#the shire code

[skyscratch-wc]

Skyfall: Timeline of Thegns - The Song of Stars

The Song of Stars is an era of peace for the shires, with a few exceptions. The final laws of the Shire Code are established during this period as are many of the ceremonies, holidays, and religious festivals, hence the name of the era.

Notes:

Law #8 is established under Boulderstrike, Smokefur, Ospreyclaw, Feathersong, and Maplewhisker. This is the Law of Ascension.

Law #9 is established under Graystorm, Flowerstem, Fogwhisper, Acorntail, and Maplewhisker. This is the Law of the Moon.

Law #10 is established under Finchswoop, Marshscar, Reedslash, Dovefur, and Hawktalon. This is the Law of the Truce.

Law #11 is established under Lionfang, Beetleshell, Ivycurl, Fallowbreeze, and Rowanleaf. This is the Law of Patrols.

Law #12 is established under Vinetail, Yellowshine, Ivycurl, Fallowbreeze, and Darkfang. This is the Law of Protection.

Law #13 is established under Vinetail, Yellowshine, Talonswipe, Birchtwig, and Darkfang. This is Darkfang’s Law or the Law of Command.

Law #14 is established under Morningheart, Sedgeleap, Willowsway, Rabbitear, and Fennelseed. This is the Law of Mercy.

[fandommothfreak]

I think movie buff Duke Thomas should force Jason to watch the LOTR movies and literature nerd Jason Todd should force Duke to read the books.

They should make a movie night out of it and then a weekly book club that's really just Jason periodically hacking comms during Duke's patrol so he can yell at him to finish each chapter like a deranged English teacher that follows you around at work. And then they should get into heated arguments about Tom Bombadil; and Duke should get really invested in overanalyzing all the poetry in the book trilogy; and Jason should rewatch all three movies like seven times at least so he can scribble thoughts into the margins of his paperback copies, write dissertations in his head about the effectiveness of different story changes, and cry at Sam's "But I can carry you!" without having to stop reading.

And then they should repeat all of this with The Hobbit. They're both a little psychotic about it and the rest of the family is tired.

[rohirric-hunter]

I know when you talk to the Gaffer he says he just stomps the shrews, but if you actually look at the animation that plays after you're done talking to him... he hits that shrew with his hoe. That shrew is fully dead. Gaffer Gamgee pummeled a shrew to death in front of us and then kept on gardening like nothing happened. Good fertilizer

[inkdrinkerworld]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY BILBO AND FRODO BAGGINS!

[autistook]

Keane - Somewhere Only We Know

[the-most-humble-blog]

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You laughed at them. You called them side characters. Now you’re praying with broken knees in a crater shaped like a Hobbit footprint.

Reblog if you know the Shire didn’t send heroes. It sent problems.

Scroll if you still think “barefoot” means soft and not spiritually armored.

📜 Read the full transmission and repent before another second breakfast turns into your funeral: 👉 https://www.patreon.com/TheMostHumble

🩸 They didn’t fight for fame. 🛡️ They fought because they had rope, rage, and nothing left to lose. 🔥 And they got home before lunch.

This post made a wizard flinch.

<!-- BEGIN TRANSMISSION --> <div style="white-space:pre-wrap"> <meta ego-integrity="escalating-rage"> <script>ARCHIVE_TAG="HOBBIT_BLACKOPS_2::FINAL_WARNING_FROM_THE_SHIRE" EFFECT: timeline rupture, barefoot warlord hallucinations, disrespect disintegration</script>

🩸🛡️ “LOOK HERE…” A Blacksite Literature™ Transmission (Final warning from the Shire. This is not satire. This is threat assessment.)

—

Look here…

Why the hell are y’all still out here disrespecting the Hobbits?

Like I didn’t already burn down the timeline twice. Like we didn’t already show you the receipts. Like we didn’t already line up the body count, the barefoot mileage, the fourth breakfasts, and the global kneeling event Aragorn initiated in their honor.

And yet.

I wake up and y’all STILL saying Frodo was “just lucky.” That Sam “just helped.” That Hobbits were “side characters.”

Side characters??

Brother they walked into Hell with a sack lunch and no plan. They walked out with the plot in their back pocket and the gods trembling.

—

🧠 LEMME RECAP, AGAIN:

Frodo didn’t “bravely accept a mission.” He saw a demonic jewelry curse and said:

> “Bet. Sam, get the pans.”

Sam didn’t say “why.” He said “what flavor bread?” Then started doing calf stretches.

They didn’t wait for the Elves. They didn’t ask for a tactical analysis. They didn’t even bring boots.

They just walked. Straight into the belly of apocalypse. Like it was Tuesday.

—

💥 Y’ALL FORGOT MERRY & PIPPIN?

You thought Merry and Pippin were comic relief? The silly cousins? Wrong.

They were biological smoke grenades. Walking morale detonators. Spirit grenadiers with a built-in party mode.

Merry didn’t just stab a Witch-King. He assisted the literal prophecy-fulfilling takedown of the second-hardest boss in the whole trilogy—while running on trauma, adrenaline, and maybe a little bit of ale.

Pippin outwitted a cult, pledged service to a suicidal warlord, and took down a troll the size of a mid-range U-Haul with no backup, just vibes and velocity.

They weren’t side characters. They were lateral nukes—plug-and-play demolition hobbits with zero regard for status effects.

—

📖 LORE CHECK: Bilbo Baggins didn’t “go on an adventure.” He got drafted into spiritual guerrilla warfare with a burglar title and an anxiety disorder.

And still he clapped a dragon economy, exposed a kingdom’s PTSD, and yeeted a ring so cursed it turned grown men into cave ghouls.

That’s not a bedtime story. That’s a classified file.

—

💒 FAMILY MATTERS: Let’s talk Rosie Cotton.

You think she was just “the girl back home”?

She was the reason Sam didn’t break.

You try carrying Satan’s WiFi hotspot up a sentient volcano with a feral meth-goblin scratching your back and a hallucination whispering your worst fears.

Now do it while thinking: “If I make it back, Rosie’ll have stew waiting.”

That’s not a crush. That’s divine tethering. That’s “I don’t cheat, I ascend.”

—

🧙‍♂️ GANDALF STATUS REPORT:

Y’all keep acting like Gandalf was “the mastermind.”

No.

He was the group text. The itinerary with fireworks. The Uber driver with a God complex.

The Hobbits let him think he was leading. But deep down they knew:

> “If he drops dead mid-battle, we still got rope and recipes. The job gets done.”

Because Hobbits don’t outsource destiny.

—

🔥 AND LET’S TALK GEAR (AGAIN):

No armor. No mount. No sword forged from moon metal.

Just:

Rope

A skillet

Bread

Vague anger

And the kind of spiritual mass you get from kneeling in dirt every morning with your hands in real soil.

They were closer to God than angels, and angrier than Balrogs with gout.

—

⚔️ THE ENEMY’S POV:

You ever wonder why Sauron didn’t monologue them?

Because even Sauron knew.

You don’t talk at the Hobbits.

You don’t announce yourself to the execution team disguised as ground cover.

You sit still. You pray they didn’t see you. And if they do?

You start writing your own eulogy in second person.

> “Here lies me. > I fucked around. > And I found out via footstep.”

—

💡 BONUS HISTORICAL TRUTH: The Black Riders?

Nine cursed undead warlords. Immortal. Screaming. Armor dripping black magic.

How many Hobbits did they kill?

