo’s throat and inhaled like Bilbo gave him breath. He pressed wet, open-mouthed kisses to the skin of his neck. Bilbo fought not to move too much, for every time he shifted the thick line of Thorin’s cock ground against his crotch and Bilbo was liable to faint. The king ran his hands down Bilbo’s flank until they hit the hem of his outer robes, then they went further and ducked beneath the fabric. 

“You, Master Burglar,” Thorin rumbled, perhaps just to make Bilbo shiver, and plucked at Bilbo’s robes impatiently. “are terribly overdressed for the occasion.” Thorin’s palms dragged two hot lines up and under his undershirt, over his stomach. Bilbo yelped as they squeezed his waist.

There was a lot of give in Bilbo’s waist; more than other places on his body, save for his thighs. Unlike Thorin, he was not made of sculpted iron and chiseled stone. He was only a hobbit, after all. Bilbo looked up at Thorin and saw the unparalleled strength and gods-like physique that Thorin wielded as well as he wielded an axe. He had to know what he looked like, how other people looked at him. Thorin was beautiful. A masterpiece, hand-crafted by his Maker. 

Bilbo was…well, Bilbo was a hobbit. A soft, squishy hobbit, with a body from a life of luxury and plenty, scarcely muscled even after so many months on the road. A body that Thorin has seen before, but…Bilbo felt odd, now. Perhaps all of that ogling he’d been doing hadn’t done him any good. He could reach up and take Thorin’s chest in his hands and it would give very little because Thorin led a life of discipline and hardship, and his whole being was evidence of it. 

Thorin had grown up around dwarves, and his attraction had grown around that. Was Thorin disappointed by him? The softness, the large feet, the lack of beard? Bilbo hadn’t even considered the beard before. Being smooth-shaven was a sign of deep shame in dwarven society, wasn’t it? 

Was Thorin even attracted to him, physically? That thought was not a pleasant one. Did Thorin force himself to overlook that every time they made love? Perish the thought. It made Bilbo want to hide under the covers.

Bilbo’s heart fluttered as Thorin began to work at peeling away Bilbo’s layers, but it fluttered for the wrong reasons. It fluttered with nerves, like he was about to be sick with them. Thorin had seen his body before- more than a dozen times, and not all in the bedroom. He didn’t know why now of all times was when he’d decided to feel so insecure. It was decidedly inconvenient to be ashamed of one’s body when in the presence of another who was trying very ardently to get him naked.

Too distracted with his internal turmoil, Bilbo hadn’t even noticed that he’d stiffened up until Thorin’s warm hands froze in place.

“Bilbo?” He asked. There was no tease in his voice. “Alright?”

“Fine! I’m-I’m fine, keep going,” Bilbo assured. Thorin withdrew completely. He took his hands off Bilbo’s body and propped himself up over him.

“Do you need to stop?” 

“No, no, I just…” Bilbo sighed and scrubbed his hands down his face. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m being ridiculous.”

“Never.” Thorin sounded deathly serious. He sat up and off Bilbo, and at once Bilbo both missed his heat and was thankful for the breathing space. He felt like he was about to cry. Damn it all. “Did I do something?”

“No. No, of course not, no. Nothing you did. It’s…” Bilbo couldn’t help but bite back the whole truth. “It’s just…myself. I’m having a hard time tonight, and I don’t know why. We do this all the time, I should be used to it.“

Thorin frowned at him, and Bilbo knew he wouldn’t get away with his half-sentences any longer.

“If you don’t want to do this, Bilbo, you don’t have to.” The concern from his voice came around to his eyes, and seemed to actually be rising into fear. “You should have told me if I was making you uncomfortable.”

“Thorin- no, that’s- I don’t mean it like that.”

“Then what do you mean?” Thorin started to shuffle back off the bed and that was the last thing Bilbo wanted, so he grabbed Thorin by the wrist to stop him. Thorin could shake him off, but stopped his retreat anyway. “If not me, then what? Hm?”

“I mean…I…” The words just wouldn’t come. Bilbo flushed with frustration and averted his eyes from Thorin’s to see if he could find his thoughts again. “Blast it, I don’t know. I don’t know how to say this. You’ll think me a fool.”

His king took pity on him. He took Bilbo’s hand off his wrist and held it. With the silent confirmation that that was alright, he then began to maneuver them both. “Come here,” he said, and sat on the bed behind Bilbo and sat back against the headboard. He coaxed Bilbo back with him so that Bilbo was leaning with his back to Thorin’s bare chest, with Thorin’s chin and beard settled against the crown of his head and Thorin’s arms around his middle. Exactly where Bilbo didn’t want them to be.

He bore it- though, normally he wouldn’t have to. Normally he’d be perfectly content, as warm and fuzzy as he would be if he were a cat stretched out in front of a fire, but Thorin’s proximity to the current object of Bilbo’s ire filled him with nothing but dread and stress. He felt like he’d ruined everything.

“Talk to me, ghivashel,” Thorin mumbled into his ear. “I would have you lend me your troubles so that we could share them. Please.”

“I…” Now Bilbo was going to cry. When Thorin spoke in that way, as if he were penning a love letter, Bilbo felt overwhelmed. Normally he was overwhelmed with something more primal, but now it was just fondness and guilt.

“Was I pushing too much?” Thorin asked, gently. “I thought you were reciprocating. Was I wrong? I won’t be upset. I…I understand I may come across…overly passionate”

Bilbo scoffed, incredulous. Thorin was aware of his faults, how he sometimes failed to read signs of Bilbo’s intentions purely because of how they sometimes differed from a dwarf’s, but Bilbo thought that the body language for being mindless with arousal was mostly universal. “Certainly not.” 

“Then?” 

There was nothing that could be done for it. Bilbo squeezed his eyes shut.

“Do you find me attractive, Thorin?” He asked with a voice as small as he felt, as small as Thorin’s hands on his stomach made him feel. Those hands twitched and tightened.

“Of course I do,” Thorin said the very second he processed the question. “You have a doubt in your mind about how much I adore you, labthûnimê? Have I made it so?”

Bilbo sighed. The hard part came now, where he tried to keep himself from sounding as vain as he sounded in his head. 

“Of course not. I don’t doubt that you love me, that you…adore me.” (Thorin’s blunt passion with words still made him blush even now, in his naked lap) “Not at all. But…are you attracted to me?”

He was quiet for a moment, likely thinking, and Bilbo found himself wishing he didn’t have to think so hard about it. Wishing that he'd just get it over with- or, rather, channel a hobbit and say something indirect and vaguely sentimental to avoid answering the question.’Your soul is gorgeous to me’ or ‘you have a beautiful heart.’

Thorin then said, “I don’t understand, ghivashel.”

Blast it, now Bilbo had to be specific.

“Well…put simply…” Bilbo’s gut churned with nerves. “Well…Thorin, you’re…gorgeous.”

“I…thank you?” 

Bilbo was glad that they were back-to-chest, for his cheeks were burning and he was in no mood to be teased for it.

“I mean that you are the most handsome dwarf in the mountain, by far, and…well, excuse me for being romantic, but I do think that you are the most attractive man in Middle-Earth. You’re strong. You exude power, your presence is astonishing. Your hair, your beard, marvelous. I’d use more colorful words, but I don’t fancy myself a poet, and I simply acknowledge that there’s very little that could compare to you.”

Bilbo swallowed.

“Certainly no hobbit. Soft and guileless as we are. And I know we've done this before but…I…I suppose I just looked at myself for the first time after looking at you, and…i-it’s a bit like putting pumpkins against potatoes, if you asked me. Only one of those makes a decent pie, anyway. Oh, I'm sorry, this is so ridiculous.”

Thorin’s hands began to squeeze and tighten.

“Oh, Bilbo.”

Bilbo didn’t love the tone of his words- the pity he thought he heard in it. He didn’t want pity, he just wanted Thorin to understand. What he really wanted was to hide under the bed until Thorin forgot all about this blunder and they could both go back to being blissfully ignorant of Bilbo’s sudden insecurities, but if Bilbo always got what he wanted he’d have been cozied into his armchair in Bag End before he’d even reached Rivendell.

Thorin gripped Bilbo tight enough to hurt and buried his face into Bilbo’s hair, sighing heavily and heating Bilbo’s scalp with his breath. 

“I’ve not been good to you, bunmel, if there is even a bit of you that thinks you are not worthy of me. It is I who is not worthy of you.”

Bunmel, the beauty of all beauties. He would use that one, given what Bilbo just confessed to him.

“I don’t want your pity,” Bilbo bit out grumpily, nestling into Thorin’s arms. “You asked, I answered, I don’t want you to make it anything more than what it is.”

“This is not pity,” Thorin ground out. “This is shame. My shame. How long have you felt like this? Why have you never said anything?”

“Thorin, it doesn’t matter, ” Bilbo insisted. He wanted to pull out of Thorin’s embrace, but he was putting those smith’s arms that Bilbo had just been admiring to good use. “I’m being childish and vain, and again, I’d thank you not to not to make it more than it is. And what good would telling you have done, even if I’d had these thoughts before? Not much you can do about it- you may be king, but you are neither Eru nor Yavanna.”

“I would not have allowed that thought to fester. I would not have allowed it to even take root. And I would have done this much sooner.”

“Done…” Bilbo furrowed his face. “What, exactly?”

Then Bilbo was flat on his back, head towards the foot of the bed, as Thorin had gripped him and flipped him and pushed him down as if they were sparring. He forced himself between Bilbo’s knees and shoved him into the mattress. It sent a jolt through Bilbo’s heart, his hands flying up to Thorin’s bare shoulders. Thorin was still naked. Somehow, Bilbo had almost forgotten.

“Thorin?”

Just like that, Thorin’s gentleness was almost gone. The heat in his eyes was not playful, but intense as a wildfire, nearly angry, but only just. He grabbed Bilbo’s hands, one and one, and pinned them to the bed above his head, leaving Bilbo’s front exposed.

Bilbo, who had flagged since the start of his spiral, was now very much at attention.

“Would you like to keep going?” Thorin asked, and fixed Bilbo with a very penetrating stare.

Bilbo flexed his throat. “Y-Yes?”

“Yes?”

He nodded nervously.

“Then stay there,” Thorin ordered. Bilbo did not feel inclined to disobey, for some reason.

“What are you doing?” He did, however, feel a little indignant at being manhandled like that. Just a little, but a little was enough. 

Thorin didn’t answer him, the bastard. He sat up on his knees, hands barricading Bilbo on his left and right…and looked.

Just looked.

Bilbo was spread out for him like a vulnerable feast in dwarven robes, and Thorin’s eyes wandered over every line and shadow of his body. Bilbo saw the expression for the first time, ‘undressing him with his eyes’. His face flushed just as hard as it had when Thorin had his hands under his clothes. That dread in his stomach returned just the same.

He broke his rules and brought his hands and arms down to shield himself- or rather, he tried. The moment he moved in that direction Thorin snatched his arms and pinned them again.

“Th-Thorin!” he yelped.

“Stay. There.” Thorin grumbled into Bilbo’s ear, a wave of heat and lightning following. “Or I will keep you there.”

Oh oh oh, he should not have said that. Bilbo was getting harder now than he had been before. His cock pushed against his pants.

“O-Okay, okay,” he whispered tightly.

“Hm.” Thorin retreated again. Bilbo kept his hands where they were as if Thorin had bolted them down. He wouldn’t lie: the thought of disobeying him was not appalling. But he needed to see where Thorin was going with this.

Thorin consumed him with a hunger Bilbo had scarcely seen, going as far as to wet his lips when his gaze sauntered over the swell of Bilbo’s belly and the apex of his thighs. The heat behind his gaze only grew wilder, a fire in a coal mine.

“Íbinel, if you think there is an inch of you that is not more desirable as gold, you would be sorely mistaken.”

Bilbo watched the plane of Thorin’s throat flex as he swallowed.

“I would have you know what I see when I look at you,” Thorin groaned. “I would have you know every thought that comes to my mind, and know it as absolute truth.”

Thorin descended on Bilbo just as he had before, but it was much different now that Bilbo wasn’t allowed to grab him back. His king started by wrapping his hands around both of Bilbo's biceps and licking a hot, wet stripe up the side of Bilbo’s neck. His hips moved agonizingly slow against Bilbo’s pelvis, grinding their members together.

“Thorin!” Bilbo squeaked, and a firm squeeze from Thorin’s hands silenced him.

“Your skin tempts me like no other. The allure of gold does not even compare,” Thorin breathed into his neck. “Soft. Unmarked. You should be wearing my bruises for the mountain to know whose you are.”

Wasn’t that a tempting idea? Bilbo thought so, once the feeling of Thorin’s tongue on his pulse-point stopped corking his thoughts. 

“I-I thought…dwarves…valued s-scars?” Bilbo huffed out.

“Scars are strength. They are a mark of survival. Proof of a will to live.” Then Thorin leaned up and in, until his lips touched the shell of Bilbo’s ear again, and his hands squeezed Bilbo's biceps. “You have nothing to prove. Not to me. Not to a single dwarf in this mountain. I have seen you survive with my own eyes. No scar could compare to watching you stand before my enemy and emerge unscathed.” Thorin moaned into his ear. “The things I wanted to do to you on that rock, and damn the company.”

Bilbo couldn’t reply, as Thorin’s hands were moving quickly. From Bilbo’s arms to the opening of his robes, Thorin spared him a meaningful look (at once both an assurance and ‘don’t even think about moving’) and pulled the layers apart to reveal Bilbo’s tunic.

“You look good in my colors,” said Thorin, whose hands had not stopped wandering. They came to rub over Bilbo’s chest and draw out a shaky sigh from Bilbo’s lips. “You’ll look better without them.”

“You and that damn line, I swear, you never run out of ways to- sweet Mahal!” Thorin had pinched one of his nipples with his thumb and forefinger through the fabric of his tunic. How he had even found it was a talent in itself.

