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#the shire is so beautiful
poorly-drawn-mdzs · 5 months
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Bingqiu ponies (Happy Birthday @Piosplayhouse!)
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jay-dee · 8 months
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Amanda Shires via Instagram
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goldkirk · 11 months
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I’ve been mentally lying on the ground in a forest glade being SO fucking Normal about Gandalf calling Frodo Bronwe athan harthad, Endurance Beyond Hope
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messrmoonyy · 20 days
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My horse is a big ass shire and it’s so funny riding with anyone else in camp especially Dutch and the count like he looks so tiny next to Arthur and Tess 😭😭💀
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pinkanonhopes · 1 year
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i really want to see new york someday
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givethemhellfire · 2 years
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I’m still slllllloooowly fixing up my blog, I just wrote a character page for Eddie ! mostly ! I haven’t edited it or found images for it yet tho-I can’t believe I have so many characters on this blog and I’ve only barely finished one bio…. talk about walking to Mordor, my friends
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katemiosh · 2 months
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I like Beauty and the Beast cartoon. And I adore Bagginshield. These two universes were made for each other…
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Okay, this must have already been thought up, drawn or written by someone before me because it's so perfect and obvious.
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In the kingdom of Erebor lives the greedy and rude King Thorin. One day he refuses to shelter an old man in his beautiful castle under the mountain. The old man turns out to be the ancient dragon Smaug. He is enraged. He sends a curse on the King and his entire kingdom. Smaug turns the King into a monster and his inhabitants into utensils of gold.
And so Balin becomes a clock (Cogsworth). Instead of one candelabra (Lumiere), there are two bigger and smaller ones, Fili and Kili. Ori becomes a cup (Chip). And Dori into a teapot (Mrs. Potts).
Not far from the castle is the small town of Shire. Here lives a strange family of Beggins: Bilbo and his nephew Frodo. They are unsociable, a little strange, in no hurry to start a family.
Bilbo loves stories, books, maps and dreams of long journeys and adventures. But the most popular and rude hobbit in the Shire, Azog (Gaston), wants to take Bilbo in marriage.
One day Frodo leaves town and ends up in the castle of a monster. But Bilbo finds him and offers to stay in return. And that's where the story really begins.
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And just Bilbo's vest of perfect yellow color from the first part of The Hobbit (the first meeting with Gandalf), in which he dances with the Beast-Thorin to the song Beauty And The Beast…
Sorry if there's a bunch of dumb mistakes in the text, I'm terrible at English ._.
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ihobbit · 4 months
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AU. After the battle, Thorin gives the crown to Fili and decides to live together with Bilbo. He really wanted to stay in Erebor, but Bilbo missed home so much that they decided to settle in the Shire.
After overcoming a long and difficult journey, they finally return to Bag End.
The first day of their new life. Beautiful spring morning, the couple went to the market.
Thorin: *delighted* Wow, there are so many hobbits here!!! It's all hobbits! Small, adorable and fluffy hobbits with little bare feet!
Bilbo: *tense with jealousy* Yeah, maybe we should go back and live in Erebor…
Thorin: *does not listen to Bilbo, enthusiastically looks around the area and its inhabitants*
Bilbo: *stony-faced* It’s good that we haven’t had time to unpack our things yet.
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I had this thought awhile back but Thorin is not popular amongst the dwarves (he only got 13 of them to follow him), and Bilbo is not popular amongst hobbits (the loner bachelor of Bag End). So I really need Bilbo in Erebor/Reshirement fics where they thrive in each other’s societies.
Bilbo was born to be Consort under then mountain, and everyone loves him! The Council appreciates his polite but firm negotiation tactics and this hobbit has a good head for business. And the people love how friendly and personable he is every time he comes to market. They don’t see many royals who remember their mother’s favorite caserole recipe after all. And by extension, Thorin gains popularity because he can’t be all bad if he managed to land such a little charmer.
Likewise, I need hobbit wives tripping over themselves to get to the forge to see the tall, silent, stunningly beautiful new blacksmith and did you hear he used to be royal? How did Bilbo Baggins land that hot piece of ass? And of course Bilbo has made him so nervous over all the different rules in hobbit society that most of the time Thorin merely nods and smiles at him, and isn’t that cute? He’s shy. So they naturally take him under their wing, inviting him to afternoon teas to fatten him up, and Thorin thinks all Shire food is amazing so he’s quick to offer up his compliments on their cooking which nearly sends them swooning. And of course the male hobbits want to be jealous, but Thorin is fair in price and his work is immaculate and he wears Bilbo’s flowers proudly so he’s certainly not straying from Master Baggins, he’s just very charming and they can’t begrudge him that.
Like Bilbo and Thorin should make each other better. And certainly it doesn’t have to be “everyone loves them and there’s never any problems”, but I just feel like it should be a deal of “FINALLY! I’ve been a duck out of water for so long and this is clearly where I belong.”
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sindar-princeling · 1 year
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I truly and deeply love Eowyn because she's angry, bitter and can be genuinely cold when we meet her - and she's only 24! already she's changed by this war, by the loss of her parents, by the long period of her life where she had no parental figure because Theoden was battling his own depression, and by Grima being a creep. Tolkien's young characters go to war and are changed by it, like Pippin, like Sam, who is still quite a young hobbit (he's 39, and they come of age at 33), but not her - she is already deep in grim thoughts about dying for honour, cheerless, cold.
I don't like comparing all Tolkien women to one another because they are quite different from each other and comparing them just because they're women often feels reductive because they serve vastly different roles in the story, but when you're considering how he presents femininity, it's necessary to do so. so far we've met Lobelia, Mrs. Maggot, Goldberry, Arwen, Galadriel and Eowyn (Rosie was only mentioned as far as i remember?). hobbit women we meet while we are still at home, and they fit right into the homey atmosphere of the shire, in which characters are often presented playfully, or have one defining trait (think about the characters we only know from notes attached to bilbo's "gifts"). further from home, we meet goldberry, arwen and galadriel, who are old, fair, good, beautiful. each of them is different (and galadriel especially has a dark, flawed part of her we can see), but with the women meet on the journey, further from home, a pattern starts to emerge - they come from a different time, from a different world, and even with all their fairness and kindness they can at times feel distant, out of reach.
and then!! eowyn comes into the picture, and- she could be you. she could be me. she's not only complex, but also within reach. she's not a gentle or joyful presence, she's not a powerful ancient force, she doesn't come bearing gifts for everyone - she's so full of negative emotions and pain which she needs to heal from, she's so young and already feels like an old, weary soul.
and it's not to say one kind of character is better than the other, or more complex or anything, because that's exactly the reductive way of looking at those women that I don't like seeing in discussions. ultimately, they are all just different people. but the introduction of eowyn broadens the spectrum of femininity shown in LOTR, and while it's still not exactly wide, it's a bit wider than it was before.
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soapels · 1 year
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but my hair smells of war
simon “ghost” riley x female reader
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tw: nsfw, mutual pining, size kink (i guess?), reader is a jittery virgin, soft! ghost, lovey! ghost, but there’s an overall dark, forlorn theme, (angst??) slight paranoia, 18+ characters
notes: my first cod fic ever :,) bear with me here while i learn to navigate the characterizations! anyways the title is really inspired by that quote by warsan shire! do tell if you enjoyed & let me know who you’d like to see next (^_^)’’ (soap + konig brainrot is REAL lately…)
all hearts and reblogs are very appreciated!
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Just outside the safehouse, crickets chirp.
It’s a pleasant backdrop to the otherwise quiet area of the stables, hay so itchy it even manages to prickle at your skin through the thick fatigues, slivers of the moon filtering in through the windows.