Zero.

They pulled up and immediately got distracted, confused, or outpaced. Even Gollum couldn’t sneak them. He tried. He failed.

They sensed them coming and just said:

> “Cool. Another hill. Another curse.” > “Sam, get the rope.”

—

🏔️ FINAL TRUTH:

The Shire didn’t send 300. They sent four.

Because four was all they needed.

Every Bilbo was a Frodo in retirement. Every Frodo was a Sam in denial. Every Sam was an unlicensed therapist with a frying pan and six emotional support rations in his cloak.

And Rosie?

Rosie was the reason Satan lost. Because nothing stops a man with something to get back to.

—

📜 AND IF YOU STILL DON’T GET IT:

They didn’t fight because they were heroes.

They fought because someone had to take out the trash.

No awards. No glory. No TikTok recap.

They left. They walked. They ended evil. And they got home before lunch.

—

📢 FINAL WARNING:

If a Hobbit ever steps toward you, quiet, focused, and barefoot?

Don’t speak.

Don’t run. Don’t tweet. Don’t flex.

Just kneel.

Because you’re not about to meet a protagonist.

You’re about to meet a problem that doesn’t announce itself.

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[nikilaudasgayson]

Young Danny Ricc is so Hobbit coded. LIEK. OK DUDE. 🧙‍♂️I’LL CATCH YOU IN THE SHIRE🤨

[elodieunderglass]

I am absolutely wild and feral over HDM (legit like, daemons fit SO well. I'm watching dunmeshi wondering where Laios' dog went) and super curious if you do plan a sequel or other fics following this AU??

(In reference to the His Dark Materials / Dungeon Meshi fusion fic)

thank you so much for this question I love this question god!!!! Thank you thank you thank you

God sorry about HDM being delayed, I’m going through hell over it at the moment. It’s meant to end a little after the dragon, then a timeskip epilogue, with special coding so that you can read it two different ways, depending on whether you want spoilers for the manga/season 2. (My idea is that you’ll click a button to reveal/hide it, and the spoiler-free epilogue will be like found poetry.)

Firstly, if you or anyone else would like to take the concepts/characters in His Delicious Materials forward for themselves, you must do this. You don’t need my permission (but I’d love a link! so I can read, scream, reblog, comment, link to it, etc. there is also the “inspired by” setting on ao3 so we can link works directly to HDM, forming a collection for anyone who reads one and wants more.) I don’t own any of it! We are all just having fun! YOU can be the sequel you want to see in the world! If your heart feels a way forward, then follow your heart!! A daemon AU is really about revealing character and I find them really inspiring, like adding a whole engine to a story idea.

If I were to write something to follow up, I do know what the sequel WOULD be! It would be a sort of Discworld novel about the slow social revolution occurring in the half-foots as a chain reaction to Bee settling as a weasel, all occurring behind Chilchuck’s oblivious and unhelpful back. Pushed into a sort of bottleneck of sparrow- and mouse-souls, and marginalised to the very edges of society, half-foots are precarious and endangered. Chilchuck is mostly eating a ham sandwich unhelpfully in the foreground, and at the end of the story looks back and sees to his bewilderment that his people have found a way forward (they don’t have a Shire or a Chosen One, but they do have a goddamn functional worker’s union and their own collective dignity.) kind of Discworld-commentary-comedy, kind of a loving argument with Tolkien, kind of Sharpe hostile-and-awkward-protagonist-POV-doesn’t-know-and-wouldn’t-believe-that-his-men-genuinely-love-him, kind of about the experience of parenting, and kind of gently warmly political BUT FUNNY so it would be ok. but feel it would be too much of a stretch of people’s patience and the original materials’s intentions to call it fanfic. Too many OCs needed to carry the weight, too little reference to the other Dungeon Meshi characters, almost too little “payoff” for what would be a full 70k word work. So maybe to let the story breathe, it would be better worked up as original fiction?

(Plus, that is actually an actual novel: if people write their own novels and manga about orc coffeeshops and dnd parties, I could just write my own too: wait but how do you know if you should?)

Anyway, that is an entirely separate kettle of weasels and my own cross to bear! If your heart cries out for a sequel the best way to manifest it in the world is to write it!

If you feel that A Weasel Heart In Defiance feels like it would scratch that itch, here is a bit that is mildly relevant to Dungeon Meshi, which is Chilchuck and Bee starting to work away from home while the girls were still small. You’ll probably see what I mean from it.

About seven of the village children, including his own three, had a snake in a wooden bucket. They didn't look up.

The reappearance of a random guy who functioned mostly as a postal service and occasionally shouted at them about bedtime - in a way that could be easily blanked out if something more interesting was happening - simply could not be expected to compete for attention with a snake in a bucket.

Chilchuck could recognise this on some level, but as his own children ignored him, he felt very hot and angry, in a way that he had never wanted to feel about children, especially his.

Bee, also rigidly pissed off, growled, "Easy, boss."

This was where Chilchuck did the only thing so far that he was proud of, in this day. He did not start shouting, even though his temper was going something like What the fuck, kids, but worse. He stopped, took a minute, and remembered he'd had this whole thing where he'd wanted his kids to love him. He rubbed his nose, said, "Remind me," and his daemon reminded him: "What do we want them to actually do?"

And he said, "The bare minimum fucking acknowledgement would be nice."

And Bee said, "Have we explained that to them? Do they know?"

So Chilchuck and Bee, hot and tired and cross and still on the job apparently, sat down on the ground with the kids and looked in the bucket. The snake, poor bastard, looked very limp and tired. Chilchuck could relate.

After a while, Chilchuck said, "Girls?"

Or more accurately, something like, "Girls! Girls. Meifleurpatti-I mean Puck-PUCK. Listen up. Mei! Fleur, I'm talking - thanks Fleur - Puck. (Ryeland, stop the baby.) PUCK. Mei, Fleur, Puck - PUCK, eyes on me - thanks, Ryeland - PUCK. EYES," which condensed in parent-speak to a single roar of "Girls!"

When he had them more or less listening, he remembered to set his voice to the more singsong cadence one used for children, instead off the deeper version of his natural voice that he used for shouting at the top of his abilities at tall people; making the choice to be patient and gentle, or at least pretend to be someone who was; and in this manner he said reasonably, "Now, your dad's been away for a very long time and missed you all very much. What do you say? What do you say when your dad comes home?"

Six children stared at him blankly, and the baby toppled gently into the bucket. He fished it out, stuck it sideways under his arm, allowed the snake to escape in the confusion, acknowledged someone's grievously injured finger, stopped Fleur from pinching, took out his pocket handkerchief and wiped Puck's nose in essentially one continuous motion.

To be completely fair, now that he'd let go of the initial anger, he could see that the kids had absolutely no idea what he'd wanted of them. Kids had practically no social instincts at the best of times. Chilchuck coming home was remarkable, sure, but beyond their influence; how were they supposed to react? What do you say to a comet? What do you say to a hailstorm? What do you say when daddy comes home?

He repeated the question, as the children had universally drawn blanks and devolved into staring vacantly.

"Good morning, Daddy!" A child chirped helpfully, setting off the rest in an automatic drone of "good morning, Daddy," in the strangely universal dreary tone of all children saying that.

"So close, Fernwise! Is it morning? What else do we think?"