“Look at you. I’ve got you cursing in the manner of my ancestors.” He straddled Bilbo’s lap to distract him as he made short work of Bilbo's robe, tossing it off somewhere in the room. He shuffled back down (damn him, and damn the drag of his cock down the length of Bilbo’s crotch that made him whine) and laid himself down on Bilbo’s legs. His chin was in line with Bilbo’s waistband, his fingers rubbing circles just a breath away from the skin of Bilbo’s hips. The electric sensation of almost made his hips jerk a little. So Thorin pinned him down with a bruising grip. 

Wearing his bruises for all the mountain indeed. Though he hoped that these ones weren’t meant to be public.

“But were it up to me,” Thorin said, back in that alluring, raspy tone that made Bilbo’s head spin. “The only name you will know by the end of this night will be mine.”

“Oh,” Bilbo whimpered. Then cried, “Oh!”

Thorin’s hands rucked up the bottom of his tunic to lay just above his stomach and Thorin dipped his tongue eagerly into Bilbo’s navel. His beard scraped deliciously over his skin, and his hands pinched and massaged and rubbed along his stomach as Thorin lavished it with his mouth. Bilbo was almost trembling under the strange sensation, hands clenching and unclenching. Feeling the flesh of his stomach give and pull like a soft pillow had Bilbo blushing, in good ways and bad. After many long, trembling minutes of what Bilbo could only describe as veneration, Thorin spoke again. 

“I cannot even fathom how this troubles you.” Thorin murmured, his words making damp buzzes against Bilbo's skin that felt like static shocks. “Galthúnel.”

Between his whimpers he stuttered out, “I-I'm soft. I'm n-not as strong as you are.”

“Yes,” -kiss- “you are.”

“I'm- mph-” Thorin nibbled a red spot at the bottom of his stomach, top of his groin, then soothed it with his tongue. “Not like you- oh, stop it!”

“No.”

Using both hands Thorin pushed up Bilbo's shirts until they were over his chest, then up and over his head. Shirtless and exposed, he glanced past the tempting view of Thorin's heady eyes; he could see the flesh of his stomach, tweaked and wet and oversensitive. Well-loved.

Thorin's nose traced a line, passed across his navel and up to his chest, and made eye contact with Bilbo from under his black eyelashes at a very dangerous angle that had Bilbo throbbing in his pants. “You are far stronger than me.”

He knew Bilbo was going to try to retort- he must have known - for the moment Bilbo opened his mouth Thorin latched onto one of his nipples. Bilbo squeaked and threw his head back, his hands fisting into the sheets over his head and straining with the force of his will to keep them still.

There weren't many words to describe the pleasure of Thorin's hot mouth and the scratch of his soft beard laving over Bilbo’s chest, Thorin’s other hand crawling up to pinch and drag his untended one. Bilbo had to resort to mindlessly pushing his hips up to try and relieve the ache that had settled there, and the heat that was beginning to grow. Thorin was grinding down just as he was, rutting at half of Bilbo's speed, and Bilbo half-worried it would be over before it got better.

Bilbo longed to slide his hands into Thorin's hair and tug the way he liked it, but Thorin knew his every move. His biceps only twitched and Thorin had released his pinch on one of his nipples to clamp down on his arms again. 

“Thorin,” Bilbo moaned. “Thorin, Thorin- please!”

Thorin had nibbled on him again- the bastard. Bilbo felt lucky he didn't squeal like a lass. Thorin gave him no time to recover, and bestowed his attention on the other. Bilbo's chest was slowly heaving, and he felt certain Thorin would be able to feel his pounding heart through his skin.

The pressure and friction against his cock was not enough, not even close, but it tugged him along like a wheeled toy on a string, closer and closer and closer.

“I'm- you have to-” Bilbo would have been humiliated at how quickly he was going if he had the space for thought around the slick movement of Thorin's tongue catching on the nub of his nipple. The slight scrape of teeth nearly sent him over with a desperate whimper. His hips worked harder and harder against Thorin's cock, chasing his end. “Thorin, Thorin, Thorin.”

Thorin pulled back and clapped his hands down on Bilbo's hips to still them. The stimulation was gone, and though Bilbo's legs twitched and futily resisted the weight of his hands he could feel the edge shrinking back. That wheeled toy was rolling its way right back down the hill.

“Not yet, Íbinê.” Thorin smirked down at him. His weighty cock reaching for attention between his legs belied his self-satisfied expression, but they both knew that Thorin has infinitely more patience than Bilbo had in these matters. He could go for hours. Had, in the past. 

Bilbo squirmed a bit, testing the strength of Thorin's grip. He didn't give an inch. 

“I-I-I can go again. You know I can. As much as you want,” Bilbo said breathily. 

Every dwarf seemed to have a favorite bit of information about hobbits. For Bombur it was their ability to put away meals. For Bofur it was their dedication to the craft of partying. 

For Thorin, it seemed, it was their general lack of any sort of refractory period at all. He’d said before he thought perhaps that dwarves and hobbits were made for each other in this respect, given how difficult it was to get the average dwarf ‘up and running’ versus how easy it was to get a hobbit to pop off in as much time. Compared to a dwarf It took next to nothing to get Bilbo singing like a bluejay, and Thorin loved to play him like a harp in an inordinately long symphony.

“Oh, I know you can. Masaddazulmuzm,” Thorin purred. That was one word Thorin refused to translate. “But you'd like that too much, and I haven't been able to prove anything to you yet.”

Bilbo didn't have anything to say to that, given that he was still trying to catch his breath and regulate the pounding of his heart. His hands still laid limply above his head, and there he intended to keep them until Thorin said otherwise.

Thorin leaned back over him, firm as an iron blanket, and though he kept his hips quite a distance from Bilbo's he laid a sweet, heavy kiss on Bilbo's lips. It was slower than all the others, and felt as if Thorin was trying to speak through it. He was an eloquent dwarf, with a mastery of beautiful words, yet there were times like this where there was not a word in any language that either of them knew that was sufficient to convey what they were thinking. Bilbo thought poetry was sweetest when it was being pressed against his lips.

Bilbo laid there and let himself be kissed. Certainly a change of pace, but not a wholly unwelcome one. Thorin dragged his hands down Bilbo’s flank, squeezing gently, and stroking his thumb over the divot of his hips through his trousers. Bilbo’s lips twitched. His whole body felt like a bit of raw skin, but in a decidedly pleasurable way, and the pressure of just Thorin’s thumb was enough to make him jump.

Thorin pulled back a little, allowing their faces barely two inches between them. Thorin’s hot breath brushed over Bilbo’s lips when he spoke to fill the weighty silence.

“There are some days where I simply can’t believe that you’re real,” he whispered. His thumb rolled in gentle circles- not meant to be enticing, more soothing. “When the sunlight catches you just right, I lose my breath. All these beautiful curls, blessedly long enough to braid. Prettier than any stone in the mountain. I would have you as crowning the jewel of my throne, if I knew you would let me.”

“Well, perhaps I don’t always fancy being pinned up against a rock to be gawked at,” Bilbo said.

“I know that to be deeply untrue.”

Thorin moved his hand, and at last they were lying chest-to-chest, with Thorin a warm weight over Bilbo’s front and his beard a pleasant scratch against his skin. Bilbo’s legs twitched again. Thorin swept his palm slowly up the side of Bilbo’s face, crawling up to knit into his hair and let the strands run over his fingers.

“Like pure, spun copper,” Thorin muttered. “And it holds the finest braids my hands have ever woven.”

Thorin’s attentions seemed to have shifted, as both of his hands came to cup Bilbo’s face, to draw the pads of his fingers over his lips and nose and to dance about in his hair like a tailor appreciating fine silk. He had a tiny, mischievous grin whenever his fingers passed against the shell and tips of Bilbo’s ears and caused a shiver to wrack him.

“As much as I’m enjoying this,” Bilbo said. “I thought you were meant to be teaching me a lesson?”

Bilbo tried to tempt him, gracefully rolling his hips against Thorins and groaning as the heat returned.

Thorin thrust down, pinning Bilbo’s lower half with his pelvis. Drat.

“I am,” he replied lowly.

His eyes weren’t focused on any particular thing for too long- Bilbo’s eyes, his nose, his lips, and especially his hair all fell under his gaze. He appeared to be getting lost in the lines and planes of Bilbo’s face.

“There is not a part of you that I do not adore,” Thorin continued. “From the hair on your head to the hair on your feet. Your beautiful eyes. Your adorable” -he pinched at the tip of Bilbo’s left ear and made him jerk- “ears. I hunger for you like no other, make no mistake.” In a slick movement one of his hands dropped and squeezed the still-sensitive flesh of Bilbo’s waist quite firmly. “But when I look at you, every inch of you, I see a being so purely beautiful you could have been plucked right from the garden of your maker.”

Thorin’s hand lowered, and squeezed again. His waist, to his hip, to his thigh, to his knee, and back up to rest on his hip again. More specifically, his waistband. Thorin’s thumb teased at the edge of it, flicking the lip of the fabric, and he stared openly at Bilbo just to watch his face get redder with anticipation.

Bilbo trembled. “Please.”

Thorin smiled. “Your wish is my command.”

He hooked his thumb into Bilbo's waistband and yanked down. He did the same on the other side with his other hand, and dragged Bilbo’s trousers and pants down in one move.

Goosebumps exploded over Bilbo’s skin as the chill of the room hit his cock all at once. Thorin was able to fully remove his bottoms and toss them, once again, somewhere into the ether to be picked up later. They both sat naked before the other, staring like statues that faced each other across a shared hall.

“No matter how many times we do this. Each time, you are more beautiful than you were the last,” Thorin husked. 

Thorin dropped a kiss to Bilbo’s lips and positioned himself over him. He gave him another, this time to the underside of Bilbo’s chin. Then to his Adam’s Apple, to the dip of his collarbone, to his sternum. Lower he climbed, taking his time as if they had eons of it, his lips and beard making Bilbo’s belly jump as he quickly lavished his navel again, until his head was set between Bilbo’s thighs and Bilbo was so anxious for his touch that he was almost panting for it. 

Bilbo looked down at him. Thorin looked up. He grabbed the meat of Bilbo’s furred white thighs and pried his legs apart, Bilbo’s cock bobbing in front of his face. He pressed some teasing, tonguing kisses into the joins of his hip and thigh, chuckling when Bilbo whined and quivered, then he took the head of Bilbo’s cock into his mouth and swallowed him down to the root.

Bilbo clapped his hand over his mouth before he could moan embarrassingly loud. The grip Thorin had on his legs kept him pressed to the bed and prevented his hips from bucking up into the wet heat of Thorin’s mouth.

Thorin slid off, the drag of his tongue curling over Bilbo’s head and punching a sob out of him, muffled by his palm. 

“Hands, galthûn,” he warned.

Bilbo obeyed, and uncovered his mouth. Thorin rewarded him by taking him all in at once until the tip of Bilbo’s cock hit the back of Thorin’s throat. He moaned even louder but was forced to resist the urge to silence himself, and ended up curling his hand into a fist and slamming it back down on the bed above his head.

Thorin worked with his mouth and hands. His head bobbed up and down, taking his cock in leisurely pulls, and his fingers were massaging Bilbo’s stones. Bilbo was considerably smaller than him in every way, so it was no hardship on his jaw (so he’d claimed before), and he could just about take all of Bilbo in one hand alone.

“Ah…ah…f-fuck…Th-Thorin, oh, Thorin,” Bilbo gasped. The grip his hands had on the sheets was painful. “So good. You’re so good, ‘s so hot, you’re so…I-I…” Bilbo couldn’t take his eyes off Thorin, until Thorin looked up at him from under his eyelids, lips stretched around Bilbo’s cock, and a rush of heat shot down his body just as soon as he felt Thorin’s thumb press against his fluttering hole.

“Thorin!” Bilbo shoved the back of his head into the mattress and keened as he spent into Thorin’s mouth without so much as a warning even to himself. His lover swallowed him just as easily as he had his cock. His hips jerked and strained against Thorin’s hands, giving spurt after spurt until he was left with just the aftershocks. His thighs quivered, flinching like they meant to close around Thorin’s head, and his chest heaving in beautiful exertion.

“Sorry, ‘m so sorry, I-I didn’t even…oh, mercy.” Bilbo was still catching his breath. Thorin popped off of his sensitive cock- literally ‘popped’, with the sound his mouth made -and licked his lips like Bilbo had given him a faceful of honey instead. Bilbo was glad for it- he had a feeling they were nowhere near done, and the image of Thorin catching his cum with his tongue was almost enough to get him ready for the next round.

“Pleading yet again mercy,” Thorin rumbled. “Yet you give me none yourself, writhing on my bed as you are.”

“And whose fault is that?” Bilbo breathed, then he yelped as Thorin’s calloused hand took hold of Bilbo’s shaft and picked up where his mouth left off. Bilbo could tell by the look on his face that Thorin was drinking up every last oversensitive pant that he tugged out of him.

“Mine,” Thorin grunted. His hand picked up some speed. Bilbo wasn’t as ready for him as he thought; a cold fire had engulfed his stomach, as if begging for a chance to breathe. Thorin leaned over him, propped up on one hand, voice as low as distant thunder. “It is my hand that undoes you. My mouth. My cock.” 

Bilbo cried as Thorin gave him a squeeze, nearly ready to shout, ‘too much!’

Instead, what he whimpered was, “Yours! Just yours.”

“Do you want my cock, Suzmazumimê?”

“Oh, please,” Bilbo drawled. He was fighting with himself to keep his hands over his head, twisting the sheets in his fingers, when all he wanted to do was grab Thorin by his beard, yank him down, and demand he stick his cock in him before Bilbo exploded.

“Will you beg for it?”

“I’m about to start!” Bilbo snapped. Thorin squeezed him harder and wiped the next thought out of Bilbo’s head.