It’s been a long day, you’d seen awful things again (and you know this is just your call of duty but bloodshed- no matter how repetitive- never gets old, never gets easy), and up until around fifteen minutes ago, you were still on the run outside, tired; veins pumped to the hilt with adrenaline, (sometimes you wonder if these levels are healthy) and admittedly quite fearful (that never gets old either).
The path you’ve chosen is frightening at the best of times.
But now you can rest. Even if just for a moment, even if sleep comes seldom or you have to beckon it until closer to sunrise- even if tomorrow, when you return to the battle and the chaos and the ever-changing future, you won’t make it out alive.
There’s some quiet chatter in the safehouse, unconsciousness to you is like nirvana and nirvana is rare, near unobtainable, but you can vaguely make out the low rumble of Ghost’s voice, and more clearly- the lighthearted quips of Soap- and it oddly puts you at ease. Nudges you along to that inviting darkness, bones so pleasantly weak and ready for that nothingness, even if the hay is uncomfortable and you’re sure at least a spiderweb or two is lurking somewhere above in the rafters (because it’s just too dim to see, and the wooden beams block most of the moonlight from here).
You’ve never trusted Graves. (What’re you thinking? Go to sleep.) …Not entirely, at least, and the Shadows are up to no good lately- you don’t know this for sure, to be honest you’ve said no peep of your niggling qualms- but you feel it from deep within that something’s… wrong.
Or maybe it’s paranoia, maybe, most-certainly, it’s just that warrior disease settling in. It’s dark out, and you’re exhausted, and your heart always feels so laden when you’re all alone and the gunfire ceases. That’s why these awful thoughts creep in on you, you convince yourself, lashes fluttering as you approach a hopefully pleasant dream. That’s why your mind sabotages you like this.
Your comrades aren’t enemies- don’t shut them out. No one fights alone. (And now, the last thought you have before drifting off completely, is oddly of Ghost, and how his voice would rasp as he said those familiar words, and the way the foreboding skull of his mask shifts when he speaks. And that damned glow of his eyes, haunting… strangely-beautiful, whenever they flicker over to you. So cold yet distant too, like an iceberg peeking above a frozen tide, silent but fatal if you’re not careful enough to steer clear of it. They don’t call him Ghost for no reason, though you think Simon Riley is a rather befitting name too- because if he had to have one, if he had to be real, then that’d be it.)
And you’re almost there, a warm fuzziness within- so vague and shapeless as you fade from reality- almost to that quiet bliss. One of the things you learned over the taxing span of your military years- sleep is by no means a small luxury.
There’s a shuffling beside you. Faint, ever so slight. Shouldn’t be enough to wake you. But it is. It’s enough to have your eyelids flying open, all exhaustion crumbling away as you—
“Shh, sergeant,” a gruff voice hushes, and recognition clicks. “It’s me,” he’s stood at the edge of the bale, which is frankly closer than you anticipated, propping his gun against a beam before sitting himself down. You swear you feel his body heat as the backside of his thick fatigues brush against your thigh, instinctively drawing your legs closer to give him more room.
Partially confused, very caught off guard, and admittedly a bit flustered, you blink away from him, his silhouette brimmed with the pale, conniving moon as you muster up a coherent response.
“Ghost,” is all you manage to breathe. But he seems to be fine with that, those dark, untelling eyes regarding you cooly as your knuckles sheepishly brush away exhaustion from your lashes.
“Sorry, did-… are we off already?”
“Nah,” he shakes his head softly, and even his gravelly voice has dipped into something gentler, not as harsh around the edges. To see Ghost like this- so unguarded (not entirely, never, but it’s still surprising)- comrade or not, is… different, to say the least. Not in a bad way, quite the opposite. Still.
“Get some rest …Didn’t mean to wake ya.” His whisper is calming; you trust him fully, wholly, you think if he asked for your life right now you’d give it to him. Easily. Without falter. Because despite it all, his rough exterior, his sometimes-lethal temper and his unforthcoming behavior towards others, you know he’d do the same.
(He’s killed for you. Save you too many times to count.)
The crickets and cicadas thrum, but despite it all- the soothing wildlife outside and the soft rustling of hay as across the stable, Soap situates himself for the night- you’re focused on the man sat beside you, not even a foot away as he regards you almost absently. (But you’ve learned that nothing about Ghost is absent.)
And you want to listen to him, belatedly settling your head down on the bale, you really do, but there’s just something off in the air as those deep-chestnut eyes sweep over you; relaxed, too relaxed, almost as if nobody was behind them (but you know that to be false, too), a peculiar, unfamiliar drawl to them as he appraises you.
You’re dusted pale, feathered with the moon like the stars stepped down to personally kiss you, and Ghost watches you for a second more, your fluttering lashes- making no move to close- your lips, the slope of your cheek and the curls of hair framing your face- and his black skull balaclava shifts.
“Sleep, sergeant.”
“I don’t think I can,” you murmur, so quiet and faint, yet your voice manages to resonate with him regardless. It earns a halfhearted snort from him.
“Haven’t even tried, have ya?”
Maybe there’s a sliver of jest there.
You take the opportunity to make a harmless tease at him, a sweet little smile carving into your cheeks, “Well, I almost succeeded until you came along.”
His silence isn’t rewarding, but you both know you’re right, and a heavy question weasels its way into your mind. And you know he can sense it, that unspoken thickness as your lids battle exhaustion, and you also understand that Ghost doesn’t appreciate dishonesty- or a lack of divulgence where it’s due.
So you ask him.
“There was… something you wanted? If you want me to do something-“ maybe you should be embarrassed, how quick you are to jump the gun if it meant helping your Lieutenant, “I-I’ll do it. I will.”
(How are you still so sweet? After all you’ve seen? Why aren’t you hardened? Why are you the bunny in all the places wherein he’s the wolf? How is it that you still manage to glow, even when you very well might be teetering on the precipice of an untimely, surely-brutal death? Simon doesn’t know. He doesn’t. He’s good at reading the room, digging into people’s minds- even the most fucked up ones, especially so- and finding out everything dark they’ve ever felt. With you it’s different. He often struggles to piece together a conclusion from just a smile you send him, wondering if there’s another layer to it. Stilling in his tracks whenever you laugh- so soft like you always do, pleasant like euphony- feeling something unbidden in his chest start to weigh.)
His chest puffs out a little at that, and he huffs low. And Ghost looks away from you, those umber eyes trailing out towards the window up above and somewhere behind you, and for a moment he just goes impossibly still, like a dog waiting for a sound, purposely searching for something there in the wilderness that doesn’t belong.
And you can’t help but feel like the two of you are somewhat out of place also, yet then again, if you were to think someone in the world had to share your loneliness with you, it’d be Ghost. Always. (Because you feel that you know him. He doesn’t have to say a word, his eyes say nothing, but simultaneously they scream everything too. All at once. All in one long wail.)
“No,” is all he says. All gruff and rasping. But soft too, somehow. A disinclined slump to his broad shoulders he only allows you and the team to be privy to (speaking of, Soap’s kneeing a few haybales together now, squishing them in so he’s got space to roll when he inevitably ends up stirring tonight)- but even then, it’s rare.
His eyes meets yours again, all shadows with a small, conniving highlight, brimmed with his balaclava.
“Scoot ova’.” he says it so simply, but your brain goes utterly blank for a fleeting moment.
His accent is quite thick- maybe you’ve lost yourself in it again, or fell too hard in the caramel pool of his eyes, or perhaps you’re just too tired to comprehend him right now- but once it clicks, you’re obedient to his wish. Right away.
The sound of clothes rustling fills the otherwise quiet atmosphere as you shimmy yourself all the way against the wall of hay to your side, letting Ghost- all big and tall- settle in beside you as you curl up to yourself. You’d burrow inside yourself if you could, face flushing warm as your Lieutenant’s body knocks and brushes against yours, and before you know it, the gentleness of shared breathing descends over you both as your noses point to the rafters. Dark, and silent. Comfortable, but at the same time not. A wordless dance of being convinced of your composure to having it singlehandedly ripped away whenever he made the faintest move beside you.