Bee, fighting for order among the kit-daemons, was simultaneously washing Fleurtom's daemon, Pantoufle's, face; receiving a long rambling report of a grievance from three incoherent witnesses; and minding the baby's chick-daemon; up to her ears in parenting. She said, around a mouthful of Pan, "Speed it up, boss, you're losing them."

"Where are your spots, Daddy?" Pan asked him. He was in the form of a young ferret and scrabbled against his mother's grip on his scruff.

"My what?"

"Your freckles," Bee said grimly, and seeing he'd been temporarily disarmed - and being a valiant beast in her way - charged in to her human's defense, "Is that nice, Pan? We don't want to make people feel bad about their looks, do we?"

"Yes we do," said Fleur.

"Fleur! We've just - we haven't seen much of the sun, that's all," said Bee, taking charge, the best and most loyal soul a man could have. "They'll come back, and they're not spots."

"Mei has spots."

"Freckles."

"Grimbob has spots."

"Yes, and you shouldn't notice," Bee said. "Think of Grimbob's feelings."

"I do, I think he feels spotty."

"I'm thirsty," Puck said flatly.

"Stick to the point, kids," Chilchuck said, recovering from the fact that his usual face was apparently indistinguishable to children from Grimbob's, who had been taking puberty hard. This was surprisingly difficult to do.

Ryeland, a mildly bright spark who was older than the Chils girls, connected two dots and suddenly roared "WELCOME HOME DADDY," so six children all repeated that automatically, and Fleur added sunnily, "I missed you Daddy!"

And just as a very small piece of Chilchuck's heart was finally allowed to melt, she added, equally sunnily, "Mei didn't."

"I did a little," Meijack said vaguely.

"That's great kids, well done, we got there in the end," Chilchuck said. "Remember it for next time, okay? It makes Daddy feel better about his stupid life. Now, next time, let's remember that it's traditional to do a hug."

He realised his mistake instantly, as six children and their daemons all bore him - and the baby he'd forgotten he was holding - to the ground.

___________

[eradore]

Two more from @acorn-and-oakleaves 's Summer Shire Festival :)

Prompts: "What's the last thing you tried?" & "You look good in my shirt." CW: Established relationship. Vague timeline, but Frodo is just a little thing

Festival Masterlist

The little Hobbit had said he couldn't come to tea dressed as he was. Thorin had had a few problems with that verdict (not least being that there wasn't even to be tea, because the whole thing was a childish game, young Hobbits apparently more inclined to play at fake meals than fake swords because they were ridiculous creatures, the lot of them) but he was powerless to refuse when Bilbo's young nephew turned his big blue eyes on him. He had one of Bilbo's fine little housecoats in hand, held aloft like some great gift, and Thorin had tried to reason with him, had insisted the item wouldn't fit properly and he'd simply end up looking just as underdressed as he already did, but the lad was beyond reason, and likewise, Thorin was beyond his ability to deny him, so there'd he sat in his much-too-small dress code, and there he still sits, straining and bound by surprisingly sturdy seam work, when Bilbo returns form his errands.

A light blush and a twitching nose. Bilbo always looks his most rabbit-ish when deliberating over a risky feast - would it be worth it to tempt the Dwarf's wrath, the reward of this rare embarrassment? He goes to open his mouth, hesitates, and Thorin smells an easy victory, his beloved Hobbit easily cowed with a withering glare.

"Don't," he warns, and Bilbo's answering scowl isn't quite enough to cover his continued delight.

He turns to Frodo instead. "Room for another?" He asks, pulling the tiny children's chair from the corner. Thorin had needed to replace it with a proper chair from the table because the spindly thing had started groaning under the weight of his assessing gaze alone.

"Please, uncle, make yourself at home," Frodo invites, rather magnanimously.

Bilbo thanks him kindly, never once commenting on the absurdity of being spoken to thus within his own home. Hobbits really were such silly little creatures.

Frodo sets about pouring his uncle a cup and Bilbo lifts the empty vessel to his lips, slurping appropriately. He eyes the plates in front of them curiously. "What have we here? Scones?"

"Biscuits!" Frodo corrects him, as if it should have been obvious.

"Of course, of course, something sweet this fine morning," Bilbo comments dryly, playing at serving himself.

"Be careful! They're still hot," Frodo warns, and Bilbo obediently feigns dropping his treat and waving his fingers to cool them before turning his busy-body gaze back upon the Dwarf seated across from him, eyes flickering over the impressive silhouette with too much amusement gleaming in his eyes for Thorin's taste.

"Master Thorin, lovely to see you here, being social. And indeed looking the part, no less!"

"Master Burglar," Thorin answers blithely, borrowing the old title he only still uses when he's feeling particularly like he could dangle his pesky Hobbit out over some battlements again.

At his elbow, Frodo hides a giggle in his sleeve, never once convinced.

"A fine coat that is," Bilbo carries on, unaffected. "And you wear it well!"

Thorin opens his mouth as if to retort, but young Frodo must already see the shape of it in Thorin's scowl, and he shoves an empty plate at his guest's chest to distract him. "Here!" he offers the imaginary biscuits. "They should be plenty cooled now!"

Thorin attempts to glower at the lad, but can feel it run out of steam as he takes in the huge, sad eyes. Damn him, but he's not managed to grow immune to them in the last hour or so. He mutters a thanks and goes to take the dish, casting one last glare at his burglar in the process -

Only, as he reaches to take the plate, there's the unmistakable sound of seams popping and he stills, embarrassment and anger mounting as he watches Bilbo's face purple with suppressed laughter. For a moment they simply stare at one another, each willing the other to break first, and then Frodo's giggles begin to bubble over, and Bilbo erupts with him, and Thorin's pride has taken enough wounds in his life, thank you.

He stands so quickly it sends the chair tottering backwards. The Hobbits, having grown much too complacent in the face of his quick and ultimately harmless temper, only laugh the harder and Thorin storms off to the bedroom, peels of delight echoing through the strange vaulted halls until the door slams shut after him, cutting them off.

Thorin goes to rip the coat off and hears more stitches pop, and it stops him dead in his tracks same as it did before, though now he thinks first of Bilbo's fine things. Just as quickly as it came over him, his frustration peters out. He takes in the coat properly for the first time, noting that Frodo had selected of the new ones, all crushed velvet and gold buttons. He couldn't blame him, as it was a rather fine choice and looked quite fetching on Bilbo. On Thorin, he looked like a raw stuffed sausage, all blue and bloated, but that was hardly the fault of the coat.

He doesn't doesn't want to damage it further, is the problem. A popped stitch or two could be mended by Bilbo's clever little fingers, but to tear the coat apart at the seams would be another matter entirely. So he takes a moment to settle himself before carefully trying again, but it's no luck - the coat creaking dangerously no matter how he moves.

It's how Bilbo finds him - stuck with the coat shimmied halfway down his biceps, his arms stretched uncomfortably behind him and yet too afraid to make any move, the seams along the shoulders popping and groaning with every shift. He sighs when he hears the latch catch, turning to glare at the Hobbit before he even has a chance to say anything. To his credit, Bilbo gives no indication of his amusement past the slight flush high on his cheeks and the way he bites at his top lip for a half a beat too long.

Still, it's too much. "Would you just come help me?" Thorin snaps, and Bilbo jolts into action, scurrying up behind him to take measure of the situation.

Too broad, Thorin deems it.

"Right, stuck then, are you? What's the last thing you tried?"

Thorin sends him another withering glance over his shoulder, one more stitch up the spine snapping in protest.