Thorin then smirked, and he said, “You won’t have to.”

Bilbo furrowed his brow. Thorin loved it when he begged.

“Won’t?” Bilbo asked, dazedly.

“No. And do you want to know why?”

Bilbo wet his lips. “Why?”

Thorin’s thumb swiped over the head of Bilbo’s member right before he released him, and he grabbed the back of Bilbo’s head to pull him up into a searing kiss.

“Because you are beautiful,” Thorin whispered over his lips. “The fact that you let me anywhere near your gorgeous ass is a gift. Being able to fuck you is an absolute privilege, Bilbo Baggins; I should be the one begging you.”

Bilbo’s face flared up like a bonfire. 

“Please,” Thorin breathed again, sticking tiny, mouse-like kisses to Bilbo’s nose, cheeks, and lips. “Let me show you how beautiful you are. May I be granted the privilege of fucking you, Master Baggins?”

“Yes,” said Bilbo, feeling dizzy and nearly confused. He shook his head and sputtered, “Wh- of course! Thorin Oakenshield, if I don’t have you inside me in the next 10 seconds I’m going to- ah!”

“To what?” Thorin tilted his head, some of his hair tumbling off his shoulder.

“To-, to-,” Bilbo fought to find his words again, which Thorin was making exceedingly difficult by the steadily increasing pressure his thumb was putting on the skin behind his balls. When it began to rub in gentle circles, pressing further, grazing just so on the skin of his sac, Bilbo thought he felt something in him snap.

“Oil- inside- now,” he whined and pushed his hips down, hoping to make Thorin’s finger slip into where he wanted it most. “Please, please, please-”

“I told you, úkrad, there is no need to beg.” Thorin parted from him with one last kiss to his nose. “Your wish is my command.”

Bilbo was suddenly alone, strangely cold, when Thorin backed away to reach for their nightstand. He took that breathing space to get situated, shuffling his hips into a more comfortable position, spreading his legs, relaxing back into the bed to try and slow the thrumming of his heartbeat. He was mostly unsuccessful with that final task, as at that point his thoughts had been overtaken with a steady mantra of ‘finally’.

Thorin reappeared with a glass vial, half-full, and knelt right back between Bilbo’s legs like he was born to be there. He popped the cork of the vial, making heady eye contact with Bilbo all the while, and spilled a generous quantity on his hand. He restopped the bottle with just one hand, tossed it away onto the other side of the bed, and…and looked. Just looked. Again.

“I thought you said I wouldn’t have to beg,” Bilbo whined.

Thorin’s eyes dragged down his front. “You don’t. But you just have a little more patience than that, ghivashel.”

“I feel I have been very patient with you, Thorin.” Bilbo also had a feeling that the effect of his indignance was sorely mitigated by his flushed, twitching cock, blushing skin, and gentle panting. He watched Thorin liberally smear the oil over his right hand.

“Just a little bit more, my love.” Thorin’s eyes were fixed on his hole. Bilbo thought he saw his pupils dilate, but it was hard to tell in the low light.

Thorin then took Bilbo’s waist in his left hand, his right disappearing from Bilbo’s sight. When he felt the pad of Thorin’s index landing on the skin of his entrance, circling and rubbing oil around the rim, Bilbo’s stomach jolted and he closed his eyes in anticipation.

Finally, finally, finally-

“Look at me.”

Bilbo whined. 

“Look at me.”

Bilbo peaked his eyes open.

Thorin hummed with satisfaction. “There are those eyes.”

“Thorin!” Bilbo griped.

“Easy, easy.” Thorin had a loose smile on his face. “I just had to make sure I wouldn’t miss my favorite part.”

Bilbo thought to ask what he meant by that. Then Thorin’s finger slid knuckle-deep into his hole and Bilbo was moaning.

“Beautiful,” Thorin breathed, though Bilbo could barely hear it over the blood in his ears.

The initial stretch made pleasure zing over his skin. Thorin’s finger was thick- as thick as two of Bilbo’s own -and he moved in slow, even strokes that were agonizingly pleasurable. Agonizing in how slow they were, when Bilbo was just a few seconds away from tossing himself down on his front and demanding Thorin fuck him like an animal. But Thorin’s grip on his hip doubled as an anchor to keep Bilbo from fucking himself down on Thorin’s finger and forcing Bilbo to take what he was given. The prod of his index was almost exploratory, dragging across Bilbo’s walls and teasing his inner rim as it worked him open.

All Bilbo could focus on was the feel of it, until Thorin brushed over a spot that kicked a yelp out of Bilbo’s chest and made his cock twitch hard.

He saw, from under his hooded lids, how Thorin’s lazy smile sharpened.

“There you are.”

All that happened next seemed to happen immediately, in Bilbo’s mind.

Thorin thrust a second finger up alongside the first, and while Bilbo was gasping Thorin put them right up against his prostate and pressed.

Bilbo wailed, precum drooling over his cock, hips rolling and fighting Thorin’s grip.

Thorin groaned, and began to fuck Bilbo properly with just his fingers. 

“Oh, oh, more, p-please,” Bilbo moaned, meeting each thrust, legs falling open like he couldn’t physically keep them closed. “Thorin, love, I-I need- harder.”

Thorin wedged a third finger inside of him, and Bilbo’s head was thrashing from side to side.

“I love how wanton you are, íbinel,” Thorin grunted. “I would take the expression on your face and paint it if I possessed the skill. Hang it over my throne, in every hall. Every dwarf in the kingdom would know this beauty.”

He tried to imagine, as Thorin’s fingers pushed him along to his second orgasm, the image of himself in ecstasy hanging for all to see. Bilbo couldn’t blush with embarrassment even if he tried, as every ounce of blood that wasn’t racing through his veins was pooled in his cock.

“Oh, but I never could,” Thorin whispered. “They will simply have to burn with envy, knowing that this,”- he properly jabbed Bilbo’s prostate once more -”your pleasure, is mine and mine alone.”

Bilbo could think of little more than Thorin’s hands and the climbing pitch of his own moans, which Thorin also picked up on. He thrust his fingers even faster, leaning in to close his mouth of one of Bilbo’s nipples as he did before and watching him from under his eyelids.

“Ah, ah, ahhh, Th-Thorin!”

The swipe of his rough tongue over the nub was what did Bilbo in, and he stuttered out a moan and gasp as his hips kicked and he spurted cum over his and Thorin’s chests. Thorin fucked him through it, praising him, rubbing his prostate firmly until Bilbo thought he might weep with the hot-and-cold, staticky feeling of too-much pleasure. His breath was skipping in his chest, which Thorin stroked to help calm him down. His fingers were still inside him, not moving. Thorin was looking at Bilbo like a bag of precious gems.

When Bilbo caught his breath Thorin spread his fingers and pulled an overstimulated mewl from Bilbo’s lips. He shushed him with a swift kiss, and whispered sweet nothings to soothe him through the rest of the stretch.

Thorin was big for a dwarf, and was quite proportional. He was also determined to eliminate any possible chance of Bilbo getting hurt by his own hand (or cock, in the case) and went the extra mile with the stretching before the main deed. Right now his love and care felt like sugar in an open wound, but Bilbo would be remiss to tell him to stop. The timer on his refractory period was ticking down very quickly, and his cock was making a valiant effort to wind back up.

Bilbo spared a look at Thorin. He hadn’t thought to before, with his mind so blurry with lust.

Thorin’s cock was so hard it looked painful; it was flushed deep red from root to tip, great vein bulging on the underside, leaking steadily onto the sheets. The pitch black nest of hair at the base made it stand out even more starkly. Thorin had a gleam of sweat over his chest and neck and a loving, focused expression as he worked Bilbo open. When the pain bled to hot, burning pleasure and the sounds that fell from Bilbo’s lips were more moans than groans, Thorin eased his fingers out of Bilbo’s ass with one last graze of his prostate.

“Thorinnn…” Bilbo whined, dipping his hips down to try and grab him back. He was so empty now, so chilled. If he hadn’t been sure something greater was coming Bilbo might have demanded his dwarf put his fingers right back where they were.

“Oh I know. You’re incorrigible,” Thorin said. He took his cock in hand- which Bilbo watched, with rapt attention -and hissed through his teeth as he gave himself a few pumps. Thorin’s head rolled back and he clenched his jaw tight, looking like he was fighting off spilling into his own fist. Bilbo felt flattered, having not been able to touch him the whole time they were here and still having him nearly overcome with his desire.

“You’re gorgeous,” said Bilbo.

“And you are nothing less than divine.”

Thorin loomed over Bilbo, his hair falling over his shoulders, his arms and legs caging him. Thorin’s cock dragged through the spill left on Bilbo’s belly as he rubbed up against him, teasing him and taking his own edge off.

“No more,” Bilbo pleaded. He kept his hands still, but he moved his lower half up to meet his lover’s. “No more teasing. I need you inside me. Thorin Oakenshield, if you don’t fuck me right now I truly might cry.”

“Mm. We can’t have that. You’re far too beautiful for tears.” But Thorin kept up his slow and dirty grind, and Bilbo actually did hiccup in his frustration and desperation.

“Please, my love. Please, fuck me,” Bilbo begged.”

“Shh shh shh. I’ll take care of you. I’ll always take care of you,” Thorin soothed. “Just answer one question, ghivashelimê. One question, and I’ll give you what you need.”

“Anything,” stammered Bilbo. “Anything you want.”

“Just one question…” Thorin rested his forehead against Bilbo’s and gave him a significant look. “Do you believe me?”

“B-Believe you?” Thorin’s cock had begun to rub up against the side of Bilbo’s in Thorin’s grinding, and was making it hard to focus. “Believe what? Wh-what do you mean?”

Thorin stayed his hips, and the only movement was in the rise and fall of his and Bilbo’s breathing.

He asked, “Do you believe me now when I tell you that you are one of the most desirable creatures on this earth, and that I want nothing more than to ravish you until you can’t speak any name other than my own?”

Bilbo’s breathing stuttered a little, and his heart ached. For all that his head was swimming, it allowed him to piece together most of everything that Thorin had said to him since he pinned him down- everything that Thorin did to him not withstanding -and he’d been nothing but earnest. Genuine in his lust over Bilbo’s body, genuine in his very evident appreciation, and genuine in the compliments and praises he’s lavished over Bilbo every time he’s opened his mouth. Bilbo had never felt more attractive than when Thorin was pawing at Bilbo’s curves and ravishing his soft belly, when he only had eyes for Bilbo’s face as he took him down his throat, and when he was watching Bilbo roll through an orgasm with nothing but pure adoration and heat in his expression. And he felt like a fool for doubting Thorin for even a moment.

Gingerly, Bilbo moved his hands. His shoulders and arms were aching and sore, his palms itching from the nail-indents Bilbo had pressed into them, and he brought his hands down between them to cup Thorin’s face. Thorin let him do this, and let Bilbo stroke his thumbs over Thorin’s cheekbones and bury his fingers into his beard.

Bilbo took a deep breath and said with conviction, “I believe you.”

The grin he got in return was downright wolfish.

“Good.”

Thorin crushed his lips against Bilbo’s and took his thighs in hand, spreading Bilbo’s legs apart as far as they could go. Bilbo tried to help, spreading until it hurt, and tangling his hands in the hair at Thorin’s scalp. Thorin hummed deliciously into their kiss, and Bilbo felt the blunt, slick head of his cock pressing up against his entrance.

Thorin began to roll his hips, and as soon as the head of his cock breached him Bilbo broke their kiss with a low moan. He gripped Thorin’s hair tighter. Thorin had one hand on his own cock to guide his way, the other encompassing all of Bilbo’s waist and squeezing in time with his rolls.

“You take me so well,” Thorin muttered as his cock speared Bilbo inch by inch. Bilbo was too overcome with the stretch and fullness to return much more than a whine. “So well. So beautiful. No other could compare.”

He kept his thrusts shallow and even until his hips were flush with Bilbo’s ass. When they connected, Thorin gasped like he’d been holding his breath and his grip on Bilbo’s waist became two on his ankles, bringing Bilbo's legs up and onto his shoulders. Bilbo's puffed as he tried to settle himself, and he opened his eyes to find Thorin’s piercing blue gaze looking at him like he were made of mythril.

“Beautiful,” Thorin whispered again. Overcome, he pressed a kiss to Bilbo’s ankle, and began to move. 

His cock fit into Bilbo perfectly, stretching him on every inward thrust and coaxing high moans from him. His movements got faster and faster, driving Bilbo against the mattress. He tried to keep eye contact with his king, but his eyes kept rolling up into his head as Thorin’s cock dragged against that spot inside him and made him see lights behind his eyelids. Thorin was grunting with ecstasy each time their hips connected, each slap of their skin making Bilbo clench on his cock.

Thorin descended on him, folding Bilbo’s legs against him until they were close enough to kiss. He did most of the kissing, as Bilbo’s mouth was loose with pleasure and he couldn’t seem to control it around the yelps and long moans that Thorin was punching out of him at each downward stroke. His lips found Bilbo’s cheeks, his chin, his forehead, the corners of his lips, and his deep huffs were interspersed with praises.

“You were made for me. Made for my cock. Take me so well, so perfectly, you’re so perfect. Amrâlimê, úkrad, bunmel, Bilbo, Bilbo, Bilbo-”

“Thorinnn…Thor-in, Thorin, oh, ah, Th-Thorin, Thorin!”  Bilbo cried. His love had been right- that was the only thing he knew how to say.

“Say my name. Say it. That’s it. So perfect. So beautiful,” he ground out, his thrusts getting sloppy but frantic. 

“‘Mmm gonna- ‘m gonna-” Bilbo gasped with half-lidded eyes. “G-gonna make me cum, I’m gonna cum, please, don’t stop- ah! Oh, don’t stop, don’t stop!”