Ghost feels just slightly similar to drowning; just that cold world beneath the waves, hurtled into a murky tide, spun beneath turbulent waters. Uneasy, unsure of where the hell you are- only that you don’t know how you got in and you don’t know how to get out. Lungs aching, chest pouring…
But he feels like the merciful gasp of air when you finally resurface, too. That glimmer of hope, that split second thought of thank God I made it out alive as your chin thrashes over the ripples.
He’s the violent ocean and the life-ring thrown to you all at once. He is the silent chaos and he is the overwhelming relief- and he isn’t a kind man but the good side of him always seems to somehow win out.
“Ghost?” You breathe again. Not sure of even why, and your body quivers with sweat and nerves because Lieutenant’s so strong and he’s laying beside you (this isn’t even odd, this has happened before- sleeping with the team in cramped, awkward places that leave literally no room for complaints, but this time it felt different, like he was somehow closer).
His breaths even out in the pleasant air. And his silence could perhaps be welcoming on its own, but he deigns you with a reply anyway.
“What?” All gruff and low, thick yet- for you, now in the fall of night- gentle too. All Ghost.
(…But maybe partially Simon Riley, too, but you have trouble distinguishing two things when you’re hardly certain one even exists.)
“…” You chew on the words you want to say- or maybe you need to say them- but you don’t know what it is that sticks to your tongue like glue, and you’re rendered stupid, jaw-gaping, for a solid moment.
So you settle for simple. You settle for something good that will suffice, something pleasant and sweet but nothing that tiptoes too close to Ghost (you’re already close enough, and he did choose this bale with you, but still, you never know with him, and he’s not the sort of man you want to question).
“Goodnight.”
You’re sure he makes a soundless scoff at that. And for a splitsecond, you decide to take a peek over, because your stupid curiosity wins out and you just have to see him one last time before a permanent stillness ensues- sheepish hues darting over to his in the dimness—
“Night,” (you think you hear a scintilla of wry humor there) “Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”
—Only to find they’re already on you.
︻┳═一
The next time you and your Lieutenant are ‘forced’ to bunk together is closer to three weeks later, in a ratty shed by the river.
You turn away from Ghost just in time to miss him dragging out a body (finished him with a silencer, but it doesn’t matter anyway. his buddies wouldn’t have heard. his buddies are dead) as you awkwardly look around the decrepit place.
“Fix us up a place to call it a night, soldier.”
You’re quick to obey, chirping off an obedient yes sir as you take a few steps into the old storage shed.
It’s hard to see, and this time there’s not much moonlight to work with (when the door’s closed, it’ll go utterly dark), but with your scope’s flash you spot a disarray of pallets off to the corner, and you waste no time in hauling them together. You find a few cloths- puffy vests and discarded life-jackets, toss ‘em on the wood, and call it a cot.
“There we are,” you say with a smile when he inevitably walks in, door swinging shut as he does one last quick once-over before approaching.
“Good work,” (you hate the way your chest blooms at his simple praise; you’re a soldier, aren’t you? not some stupid schoolgirl) “Now let’s huddle up and kip down. Soap and the others cleared out the second field.”
“Yes, sir,” you nod curtly, fingers hesitating for a split second before you switch off the flash, the old shed blanketed in darkness as you set your rifle down and maneuver onto the makeshift bed (you weren’t complaining, though, you’ve both slept on far worse). Ghost follows in suit, his barely-clear silhouette lowering down onto the pallets with you, minding his muscle as he settles beside you.
…And for a while, it’s nice.
It doesn’t feel as awkward as it used to months- even just weeks, ago, yet still, sometimes you swear there’s an odd thickness to the air, an unprecedented drawl of tension that, like smoke, wisps by before dissipating. Like it was never there. (Yet the smell lingers, traces of something potent and simmering in your nostrils, caught in your clothes like gunpowder. Your hair smells of war and running, and Ghost smells so similar that it almost hurts, yet he’s more charred than you, you can feel it, and if you are a solider of team 141 than he is the bombs and shelter and war and relief.)
(No, perhaps he is the battlefield.)
That strange whiff of something close to vulnerability drifts in the space between you- wanting to say something, but having no words to offer, or maybe it’s a different feeling- like when you want to add something funny to the conversation, but it suddenly inches by and you’re left in your uncertainty, holding onto the joke with a tenuous grip. (Tenuous, yes, but you still want to say it, don’t you? You’re still looking for a window to speak your mind?)
And you’re sure Ghost can sense it too, because from beside you where he lies, he shifts just a bit more than usual, antsy and unable to find a comfortable position, his gear brushing against yours as you gnaw on the insides of your cheeks, feeling the same way.
“Lieutenant-“ “Sergeant-“
He turns over to you, and you see something in those dark eyes that glints as you glance over to him. His hues widen slightly, but whatever startle you thought you might’ve gleaned there flickers out and you’re once more left in the silence- this time, somewhat awkward, waiting for the other to break it.
You called him, and he called you. But now, neither of you return it.
Surprising perhaps the both of you, after what seems like forever passes and Ghost is the one to clear his throat, rasping out a quick, dismissive goodnight when your lips finally snap open to speak-
“G-Ghost—“
“Sleep, soldier. Tomorrow’ll be hell, and m’not carryin’ ya if y’legs give out.”
(He would. Of course he fucking would.)
︻┳═一
Soap and Ghost murmur for a bit with each other, tying off the threads of the last mission as you hesitantly approach. You don’t exactly remember Soap ever making it last night, but hours before sunrise you stirred in your slumber, and are now eighty-percent convinced you heard him settling in the otherwise quiet shed, exchanging a tired grunt or two with Ghost.
And it shouldn’t bother you. The men, you mean, because you’ve known them for months now, fought and bled and killed together, stuck to each other like glue as you endured all the shitty times and awful memories. But your fingers tighten around your rifle just that much more when you near, because Ghost is just so big and strong and the two mingle together for an unseemly yet fatal duo. (They’d never hurt you, never, and you know this damn well, but you’ve always had a shy nature and their respective sets of eyes never get any easier to stare at- you think sometimes you prefer the barrel of a gun over those sage, umber voids.)
Soap’s the first to spot you, those oceanic blues drifting over Ghost’s shoulder, rippling with what you suspect to be genuine mirth as you stop a foot short of the two.
“G’mornin’, sleepyhead,” he greets with a vaguely-boyish grin that sort of twinkles, eyes running over your dewy lashes, slightly-mussed hair and the crooked bend of your straps and gear bands. You smile sheepishly in lieu of a reply, giving him a tipsy little nod that his smile deepens at before your lips part open.
(And you’re afraid your voice will quiver or give out entirely when Ghost’s eyes, sunken beneath his skull mask- but just as haunting and intricate- snake over to you. But, thank God, it doesn’t.)
“Y-You got a spare ‘clava?”
Soap’s chest puffs and swells briefly when he scoffs halfheartedly, those gorgeous hues never slipping from yours for too long as he rests a hand along the butt of his pistol in his pocket, the other dipping back into the bag slung over his shoulders. (Big and broad, his build is similar to Lieutenant’s, but Ghost is taller and holds more mass. Both are purely muscle, though, all death and chaos- Soap’s just always been more friendly with his destruction, delivers it with a laugh or a pat on the back.)
“Y’embarrassed? Don’t think I’ve ever seen a bed head quite like y’rs, lass.” He says it with a playful chuckle, stepping forward (and his legs are long, he reaches you in an instant) and proffering the black mask out to you. You accept it with soft thanks, cheeks warm from embarrassment and perhaps some odd sort of pride as he ruffles your hair and smiles. Like, really smiles, the skin around his eyes wrinkling just slightly as he nods, “there y’are, lass,” he says, “we’ll all meet up back at base, yeah?”