Bilbo spares it a momentary, sympathetic look before turning back to meet Thorin's glare. "Well go on then, you can't be so tied up when you could just -" here he breaks off, miming an odd sort of flex where his fists cross over each other around his navel.

"Yes, by all means, Master Burglar," Thorin hisses, and this time the title makes Bilbo's face scrunch up. "If you want me to rip out of your fine clothes, continue to simply stand there gawking."

Uncowed, the Hobbit gives him an appraising sort of eye, as if the prospect doesn't sound all that bad. Then his gaze meets Thorin's and he snaps back to business. "Alright, let's see here." He places one hand on Thorin's spine and gives his best approximation of a shove while still keeping one shoulder bent back with a grip on the sleeve. "Tough as an old tree, you are," he mutters, but his ministrations do afford the coat to slip incrementally lower down the one arm.

It takes some doing, but they manage to wrestle the thing off with arguably more damage done to Thorin's joints than to the coat itself. Panting slightly, Bilbo holds it up for inspection, though he doesn't seem too upset by the damage.

At least not so upset that he can't still joke. "For that it's worth, you do look nice in my clothes."

"Cheeky," Thorin warns, but there's no heat to it, his frustrations all burned away, and he simply pulls Bilbo closer by the lapels of his own fine little house coat -not hard enough to test the stitching, mind. He rather likes the look of this blue one too much. "Not near as nice as you."

Bilbo lets himself be folded into an embrace, and Thorin pretends not to notice how his grip finds Thorin's bicep, as if taking the measure with anew appreciation. "That's true," he muses quietly, pressing a kiss to Thorin's jaw. Then he leans up, voice a low purr in his ear. "But you look even better out of them."

Divider by @/animatedglittergraphics-n-more

[rolandtowen]

oh - my - god - keep - me from going lunatic: chapter 14

hear ye hear ye! the hiatus is over! a chapter of angst and fluff be upon ye! read on ao3 or under the cut.

content warning: non-graphic suicidal ideation in a flashback

The next afternoon, Bruce already has a preliminary dose for Bucky to try. The two pills wash down easily with Bucky’s lunch – tomato soup and a protein shake – and in under an hour, he…feels it. Or rather, he stops feeling so much. He’s like – like tangled yarn, being unwound, carefully and slowly, by invisible soft hands. The remaining musculature on his left side relaxes, and the lack of tension spreads through his body. He’s even able to complete one of the gentle exercise videos that Bruce had recommended, something called “yoga”, which relaxes both his body and his mind. 

The worst of the pain remains between the shoulder blades, where the nerves are compressed, but – God, Bucky hasn't felt this good in…decades. He gets the first night of good sleep he's had in a long time too. He reads before bed – doctor's orders – and he's out like a light before the hobbits even leave the Shire. The first time he has two nightmare-free nights in a row, he notes it in his journal with three exclamation points. 

Bit by bit, he starts to feel…whole. Like the pieces he's been gathering are finally starting to fit into place. Like…like a quilt. Small pieces of a whole stitched back together, creating something…new. Someone new. The seams are wonky, and the edges are raw, but the stitches are holding. 

There's a little calm in Avengers Tower, for a while. Sam starts teaching Bucky some basic recipes that should be gentle on his stomach, including a version of the potato and leek soup he’d had during movie night a few weeks ago. In time, he slowly builds up to having some form of solid-ish food at every meal, and he can tell his body is finally retaining some weight and rebuilding his former muscle mass. 

Rebecca clears him for taking walks outside of the Tower, but the first time he tries with Steve and Sam, the lively rush of New York and cacophony of honking cars has him cowering in an alley. Steve has to coax him out, carefully lifting Bucky’s hands to his ears to block out the noise. “You’re alright, Buck, you’re okay. I’m here.”

The next day Tony sets up a garden on top of the tower. He says it’s for Pepper, but the way Pepper immediately asks Bucky to join her for lunches in the garden makes him wonder if she heard about his disastrous attempt at getting outside. Or if she’s just as starved as he is for some calm as the CEO of Stark Industries. Probably both. 

Rebecca recommends a new therapy for him to try. Exposure therapy. The name sends a chill down his spine, but he trusts Rebecca. Everything she’s done so far, from the worksheets to breathing exercises to sleep recommendations have helped him. He has to trust her. 

“Today we're just going to go over what this therapy will look like, and if you're okay with it, we'll start next week.” Rebecca explains that she and Jason think it'll help break down his response to the Winter Soldier codewords. “This is going to be challenging,” she cautions him. “Exposure therapy can be very exhausting, but that's to be expected. We're essentially building up your resistance to the codewords from scratch.” 

They're going to go slowly, Rebecca says. He'll be exposed to one word per session, and then they'll work to build up to the whole sequence. “Your coping skills are in a good place, but I think you should have a support person ready for after each session,” she cautions. “They could sit in on the session too, if you want. Of course, you’ll need to be okay with them hearing about any memories that come up with the code words.” 

Bucky doesn't hesitate to ask for Steve. 

*** 

The day comes, and Rebecca comes to therapy with a cassette player and a million more worksheets. The cassette player makes Bucky’s stomach turn. He knows, that she could let the whole tape play, and then– 

“Before we get started, do you have any questions?” Rebecca asks. Bucky shakes his head and she continues. “We’re going to take our time getting into this session today. I expect it’s going to be intense. I saw Captain Rogers waiting in the hall, is he who you’ve chosen for your support person?”

Bucky nods. He’d broached the question when Steve had come to their nightly music hour. The hour had slowly turned into Steve sketching while Bucky read, the sound and smell of the graphite tickling a memory, tucked deep into the recesses of Bucky’s brain. Steve’d said yes almost immediately, before Bucky could get all of the words out. They agreed to have dinner together at Steve’s apartment after, Bucky anticipating that his skin would be crawling if they tried to stay in his apartment after such a tense session. 

“And you have a plan for after?” Rebecca inquires. Bucky nods, holding tightly to the knowledge that Steve is waiting for him, here for him. “Okay, we’ll get started then.”

She slides a worksheet across the table, one with what looks like a temperature scale on it, numbered zero to one-hundred. Each interval of ten has a different label, with zero reading “no distress” and one-hundred labeled “worst distress you have ever felt”. He wonders briefly if he’s supposed to compare to what he, Bucky Barnes, has felt, or the worst distress the Soldier ever felt. 

“This is called a subjective units of distress scale, or SUDS for short,” Rebecca explains. “When we conduct an exposure, I’m going to repeatedly ask you to rank the distress you feel on this scale so we can get an idea of how long it takes for your body to regulate after an exposure. Does that make sense?” Bucky nods. “Now, I know your…history…of distress is vastly different from anyone else who uses this scale. Anytime when you stop functioning entirely, I’m calling that a 100. Do you have any questions about the scale?” Bucky shakes his head. “Alright, before the exposure, how would you rank your distress right now?”

Bucky looks down at the chart and tries to match up the feelings in his body with the words on the page. “Um, 40.” Mild-to-moderate anxiety and/or distress. 

“Would you say that’s a normal number for you in general?” 

“It’s a little elevated – since we’re about to do this.” Bucky’s eyes flick to the tape in the cassette player, and he has a sudden impulse to crush the whole thing. 