Thorin let go of Bilbo’s legs and instead grabbed his waist like he was grabbing the hilt of a sword. Bilbo let his legs fall to the side and wailed as Thorin’s thrusts became longer, deeper, and harder, his cock grinding against his prostate. One sharp pound jabbed his cockhead right into it and Bilbo came with a keen, splattering over his chest and stomach.

Thorin fucked him through it like his last one, drawing it out and making Bilbo feel like he was about to catch fire. Loose moans still popped out of him as Thorin chased his own end, grunting Bilbo’s name alongside more Khuzdul that Bilbo was hopeless to decipher. After a few seconds, Thorin’s hips stuttered and he was coming with a groan like an earthquake rattling the mountain, flooding Bilbo’s insides and wrenching one last cry out of Bilbo before collapsing onto him.

They stayed together in the humid air, the only sound being their collective breaths trying to catch. Thorin shifted a bit so he wasn’t crushing Bilbo under his weight (despite that currently being Bilbo’s preferred way to die) and stuck lazy kisses on each bit of skin that he could reach. Bilbo lifted his limp, jelly-like arms up so he could rub Thorin’s scalp and bring out that little rumbling sound he made whenever Bilbo played with his hair. A few long moments of this, then Thorin’s softened cock resting inside him became a little uncomfortable. Thorin felt the same, and at last pulled out of him with a quiet groan. He lifted Bilbo under his shoulders and pulled the both of them back so that they were resting properly on the bed, heads against the mussed pillows, and so Thorin could tuck him against his body and breathe into his hair.

Bilbo floated on a cloud of contentment as Thorin’s arms came around him and held him like something precious. One hand traced lazy runes into the soft skin of his chest, and the other did nothing but give him warmth. Thorin pressed his lips into Bilbo’s sweat-damped curls, over and over, and Bilbo hummed with absolute peace.

“I want to make you a new circlet,” Thorin murmured after a while, clearing some fog from Bilbo’s head. “Dahlia flowers. Rubies, set in mithril. I would weave it into your hair alongside your beads. You would radiate beauty like Kementári herself.”

Bilbo’s eyes burned. Red Dahlias. Did he know…? He must. He was so specific about the color, and he knew them by name. Bilbo’s thoughts ran in a manner that reminded him of all those long lessons in flower language from his mother when he was a faunt, reciting from memory what he’d been taught.

Red Dahlias. Red for inner strength, perseverance, and the ability to overcome hardship. Dahlias for commitment, for a bond that endures. 

An enduring relationship in spite of hardship. A bond in spite of betrayal. A commitment to forgive in the face of deep, passionate love.

Thorin mistook his silence. “Too much?” he asked.

“No!” Bilbo said at once. He was fighting the urge to sniffle. “No, no, it’s…that…that would be perfect. More than perfect.”

“And the dahlias…they’re-”

“Perfect,” Bilbo whispered. He wriggled in Thorin’s hold, twisting around until they faced each other. “Who told you?”

Thorin looked falsely wounded. “You assume that I didn't learn for myself the language of your people?”

"No I- oh, I didn't mean it like that, you ass." Bilbo flicked his chest. Then he contemplated for a moment. "Did you? Learn it yourself, I mean."

"I had...some help. Mostly so I didn't insult you by accident. But the bulk of the research was mine. I wanted to surprise you."

"You did," said Bilbo. "Even I can't think of another flower that would be more perfect for us. You did well."

Thorin inclined his head, and pressed his kiss to Bilbo's brow. He held his lips there like he meant for the moment to be carved in stone.

“Thank you, úkradimê.”