“You’re leaving already?” You chirp highly, traces of dejection caught in your voice (aw, you sad he’s leaving? makes two of you), eyes all starry and confused as he toys with the straps of his vest and quirks his head to the side some. “‘Fraid so, got some loose ends to tie- won’t be long, promise.”
You accept his words with a small, silent nod, offering him a gentle, if not somewhat sleepy smile as he reaches a fist forward, knuckles you lightly on your collar, and belatedly brushes past you. The heels of his boots clip dully against the floor when he reaches the janky door of the shed, daylight weaseling in through the splits and cracks of the wooden walls. Bathing the three of you in a golden porridge of early morning and twittering birds and that odd emptiness of your stomach that always churns at around six o’clock.
With one last pleasant glance to Soap (his cerulean gaze seems to linger and corrode into you, somehow) you allow him to trade a simple goodbye with Ghost, wasting no more time in slipping the mask over your head as Johnny did the same. (Even in your head, it feels forbidden to call him that- only Ghost is allowed to- you don’t know why, but were never brave enough to beg the question.)
And he departs. And the once-comfortable silence betrays you and Ghost yet again.
Still, he turns over to you, letting the door shut, watching as you lower yourself onto the pallets and fix your shoelaces. (But your thumbs tremble, wrists twitching, nervous, like the task is foreign, like it’s not one of the simplest things you’ve ever done in this business of war.)
And those brown, all-seeing eyes sweep over you (you can feel it), those thick boots of his brushing over the dusty floor as he makes his way over.
Your hues collide with his, something off in the air- a calling, or a warning maybe, but it’s heavy and the look he meets you with just before he approaches plants a pit in your belly- frightful and needy- feeling so small and perfectly useless as it builds and builds and-
“Sergeant.”
“Yes?” Breathless without any good reason.
You wonder if he feels it, too. That weight in his tummy that buckles his knees, makes them knock together, dizzies his head. Makes his heart skip faster. But the thought is dismissed too quickly, because you’re certain it’s fear you feel, strong and overwhelming- too great a respect to label. And Ghost isn’t afraid, clammy palms have never been a part of his brand. He doesn’t hesitate.
Yet, now, that all seems like rubbish. Every preconceived idea of him you held withering away as Ghost does just what you knew he never would. His hand, all big and capable (stained with blood, too) hesitates.
But this time- unlike all those sleepless nights where you felt skin brush against yours unbidden, his eyes burning against your quiet profile as his fingers contemplated over your face- it reaches you. Fulfills what it wanted to for a long time coming.
And now you’re breathless for an entirely different reason. “Ghost,” you whisper, so thin it might break- and your voice does shake, like a leaf in the wind. There’s something in his eyes, you notice, as they trail along you, his large palm swallowing up your cheek, gloved fingertips eroding the thin fabric over your skin in the best way possible.
Every lick of pain comes with a spark of pleasure, a needy, gentle ache masquerading as limitless fear.
(But those deep-brown eyes know no limits.)
“You afraid of me?” Ghost is a lot of things. But now you have a niggling, loud feeling that who you’re gaping back at now isn’t he or his mask, but rather what’s beneath it.
You shakily stand, maybe to grasp the illusion of having some control over yourself, or perhaps just to get closer to the door if you wanted to make some stupid excuse to leave. “Simon- I-“
He cuts you off with a low huff, but it sounds more like a groan than anything else- all displeased yet thrilled all at once. It shuts you up. It paralyzes you. (Barely keeping your gaze on his simmering one, you want to lie on your fucking back, and for the life of you, you don’t know why.)
When he says nothing, just continues regarding you with that weird fucking look (it’s not bad- it’s good, you think, but terrifying too) and lets his hand finally slip off your cheek, you try again.
“Simon,” (Simon hears you swallow, watches your throat bob, all tender where he’s cold, soft where he’s covered in jagged heaps of ice) “I- W-We should go.”
Ghost takes a pensive moment to respond.
“We don’t even got our mission yet, do we?”
Your confusion must be palpable, brows pinching together in a cute little knot that has his belly doing backflips as your eyes sparkle up at him. There’s an odd twinkle to his own, broad chest swelling out for a bit longer than a breath should as your lips part open.
“We-…” (f-fuck, just speak, soldier!) “We’re meeting everyone at base, yes?”
Earning no response from him, and the silence quickly killing you- you add:
“I- I thought we… Were meeting up, all of us.”
He grunts at that, low and quiet. And you look up at him like he owns the world, like there’s nobody else in it but him, and your eyes are starry and so unapologetically warm that it burns him from the inside out. His chest aches, he’s wanted you for too long a time to not act on it, to not do something about it, but for once in a very long time, Simon’s… afraid.
Or maybe uneasy is the better word, because he doesn’t want to hurt you, he’s so big and you’re so small and sometimes he worries that if he were to touch you without gloves on, you’d wither completely.
He’s used to that game. His kisses are gunpowder. His love is death, he believes it because he’s seen it. Everywhere. All the time.
But he can’t help it, not now. Not when he’s got you all alone and it’s like the birds chirping outside are telling him to fucking do something already- and Simon knows if he doesn’t make a move, someone else will. They’ll swoop in and steal you away, scoop you off your feet and treat you like a princess- the only way you ever should be- and you’ll be happy and smiling and so fucking far from him.
Safe.
…But maybe he’s selfish. He knows he’s not all that good, he wasn’t made to love or be loved- he is a product of war and brokenness and an endless cycle of pain- but maybe you can be his good thing.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters beneath his breath, “take it off.”
“What-“
“Show me your face.”
(Hah. How ironic; when every soul in the military who’s ever crossed him has wanted to say the same damn thing, but always balked before they could because his eyes alone are killer enough.)
His voice is a little rougher now, your brain registers it as an order, so with a shaky, uncertain hand, you peel off your balaclava and hold it awkwardly in your lap. And your hair’s quite messy from a wakeful night, and your skin glows ever so slightly from sweat and sleep and smeared gunpowder and your pulse is so rapid you fear it may explode.
You want to hide from him.
But, catching both of you by surprise, Simon leans in, one hand raking up his mask- stealing a blurry glimpse of his mouth- and captures your lips in his. And he doesn’t let you hide.
Run, either; he slots his hulking body up against yours, kneeling down on the wooden pallets as he lowers you atop them, making it physically impossible to wrest yourself away if he really wanted you to stay.
(And he really wants you to stay. Fuck.)
You gasp into the kiss, eyes instinctively screwing shut because you’re so fucking embarrassed and your legs feel heavy and your bones’ve gone to jelly because Simon is so big and strong and perfect and his lips are on yours.
“Simon,” you were going for a half-rebuttal, a plea for a moment to grasp just what the hell was happening. But you make a pathetic sound closer to a moan instead, all frail and cute as you whine his given name, and it makes his pants feel that much tighter, exchanging a groan into your mouth as he holds you beneath him.
And his grip is sort of awkward, you think, like he’s made the split-second decision to go all in but now he’s worried he fucked things up and you’ll end up hating him. So his tongue prods against your soft lips, hesitant, and his long lashes occasionally brush against your cheekbone, but he ultimately pulls away.
Like the recoil of a gun; sharp, sudden. There’s a blip of panic there, of what the hell did I just do. But there’s no regret. Because in Simon’s head, it had to be done- else he would’ve crumbled, else your smile would steadily become torture and someone else would’ve done it.
Your eyes are still shut when silence falls over the rundown shed and you feel the tip of his nose carve almost awkwardly in the juncture of your neck. Because you’re afraid. Because your tummy is burning and so is your face, your heart, too. Because there’s still a little unreasonable part of you that, despite feeling his lips brush against your collar, is scared that when you open them, he’ll be staring back at you- mask rucked up and all- genuinely Simon- and you don’t want to see his face if he doesn’t want you to.