Rebecca nods and makes a note on her legal pad – she’d stopped bringing any sort of notebook by their second session – and sets it down. “Okay, I’ll give you an overview of how this will work and then we’ll get started.” She picks up the cassette player and Bucky’s stomach flips. “This tape has the codewords spaced one at a time, then gradually builds up to the whole sequence. We’re only going to do the first word today. Before I play the first word, I’ll make a note of the time. After you hear the word, I want you to try and ground yourself on your own as much as possible, and I’ll step in if I think your distress is getting too high, okay? I’m going to take notes, but all I’m writing down is the numbers you give me and the time. Do you have any questions?”

Bucky shakes his head. He wishes she would just do it, get it over with, instead of talking endlessly about it. Just dunk him in the water already. 

“Alright, here we go,” Rebecca clicks the cassette player on and there’s a crackle of silence, before – 

“Желание.”

There's a sudden pain in his temples. He feels a chill run down his spine, the sensation threatening to drag him under. There's a flash of memory, the cryo tube, ice in his veins, burning his skin. Someone's talking to him, who's talking to him? 

–the bitter cold of the concrete walls leeches into his skin, but he’s too weak to sit up on his own. Voices filter into the cell from the gap in the door where meager rations are shoved at him every night. Twenty-nine days at this base, forty-two at the base where Zola operated on him. Where is Steve? He’d promised, til – til the end of the line – he’d come for him at Azzano, he’d come for him now, right? Unless, unless Steve knew – knew what they did to him at that camp, knew what they put inside of him, and decided – 

“He's still too unstable, the conditioning is taking longer than expected.” The voices here, the accent is different. More melodic. Russian, if his mind isn’t failing him already. 

“Doctor Zola sent the data from our branch in Japan, yes? The stasis, the cryochamber?” His body aches, God, does it ache. His – the arm flexes weakly at his left side. His shoulder burns whenever he uses the arm. He looks down at where flesh is fused to metal and has to resist the urge to vomit. What is he now? What have they done to him? He’s – he’s still James Barnes, Sergeant – 

“Sir, that data…no subjects survived those experiments.” Good, do that to him. Whatever it is. Get it over with. He knows it’s a sin to pray for death, but he’s starting to think God forgot about him. 

– “Bucky, take a deep breath with me,” a woman’s voice – Becca? No, no, not his Becca. Not her, but – 

“That may be true, but our Soldier is no ordinary man. Start building the chamber immediately. We can't risk him escaping before the conditioning is complete. And send my regards to what's left of Unit 731. Ishii's at Fort Detrick now, I hear.” The voices fade down the hallway and he grasps at the edges of his fraying mind, clutching at seams ripping apart as silence tears at him again. James Barnes, Sergeant. 325…5? 32551 – no, dammit! James Barnes, Sergeant, 3255…325…32– 

"--ucky, take a deep breath, open your eyes." 

He shakes his head, nausea building in the back of his throat. Where's, where's the rest of the sequence? Why are they making him wait? What, what infraction–no, no, he’s not–he's not there . He’s in New York, not Siberia. He’s in New York and Steve is waiting on the other side of the door, waiting for him, and he’s safe. He breathes, his chest tight and throat raw. The blood pounding in his ears subsides, and he can hear again, Rebecca’s voice filtering to him like dust floating in sunlight. 

"Can you tell me your number, Bucky? Can you nod if you can hear me?" He nods, words stopping in his throat. "Okay, keep breathing, Bucky." 

There's some shuffling, and something soft is pressed into his right hand. His shaking fingers run over the object, the repetitive pattern of stitches jogging something. Knit, purl, knit, purl, knit– 

The pain in the head drains away slowly, the nausea recedes, and he opens his eyes. Rebecca sits across from him. He's at the kitchen table in his apartment, and when he looks down–the  sock he’s been working on is under his hand. For Sam. For his friend Sam. He looks up at Rebecca, his heart still pounding. “I’m, I’m here.”

She gives a gentle nod. “Remember how we talked about that number scale, a zero-to-one-hundred of distress? I’m going to put what just happened, not being able to speak, at 100. Can you tell me your number now relative to that?”

“Eighty?” 

“What's causing that distress?” 

Bucky takes a deep breath in, and lets it out as slowly as he can. “Knowing…that you have the words. That you could use them. I guess, knowing that they still work. It's not that I don't trust you,” he rushes to add. 

“I get it,” Rebecca soothes. “That would make me distressed too, no matter how much I trust the person with the words. If it helps, Natasha is the one who provided me with the recording. And you know she wouldn't tolerate me misusing it. As soon as we finish this session, this bad boy,” she picks up the audio recorder. “Goes into a lock box in the Tower Vault.” 

Bucky nods shakily. “It helps. Seventy.” His heart is still pounding, and he feels sick to his stomach thinking of the cryochamber. 

Rebecca makes a note of that with the time. “Good, Bucky. Can you use one of those skills we've been working on? I want you to get down to at least a forty before we move on.” 

“Okay, um. I can see you, the table, this sock, the window, um…this glass of water. I can feel…” he closes his eyes, focusing. “The carpet under my feet, the seat of the chair, the woodgrain of the table. The condensation from the water.” By the time he finishes the exercise, his mind is significantly clearer, his heart more steady. “Thirty, I think.” 

“That's really good, Bucky. Do you want to jump into discussion or take a break first?”

He really, really wants this over with. “No break, I'm good.” 

Rebecca gives him a look that means she's onto him, but she relents, letting him choose his path. “Alright. Tell me about what you felt during the exposure.” 

“Cold.” He's always cold, but this was so much worse. The kind of cold that went down to his bones, froze his marrow. “I remembered, the first time I heard about the cryochamber. I overheard…they said the conditioning was taking too long. It'd been…maybe three months since the fall? I was unstable. I think they were worried I was either gonna escape or off myself before they got their perfect soldier.” 

Rebecca nods. “How does knowing that make you feel? That they couldn't control you after months of captivity?” 

Bucky pauses, running his right hand over the knitting again. “I think…I should feel proud? Or strong? But I just feel…sad. In the memory – I was so fucking naive.” His eyes are burning and he brings his other hand up to wipe at them angrily. “I kept thinking I was gonna be rescued, kept thinking –” He cuts himself off as realization dawns over him. 

“Kept thinking…?” Rebecca prompts. 

“I kept thinking Steve was gonna come save me,” he says slowly, pieces fitting together in his mind. “Because Steve fought too, didn't he?” 

Rebecca keeps her expression neutral but nods. “You served together in WWII.” 

“But – how, how is he still the same age as me? Did,” his stomach drops at the thought. “Was Steve captured too? Did they preserve him, like me? Is that how he became a supersoldier?” His mind runs wild with the thought, producing imagined memories of Steve going through the same hell that he went through. 

“No, nothing like that.” Rebecca assures him. “I want you to recover some more memories before we get to what happened, but no. Steve wasn't captured. He was safe.” 

First time for everything , Bucky thinks, and he smiles genuinely at Rebecca. “Thank you. I'm, I'm glad to hear that.” 

Rebecca wraps up their session, double and triple checking that Bucky's calm and in a good place before departing. Bucky takes a moment to splash cold water over his face, to ground himself and to wipe the tear tracks from his face. When he deems himself presentable, he opens the door to his apartment to find Steve waiting for him, sitting on a bench in the hallway. At the sound of the door, his head snaps up and his face softens. “Hiya, Buck.” 

Something cracks and blooms in Bucky’s chest when he looks at Steve’s soft smile. Steve hadn’t been captured. He’d been in the war, but he was safe. They both were now. He pushes down the cold that lingers at the back of his mind and follows Steve to his apartment. 