Bilbo tucked his head beneath Thorin’s chin, reveling in the scrape of his beard, and drifted away in his arms.

~~~~~~~~~~

Translations for the Khuzdul used:

Labthûnimê- my adoration (adoration-of-me) Galthûn- ‘delicious one’ Àrsûn- ‘hot one’ Amrâlimê - my love Úkrad; úkradimê- ‘greatest heart’; ‘my greatest heart’ Íbinimê; íbinel- My gem; gem of all gems Marlel- love of all loves Masaddazulmuzm; Suzmazumimê- rabbit; my bunny (little rabbit)

Thanks for reading! Let me know if and how you like it. You can read the Ao3 upload at the link above at my main acc Sullen_in_Love.

#the hobbit #thorin oakenshield #bagginshield #bilbo baggins #fanfiction #my writing #hobbit fanfic #smut #bilbo x thorin #thorin x bilbo #body worship #year of bagginshield

[lantsov-vanserra]

The expanded world of Blades of Light and Shadow: Morella and beyond ⚔️🌿🏜️🧜🏻‍♀️🪄

According to the maps, tablets, and based on more information from book one of the series.

MORELLA

Riverbend: Small town residing humans.

Temple of Ellara: Sacred temple of Light.

Port Parnassus: Seaside city of trade.

Shimmering Isles: Islands with merpeople.

Flotilla: Floating capital city of orcs.

Deadwood: Dense destroyed forest.

Undermount: City-state residing elves.

Whitetower: Capital city of Morella.

Necropolis: The ruined city where the vhampyrs are said to be living in crypts.

Some believe the bloodsucking immortals to be cursed elves; others think they're not living at all, but ghosts made flesh. Given that no traveller has ever made it out of their city alive, perhaps we'll never know.

Red Desert: Where the birdmen of the north, known as the molepeople reside.

Dunbar Forest: Where the residents are said to worship the spirits of the trees.

Gold Coast: Where the residing fishermen are said to pray to the White Whale.

BEYOND MORELLA

Morella has mountains to its north, the deserts to its south, and the poison field to its east.

Vishanti: Mountain kingdom ruled by wooly men who slumber in ice for decades, and boast strength greater than strongest orcs.

Zaradun: Known as the wastelands where reside the dwarves, a race older than any in Morella. They practice arcane magic, and guard an unfathomable treasure.

Rysoth: The lush rainforests where giant lizards are said to roam about freely.

Avian Kingdom: The kingdom where the birdmen are said to rule the skies.

SHADOW REALM

Shadow Court Fortress: The castle where the Dreadlord and Shadow Court resided. It mirrors Whitetower of the Light Realm.

Whimsywood: The magic-imbued woods where the goblins (formerly the fae) reside. It mirrors Deadwood of the Light Realm.

Ironbreach: The small town where ashen people and residents of the realm live. It mirrors Riverbend from the Light Realm.

Shroudwatch: It is the tower where Lord Kerrigan resides and hosts social events. It mirrors Undermount from the Light Realm.

#blades of light and shadow #mal volari #imtura tal kaelen #tyril starfury #nia ellarious #playchoices

[ramoth13]

Dwarven Princess Disa, the Glorious

Lady Disa is everything that Dwarves and our Dwarven lovers have deserved and not gotten since time began. On top of being a wonderful character, an equal in all measures to the dense and valourous immovability of dwarven men, but best of all, she has PRESENCE!

Gimli nearly stole the trilogy and it was only Aragorns firm kindness and Legolas's graceful rivalry together that balanced his forceful nature in the movies. I was nervous, because Dwarves are a lot (not in a bad way, but even dwarves must admit, they are a lot) and I worried that any portrayal of dwarven women might be a simply masculine portrayal.

But dear Manwë how wrong I was. Sophia Nomvete's Lady Disa swept the room with her power and brazen audacity and I loved every second of it. The way she cut through Durin's hurt straight to his love by pointing out the Tree, recognizing that while Durin's feelings might be valid, he'd regret it for the rest of his life if he didn't fix it, and treating Elrond with love and kindness despite how badly hurt she knew Durin was, because in the end, no matter how hurt he was, he still cared for that tree.

She balances out the crudity of dwarven men not by being elven proper, but by dwarven keen. Oh, she's clever and reads those around her like the Sunday newspaper. She's steady in the way she presents herself, sturdy in the way she balances out the more ridiculous sides of her husband, and absolutely steadfast in her control of the situation.

She makes me believe that had Dwarven women been in the peace talks between the Elven kingdoms in the first age, they might have had peace sooner, one way or another. Because let's face it, she might have been the absolute picture of kindness and hospitality but she also scared me a little. I would not want to be on her badside.

There were few things in this show that I didn't know I needed, but between the friendship of Durin and Elrond and The great lady just being herself...

And the juxtaposition of Disa and the other great ladies of Middle-earth! Eowyn is mighty and must express it in battle, Galadriel is just so amazing and this post isn't about her so I'll stop there, and Arwen, whose power of choice and grace speaks volumes, but only Disa made me feel at home (and a little scared, the looks she gives are terrifying lol).

And to you Dwarven kind out there saddened by the lack of beard... I hear you, truly. But, tell me it was not amazing seeing a real Dwarven princess be an actual legend on screen? I think the Dwarven legendarium deserves this wonderful woman and just like Elrond's reception by the lady herself, it was such an unexpected joy.

#disa #ramoth13 #the rings of power #rop #the lord of the rings #Dwarves #khazad dûm #Moria #jrr tolkien #tolkien lore #tolkien #Aulë #durin iv #durin #sophia nomvete #silmarillion #the unfinished tales #elrond #lord of the rings

[sketchyspudley]

Hey. Please talk more about the scout flare love language thing. I need to know more so so so badly it's in my brain and won't leave.

yeah so like scout gives a bundle of flares to the dwarf they love like a bundle of flowers right. and the deal with that is that there are two options if you know the culture: if you share their feelings, you give the flares back to scout in person and it's great. if you don't share their feelings you just like. throw them away or something maybe put them through the barrel hoop

so thats the background but in the scenario i dreamt, scout gave them to driller and driller did a secret third option which was keeping them as a sort of like. night light decoration because he doesn't know and he thinks it's cute. and scout's panicking because he didn't know driller didn't know so what does he do?? driller obviously doesnt hate him but does he love him? so scout's miserable drinking at the abyss bar and the other dwarves are like "did he get it" (because of course they know scout's got a thing for driller it's just that driller's dense. like rock) and scout's like "I DON'T KNOW" and he's sad for a while and tries other ways to get driller to know but they don't work

dream ends there but it has a happy ending i swear. it's like slow burn i think

#text #oh shit that's words #whoops #i don't really know where to take this i hate writing #people can do whatever with it if they want lol #im not. rereading this just take it #my thoughts in their purest form #deep rock galactic #drg #asks

[thetempleofthemasaigoddess]

The house in the woods

Glorfindel x platonic!reader

*****

Menacing clouds had been gathering since noon, turning the azure of the sky in a gloomy iron-grey that promised a deluge before the end of the day, and finally, a couple of hours before the evening mantled the Rhovanion in its dark cape, rain started to pour, dense, forbidding, bitterly cold, and so innegably... wet.

Glorfindel of Gondolin (or rather, these days, of Imladris) sighed, lifting the hood of his cape even though he knew a simple layer of fabric covering his hair would be of little use in keeping him dry, or at least warm.

It was of no use at all, and soon the Elf-Lord was soaking wet as he trudged along a path not far from the borders of Eryn Galen. The trail was empty safe for him, the distant call of a spotted owl the only company of his solitude, and Glorfindel could have spurred his horse to a gallop to quicken the completion of his journey, but he only needed a moment of reflection to decide against it: with such inclement weather, even Asfaloth would be in danger of slipping and falling on the wet path, and even of spraining an ankle - and that would be quite a problem, for both of them. Because of this, the Elf-lord decided to carry on and brave the rain; a bit (well, quite a bit) of water would not kill him.

Thick vegetation flanked the narrow path as far as the eye could see; Asfaloth, his soft white coat as soaking wet as the clothes of his rider, trudged on, his head bent low; he was a clever, brave creature, as well as gentle and affectionate, and Glorfindel felt guilty for forcing him to such an uncomfortable journey. After all, he reproached himself, he should have accepted King Thranduil's offer to extend his stay in the palace for another night, since dark clouds had been gathering in the sky since yestereve, and even a child could have predicted the storm would reach him before he could arrive at the village he had planned to spend the night in. He had been alive since the Years of the Trees, and apparently had not learned much since then, since he still made such foolish mistakes.

His white cape clinged to his shoulders and back - another uncomfortable situation he could have spared himself; Glorfindel bent towards the horse's head and gently caressed his blonde mane. "I am so sorry, mellon nin." he murmured; Asfaloth was a war horse and no deluge, no matter how violent or persistent, could seriously bother him, but nonetheless the Elf-Lord felt guilty for the unpleasant situation he had put him in "I promise I'll make up to you, once we are home."

The promise to return soon to the dry, warm stables in Imladris, where he was well-fed (the horse was not exactly gluttonous, but he had a well-known sweet tooth, and was often fed treats by the children of the citadel) and well-cared for by the grooms, seemed to lift Asfaloth's spirit; the horse neighed softly, accepting his rider's apologies, and kept on marching.

His journey was turning out to be solitary as well as impractical, since Glorfindel had not met other travellers since he had left Thranduil's palace behind him, besides a few of the woods' ancestral inhabitants, like a couple of squirrels running towards their nest or a fox surrounded by her kits. That was to be expected, since according to the map he had brought with him, there were no towns or villages, be it of Elves, Men or Dwarves, for many miles all around him...

Or were there?

The violence of the storm seemed to have increased in the last minutes, but as he tried to see beyond the dense vegetation surrounding the path all around him, the Elf-lord thought he saw a small building partially hidden by the rain curtain, maybe fifty fathoms from him. Even if it were simply a warehouse or a stable, it meant a roof over his (and Asfaloth's) head, and maybe even the opportunity to lit a fire to warm up and dry his clothes.

It seemed almost too good to be true, and Glorfindel decided to discover whether it actually was as soon as he could. Taking the reins, he gently guided his horse towards the building which, he realized a few minutes later, was not a storehouse, but a home: a wooden-roofed building, diminutive in size but solid and well-kept, surrounded by natural vegetation in the middle of a small clearing. Semi-hidden behind it, an even smaller building that could be the stable the Elf-lord had guessed earlier.

Glory to Eru. Glorfindel dismounted, paying no attention to the mud that stained his boots, took Asfaloth's reins in his hand, and approached the house to knock on the door and ask for shelter; drenched in water as he was he probably did not look his best, but the Elf hoped his request for help would not be denied because of this - rather, maybe he would be more readily welcomed because his appearance was so wretched. He lifted his closed fist to the green door...

"And what are you doing here?"

He had been sure he was alone, and the tone the question had been posed in had been more brusque than threatening, but Glorfindel's warrior instinct did not fail him; in a second he had turned in the direction the voice had come from, his hand already grabbing the hilt of the sword hanging from his waist; in the course of his long (too long, it sometimes seemed to him) life very few people had been able to take him by surprise, but sometimes a moment of inattentiveness was all that was needed. He flexed his legs, ready to fight whatever might want to fight him... and a moment later he partially relaxed, finding himself face to face with an Elf-woman, unharmed and almost as drenched as he was, staring at him insistently.

Glorfindel let his hand fall to his side. "Mae govannen." he said with a slight bow of his head in Quenya "Elen síla lúmenn’ omentielvo." but the Elf-woman answered in the Common Tongue... and did not greet him back.

"I asked what you are doing here."

"I am a simple traveller, looking for shelter."

"And you waited until now? There have been clouds in the sky since dawn at least."

"I fear I have underestimated the time I would need to reach my destination, as well as the violence of this squall." Glorfindel admitted without embarrassment "Is this your home? Would it be possible to ask for shelter for the night?"

The Elf-woman did not immediately answer. Looking at her, Glorfindel realized she was hesitating, perhaps about the risks of hosting a stranger under her roof; it was unexpected, even for someone who seemed to have opted for (or maybe the choice had been made for her?) a solitary life and was as a consquence more in danger of being assaulted or robbed, since among their race it had always been natural, even dutiful, to come to the aid of whoever needed it, even if no bond of friendship and consanguinity existed.

He also noticed that her clothes (shirt, trousers, boots) were not made in the style of the Elves; everything seemed Man-made instead, and her hair was not braided as it was common for Elf-women. What a surprising encounter, Glorfindel thought, but aloud he simply said: "I swear to you I have no ill intention towards you or your properties. I just ask for a roof, for me and my horse, until first light tomorrow; I'm ready to pay for it, if you so desire."

She looked at him with an intensity Glorfindel might have found discorteous, perhaps considering the risk of welcoming a stranger under her roof, or maybe evaluating him; she said neither yes nor no.

"I do not need to be paid; no one deserve to be left outside in this weather." she decided in the end "Where do you hail from?"

"Imladris. My name is Glorfindel, at your service."

The mention of his name was finally enough to break the diffident facade of the Elf-woman. "You are... that Glorfindel?" she asked, awed despite herself "You killed...?"

"A Balrog? I did; and he killed me. But now I am about to drown in this deluge, which would be a much less glorious death that I had hoped for, being a warrior. I doubt the bards will sing it." he pointed out. He had hoped to put a smile on her face, but the Elf-woman's expression remained tense. She opened her mouth to answer, but another voice anticipated her.

"Is everything all right?"

Glorfindel turned once more to search for the source of the voice, finding himself face to face with an aged Man, his shoulder-length hair as white as snow, his face marked by care and the passing of time. He wasn't smiling, but there was kindness in his eyes, Glorfindel thought; kindness, and a hint of circumspection. He let the Man observe him, perceiving no threat or mistrust in him... while the Elf-woman seemed more tense with every passing moment.

In the end, the Man looked at her. "Is everything all right, darling?" he asked; it was immediately clear to Glorfindel he had heard everything of their conversation, even if he had let the Elf-woman talk to him first.

"Everything is fine, Padriac." she quickly answered; she did not move, but Glorfindel thought for a moment she was about to put herself between the two of them, as if she thought the Man needed defending... or risked being taken away "This Elf is a traveller who was caught in the rain."

"Well, in that case both of you better come inside, since this storm shows no signs of stopping. And this magnificent horse can keep our Dandelion company in the stable."

Glorfindel bowed, his hand pressed to his heart. "You have my deepest thanks, master." he said; the man smiled and shook his head, as if to say there was no need for gratitude, while the Elf-woman, clearly ill at ease but apparently willing to keep her misgivings to herself, walked to the stable with him. There was space enough for two inside, and the sole guest, a chestnut mare with liquid eyes, did not seem to mind she had to share her space; she and Asfaloth became acquainted sniffing each other briefly, and Dandelion let her guest share her fodder.

"We can go inside." the Elf-woman said then; judging by the sigh she heaved, she was not thrilled at the idea of having guests "Pay respect to Padriac, he is the master of the house."

There was no need for such an exhortation (it had been a few centuries since Glorfindel's parents had instilled good manners in him, but the Elf-lord believed he still remembered how one was supposed to behave when hosted in someone else's house) but he decided not to mention it. There was no need to argue, and the Elf-woman seemed to dislike him already... or rather, he reflected as he said goodbye to his horse, clearly glad of the roof on his head, as if that Elf she had never met before had come to destroy her life and take what she loved the most from her.

"I will." he promised; he was intrigued by her, and by what had brought her to spend her life there, as an hermit, with one of the Edain for company "And since you know my name and I know your friend's, would you tell me yours?"

She bit her lip before answering. "I am named (name)."

"This is not an Elvish name."

"No. It is not."

She offered no explaination, and Glorfindel decided it was better not to ask. He followed (name) to the house, whose door had been left ajar. She let him enter first; on the doorway, she turned to look at him. "And so as you know, Padriac is not my friend." she said, her expression betraying nothing of what she might feel "He is my husband."

They entered, and Glorfindel, still busy reflecting on that last revelation, looked around him, more intrigued than he had been in a long time. The house was simply but cozily furnished, with a large fireplace that (name) took care to light to dry their clothes, a solid wooden table, colorful window curtains and a few shelves on the walls on which a number of small wooden figurines were put on display. The scent of fragrant herbs in tiny pottery jars scattered all around the room tinged the air; two doors opened on the walls, which Glorfindel imagined led to the couple’s private room and to a storage.

Padriac joined them, leaning on a wooden stick; his eyes were the same shade of green as the grass of the forest after the rain, and before old age had stooped his back he had to have been very tall. He offered a gnarled hand, and Glorfindel delicately grasped his arm. “My name is Glorfindel; I thank you again for your hospitality, master.”

"You may call me Pad, my friend; and it is our pleasure." the Man replied with a smile; he was clearly much more sociable than his wife, which was perhaps surprising, Glorfindel thought, since he seemed to have chosen such a reclusive existence "Come sit close to the fire, you must be freezing. You speak our tongue; that's a good thing, since I have never been able to learn yours, even though (name) tried to teach me for years.”