“I should stop,” he murmurs into your neck. “I should stay away.” And it almost feels like it’s all over now, the fucked-up calm after the storm. The residual smoke and death on the battlefield- the smell of gunfire and metal. Water under the bridge—
“But that’d be hell.”
And he pulls the trigger again. Those lips, cold as bullet shells, colliding with yours once more. Nipping, and all tongue with the occasional clash of teeth, but it feels so fucking good and you realize with a spark of dismay that you don’t want it to stop.
Never.
“Simon,” and you’re chanting it now, all teary-eyed, lashes thick with pleasure as his mouth descends upon you, his deft fingers already working at tearing off your clothes- straps unbuckling, gear clinking softly as it rolls off the pallets and onto the floor.
Fear- respect- or whatever the hell you’ve always felt for Ghost- bleeds into something closer to… love, you think, and your chest is swelling by the time his gloved fingertips reach there, gliding over your bare skin. And you glow in the golden streaks of young sun, flesh soft and too fucking inviting to pass up on.
(He doesn’t.)
Simon leans away, then, and you dare open your eyes at the lost contact, the lower half of his face bathed in a dim-yellow, his balaclava clinging midway up the bridge of his nose. And within the cage of the printed skull (iconic and terrifying, sort of like batman- an omen of evil’s bane on the way), his brown hues glint, all hazy- far from sober as they sweep over you.
Flickering; giving out; flickering. Burning, and then lessening, sparking like a broken fuse before it becomes so hot you feel you may wither beneath him-
“Gorgeous,” he breathes.
And he’s on you again, tongue laving at your neck and chest, one hand kneading a tender breast while he takes a nipple in his mouth and sucks. You whimper; his cock throbs; he made the impromptu decision just as Soap left that he’d bring you to ruin, and his plans haven’t changed at all.
“I need you, Simon,” you confess, because you do. You need him, you’re sure of it. On the battlefield, on base, on any fucking mission you’re given. You need him above you and on you and inside you.
(Fuck, you want him inside, you want him everywhere. In the mushy, warm crevice between your ribcages and now, between the river of your thighs. Now now now—)
There’s a screech of a zipper. It jams, but he’s impatient and dislodges it quickly, flimsy metal snapping as he shrugs off some of the weight and tugs down his pants.
And, goodness, it’s big.
Flushed red at the tip, angry and twitching as he drags you in by your hips, appraising you with this simmering, foggy look that has your legs quietly splitting. But Simon’s big all over, and you’ve always known him to be stronger (so much stronger), so when he slots himself up with your core, murmurs out a string of reassurances and fuckin’ beautiful’s, you lie back and let him take you.
You, that pretty, sopping cunt, and your virginity.
And as he deflowers you (there’s a dull, hot pain, he’s so big and thick- it hurts- but he folds himself over you and hushes you and tells you it’s okay), you think he takes your heart, too. (If he didn’t already have it.)
When the sting subsides and he realizes you’re not sniffling into his shoulder anymore, he bumps up the speed, entering a controlled, careful pace, the wood jostling beneath you as he fucks and breaks and loves you.
“Please,” you beg, “give it to me.”
“Am, darlin’,” he rasps at your ear, an echo of a high-pitched sigh there. “Giving ya everything I’ve got… And you’ll fuckin’ take it, yeah?”
When you nod and tighten up around him, those velvet walls sucking him in like a perfect vice, and pair it with a mewling yes, Simon, something in his lower abdomen clutches. A pit forming there already, all hot and pleasant as your pussy overwhelms him, beckons him further in until he’s hitting deep deep deep and a pale-pink is oozing between your legs, traces of your blood caught on his pelvis as he gives it to you. Everything. All of it.
Every piece of him, every bad memory and gentle kiss on his forehead, every grey cloud and good grade and bout of death- he stuffs it all inside you. Buries his hate and love there, cock grazing your womb as he thinks about the one he came from, and all the shouting and cracked beer bottles and spatters of smoke and red on the field.
And you suddenly tighten up around him completely, eyes going wide as your mouth gapes with some unwarranted, foreign wave of pleasure.
“There y’are,” he grunts, half breathless and half utterly feral, brown voids enamored with the sight of you crumbling beneath him as his jaw falls open and his eyes roll back. All the way back, ‘til his lashes- pale in the morning sunshine- kiss the points of his cheekbones and he can’t hide the desperate groan he tries to stifle in the dip of your neck.
Gloved hands grasping at the soft fat of your hips, digging and unintentionally hurting, leaving purplish semi-circles behind as his hips stutter one last time.
And he paints you on the inside. Roots himself there. Cums with a murky moan of your name that claws itself into every vital part of your soul and refuses to let go. (You don’t want it to.)
And the longer you two lie there, bathing in the gold of early morning, the less inclined he feels to leave.
Your fingertips, delicate as snow, graze over his back, swollen lips tickling his jawbone and the side of his face as he pants into the arch of your neck.
And his nose nestles into your aura, the messy tresses and gentle wildlife of you, gloved hands marking up your hips. And Ghost thinks your hair smells of war, too.
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spookyjarchivist · 1 year
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while i do have a soft spot for “hobbits age slower than humans so 33 for them is our physical 18” i rlly dont think that’s how it is bc they get to about the same age as humans before death by old age, i also really dont think we appreciate enough a few things about what this means narratively and thematically
tolkien really said no child soldiers, no 20-something year old soldiers, they’re not really adults yet, they barely know anything of the world we’re sending them to die for it and that’s not okay, not when there are other options
he also addresses this with the hobbits specifically, frodo and bilbo are 50 when they go on their journeys, FIFTY, and we can see that they handle them differently than the others. while bilbo changes afterwards, it’s not in a coming of age like we would see if 50 really was the equivalent of ~27, he just accepts a part of himself he’s been suppressing for years, for him it’s accepting that getting older and being an adult doesn’t restrict you from the excitement and opportunities of youth. similarly frodo doesn’t change much either outside of his ptsd, all of his change is trauma, not maturity
now sam and merry are both past the age of majority, but they still grow into themselves in a way bilbo and frodo do not, they mature
but pippin, sweet beautiful pippin grows the most out of all of them. he’s the most childish, always running after his cousins and you can tell he’s not even 30, this is HIS coming of age story, before this journey he’s known nothing of true responsibilities, but by the end he’s ready for when he eventually has to take over as thain of the shire
and i think that this is a really beautiful way of saying something that has started to get really popular in the last few years
instead of being terrified of that big 30, we should be excited for it, we should embrace it wholeheartedly, because it’s the time when we’ve finally started ironing out the last of the kinks in being an adult, we’re growing into our responsibilities and and we can start learning how to cultivate that balance of responsibility and excitement and FUN that makes life living instead of surviving
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waitingforthesunrise · 4 months
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so obsessed with the genre of poetry and music about second chances. when warsan shire said I'll rewrite this whole life and this time there'll be so much love, you won't be able to see beyond it. when richard siken said let me do it right for once and I'm saying your name in the grocery store, I'm saying your name on the bridge at dawn. when nessa barrett said maybe I can break the curse, and I can be in love forever. when shakespeare said and as my love is sized, my fear is so and a love that makes breath poor, and speech weak. when richard siken said it should be enough. to make something beautiful should be enough. it isn't. it should be. and together we trace out the path from doom. there isn't hope; there is a trail. I follow you. and when europides said why does this fear float always in front of my heart, hungry for signs of the future and why are you in love with things unbearable? when richard siken said tell me all this, and how love, too, will ruin us. these, our bodies possessed with light and I'll give you my heart to make a place for it to happen, evidence of a love that transcends hunger. is that too much to expect? that I would name the stars for you? when ocean vuong said sometimes being offered tenderness feels like the very proof that you've been ruined. when boygenius said you could absolutely break my heart, that's how i know we're in love. to be in love, to be in fear. give me one more chance and I'll get it right this time, I'll dodge the curses. one more chance and we won't have to fight so hard. one more chance and I'll fight for you twice as hard and maybe this time it will be enough, it will be enough, and this can be the universe where i keep you safe. this can be the universe where i won't ask you to stay because there won't be one in which you leave.
this time. I'll still let you break me again and again and again. and maybe this time, the curse can be broken too.