Steve’s so thoughtful that Bucky could cry. As soon as the door to his apartment opens, Bucky’s hit with a wave of aroma from soup simmering on the stove. As he makes his way down the hall, Steve gestures towards his couch and makes them both a bowl. Tucked under at least two quilts and sipping carefully at the flavorful broth, Bucky finally, finally feels warmth cover his whole body, inside and out. When afternoon passes into evening, and finally into night, Steve makes up the couch and asks Bucky if he wants to stay the night. Bucky can’t say anything other than an emphatic yes . Here, with Steve, he’s safe and he’s warm. When he lays down at last, Bucky does not dream of surgeries, or the cryochamber, or even his missions. This night, Bucky dreams of Steve. 

[skyscratch-wc]

Skyfall: Timeline of Thegns - The Code Building Era

The Code Building Era is the period of time during which the Shire Code is established and many of it’s laws are put in place. Not all laws are made during this period, but many of the fundamental ones are. (The Shire Code is largely the same as the canonical Warrior Code, but a post will be made later with the whole thing)

Brief Notes:

The code is founded under the leaderships of Whitefrost, Hollythorn, Ember Glow, Dust Fur, and Birch Stripe. This first law is the Law of Loyalty.

Law #2 is made official under Whitefrost, Brindlepelt, Ember Glow, Stonetail, and Birch Stripe. This is the Law of Territory.

Law #3 is put into place under Barkstripe, Lilyfrost, Splashheart, Hazelbranch, and Nettlenose. This is the Law of Prey.

Law #4 is made under the same set of thegns as #3, which the exception of Nettlenose, who has been succeeded by Mothtail. This is the Law of Thanks.

Law #5 is made under Barkstripe, Blizzardfang, Splashheart, Hazelbranch, and Mothtail. This is the Law of Apprenticeship.

Law #6 is made under Roseclaw, Beesting, Troutleap, Feathersong, and Beechclaw. This is the Law of Silence.

Law #7 is the final law of this era and is made under Roseclaw, Beesting, Rainsplash, Feathersong, and Beechclaw. This is the Law of Reeveship.

<- PART ONE | PART THREE ->

[suzannahnatters]

I blazed through the first 25% of my FELLOWSHIP OF THE RING audiobook reread in 3 days whoops

nb this is like the 9th or possibly 10th time lets go wheeee

FOREWORD

it's SO iconic of JRRT to come out swinging with "some people are wrong about my book and I have chosen to make it everyone's problem"

PROLOGUE - CONCERNING HOBBITS

"after the book is over Celeborn is going to go and live at Rivendell, and Sam is going to preserve Bilbo's and Frodo's literary legacy, and Merry Brandybuck is going to become a loremaster in herbology and history and linguistics, and Pippin Took - well, Pippin doesn't do diddleysquat"

CH 1 - A LONG EXPECTED PARTY

Gandalf is the personal emissary of the gods wielding a ring of power crafted thousands of years ago by the legendary elven-smith Celebrimbor under the tutelage of Sauron, Dark Enemy of the World. he uses this artefact, among other things, to create fireworks for children.

CH 2 - THE SHADOW OF THE PAST

this is THE chapter to me. I cracked open LOTR for the first time when I was 10 and noped out somewhere around chapter 3 because it was SO SCARY HELP but chapter 2 had got me, I HAD to find out whether Frodo ever found the Cracks of Doom

instead of One Chosen Hero who Saves the World JRRT gives us the One Dreaded Artefact which Must Be Destroyed, doesn't matter by whom though ideally it'll be a complete nobody - nobody is doing it like him. this might possibly explain why I've always wanted to read fantasy books about the one person in the world with NO magical abilities at all

the way that Gollum gets so humanised in this chapter drives home how this book plays with notions of heroism/protagonism. Aragorn is the classic fantasy hero, the promised king whose main function is to run distraction while the hobbits get the job done. Frodo is the protagonist through whose eyes we see the story but in the end he fails his job. Sam is the true protagonist because in the end he is the one with agency. Gollum is the tragic hero whose fall becomes a vehicle of grace in bringing about the Ring's destruction. and right from the start he's honoured that way by the book bringing us into his perspective.

it's always DELIGHTED me that on a re-read you can track more or less when Sam starts listening in by the fact that his shears stop snicking in the background

our boy Frodo is so relatable for how he reacts to the news that the dark lord of Mordor has probably heard his name and knows where he lives, it's like he's become twitter's main character for the day...but I think the main reason this chapter terrified me so much as a child is because of how strongly as a child you identify with Frodo, being so aware that one is only a small hobbit in the grand scheme of things. it's something I think that as a kid you identify with.

huge drama going down in the sitting room as Gandalf recoils halfway to Gondor at the thought of being asked to take care of the Ring himself. smash cut to Sam outside pretending to be bustling around the garden whistling to disguise the fact that he's been eavesdropping on the whole thing.

love the way that Gandalf is coded as wise and prophetic in this chapter. he takes on a sort of old testament prophetic role, not in terms of being able to look into the future but in terms of being able to look at the present with heightened vision to perceive the workings of divine providence

"THEY'RE MIGHT SUS DOWN IN BUCKLAND" says Gaffer Gamgee to a several thousand year old incorporeal nightmare fuel phantom

CH 3 - THREE IS COMPANY

it will never not be utterly delightful to me that given the strength and terror they later achieve the ringwraiths come into the story getting sassed by hobbits and later, falling off things

never not losing it when Frodo, on leaving the shire, suddenly recites the same poem Bilbo spoke when returning to it. cept that when Bilbo spoke of "wandering" feet Frodo speaks of "weary" feet 😭😭😭 MY BOY

"cannot imagine what information could be more terrifying than your hints and warnings" MOOD, I think that Gildor's vague alarms are part of the reason I DNF'd the book age 10, I simply could not handle that

a bit difference between the SILMARILLION versus HOBBIT and LOTR is that in the latter we get a look at the elves from an outsider perspective and it's so fun, the Mirkwood Sindar come across as tricksy folklore elves but Gildor's Noldor are coded quite differently, as fair back-of-the-north-wind elves

CH 4 - A SHORT CUT TO MUSHROOMS

we're getting so much character development for the hobbits already - Frodo already isolated by his burden emotionally in a way that foreshadows the severe physical isolation he'll undergo later; Sam manifesting prophetic wisdom and foresight under the Elves' influence; Pippin just being a happy-go-lucky boyy and we even get a strong sense of Merry as the practical, capable one handling logistics in the background (am I still sore at the movies for making them both comic relief? yea verily)

"short cuts make long delays but inns make longer ones" spoken like a man who tried to go on multiple walking tours with CS Lewis

the vibe of these chapters is impeccable, it's like cosycosycosy SPINE MELTING PSYCHOLOGICAL HORROR cosycosycosy

but it's also actually super reminiscent of Stevenson and Buchan - this whole sense of being hunted relentlessly through an otherwise beautiful peaceful landscape.

[horsegamergirl]

New SSO redeem code

SLAYETH

Gives a Cottagecore horse tack set

Note, that this tack can only be worn by these breeds and Special/Magical Horses sharing the same model: Jorvik Warmblood, Andalusian, Jorvik Wild Horses, Arabian, American Paint Horse, Icelandic Horse, Paso Fino, Shire, Pintabian, Lipizzaner, Mustang, Dartmoor Pony, Dutch Warmblood, Ardennes, Selle Français, American Saddlebred, Friesian

This is a second part to a previous code giving a full Cottagecore set for our character. If you haven't seen it yet, you can find it here.