As Glorfindel was being entertained by the master of the house, (name) took care of dinner; she took off her cape, soaking wet after just a few minutes under the rain, took a large pot from a cupboard and started preparing a broth. She still looked tense, Glorfindel thought; he was sorry his presence put her ill at ease… but he couldn’t help being curious as to why.

 “I hope you like lentil soup.” Pad said, before turning to smile at his wife; Glorfindel felt sure he did it often “(name) is an excellent cook, even though there is little we can grow here she can always prepare tasty recipes.”

“I am sure of it.” Glorfindel corteously answered “And I will be grateful for whatever you may give me."

“You should go sit, Pad.” (name) pointed out “You need rest.”

“Are you tired, mas… Pad?”

“Not exactly, since I have been inside since I got up this morning.” the Man replied with a sigh “But my poor bones hurt when it rains… or when the sun is shining.”

Glorfindel insisted to help the master of the house reach the most comfortable seat in the room, a large carved chair that, he proudly explained, he had built with his own hands. The room was made pleasantly warm by the fire burning in the hearth, but (name) quickly opened a chest to retrieve a heavy blanket, that she then helped her husband drape around her shoulders. “Is there anything else you need?” she asked, her tone full of affection, and Padriac shook his head before taking her hand to kiss the back of it; when their gazes met, it was as if they could converse without the need for words.

“I am fine, my darling, Do not concern yourself.”

“But the healer has said…”

“The healer worries himself too much as well, even when his patient is a man of my age, and with all my aches and pains. I am fine, really.”

Clearly unconvinced, but apparently willing to have her husband have it his way, the Elf-woman focused on the dinner once more. Glorfindel offered to help her (he had almost no experience in the preparation of a meal, but how hard cutting vegetables or stirring a pot could be?) but she assured him she could take care of it by herself.

“But I thank you for offering.” she said then, smiling at him for the first time; the Elf-lord felt victorious.

The evening turned out to be much more pleasant than Glorfindel had imagined, and not just because there was a solid roof protecting him from the still ongoing storm. Padriac begged him to tell them about Imladris and its people, and the Elf-lord was happy to satisfy him; it was pleasant to have such an attentive and enthusiastic listener. (name), on her part, did not seem especially interested in the conversation, even when Glorfindel and her husband attempted to involve her. The Elf-lord had thought she might be interested in hearing about her own people, especially since there were no Elven villages for many miles all around the house, but the opposite was true: (name) seemed determined to ignore every reference to her own people, and kept looking at her husband as if she feared seeing him disappear at any moment.

She was really a mistery.

Soon afterwards it was time for dinner, and there was no need for Glorfindel to lie out of politeness about the quality of the food. “Everything was delicious.” he said in the end; he felt decidedly better than an hour before, drenched in water after a whole day spent on the saddle “Especially the broth; it is even better than what we eat in Imladris.”

 “It was my mother in law who taught me.” (name) explained; she was sitting between him and her husband “She used to live with us.”

“Your family has always lived here, Pad?”

The man (who had proved to be an excellent host; he had insisted Glorfindel sit to the chair closest to the fire, even though the Elf’s clothes had dried already, and had even opened a wine bottle in his honor) shook his head. He had said his dinner smelled great, as usual, my darling, but he had barely touched his food; Glorfindel seemed to remember than mortals did eat less in their old age, perhaps on account of a more sedentary life, but he could not help fearing that inappetence was not natural, nor particularly good for his health.

"I was born in a village a couple days' ride from here; my family had lived there for at least six generations." he explained as he sipped his wine; (name) had poured a few drops of a concoction in his cup, that their healer had prepared and that would give him a little respite from joint pain ... or at least this is what she hoped, Glorfindel thought, seeing the worry in the Elf-woman's eyes as she looked at her husband "But when we got married we decided to move here, together with my mother; because of (name)." 

"You did not enjoy living in a village of Men?"

"Let us say I knew I would never fully be one of them, because I was constantly reminded of the fact." the Elf-woman simply answered, her voice expressing no emotion safe for the briefest hint of regret "This house suits us just fine; we do not receive many guests, but we have more than enough space for the two of us, and we can reach the closest village to buy food and other necessities."

"You mean you can reach the village." Padriac pointed out, his voice bitter as he shook his head, as if he had not come to terms yet with the fragility the passing of time had brought with it "I cannot ride anymore, nor can I walk more than half a mile without tiring."

"Then we are lucky I can take care of it by myself, are we not?"

Glorfindel felt that was not the first discussion the two spouses had had on the topic. After dinner, (name) invited her husband to retire and rest, but Padriac, while clearly fatigued, said he wanted to show Glorfindel something.

"Look there, on the shelves." he invited, and the Elf-lord obeyed, inspecting the wood statuines he had already noticed on his arrival. Some were only slighter longer than his finger, others twice as largeas his hand; they mostly depicted animals, but there were also buildings, trees and fruits, and people in various positions. "Did you make these, Pad?"

"I did; I was apprenticed to a wood-carver as a young man, and this has been my trade ever since." the Man answered "I also make work tools, kitchen utensils and whatever (name) can bring to the village's market and sell, but these are my favourite creations."

"These are really well-made! You must be very proud."

"All the merchants in the village are always eager to buy Padriac's works, or to commission him some; his pieces have reached all the towns of the region, and even Gondor." (name) said, pride evident in her voice. Her husband took her hand, but a new melancholic smile had blossomed on his lips.

"Those days are in the past, my darling; my hands do not have the necessary firmness to handle a carving knife anymore. For a few years shutters and ladles have been the most I can create."

"Nevertheless, an artist should be proud of his work. I am sure lord Glorfindel agrees with me."

"I do indeed." the Elf-lord quickly replied, perceiving the implicit request in those words "I have no talent for the arts whatsoever; unlike most Elves, I cannot even sing. So I have always envied those who could, especially who like you can create something beautiful from simple matter. Take this wolf for example: it is so life-like it seems ready to start howling!"

Padriac smiled; he seemed flattered. (name) smiled behind him, love and heartbreak shining in her eyes.

Glorfindel was invited to take the couple's bed for the night, and he resolutely refused, both because he did not need it (he was a trained soldier, and had spent years of nights sleeping on the floor or the naked ground) and because he could only imagine how uncomfortable it would have been for Pad to sleep on a less than comfortable surface. (name) seemed to perceive the reasoning behind his choice; she did not thank him, not even with a smile, but nodded, and hurried to prepare a comfortable bed for him, with clean straw and blankets, in the main room. Glorfindel thanked her, and slept peacefully until dawn.

As he prepared to leave he offered, as delicately as he could, Padriac a few gold coins to pay for his hospitality, but the Man would not hear it. "It was a pleasure to have a guest, so long after the last one; and now I can say I have met two Elves instead of one."

They both turned to look at (name), busy cleaning the dishes from the breakfast table; Padriac's gaze was earnest... a strange mixture of devotion and regret. "I do not exactly know how you Elves mature, or indeed if the word actually means something for your people, since you do not age." he said after a while; his voice had dropped to a whisper "But for you... (name) is still young, is she not? One hundred and seventy years are not much for someone who can live forever."

"I would say she is, yes." Glorfindel replied; the question had surprised him "Age does not have for Elves the same significance it has for the mortal races, but it is evident (name) is still very young." 

Padriac smiled; the Elf-lord's assessment seemed to have pleased him, even though Glorfindel could not understand why. "I was young as well when I met her. I was one of the tallest and strongest men of my village, I ate for three and could lift a load of wood above my head without effort. Now, as you can see, things have changed a little."

"The Valar have blessed you with a long life, and a devout and affectionate wife."

"Oh, yes; I could not have been more fortunate in loving and being loved by her. I cannot say the same for (name), though."

The Elf-lord did not answer; he knew what his host meant by those words, and did not know how to react - or whether, indeed, he should have said something. Pad asked whether he needed provisions for what was left of his journey back home, and while Glorfindel assured him he had everything he needed, the Man insisted he take the wolf figurine he had admired on the previous night.

"I carved it soon after our marriage; clearly (name) was the inspiration behind my best works. Take it, to remember us by, even though I am sure it is nothing compared to the beauty and the richness you are surrounded by in your citadel."

"I do not think I could ever forget your kindness and hospitality; I am honored of your gift." the Elf-lord replied, touched; the tiny sculpture in his hands was lovely, but it was the fact it had been gifted to him by its maker that made it so precious "I thank you, Padriac; you are a good man, and I wish you all the luck in the world."

Next Glorfindel took his leave from (name), thanking her for her help and the delicious dinner. He had had the impression she did not like him, but the Elf-woman surprised him proposing to accompany him for a little while on his way home.

"I need to visit the village's hypothecary and buy fodder for Dandelion." she explained, as if she did not want him to think she only wanted to enjoy his company for a little more. Glorfindel smiled.

"In that case I would welcome your company."

(name) made sure Padriac had everything he needed for a few hours of solitude, and promised she would come back as soon as possible. She kissed her husband's white hair in goodbye with the reverence she ought to have devoted to a relic. Glorfindel followed her out of the little house and towards the stables; (name) was carrying a pouch of gold coins and a dagger at her belt.

A cloudless sky that would have seemed like a miracle on the previous, rainy night welcomed them in the new day, the cool air carrying a memory of the recent bad weather. They saddled the horses, and started on their respective journeys riding side by side; Dandelion was a gentle creature that readily followed her rider's instructions, and she and Asfaloth seemed to have become friends already.

"Thank you." (name) murmured after a while, breaking the surprisingly comfortable silence the two riders had shared after they had left the little house in the woods behind them "I am sure you have many questions, but you decided to keep them to yourself because you knew it would make Pad and me uncomfortable. I am grateful, truly."

"Embarassing you would have been a very poor way to repay you sharing your food and home with me." the Elf-lord pointed out "And to be sincere, I do not think I have doubts to dispel, since your life is no matter that concerns me."

"You do not think our situation is... bizarre?"

"What right do I have to jugde you, let alone to condemn the choices you and Pad have made? If anything, I think you are a lucky woman, married to a good man who clearly adores you; are you not?"

"Oh, yes; he might think differently, but I know I have been very fortunate... and I still am."

The hint of a smile shone on her lips as the Elf-woman bent to caress Dandelion's mane. "I met Padriac in a summer not unlike this one; sixty-five have passed since then. He had barely come of age, and I was returning home after visiting my cousins. I was passing through his village one morning and I saw him, outside his master's wood-carving shop, as he carried a large log inside. He was dishevelled, his shirt soaked in sweat, and after five days of travel I must have looked horrible as well, with leaves in my hair and dirt on my clothes, but when our eyes met... I do not know how to explain it, and maybe it is impossible to; it was as if all our lives we had looked for each other, even if we did not know it."

Glorfindel did not speak.

"I returned home two days later than I was supposed to, but I could not stop thinking about Padriac. I did not willingly decide to leave my home and everything I knew and loved for him; it was as if an invisible force attracted me to him, like the instinct that leads migrating birds towards warmer lands. In the end I decided to return to his village to put my heart at peace; I was sure an handsome and hard-working man like him was already promised to someone... and he was, but he had broken the engagement after meeting me, even though from his perspective there was no reason to think I would return, and he had no way to find where I lived. We found each other, once more, we married with the rites of his people, and since my birth name was difficult for them to pronounce, Pad gave me the name (name). Since the day of our wedding, we have never been parted; his family has adopted me, and he became my world."

"You never had children? I know for a fact it is possible."

"No Half-Elf, unfortunately; we both dearly wanted to raise a family, but... it never happened." (name) explained; she shrugged her shoulders, pretending the matter had not affected her, especially now that the prospect of complete solitude was closer and closer each day "But we were happy; I am happy, still. I have never needed anything, or anyone, else... as long as I have him. I miss my family, and my friends, but even if I could go back, I have never felt the desire to do so; I know what awaits me, and I still know I made the right choice. When I married Pad, and we felt we had eternity in front of us, every day still felt like a gift. Now that I know I could lose him any day, I have taught myself to treasure every hour."

Glorfindel knew she was telling the truth, without embellishments or white lies; she saw no need for that. "You knew of course your love was doomed from the start." he gently commented, and the Elf-woman nodded.

"Of course. I am immortal, while Padriac, even though he was still very young when we married, does not even belong to the more longevous races of Men, and the love and the ingenuity of our youth did not prevent us from seeing that he would die relatively soon, while I would remain the same. He wanted to release me from the promises we had exchanged, because he thought it unfair to bond me to a man who would make me a widow in a few short decades, but I told him I did not care, that I would have rather spent a year with him than a century alone, and that however long our marriage proved to be, I would have been happy. We have been together for sixty-five years, and I have never regretted my decision."

She bit her lip; the soft beating of the horses' hooves on the damp grass surrounded them. "Pad is going to die soon." she murmured. She had to have been well aware of the fact for weeks or months, but uttering those words seemed to cost her and enormous effort "He has had a long life for one of his people and he has always been in good health, but in the last two decades, and especially these last three years... he has withered, like a flower in winter. He is very weak, he can barely walk without his stick, and his bones and stomach hurt constantly, no matter how much he rests and how little he eats. I consulted all the healers of the village, but there is little they can do beside easing his pain, because he is not sick: he is old, and for that there is no cure. He is dying, he is going to leave me alone, and ours lasted more than most marriages of the Men of his race, but I... I am not ready to let him go. I fear I never will be, but... not now, not yet! I cannot stop thinking each day we spend together could be the last. At night I stay awake listening to his breathing to make sure he is not gone, and when he moves around the house I fear any little effort, be it lifting a plate from the table or moving a chair close to the fire, might prove fatal. And no matter how tirelessly I take care of him or that he tires as little as he can to save his energies, he is... slipping through my fingers like water when you drink at a spring, and there is nothing I can do to protect him..."

(name) sobbed; she could not help it, so deep and encompassing her fear and pain were, and Glorfindel wished he could do or say something to comfort her or to help her husband, but he could not, because the truth was undeniable: Men were doomed to die, sooner or later, whatever a devoted wife had to say on the matter. Padriac had already reached an advanced age, and even to the Elf-lord's eyes it was clear he had little left to live.

As if ashamed to have him witness that moment of frailty, (name) hurried to dry her tears on her fingers. "Forgive me... you were a gracious guest, and now I am bothering you with my troubles..."

"There is no need to apologize. I am sorry for your pain, my friend."

(name) smiled timidly; despite the pain, having someone to share her fears with seemed to actually soothe her. "It is kind of you to say... especially after I was a little unkind to you."

"You were indeed."

"How rude! You should have said Of course not, (name), you have done nothing wrong!"

The two Elves shared a smile; in that moment, they understood each other, and a quiet sort of friendship blossomed between them, even though they expected to never meet again. They had reached a fork in the path: (name) would have to take the one on the left to reach the village, while the one on the right would lead Glorfindel to Imladris.

"Take care of yourself." the Elf-lord said; it was probably superfluous, since (name) was an adult and he was not her father, but she seemed to appreciate. She smiled.

"I will try." she promised, and then she hesitated, as if using her own mother-tongue were arduous for her, after sixty-five years spent speaking the language of Men. "Namárië, lord Glorfindel."

*****

Little changed in Glorfindel's life after his return to Imladris: patrol tours with the guards he commanded, long evening conversations with Elrond and Erestor, his dearest friends, over a cup of wine, supper in the Hall of Fire. Once he was back at home, the Elf-lord showed the wolf figurine to a famous Elvish artist who had perfected her art over the centuries; she was astonished to discover the little wolf had been carved by a (then) young mortal artist.