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diasdelfuego · 1 year
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cracks in the foundation
"‘you’ve come back to me, louis,’ he whispered in that thin, high-pitched voice. ‘you’ve come home again to me, louis, haven’t you?’ and again he bit his lip and looked at me desperately."
anne rice — interview with the vampire / melissa cox / hélène cixous trans. peggy kamuf — so close / e.e. cummings — someone asked me what home was / n. l. shompole — “home” in kingdoms in the wild / warsan shire  — for women who are 'difficult' to love / richard siken — detail of the woods / anne carson — eros the bittersweet / silas denver melvin — “backdrop made beautiful by pity” in grit: poems / richard siken — portrait of fryderyk in shifting light / jeanette winterson — oranges are not the only fruit
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starks-hero · 1 year
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The Beauty of Chance
Pairing: Thorin Oakenshield x Dúnedain!Reader
Summary: Whilst finding respite in Beorn's home, certain relevations are had. Or; you and Thorin do a little more than just talk things through.
Word Count: 3.4k
Warnings: feather-light smut, the reader smokes a pipe
a/n: Reader is Dúnedain because I'm physically incapable of writing a middle earth fic where the reader isn't Dúnedain. Once again I used Irish as a replacement for the Dúnedain's native tongue because trying to translate Númenórean Sindarin is a nightmare :)
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Beorn's home offered a sense of comfort and safety of the likes you hadn't felt since leaving the Shire. The high walls eased your nerves and you found your hand no longer instinctively reached for your sword. It served as a quaint port amidst the storm, a chance to catch your breath. And it had come long overdue.
After a breakfast sweetened with berries and honey and made up of foods far finer than anything you'd seen since passing Bree, you decided on spending the morning exploring Beorn's home in all its subtle splendor.
Everything seemed to dwarf you in size, from the furniture to the settlement itself. It was an odd feeling, one that stirred up a strange sense of nostalgia; wandering into your father's forge as a child and toying with tools far too large for small hands. You supposed it also offered a glance into the life of your companions.
You reached to undo the lock to the back door, vowing to never poke fun at Bilbo's height again when the plank of wood fell snugly back into the lock despite your best efforts.
You passed through the stables instead, petting the manes of the mares that resided there as you did.
The gardens, just like the rest of the skin changer's dwellings, were evidently tended to with no shortage of care. A small warren of rabbits dozed comfortably in the ryegrass and blooming flowers brushed your knees. You simply stood among it all for a moment, feeling the soil beneath your feet and the sweetened air in your lungs.
The outskirts of the garden were bordered by two oak trees, mature and proud. Their canopy provided a small shadowed patch and you quickly found respite against its bark and beneath its leaves.
With the company out of sight, you breathed a pained sigh.
Your muscles ached and your body felt stiff. It was somewhat difficult to convince it to relax after so long spent prepared to fight at a moment's notice. Shifting against the tree bark, you undid your shirt enough to reveal the unpleasantly long gash that ran across your shoulder and coiled down your arm. The fine work of an orc blade. The bleeding had all but stopped now, but the wound's edges were jagged and an angry red. And the horrid stinging that accompanied such injuries was yet to go away.
You undid the bandages and bound the wound in fresh cloth. It was by no means your finest work but others in the company had sustained far worse wounds during the scuffle on the cliffside and Oín only had two hands and a very limited amount of supplies. You wouldn't seek out care when your friends needed it more.
Besides, the blade had caught your weaker arm. You could still hold your sword, still carry out your purpose.
You'd manage.
Relacing your shirt and silently vowing to put your stubbornness aside and seek help should a fever set in, you sat back against the bark, shifting until you found comfort.
It felt nice to finally rest. To close your eyes and not fear for your company's safety. You reveled in the quiet. For all of two minutes.
The sound of brambles snagging on leather and stones shifting beneath heavy boots had you up and alert and despite all logic, your hand still grasped at your empty sword belt.
You calmed when Thorin rounded the tree. He seemed startled at the sight of you.
“Forgive me, I did not mean to intrude,” the dwarf said, words genuine. He stepped back, as if ready to turn on his heel should you ask him to.
“Searching for some peace and quiet?” You asked instead. Such moments were few and far between. “It would seem we both had the same idea.”
The king's head fell forward in a nod and when still he made no move to leave you motioned to your side.
“Sit.”
His hesitation was brief. He settled beside you, then all was quiet again. A sudden breeze, warm and tinged with the scent of autumn, rushed through the leaves. Thorin took a deep breath before releasing it in an uneven sigh.
It was an odd sight, seeing him at ease. You'd go as far as to call it unnatural. His relaxed shoulders and gentle expression seemed foreign and uncanny. But you couldn't deny the youthfulness that seemed to soften his features now. It was not unlike the glimpses you'd caught of him during your shared night watches when both of you were too stubborn to let the other stay up alone.
A quaint stillness began to settle and when Thorin still said nothing, you decided neither would you. You were happy to sit in silence at his side.
From your pocket, you produced your pipe, old and worn around the rims but still trusty enough to serve its purpose. You ran your fingers along the polished wood, all the way down to its blackened base. Generously stuffing it full, you held a match to the green leaves until they kindled and began to smolder.
Bilbo, bless his heart, had offered you what was left of his pipe-weed. ‘The finest you'll find anywhere south of Bree,’ he'd promised as he handed it over without a second thought after discovering yours has been lost to the greedy hands of goblins.
The first exhale of smoke left lips that were turned up in a smile. The generosity of halflings would never cease to amaze you.
The taste of tobacco sat heavily on your tongue as you blew out wisps of grey smoke and watched as they were carried off on the afternoon breeze.
“I owe you thanks,” Thorin said suddenly, shifting beside you. “The courage you showed on the cliffside, your willingness to help this company, it's not something I take for granted. You have done a great deal for us and we- I am grateful.”
“You don't have to thank me, Thorin.” You exhaled another flurry of smoke.
“But I do. When I called on my own kin for help they turned away. But you, a soldier of Man, a ranger, you answered. You didn't have to, by all means of sanity you shouldn't have. But you did.”
You chewed anxiously on the tip of your pipe. “I know what it's like to be without a home,” you said simply. “And it is not a faith I would wish upon anyone.”
Thorin only nodded in response. His gaze shifted to the tree roots beneath his feet.
You hadn't spoken much of your past, although by the way you carried both yourself and your sword, Thorin knew that your life until this point had not been one without hardship. The race of men were as dependant on each other as a fawn to it's mother; venturing out on ones own was strange for your kind. Gandalf had not indulged him with your story, only what he needed to in order to convince him to accept you as one of the company.
But Thorin knew what a renegade looked like. He'd lived as one long enough to know what the dreariness in your eyes and your indifference to battle and death meant. Part of him wanted to tell you that, to form that middle ground and hope it offered some comfort.
“Regardless, I am glad to have you with us,” he said instead.
At your feet, a lone beetle made its way through the undergrowth. You watched in bemusement, shifting your boot to clear its path. You turned to Thorin and found his own eyes trained on the bug as it continued on its journey. In an odd moment of catharsis, you saw the dwarf beside you not as a king, but a friend and fellow soldier. You offered him your pipe.