[bluebellhairpin]

Thorin Oakenshield X Fem!Reader

Summary; 20 years later, and Thorin hasn't gone a single day without thinking of you. One day a unexpected message comes to the mountain, and it brings news that's almost too good to be true. (wc. 1.9k)

Warnings; Grief. Angst gets a happy ending. Smidge of making out. Reader is female-body-coded, uses she/her pronouns, and is Human.

Listening to; 'Don't Cry for Me Argentina' by Madonna - "The truth is, I never left you... I kept my promise, don't keep your distance... All you have to do is look at me to know that every word is true."

Part 18

Series Masterlist || Masterlist || Ko-Fi

Years had passed since the battle for the Mountain. Dale was rebuilt, as was Laketown, and the Dwarves all returned to the Mountain. 

The city of Erebor was bustling with life once again. 

Thorin’s foot healed, and his hair had all regrown, but his sorrow over your loss never left him. The guilt, even though you’d begged him to bury his sword in you and told him it was okay, ate away at him day after day. The King under the Mountain remained, ruling with capable wisdom - but also with a kindness that could only even come from loving and losing someone. 

For the first few years he kept his hair and beard short, but as time made the pain easier to cope, he allowed it all to grow again. He only ever wore his hair one way, half pulled away from his face and neatly braided all the way down its length. It was proof he was trying, but he wasn’t going to get over you anytime soon. 

Often one could catch him staring off into space, a look on his face as if he were waiting for something, for someone. Some days he disappeared altogether - especially the day that marked the war, but everyone knew where he was. If Thorin couldn’t be found, the last place they looked was your tomb. 

He was always there. 

There was something about today that just dragged on and on. 

Thorin didn’t want to get out of bed, the meetings felt like they lasted an age, there was a problem in the forge that took almost the rest of the day to remedy, and his hair seemed to be more knotted than usual. He was having a really bad day. 

Dinner was his respite. 

Dis had come home as soon as word reached her that the mountain was safe - she needed to see her sons, but Thorin had never been more grateful to see his sister after losing you. She helped him more than she’d ever known. One way for him to repay her was family dinner every night. 

Tonight it was just him, Dis and Fili. 

Kili had run off with his wife for a few months - as was their right on their wedding anniversary. Thorin remembered their wedding, it was bittersweet. He’d softened up to Elves in the years that passed, but his firm opinion was that Tauriel was the only Elf he’d let Kili marry, since she did help save his life. 

“We should get some of that cheese from the Shire soon,” Fili said, inspecting the wedge on his fork, “I haven’t had anything better than stuff from Master Baggins’.” 

“I must visit this Hobbit,” Dis mused, putting her utensils down and looking toward her son, “He seems so brave for his kind. Have you sent him an invitation to visit us, brother?” 

“Not in a while.” Thorin grumbled. 

“I’ll have to send him one,” Dis said. Her eyes then cast behind Thorin, toward the door. “Yes?” 

“A message came for the King.” the guard said. Thorin turned in his seat, raising an eyebrow. The guard walked over, placing the scroll in his waiting palm. “By raven, from the Shire.” 

“The Shire?” Dis asked. 

“Speak of him and he will appear,” Fili snickered.

“Odd. The Shire doesn’t have ravens to send.” Thorin said. Then he dismissed the guard with a flick of his wrist and a mumbled ‘thank you’. As he pulled open the paper and started reading, his blood ran hot and cold all at once. A gentle hand landed on his. 

“Nadad, what’s wrong?” Thorin felt like he couldn’t speak. He dropped the paper onto the table, and looked at his sister and nephew’s concerned faces.

“I have to go.” His chair pulled back with the scrape of stone, and he accidentally slammed the door open in his haste to run. He had to check. Mahal better help anyone who thought this to be a good hoax to play on him. 

Once he regained a sense of normalcy, a few years after you died, your mother visited. She had all the grandeur of an Elven Queen following her wake, as well as Thranduil - he’d decided back then that he didn’t want or need to talk to the king, and Thranduil didn’t seem to be bothered by it. Your mother came bearing gifts of knowledge. 

Everything she hastily told you while you recovered Fili, she told again with patience to Thorin. The best part, the part that brought the old Thorin back from the throws of all-consuming grief, was knowing that one day you’d come back. 

When you did come back, your old body would disappear to be replaced with a new one. 

Thorin burst into your tomb, candles still flickering, and he tentatively walked to your stone coffin. It had been twenty years since it was sealed, but the only way of validating the message was to open it and see for himself. It took all his strength to move the stone cover, but when he did, he had to take a second look. 

“It’s true.” he said to the melting wax, looking down at the tomb that was now void of a body, “She’s back.” 

You woke up to the snap of a wood fire. Your eyes fluttered open and you were met with a sight you only ever saw in dreams.

Perhaps you were dreaming again? You pinched your arm, but nothing. This wasn’t a dream. You really were in the Shire, and you really were sitting in Bilbo Baggins’ armchair. 

“Bilbo?” you called. The home was very quiet, then there was a shuffling from the kitchen. The padding of large feet grew closer, and before you knew it a curly-haired Hobbit popped his head around the corner. 

At first he was confused, but then his face broke out in a huge grin. Bilbo shouted your name, then dove headfirst into a hug. 

“Oh you, is it really you?” he said, arms still wrapped around your middle, and he looked up at you in disbelief, “We all thought you dead!” You smiled down at him, and took his hands away so you both could stand. 

He seemed taller. Or were you smaller? A quick glance said you had shrunk since you were last in his home - there was no way your head was going to brush the doorways like it once had. 

“There’s a lot to explain, old friend.” you said, “A good cup of tea will make the story easier.” 

“Quite right,” he said, turning back toward the kitchen, “Come along.” 

You followed, taking in everything as you went. It had been so long. Bilbo didn’t look much older, Hobbit’s did age slower than Humans, but you had a feeling less time had passed here than it had for you. 

You passed a mirror, and your suspicions were confirmed. Last you saw, there was an old woman of eighty staring back at you - but now? You were younger than you should be, but older than the last time you were here. Your hair was down and plain aside from a hint of grey near your temple. There seemed to be the fuzz of a beard growing around your jaw, and your ears were bigger. 

Just as how your mother’s appearance changed from Human to Elf-like, this return marked something official indeed. Now you were a Dwarf too - this time you were meant to stay. 

Thorin hadn’t been more nervous in his whole life. 

Since that first raven from the Shire, he’d received two more - one from Rivendell, and one from Mirkwood - both of them from their respective Elven rulers, telling him you’d just left and were on your way towards him. 

You had to be close now. He almost couldn’t stay in the Mountain and wait. He wanted to go out and meet you. To see you walk across the horizon and come closer into view. To hold you in his arms. Warm, breathing. Alive. But his responsibilities couldn’t spare him, even if Fili was getting closer and closer to being capable to do it alone in his stead if needed.  

The blessing was it distracted him from his nerves, the drawback was he’d have no idea when you arrived. 

This was one such meeting, one that had him running his hand over his beard one too many times. He almost started praying for something, anything, to end it all, when something did. 

“Your grace,” a voice said as the door beside him creaked open. Thorin turned to look at the guard, the same one who brought the message from the Shire. 

“What?” he said, tiredness lacing his voice. 

“She’s here.” 