"Is it not surprising that someone with so little time at his disposal to hone his art, was able to create something this beautiful?" he pointed out, and Glorfindel agreed, happy that Pad's talent had been recognized by another artist. He placed the figurine on a shelf in his bedroom, and in the following months he found himself looking at it often, as he wondered if the gentle man who had hosted him under his roof for no other reason than kindness and empathy, and gifted him the fruit of his work to remember him by, was still hurting, and how devoted, affectionate (name) was dealing with the pain of seeing her beloved suffer so much.

The warm summer that had seen his first and only meeting with the couple dissolved in a cool autumn, and then winter brought cold nights and days shrouded in snow and hail. One night, after a long week spent patrolling the borders of the citadel, Glorfindel returned to his quarters to change for dinner and found the wolf figurine on the ground, shattered after having fallen from the shelf. The Elf-lord picked up the pieces (the head of the little wolf had been severed, as well as its tail, and the body had broken in half) and felt an instinctive, searing guilt filling his heart, realizing it was doubtlessly beyond repairing. And Pad had trusted Glorfindel would take care of his gift... 

What might had happened? The figurine had been too far from the shelf edge for it to fall by itself, and the windows of the room were closed, which meant no gust of wind could be deemed responsible. Could someone have entered the room while he was away with the sole intention of breaking the little wolf, maybe to spite him? Who would do something like that? It was absurd, unless...

And then he understood; he did not know why, or how, but the reason was suddenly clear in the Elf-lord's mind, and a sob escaped his lips. "Oh, no..." he murmured, alone in the room "Oh, Padriac..."

It was night already, and bitterly cold, not to mention he had been looking forward to a bath after seven days spent sleeping on the ground, but Glorfindel did not hesitate. He told Elrond he had to leave immediately because a friend needed his help, and went to the stables to saddle Asfaloth.

"Run like the wind, my friend." he murmured in the horse's ear before mounting him, and Asfaloth snorted, as if to promise he would do his best. He was not worried something would befall (name) as she was alone, or, worse, that despair might push her to hurt herself, but the Elf-woman needed him, if nothing else because she had no other friend or kin to support her, and no one deserved to face a loss like hers alone.

He had visited the house in the woods only once, months before and having found it by coincidence; still, he reached it easily, after two days of ceaseless gallop, and when he dismounted, and faced the building hidden in the dark of night, no smoke coming out of the chimney and the little crop by its side bare and covered by snow, Glorfinde felt, he knew, the breaking of the figurine had not been a simple premonition like he had hoped, and he had come too late.

The tiny clearing, that had looked so lively and vibrant in the summer, was now a desolate expanse of leafless trees and naked ground. He knocked on the door, again and again and harder each time; all of it fruitlessly. No noise came from the inside of the house, which led Glorfindel to fear the Elf-woman he had come to see had already left, but he decided to try once more.

"(name)! (name), it is Glorfindel!" he called to her "Please, open the door. I... I am so sorry..."

After a few minutes the door finally opened. (name) stood there; she was pale, eyes red from crying, and she looked as if she had not slept, or taken any care of herself, in days. She did not look surprised to see him. "I knew you would come." she said "I was sure you would know, somehow, and you would want to see him."

"Of course I want to see him, (name); I wanted to see you both." the Elf-lord replied; he had been worrief for her, for the depth and the intensity of the mourning she could not share with others, but it was true, meeting Pad had meant much to him, no matter how brief their acquaintance had been, and Glorfindel regretted they had not had more time to spend together "Where is he?"

She answered by motioning to the clearing around them. "I buried him here, behind the house. His parents and siblings are in a graveyard in the village Pad had been born in, but this had been his home for sixty-five years, and he had told me he wanted to be laid to rest here. He loved this place, even though he had been forced to abandon his village because of me."

"I am sure he did not regret it. Not when it meant sharing his life with you."

"He probably did not, but that does not make it less true."

(name) invited Glorfidel to come in and rest, and the Elf-lord could not help noticing the house looked less tidy and well-kept than during his first visit; there were unwashed crockery and pots on the table, the floor needed sweeping, and one of the courtains had fallen to the ground and had not been put back in place.

(name) seemed to read his mind. "I have not had the time to take care of the house in a while." she sadly explained "Padriac needed me; in... in his last days he suffered greatly, and in the end he had even lost consciousness."

Glorfindel looked at her. "How long it has been since you last slept?" he gently inquired, and the Elf-woman blinked, as if she had completely forgotten the need to take care of herself.

"I think I can go on for a little more; and if I were to sleep I am sure I would dream of my husband, and that is the last thing I want now." 

A green wool cape was folded on the back of Padriac's carved chair; (name) took it, wrapped it around her shoulders and brought a corner of it closer to her face, as if trying to perceive a trace of her husband's scent. A sad smile curved her lips.

"You know, when Pad started to age... he was embarassed by the way his body changed." she confided "He was ashamed of the fact I was still young and hale, and beautiful in his eyes, as the day we met, while he grew weaker and got wrinkles and his hair turned white, and he was no longer able to fulfil his marital obligations. I told him many times it did not matter, that in my eyes he was as perfect and magnificent at eighty-five years old as he had been at twenty and that I was old enough physical love did not interest me as much as it did when I was younger, but I do not think I ever fully convinced him."

"Mortals think differently from us. But Padriac knew you loved him, and you made him very happy; nothing else mattered for him." Glorfindel pointed out; (name), clearly unaccostumed to being comforted, did not answer, wrapping the cape tighter around her "What will you do now? Will you remain here?"

"What else could I do? This is the only home I have."

"You could go back to your family." Glorfindel suggested; sixty-five years might have felt like an eternity to a Man, especially to one who did not descend from the long-lived people of Númenor, but he could not believe (name)'s friends and kin had already forgotten her.

(name)'s sad smile quickly put an end to that hypothesis. "No, I cannot." she said, before explaining that her loved ones, including her dearest friends and her own parents, had never accepted her and Padriac's relationship; they had tried for years to convince her to forsake her husband and return home, begging her and once even trying to drag her all the way to her old village. Realizing it was useless, they had in the end decided to cut all ties with her; Glorfindel was the first of her people (name) had seen in more than half a century and during that period of time she had never received a letter or a message from home, and the few she had sent had remained unanswered.

"This is why I... I reacted badly when I first saw you. I am so sorry." she admitted with a sigh; Glorfindel guessed she was not the sort of person who easily recognized her mistakes "I missed my parents and friends, but ever since I had gotten married every Elf who had visited me had been a source of trouble. I feared my family had heard Pad would soon pass away and had sent someone to bring me home."

He had not resented her for that then and he knew he could not do it now. "You say that... they have disowned you? Your own family?"

"Exactly. No one from my family and none of my friends came to our wedding, and they all made very clear that as long I choose Pad over them I was no longer welcome among them. I never regretted the choice I made, and perhaps I could go back now that I... that I am alone, but I do not intend to ask to be forgiven when I did nothing wrong. I have no family and friends... and now I do not have a husband either."

She sobbed. "I have nothing left." she acknowledged, and her pain, that had conceded her a brief moment of respite with Glorfindel's arrival, overcame her once more. She started weeping, covering her face with her hands, and when Glorfindel took her in his arms, she let him.

"It is all right." the Elf-lord murmured; it was far from the truth, and he felt foolish for that naive lie that would help no one "He is all right. You have given Padriac a long and happy life, and he is at peace now, where no pain and sadness can hurt him; you should find solace in this."

"I know... but that is not enough. I know I should be grateful for what we had, and I do not regrett marrying Pad, because he has made me the happiest of women and I always knew this moment would come, but losing him has shattered my heart... as if he were the sun, and the world had plunged into darkness now that he has passed. How can I go on without him? Even if I were to die we would still be apart, since Men are not admitted to the Undying Lands. I will never see him until the whole world is reborn, and if I think it might be thousands of years before that I... I cannot stand it, I already miss him so much... "

The Elf-woman kept crying as Glorfindel tried to comfort her, aware there was nothing he could do to alleviate her pain. He was mourning Pad, a good man who would have deserved to share his wife's fate, but she was the one his heart was also weeping for: for (name), who had paid a terrible price for a few short years of happiness, and who now found herself completely alone.

Or almost.

"You might come with me." he said, and (name), who was drying her tears with her cape, looked at him.

"Come where?"

Glorfindel let his heart spoke for him; it was not always easy, he had found, but when he did he never regretted it. "To Imladris. If you do not wish to return to your family, and think it would do you good to leave this house and start anew somewhere else, you might decide to come live there. Imladris is a safe haven where all who need help and consolation are welcome. You could stay for a while, until you are done mourning your husband and decide how to live the rest of your life. I know you are suffering, but in the Last Homely House any pain can be consoled... in time."

(name) said it sounded too good to be true. "Are.... are you serious? Do you really think I could come?" she asked; she seemed almost afraid, as if embarassed at the thought of having to ask for the help she desperately needed.

"More serious than I have ever been. You would love the citadel, I am sure."

"I will... think about it." she promised, and Glorfindel knew she would.

Despite the late hour, he insisted in paying his respects to Pad before retiring for the night. (name) had dug her husband's grave under the branches of a large oak; the coming of spring would turn it in a lovely spot, but then, in the cold grip of winter, it looked bare and poor, way less than Pad (a good man, a gracious host and a good husband, whose only wish had been to marry the woman he loved) would have deserved. Glorfindel spent a few minutes in recollection, sure that his friend's fëa was now safe in Eru's hands, and finding himself crying for him all the same. 

That night he slept in the little house in the woods for the second time, after (name) had prepared a comfortable bed for him, complete with heavy blankets to withstand the chill of the night; he did not really need them, but maybe (name) was used to use them because of her husband, who probably had felt the cold even more than it was normal for Men, on account of his old age.

He felt her pace during the night, as if sleep had escaped the Elf-woman behind the closed door of her bedroom, and on the following morning, when the light filtering through the windows woke him up, he found her already on her feet, as she filled a bag with clothes and other necessities.

"If you are hungry please help yourself; I am a little busy." she said in lieu of a greeting. As he stood, Glorfindel answered that breakfast could wait; he could not help smiling as he inquired:

"Are you packing?"

The Elf-woman nodded. "I hope your proposal still stands." she said; she seemed unsure, as if it were hard for her to ask for something she had only been offered on the previous night. The Elf-lord smiled.

"Of course. I am sure Elrond will be happy to meet you."

"And I will be happy to meet him, if he is as kind and wise as they say; but I do not intend on being his guest forever, and I will find a way to pay for his hospitality."

Glorfindel knew it would have been impossible to change her mind. He elected to stay out of her way while (name) packed, quickly choosing the things she needed the most and abandoning the rest with something similar to relief; she threw away the little food that was left in the house and the medicines her husband did not need anymore, and bolted the door and the windows. The Elf-woman was still very pale, her bloodshot eyes betraying the fact she still had tears to shed and her sleep had been less restful than she needed, but she had washed and changed her clothes. 

Once they had left the house together, (name) turned to look at it, as if saying farewell in her heart, or committing that sight to memory. "I have spent sixty-five years of my life within these walls." she murmured; Glorfindel was not sure she was talking to him "This place is tied to so many good memories, and here I have been happier than I thought I could be. I will miss it greatly."

The Elf-lord wished to tell her she would soon find a new home in Imladris, but while he sincerely thought, and hoped, so, he decided he better keep it to himself. She would see it for herself, and at any rate it was still too early for her to be comforted. She would have to find strenght within herself, and in the knowledge the love she and her husband had shared would never abandon her; and maybe, just maybe, the closeness of a friend would also help a little. 

"I am in your debt, Glorfindel." (name) pointed out as they neared the stable to retrieve their horses; she was not smiling, and the Elf-lord could perceive how hard it was for her to recognize that truth... and how grateful she was for it, even though she was not able to express her feelings "For your presence here, and your support."

"You would have done the same for me."

"Maybe. But again, that does not change the fact that you came when I needed it, when I needed the presence of a friend, the most. I know you did not simply come to pay your respect to my husband. I... I really appreciate it, and one day, I will find a way to repay you."

Glorfindel smiled; she was stubborn, and proud, and that was something he could appreciate and identify with. "Agreed." he gently replied "But until then, let us not speak of it again."

Wasting no more time, they saddled Asfaloth and Dandelion, and loaded them with the little (name) had decided to bring with her; she had put all of Padriac's wood figurines in a bag separately, padding it to prevent them from breaking them as she rode. 

"Are you ready?" Glorfindel asked; he knew that simple question was not easy to answer for the Elf-woman next to him, and was pleased to see her react with a simple, but determined, not of her head. She was still shaken, but there was relief in her as she prepared to begin a new chapter of her life.

"Let us go."

They rode on in the clear morning.

TAGGING @starlady66.

#The Lord of the Rings #The Silmarillion #Glorfindel #Glorfindel x reader #Glorfindel x platonic!reader #Bellona's stuff

[dndeed]

Crit Role Miniature Rollout: C3E51 The Apogee Solstice

With Andrew Harshman

An analysis of the minis used on CR.

Two downright dense maps in one episode? Gimme a break! I reckon I've taken enough of a break though. Let us take a look at these two epic encounters!

The solstice with the mostest, it’s time for Critical Role Miniature Rollout Campaign 3 Episode 51!

Mini Map Overview

Encounter number one here is a Mats by Mars Shattered Soil mat, followed by a layer of Dwarven Forge 4x4 Mountain Ground tiles, with a perimeter of DF Mountain Elevation, Caverns Elevation, and Cave Cliff pieces. And let's not forget the Dwarven Forge Wildlands Winding Stair escARPment (pronounced in a midwestern Pumat Sol accent):

If you're lookin' to make a quick escarp, this here escarpment is the place to do it. Ya know, I don't think I've seen an escarpier escarpment in a long time. Nice escarpment Dwarven Forge!

Yall dwarves keep this up, and you may need to rebrand yourselves as Dwarven Escarpment.

In terms of scatter terrain, we're looking at mostly DF items. Including some of those snazzy LED pieces. There's also some furniture from the Pathfinder Battles line, a Dragon Lair chair, and the reoccurring Hirst Arts open crate.

For prepainted miniatures, we have a D&D Wizkids Goliath, Pathfinder Iconics Red Raven, a Pathfinder Goblin, and a drake, probably the Deadly Foes House Drake. Also, there's a Wizkids raven that's about 3 by 3 pixels onscreen (4K broadcast when?)

Onto the terrain of map number two! The aptly named Mats by Mars: Desert mat. And what's a desert without some fashionable desert tents? We got Wizkids tents, Mantic Games tents, and the Safari Ltd tent. Say, what them ruins doin'? Ruins gonna be ruined. Three main ruins type here are Dwarven Forge, Hagglethorn Hollow, and HeroScape, or DwarvenThornScape for short.

Models in this encounter include figures from Wizkids, HeroForge, and Steamforged, or WizForgeForged for short. I think there may also be a Reaper model or two? It's very fun to see the return of previous campaign models. Though it woulda been even more fun to see higher level versions of Beau and Caleb.

Best Mini of the Ep

Well obviously this tower centerpiece with the fancy schmancy spell effect magic puck has gotta be the best mini pick. Spectacular table presence. I assume it's a custom piece.

Worst Mini of the Ep

At the climax of the episode we get these beautiful sweeping cinematic shots of the miniatures as Vax appears to save Keyleth. AND THEN disrupting the drama we got this waving tiefling totally photobombing the scene!

The Tiefling Cleric of Asmodeus miniature is actually pretty decent. Super simple and ugly prepaint paint job though. I actually like this model quite a bit, I just thought the unintentional waving to the camera positioning was amusing.

See ya next sesh!

#criticalroleminiaturerollout #critroleminiaturerollout #critical role #critrole #dnd #dndminis #dwarvenforge #criticalrole3

[hirazuki]

So, all usual concerns and subject matter aside, I think there is one very important aspect of Eöl's character that I rarely ever see touched upon, and that is the fact that he is, objectively, a horse girl.

Like -- my good sir, you live in the middle of what is, by all accounts, a dense, dark, magical forest with all sorts of winding paths and the tallest trees in Beleriand; it sounds like an absolute nightmare for any kind of hoofed quadruped to navigate (except perhaps deer and goats, but they are insane and therefore outliers, so they don't count). What do you need all these horses for??