When the dwarf noticed your extended hand he smiled almost fondly. The sight made the aches in your muscles ease. He took the pipe in gentle hands, pressing the mouthpiece to his bottom lip and filling his lungs with the finest pipeweed the Shire had to offer.
He pushed the grey cloud past his lips in one deep breath, the smoke taking the shape of a perfect ring before disappearing above the tree.
You raised an unamused brow. “I would not have offered had I known you'd take the opportunity to show off.”
“Lying is not becoming of you, master ranger,” the dwarf responded smoothly, his eyes closed and lips turned up in a satisfied smirk. His hair splayed out around his head like a darkened crown, white strands catching in the sun like silver.
For no reason other than to make watching him an easier task, you shifted against the tree so that you faced the king. The resulting pain that lashed up your arm in doing so had you hissing through your teeth. Thorin's eyes were on you in a moment.
“I'm alright,” you dismissed quickly.
The dwarf looked entirely unconvinced. He reached for the collar of your shirt and when you made no attempt to stop him, pulled the fabric down.
“Mahal,” he said the word like a curse, low and rough. “How long have you kept this hidden?” Struggling to fall somewhere between a convincing lie and an honest under exaggeration, you decided against answering altogether. With a grunt, Thorin pushed forward and onto his knees. He took the hem of his undershirt in one hand and tore off a strip with less than a second thought.
Just as you hadn't answered him earlier, you said nothing as Thorin began to tend to you.
The bandages, already tinged pink, fell away easily in his grasp. A single line of blood seeped from the open gash and trickled down the swell of your bicep. Thorin swiftly decided the best he could do was simply rebind the wound. Despite their broadness, his fingers worked nimbly, carefully gracing over your arm and masterfully retying the bandages.
“You're a fool,” he said eventually, finishing the bindings with an unnecessary tug. “I believed your selflessness to be honorable, now I'm more inclined to think it idiotic.”
You huffed a laugh and winced.
Thorin took up the torn strip of blue linen from his shirt and carefully looped it around your arm, tying it taunt against your shoulder.
“Where did you learn that?” you asked. With the added support, the aching throb in your arm had all but ceased.
“I learned many things during my time in the Blue Mountains and in the villages of Man. How to properly dress a wound was one. It would appear that was a skill you did not pick up during your time on the road.” He answered with a smirk.
“Healers usually work in silence,” you reminded him.
He smiled at your words despite himself. He looked younger when he smiled. His eyes brightened and shone silver. You found yourself wishing it was a sight you could see more often.
There was something about the way he tended to you that set a deep ache in your chest.
He finished his work with one more tight knot and a satisfied hum. “It will do for now. I'll have Oín treat it once he has a moment to spare.” His hand ran down the length of your arm before falling away at the bend of your elbow.
“I'll manage,” you said. The words were almost second nature now.
“You always do.” Thorin's voice was soft. He regarded you in a manner so gentle the ache in your chest flared, a pounding against your ribs. But when his eyes caught your own, the look vanished and he stood. “I've intruded long enough, I'll take my leave.”
“Why not stay?” You were embarrassed by how quickly the words jumped from your throat.
“Because if I do I fear I'll do something rash.”
“Thorin–” you rose to your knees, reaching out and grasping his forearms. The action surprised you both.
You failed to find any words to confront him with, anything that would translate the fierce fire he set in you. How he regarded you not just as an equal but as someone to be respected, admired. How he tore the very clothes on his back to stop your bleeding. How the action was almost instinctive. Even the simplest things. Like how he hadn't complained once about how the earth dug into his knees as he tended to you. How he still hadn't pulled away from you now...
Gravity seemed to give way beneath you and you pushed yourself up on your knees further till your lips brushed his. Thorin was still for a fleeting, terrifying moment; before he returned your affection with a fierce passion.
The earth bit into your knees and you rocked forward. Thorin's hands grasped your waist and anchored you against him. The feel of his palms against your side was grounding. You swore the world had faded into the great void at the end of time and this moment was all that was left.
When you parted, a shaking breath passed Thorin's lips. “You are far braver than I.” His voice was quiet, hoarse.
“Brave?” you grinned. “I thought you'd settled on idiotic.”
The dwarf laughed, full and hearty, and gods what you wouldn't do to hear it every day for the rest of your life.
“I think, perhaps, both can be true,” he said, and his lips were on yours again.
His advance was softer this time, fixed on feeling you against him, marveling at your touch. He kissed your neck, just above the beating of your pulse. His lips turned up in a smile.
You watched him in absolute awe; a descendant of Durin touching you as if you were carved from gold, a king willingly on his knees for an outcast.
The ache in your chest seized your heart.
Your hand rushed up his arm, fingers running past the swell of his shoulders and gently catching in his hair. Thorin gasped sharply, the bridge of his nose pressing tautly against the curve of your jaw. In a single grounding moment, you recalled the significance of hair in dwarven culture as well as the boundary you'd just overstepped.
You rightened yourself against the tree, forcing Thorin to pull away in turn.
“Forgive me, I didn't mean–” you swallowed. “Thorin if you want this to end you need only say so. I won't take offense.”
The silence that followed was uncomfortably thick. You sat unmoving as the dwarf regarded you with something you couldn't quite place. It left you feeling uncertain whether he was going to reach for you again or stand and leave.
“Why do you do that?” he asked instead. “Doubt yourself. Ask for forgiveness as if you have done something wrong. Do you truly find the thought of me wanting to touch you, to be touched by you, so difficult to accept?” He caught your chin with gentle fingers and raised your head. “I can think of nothing I want more.”
His touch ghosted your neck and you shuddered. Words could not tell him how much he meant to you, but you hoped your lips against his own and your heart beating frantically against his chest would.
Thorins knees began to ache, straining and giving way. You pressed a steady hand to his back and guided him forward until his legs slot over your own and your height balanced out. He surged closer, you could feel the tree bark biting into your back. You ignored it with ease.
The kings hand ran along the underside of your arm and the feel of it drew from you a soft breath. Your hand brushed over his braid, gently thumbing at the strands. You combed your fingers through the knotted locks behind his ear; the knowledge of what the act meant to Thorin, the intimacy of it all, made your head light.
Then, your fingers tapped almost unnoticeably against the base of his neck, right above his pulse where the dwarf's blood rushed so fast he was almost certain you could hear it. Your mouth parted in an unasked question and Thorin grunted a low ‘yes’.
Your lips traced his neck, kissing down his collarbone and ensuring to leave each of your marks below the collar of his shirt. Thorin steadied himself against you, breathing a sigh against your temple.
“Tá tú go hálainn, a grá,” the words were so raw, came from somewhere so primal within you, you hadn't noticed they'd left you in your mother tongue. “Tá m'chroí agat.”
Thorin managed a shuddering breath, a weak sound that caught in his throat. “I assume you will not be telling me the meaning of your words.” His hands shook as they moved against your back.
“Consider it reparations for each time you have spoken to me in Khuzdul with no intention of telling me what it is you'd said,” you smirked against his throat, recalling each time he'd addressed you in his native tongue. How the words always seemed natural and unmistakably genuine. He didn't feel the need to tell you the meaning behind those words now. He felt you already knew.
Thorin chuckled, boyish and light, and it set fire to your heart.
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The sun had sunk behind the mountains and turned the air cold. But with Thorin laying by your side and a bed of grass at your back you swore you had enough warmth to last you the night.
The dwarf's arm rested beneath your head, hand tracing patterns you didn't recognize against your bandaged shoulder. Even now, his lips still brushed your head.
His other hand rested against your stomach and you bid your time tracing his palm, slowly and with purpose.
Thorin shifted beside you. You could hear the careful workings of his mind as he forged his next words on his tongue. “Should we succeed in taking back Erebor, where will you go?” He asked. His words were heavy.