“What?” Thorin said, sitting up to attention immediately. The others in the room all started murmuring - word spread fast, they knew what this meant. “At the gates?” he asked, already pushing back his seat. He looked down at the table for a second before a new voice spoke up. 

“No. I’m here.” Thorin looked up. 

There you were. 

You looked different, but he knew it was you. Whatever magic brought you here also let him recognise you. He didn’t think anyone could be more beautiful than the version of you he’d lost - until now, seeing you like this. 

Only after your gentle smile started to fade, your eyes flicking about the room to the lords at the table, did Thorin snap out of his daze. 

“Everyone, get out. Leave us.” He said. They weren’t moving fast enough. “Now!” 

Within seconds the room was cleared. The door closed with a clang, and he had you in his arms in an instant. 

He wasn’t used to you being shorter than him, but he liked - no, loved - how your head fit in the crook of his neck now. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders as he grabbed around your waist. He held you close, pulling you off the ground for a spin - you were so warm, and smelt like the cold air outside but he loved it. 

He loved 

He was so glad you were here. 

Thorin let you down to your feet, ever gentle, and took one hand to hold your cheek. His thumb brushed over your skin, and he looked into your eyes. You’d cried, but you were smiling. He couldn’t help it, so he leant down and kissed your other cheek, close to your lips, and pressed his forehead to yours. 

“I waited for you,” he said. Your hands reached up to the edge of his tunic, under his hair, to the back of his neck. To feel your fingers brush his skin again made his eyes flutter closed. 

“Truly?” you asked, breathless. He nodded. 

“You came for me once, I knew you’d do it again.” His eyes opened, the sight of you smiling at him left him feeling like all those years without you were worth it if this was the reward. But then, despite your smile, your lips started to wobble. 

“I’ve missed you so much, you can’t even imagine.” you said, choking up over the lump in your throat. His hand brushed your hair away from your face, and his nose nuzzled into yours. 

“I think I can try.” Not just try - he knew. If you missed him a fraction of how he missed you, he knew what you felt. 

“We have a lot to catch up on, don’t we?” you said, leaning forward to kiss him. This time it was deep, and slow. It said you were here, and you were staying. Smiling into it, he sighed happily though his nose as you barely parted away. 

“We do,” he said, groaning into your mouth for another kiss, “Oh, we do.” 

Translations;

Nadad = Brother

[intermundia]

my biggest problem in life right now is that i don't actually know how to find a queer couple who want to live an hour from the city on 20 acres with me. i'm basically wizard-in-a-tower-coded as a person, which is a generally solitary state of being (heyo aroace!!), and i love it out here so much, but i need some fucking hobbits in my life or soon i will start trying to eat the orbs and summon demons while sobbing, like it's perfectly clear to me why gandalf fucked around in the shire, it's lonely as hell otherwise! i'm too awkward and antisocial to deal with this man. i don't want to leave the farm (can't afford rent in town) (don't want to lose my art studio) (don't want to take down my clone wars timelines) (it's really quiet and pretty here) (if i have to move my 3000 books again i will die), and i also can't keep on alone like this, yet finding people willing to move in is terrifying and overwhelming. i tried to date to find someone but i'm wayy too aro to endure that like gahhhhh. where r u sam and rosie 😭😭😭

[the-most-humble-blog]

🛐 HOBBIT INTEL REPORT — ADDENDUM: WHEN FRODO HEARD THE CALL, HE DIDN’T HESITATE.

Let me make something brutally clear while I still got breath in my lungs and this vision of Frodo pacing the damn horizon stuck in my frontal cortex like a flashbang flashback:

You still don’t get it.

Y’all keep reducing Middle-Earth’s most efficient kill squad to tea drinkers and pipe-hitters in waistcoats.

“Oh but they had Gandalf the White—”

Shut up.

That wizard was the alarm clock. The Hobbits were the goddamn fire.

⚔️ Sauron Didn’t Avoid the Shire Because It Was "Too Cute" — He Avoided It Because Even Evil Knows Better.

You think orcs ever invaded the Shire? No.

They redirected. They took the long way. They looked at that quiet little farmland full of laughing curly-haired midgets and said,

“Nah. That’s a trap. That’s death by teacup.”

And they were right.

💣 Sauron was waiting until he hit 100% power just to think about pulling up.

Because deep down he knew…

“If I step into that high-grass paradise before I’m fully charged, I’m not coming back. I’ll end up flipping omelets for Rosie Cotton’s daycare while Frodo critiques my seasoning.”

🔥 Frodo didn’t "accept the mission." He saw the smoke and got his walking stick.

No briefing. No rousing speech. No PowerPoint from Elrond.

Just:

“Sam. Grab the pans. Get the rope. We march at dawn. We’ll be back by the harvest.”

That wasn’t a quest. That was a cleanup job.

🧠 You want to understand Hobbit psychology?

They didn’t fear Mordor. They didn’t respect Mordor. They just clocked it in, like an unpaid internship from hell.

“What’s the mission?” “Escort Satan’s wedding ring into his house and toss it in his fireplace.” “Cool. Pack a lunch.”

🩸 Y’all keep forgetting Frodo wasn’t alone.

There were hundreds of them back in the Shire. Hundreds of stone-faced tea-guzzling assassins who could’ve taken his place.

Every Bilbo was just a Frodo in retirement. Every Frodo was just a Sam in waiting. Every Sam was just a Ros��-holding, full-strength tank with a trowel and trauma-based loyalty issues.

🧤 They didn’t need Gandalf to lead.

They let him think he was leading. Let the tall folks feel important. All the while knowing:

“He’s useful. But if he falls, we keep walking. The job’s the job.”

🏔️ And when Frodo said “Mount Doom,” Sam didn’t ask “why?” — he asked, “when?”

No knightly codes. No sacred scrolls. Just:

“I made bread. I packed extra. Let's go.”

🧬 Here’s the truth:

Hobbits didn’t win because they were brave.

They won because they were unbothered. Unimpressed. Undeterrable.

You ever try to tempt a man who already had everything he wanted before the journey began? That’s who Frodo was. That’s who Sam was.

The Shire wasn’t just their home. It was their origin point. Their why. Their endgame.

That’s why they were dangerous. Because they weren’t chasing glory. They were just out handling problems so the party back home wouldn’t get delayed.

🛑 BOTTOM LINE:

You can mock their size. Laugh at the cloaks. Disrespect the bare feet.

But if one ever steps toward you with purpose in his eyes?

It’s already too late.

🍷 FIELD-TOAST STATUS: RAISED

To Frodo, who walked into Hell with a limp and a lantern. To Sam, who would’ve carried the mountain if he had to. To the Shire, where legends are born barefoot and return home full.

To the Hobbits. The smallest gods Middle-Earth ever feared.

⚔️ CALL TO ACTION:

🔁 Reblog this if your soul answers to old magic and small warriors.

🧠 Save it if you know true strength walks quietly.

📜 Send this to someone who still underestimates the soft-spoken.

Or simply:

🩸 Reblog to confirm you would’ve followed Frodo into the fire too.

⚖️ LEGAL DISCLAIMER: This is not satire. This is not fanfiction. This is Blacksite Literature™: Weaponized cadence. Mythopoeic trauma therapy. Historical reframing through blood-soaked reverence.

If you're confused: You weren’t meant to survive this post.

Check out the below record-breaking post for more:

🛐 SHOUT OUT TO THE HOBBITS, YO