He never really leaves home, other than occasionally to visit the dwarves; I can understand having maybe two or three horses, for travel and as backups. And yet, he has enough of them that -- with Maeglin on one, Aredhel on another, and himself on a third -- he can not only change his out for a fresh horse, but also have his pick of "the swiftest that he had," implying that, even with those three absences, there is still a sizeable group remaining at home in Nan Elmoth.

Clearly, there is but one answer here and, personally? As a horse girl myself? It explains so much about him.

#eol #silmarillion #tolkien #silm musings #also having 'many horses' as tolkiengateway puts it goes a long way in his favor with me #(and probably with aredhel too XDD) #i was editing some writing and realized that i unintentionally peppered in horse girl eol throughout the entire thing lmao #and subsequently realized that i've never really seen anyone talk about it or incorporate it anywhere so #here i am releasing it out into the world #do with it what you will #i'm just doing my fandom duty XD #(and procrastinating bedtime. for absolutely no good reason ^^ )

[whoooooisthis]

A Midsummer Night's Dream

Summary: A celebration of summer solstice goes better than expected - sharing your customs really pays off.

Featuring: Kili x gn! reader, kinda Slavic reader, dwarven and Slavic-themed midsummer traditions, mentions of Bagginshield, also featuring my dear friend @the-axe-lass and her beloved Dwalin :) proofreading done by @erosofthepen

<-->

Erebor’s main market was particularly overflowing today, with dwarves and men alike. Cheerful conversation mixed into a pleasant buzz as everyone went about their business. However now, in the middle of June, mundane chores were brushed aside, and preparations for a Midsummer festival were in full swing.

Dwarves just loved winter holidays - Durin’s Day, Yule, and any other you could possibly think of - but you had to admit, they did not dismiss the summer solstice. And neither did the men from the kingdom of Dale, preparing countless bonfires, boats and lanterns.

Despite the festival being in over a week, your dear hobbit friend, Axe, absolutely insisted on going to the market today in search of the best ingredients for any holiday dish there might be in store. Now, you tried to keep up with her as you pushed through the dense crowd.

“Those look just wonderful, don’t you think?” Axe said as she held up a pair of earrings next to her face, the precious gems gleaming, the metal around them smithed with finesse.

“Will you be buying them for the celebrations?” You stood behind her, gazing in the small mirror and admiring the dwarven craft.

“I don’t know, maybe. I heard those stones are a good-luck charm around here.”

“Let’s hope your favourite warrior attends the feast then, so the charm will have a chance to work, hm?” You grinned mischievously as the hobbit blushed a deep cherry, muttering something about Dwalin “having to attend as a royal guard” and “totally not going there to see anyone”. In an attempt to recover, she quickly changed the topic, rambling about the Shire’s customs - the dances, gathering herbs, baking and, above all, Gandalf’s fireworks.

“Well now, now, you didn’t tell me about your traditions! I must hear them!” She bumped your shoulder encouragingly.

“We celebrate the night of the solstice, and there’s lots of stuff about bonfires - dancing around them, jumping over the fire, burning herbs. Wreaths are a big thing - they’re woven out of flowers and herbs. In the old times, young maidens used to place a candle in their wreath and let it float down a river. Boys would wait lower, and if they caught a wreath, they’d go and search for its owner, and often that’s how romance started. Nowadays, even giving someone a flower crown on that night can be a romantic sign.”

Axe seemed to be deep in thought all of a sudden. “So, a nice wreath on the night of midsummer could be a courting gift? A way to ask someone out?”

“Pretty much, yeah” you replied, brows furrowed at your friend’s odd antics. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I was just curious.”

←→

The day finally came, and it was filled with laughter, songs, food and drinks. Ribbons decorated all of Dale, and banners with intricate patterns were hung in Erebor. Dwarves, per their tradition, spent most of the day in the forges. The fires of hearths at midsummer were thought to be sacred, and their heat could forge the strongest weapons that were usually meant as a gift for royalty or loved ones.You could have sworn you saw the King, Thorin Oakenshield himself sneaking out of the forges with a mysterious package, but you had to wait until the evening to find out what it could have been.

And finally, the night came, and when it did, it was unrivalled in its splendour. The air was hot and thick with smoke, and the stars shone bright over the cities. It was one of the very few nights when most of Erebor dined and celebrated under the night sky, not in their glorious stone halls. Dozens of people joined together to dance through the streets, and around the tall bonfires. The herbs that were burned gave the air an intoxicating scent, which only seemed to encourage you to fill your goblet and dance away the night.

Your friends seemed to have disappeared somewhere into the crowd, so not thinking much, you joined the nearest group and let yourself be carried through the fields. You twirled, jumped and laughed, trying to sing along to the foreign tune of people from Dale, and marvelling at their flutes and bagpipes. Their culture was still foreign to you, as you were someone from outside of Middle Earth. Your white linen shirt and its embroideries did not match their garb, but they took you in with open arms like their kin, and you celebrated among them.

The dancing crowd carried you to the tallest hill between Dale and Erebor, and in your fervour you bumped into a large wooden table, and promptly apologised as you almost knocked out a pint of ale.

Only when Fili laughed lightheartedly at you, had you realised that this table is the royal one, with Thorin's throne in the middle, and the whole court sat around it.

And as you were pushed away again, you saw Kili.

You had always been drawn to him, ever since meeting him, ever since going on a perilous journey by his side. Even if other dwarves had taunted him for his lack of beard or pointy features, you had always quietly admired his beauty. To be honest, you didn't even notice the day when you woke up, and he was already engrained deep in your heart.

And he wasn't helping at all. He sat next to you by the fire, sharpened your weapons, defended you from orcs even when he didn't have to.

You danced around each other during the journey, unsure of the other’s feelings, afraid of rejection and humiliation, but constantly in fear the other might perish in battle. Now, in times of peace, it seemed even harder. Royal duties took his company away from you, the two of you only sharing looks across corridors now instead of honest conversations by the fire as you used to.

But now, there he was - mithril and gems that were sewn into his tunic gleaming in firelight, his eyes trained on you. You broke away from the dancing circle and sent him a smile over the flames.

Maybe tonight, fate would bring you two together. It was the summer solstice after all, a night of magic and festivities. But no, you brushed that idea aside. To dwarves, the solstice was barely a milestone, an indicator that it’s already halfway to the Day of Durin. Maybe it was a day full of festivities, but it was nothing like it was back home. In your culture, the solstice, Kupała’s night, was truly a day of fire: jumping over bonfires, walking on coals and dancing with torches, but first and foremost, it was a day of fire in lovers’ hearts. Wreaths were woven with the intention of finding love, soft promises were spoken under the moonlight, and often this was the only night when two young people were allowed to walk away and cherish one another’s company in quiet groves.

But how could he know that? The sly smile on his face couldn’t have meant anything. Especially that after breaking eye contact, he seemed to have already forgotten of your existence, filling his goblet with warm wine and chatting with Thorin, who looked off into the distance like he didn’t hear his nephew.

You were taken by the current of the dancing masses, losing sight of the royal table and getting further away from it, even though you desperately wished to go closer. You saw your friends in the crowd - Bofur was already standing on a nearby table and serenading, Axe and Dwalin on his left, holding hands as they finally danced together, both blushing but lost in the moment. Truly, this must have been the very first time you saw the tough warrior’s cheeks redden. Love really has an odd effect on people. And Bilbo, who after all decided to stay in Erebor, tried to look completely unbothered and only interested in the pie before him, but you couldn’t help but notice the not-really-sneaky glances he shot in the general direction of the royal table and Thorin’s chair.

You, however, searched for Kili with your gaze, but found his chair empty and his plate unfinished. He must have disappeared when you weren’t looking, but the rest of his family was seated as before.

“May I have a dance?” A voice from behind startled you, and when you turned around, you were met with the very dwarf you seeked out. Kili stood before you smiling, his hand extended in an invitation. Fire seemed to be dancing in his eyes, lighting up the deep amber and bringing up the ever-present mischievous glint. Your heart started beating a little faster, but you still tried to convince yourself it was just from exertion.

His face lit up as you agreed, and he soon snatched you by your waist and twirled around with you to the new, lively tune. You felt your cheeks redden and hoped he wouldn’t notice in the dim firelight. Strong arms embraced you, and your skin was hot beneath the hands that grasped your waist and shoulder. You couldn’t remember how long it was since Kili was so close to you, your breaths mingling, your gazes never leaving each other.

The song ended too soon, and you both pulled away, suddenly aware of the proximity and warmth that you shared. Kili smirked and bowed low before you, brown hair falling in a beautiful mess around his face. You chuckled at his antics and replied with a pale imitation of a curtsy, before taking his hand in yours again.

“Thank you for the dance. It was… amazing.” Kili blushed and turned his eyes away in embarrassment. For a moment he stroked your palm with his thumb absentmindedly, like he was on a threshold of some important decision. But then, you could see his back straightening as he pulled your hand and started walking towards a nearby birch forest.

“Come on. I want to show you something.”

You raced after him, the laughter of the dancers fading and the light of the fires dimming slowly. Soon it was just the two of you in the serene forest. Kili kept looking behind him to make sure you're still there, even though he could hear you perfectly. Each time, he tightened his hand around yours, as to make sure you're tangible, and not just a figment of his imagination.

And you did the same, because the soft moonlight falling on his features made him look like the most beautiful, ethereal dream, something that can be blown away by the wind. But he was there, and his warmth and strong embrace reassured you.

You jumped over a small stream, your feet landing in soft moss. You let him lead you, through groves and clearings basked in the silvery light. He covered your eyes with his hand, giggling, and guided you through a curtain of vine.

He brought you to the most beautiful place you could imagine. Seemingly untouched by mortal foot, dewy moss laid like a carpet around a sparkling lake. Snowy water lilies softly swayed under the force of countless waterfalls cascading down the rocks, and the sounds of nature were the sweetest music to your ears.

You gasped as you looked around in awe, your fingers still laced softly with your love's. You took all of the beauty in, brushed your hand over the leaves and breathed the fresh air deep, but when you turned back to Kili, his eyes hadn't moved from you.

"Do you like it?"

"Like it? Kili, I- It's gorgeous here!"

"Good thing it's not all. Wait here." He quickly jogged away and pulled something out of a hollow tree. He hid it behind his back as he walked back to you. Your gazes locked as he grabbed your hands and put something cold and soft in them.

A wreath.

A beautiful, hand-woven wreath of wild herbs, white flowers and red berries. You could see Kili's hand in the knots and in the placement of the flowers.

A wreath. A declaration of love. A courting gift, or a marriage proposal. And he didn't know.

Tears started to gather in your eyes. Oh, how much you wished he would know what he had just gifted you.

"Kili, it's beautiful, but I can't-" You outstretched your hands towards him, trying to give him the too generous gift back.

The prince placed a warm hand on yours, and closed them over the crown.

"I mean it."

"You can't possibly know-"

"I know, and I mean it." Kili took a step closer to you, your breaths mixing, the air thick between the two of you. "Your friend told me all about it, and I thought… I thought that if there's a chance that you feel the same about me as I feel about you, then I could at least try."

You were speechless. You had dreamt of this many times, of him somehow returning your feeling. It even felt like a dream, the kind of dream you wake up from with a bitter taste of longing, but then you brought your hand up to your love's cheek, and he was there. He was there, his skin flushing and his heartbeat just as fast as your own.

"Will you be mine, and allow me to be yours?" he asked hopefully. "Will you wear-"

"Yes." you breathed out. "Yes, a thousand times yes."

Two pairs of trembling hands lifted the wraith to the top of your head. Kili's hands set it there, and slid down your hair, ghosting over your temples and cheeks in the most tender caress. And then he captured your lips, soft and full of adoration, and you gladly reciprocated. The world stopped around you as the flame in your hearts burned united, brighter than ever.

You parted for breath. His forehead came to rest gently against yours, and you felt at home. Kili's hair slipped through your fingers as you caressed his cheek and neck. He paid respect to your traditions, and you could do just the same.

"Would you allow me to braid your hair, Kili?"

#kili #kili x reader #kili durin #kili imagine #kili x you #kili durin x reader #the hobbit #slavic #wit.fics #midsummer #solstice #lotr #lord of the rings #tolkien #tolkienverse #dwarrow #dwarves #dwarf #kili the hobbit #the hobbit kili #the hobbit x reader #reader insert

[masterqwertster]

Both bodyswap and wings would be interesting for Ashton in the things happens list. Was gonna send this earlier but then my brain interfered.

Prompt I love both of these and have thought on them before. They're also more involved for fic writing than I want to do for a tumblr ask quicky, so this is gonna be notes on what I'd put in such a fic.

32 Bodyswap

First off, Bells Hells has so much potential for bodyswap shenanigans. There's just so much physical disparity between any two members.

But I'll focus down to problems others would encounter with being in Ashton's body and issues he'd encounter in turn in theirs.

Being Ashton

First thing to note is that Ashton is a minimum of three hundred pounds heavier than any of the others. But it's not going to feel like that. Ashton's body is built and adapted to handle that weight without issue, which is part of the reason they're so strong. So he's going to be constantly reminding the swapee to "Be gentle. Be careful. Don't grip things so hard. You're gonna break something or hurt someone." And it's just a giant eye-opener to how aware Ashton has to be of his own strength and weight, and the fragility of his surroundings.

Second is, of course, the chronic pain. Considering the near-death/might-have-died-temporarily injuries it stems from and Ashton's medication methods (namely heavy drinking), it's probably pretty bad. So they'd be teaching the swapee the best little stretches to alleviate certain pains. And, depending on location, telling the swapee to just get drunk. Probably less drinking if they have to rely on Ashton's personal stores of booze on the road since Ashton might need it later for pain that would lay them out and not just someone who's not (unfortunately) used to it. Lots of alcohol if they're in town and have coin to spare on trying to get Ashton's high Constitution ass drunk (also high metabolism hungries).

Third, the hardness of Ashton's body. He's made of stone, so most things are softer than him. And combined with his weight/strength, bumping into things is likely to cause more damage to the thing than to Ashton's body. So there's also a learning curve for how spatially aware the swapee has to be as Ashton ...while also dealing with their left side's vision and hearing being subpar/less than the right side's.

Ashton being someone else

Ashton has no fucking clue how to be Soft anymore. And FCG's body has no heartbeat, no breathing, no hunger, no legs, just a wheel.

Anyways, back to issues with being Soft.

Everyone is suddenly realizing Ashton does not follow regular safety guidelines. He wants to eat and drink things that are still steaming hot, threatening to burn the swapee's mouth and tongue. And their fingers when he grabs for hot things. He does not handle sharp objects with much regard for their ability to cut him (it takes pressure to get things to cut/pierce stone). Ashton has the unfortunate habit of gripping things too lightly and accidentally dropping them in the swapee's body. He's not good at accounting for how hard things are compared to him, leading to bruises.

Just, lots of little common sense things for when your body is dense and hardy stone.

53 Wings

Okay, so I have two approaches to this: standard Everyone has Wings AU, and playing with Ashton not losing their aasimar qualities/abilities.

Everyone has Wings AU

First little note: given the racial diversity of Exandria and the vibes of certain races, I'd use all kinds of wings and not just bird wings.

Now not all wings are going to be functional for flight. Usually those individuals have terrestrial bird wings, or are of a more earth-allgined race: dwarves, rock/deep gnomes, earth genasi.

So Ashton's wings would be feathered wings carved of amethyst crystal. Which is useful as amethyst has a hardness of 7 and a steel nail is about 6.5, so those wings would work somewhat for shielding against a blade.

But Ashton would have had their left wing reduced to a shattered stub by The Fall. And the right one is damaged from that as well. (And they're both slowly regenerating due to the vitality of titan blood)

Still Aasimar (AU?)

I think the titan blood would still squash out the aasimar blood initially. But after The Fall, where wings and flying would have been life-saving, plus the dunamantic infusion, the aasimar abilities come back.

Ashton would be a Protector aasimar, and the wings would be purple-silver galaxy patterns (kind of like Tempus's deal in EXU: Calamity) due to the dunamis empowering the aasimar blood into working again. This also means Ashton's celestial guide is sort of... non-existent. Or at the very least just receives general "Well how do you feel about it? Do what you want" advice/directives since the Luxon is about (self)discovery.

He wouldn't really use the wings outside of Not Going Splat, just because he's largely uncomfortable with flying. And the possible meaning of being divinely touched but not actually getting much direction/answers out of it.

The first time Bells Hells sees the wings is the illusory pit trap in the Museum Heist, when Ashton bamfs them out to try to not fall. (FCG has seen them before in the two months they've been together)

#MQ&A #guy in a situation prompt #ashton greymoore