“I don't know,” you answered honestly. “South? Towards Rohan and then wherever the road leads.”
It took the dwarf a moment to respond. Your words hollowed out his chest and set an ill feeling in his stomach. The thought of you alone stirred up a deep sadness Thorin had not felt in an age. You, with your spark for storytelling and devotion to others and your incomprehensible ability to simply make a difference. To bring light to whatever situation you found yourself in, to join a company that was all the better to have you. To stumble into the life of a downtrodden king and singlehandedly remind him he deserved his throne.
“If we take back the Mountain, I want you to know that you are welcome to stay, should that be something you wish.”
You took a deep breath, holding it till you were certain Thorin's words had not caused your heart to cease beating. As the true weight of the offer set in, you released Thorin's hand.
“I would not think I'd be wanted. I have no right-”
“You have every right,” Thorin said, his words instant and forceful, convincingly so. “As much right as any dwarf that refused to help us in our hour of need.”
You huffed a sigh that fell somewhere between disbelief and amusement.
“Someone like me staying in the sacred halls of Durin's folk. A lowly ranger...”
“You are so much more than that.” He said the words slowly, as if they were the most honest thing he'd ever spoken. “You are a descendant of the Men of the West, a member of this company.” He paused. “You are Amralimê. My love.”
You shifted to look at him. A dwarf who by all means of faith and sense you should never have crossed paths with. But by the beauty of chance, he'd entered your life and reminded you, in all his subtle ways, that it was worth living. That you were worthy.
You dared to retake his hand in yours. “You'd have me?”
Thorin simply smiled.
“Above all else.”
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Thank you for reading! <3
authors notes:
Irish translation: tá tú go hálainn, a grá - you are beautiful my love. Tá m'chroí agat - you have my heart. Phonetic pronunciation for those interested - taw two guh haul-in, ah graw. Taw muh-kree a-gut.
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shirefantasies · 1 month
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The Hobbits With a F!Human Crush
Definitely not the last of this concept you’ll see from me 😉 Tagging @possibly-in-wonderland along with my usual list @kilibaggins @fuckyoumakeart @lokilover476 | let me know if you wanna join!
Frodo
✧ You serve as a living, breathing symbol of his curiosity, his desire for knowledge and exploration, something new that he wants so badly it all but takes the breath from him.
✧ The way you fall in love with Bag End, unbothered, no, charmed, by the quaint yet elegant hobbit hole as your eyes light up has Frodo’s heart doing somersaults. “You like it?” “Like it? Why, Frodo, you are as lucky as anyone! I wish I lived here!” He’s a bit too shy to say it, but a little voice peeking from the corners of Frodo’s mind says that that could be arranged.
✧ You’ve been places he could only dream of, and he wants to hear every story, enraptured with a hand upon his chin and blue eyes wide at your every word.
✧ Whenever you bend down to whisper in his ear, his entire mind shuts down and a smile creeps across his lips like you’ve never seen before.
✧ Flushes brightly when you pull him protectively against your chest, but enjoys the dangerous race of his heart at your hand upon him more than he would have thought possible.
✧ And when you first kiss him, giving him that gentle but still quite strong tug up into your lips at his confession and tangling your fingers in his dark hair, it's like his chest is about to explode.
Sam
✧ A bit down on yourself thinking someone like you wouldn’t like someone like him, at least not like that.
✧ Regardless, it changes not his kindness and devotion towards you. Despite your size difference, Sam is the one to step forward between you and danger, throwing an arm across from you and not registering or sharing in your amusement until the threat is neutralized.
✧ His heart practically slammed out of his chest when he told you about all the rabbits in the Shire, including one couple he’d seen where the male was with a much larger female. “That’s so cute,” you’d remarked, a hand idly brushing his arm as it lowered, “I love that.” Sam could hardly speak for the next minute or so.
✧ You asked him once if people remind him of flowers or if that's just you, and without even thinking Sam said sunflowers. Not only because of their height, he replies with a blush after you tease him, but the way they bring joy to all who see them and everybody wants them around.
✧ Trips over his words when you focus your gaze down upon him, suddenly feeling warm beneath the intent stare.
✧ And when you take his hand, looking him right in the eyes again as you tell him just how much he means to you, why he snaps completely, pulling up to his full height to connect your lips.
Merry
✧ He takes you, quite frankly, as a challenge- not one given in scorn, but as the rush of the latest charge or act of mischief, the exhilaration of risking oneself for moments of the greatest good.
✧ Bold as he is, Merry isn't afraid to let you know how beautiful he thinks you are, calling you fair and strong and every compliment in the book to cheer you up and bolster your courage.
✧ Attempts to prove himself to you thrill him, too, the way you take him on as an equal to spar and spend your time teaching him. The way you let him overtake you, standing over you with triumph and giving a smirk that runs a shiver down his spine.
✧ He goes to you first for things; in his eyes you can do anything and he trusts you to take his concerns seriously. It could be something small like a question or repair or a a heavier matter like a deep discussion, but whatever it is it will be with you.
✧ Makes up the occasional tall tale about his prowess back home, making himself out to be quite the hero or his home a far more fantastical place. Just to see what you believe. Even though you giggle at his mock-heroic deeds and teasingly debunk his tales, you make it clear in your treatment of him that you do believe he can do anything.
✧ Shock blooms across your face and thrums in your heart at the wince cutting Merry’s face when he accidentally confesses his feelings to you, but it is quickly overtaken by a smile as you cup his face in your hands to return his affection and then some.
Pippin
✧ Nothing can tear him from your side, not a word of concern from others, not a single hardship- when his mind is made up, it is made and that is that.
✧ Enjoys climbing up on things or into trees to get to your eye level, leaning closer while he has the opportunity to all but brush noses.
✧ Makes jokes about you having a longer reach or about "back when you were my size", for he is well aware and comfortable with the height difference. Insurmountable as it could be to you, there is no point in denying it and having some fun with it. After all, as much as he is always trying to assist you, he can use your added height as an excuse to ask for help, too!
✧ Unabashedly checks you out, his eyes sliding to you in nearly any moment of idleness; sometimes they are glances of awe, others pure pleasure at your form.
✧ Tells you again and again all the places he’s going to take you: the Green Dragon, a run through Farmer Maggot’s fields, Sam’s garden if he lets you, all at such insistence that the Shire is the greatest place upon the earth that you cannot help believing him and longing for it almost as much as he.
✧ Knowing that he is lost, he is happy simply to love you no matter what, but few times in your life will you see Pippin’s face as alight as the moment between you returning his feelings and the deep first kiss you share.
Bilbo
✧ Now you, my dear, are an adventure. Nothing he ever planned for, imagined, expected, and yet here you are on his proverbial doorstep. With a gulp and a shy smile he takes you in, eyes sliding upward along your form.
✧ Never has he felt this way before and certainly never with a daughter of men, so you'll find his gaze upon you often, studying you almost.
✧ Definitely tries to wow you with his studies of the different cultures of men- with varying success depending on from which region you hail. You cannot help but be charmed at all of Bilbo’s attempts to make you feel at home even in the middle of nowhere.
✧ You will feel like you���ve seen Bag End and met all of Bilbo’s ridiculous relatives with all the stories he shares both silly and beautiful. “I can see why you wish to return,” you tell him, to which he just beams up at you, a new shine in his eyes.
✧ Gets flustered at the ways in which you move to his level, leaning slinkily against a large rock or down further still upon a log to look up at him and meet his gaze with a smile.
✧ All he asks is if you have any interest in settling down, but you cannot help risking things at the sight of Bilbo’s nerves, tentatively answering that you’d love to settle in the Shire and feeling your heart soar at his grin of relief. Unusual, certainly, but then again that is perfect for Bilbo Baggins, is it not?
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