#word whittlers
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Snail’s Fic Rec List
Masterlist Here
Hi everyone! I haven't done one of these before, but I thought I should! I love these fics, and find myself revisiting them often because I adore them.
I add to them as I go
One-Shots:
Roronoa Zoro
Black Tea, With Honey by @bby-deerling.
Themes: mutual pining, a final push to engage, first kisses, soft Zoro
Did I Miss It? by @writingmysanity.
Themes: birthday, drinking, fluffy, soft Zoro
Not A Chance by @willowbelle.
Themes: NSFW, jealousy, flirting, possessive!Zoro x afab!reader.
Guilded by @eelnoise.
Themes: NSFW, drinking, smug!Zoro x afab!reader
Blackleg Sanji
Parted Lips by @turtletaubwrites.
Themes: eating disorder, soft Sanji, understanding Sanji, sweet domesticity.
Confidence by @gingernut1314.
Themes: NSFW, age gap (older reader), confident!afab!reader, small angst, alcohol use
Koby
Safehouse by @discordantwritings.
Themes: NSFW, subordinate!afab!reader x captain!Koby, unrequited love - requited love, one bed trope.
Dracule Mihawk
Fixing What Ifs by @sordidmusings.
Themes: old friends, friends to lovers, soft Mihawk, kissing, flashbacks.
A Dark and Stormy Night by @thus-spoke-lo.
Themes: suggestive, flirty Mihawk, rain, gothic castle
The Hat Stays On by @sordidmusings.
Themes: NSFW, desperate!Mihawk x afab!reader, pure smut
Let Go and Grip Me Tighter by @sordidmusings.
Themes: NSFW, Mihawk’s strength, sub!afab!reader, Dom!Mihawk
Buggy
Switching up Roles: part 1 & part 2 by @sordidmusings.
Themes: NSFW, sub!Buggy x Dom!afab!reader, relief, comfort
Donquixote Rosinante
The Things That Go Unheard by @indydonuts.
Themes: white day, Valentine's Day, mutual pining, date day
Masochism Tango by @cinnbar-bun.
Benn Beckman
Themes: NSFW, afab!reader, the love of corazon, intensity.
More Than Enough by @standfucker
Themes: NSFW, soft-dom!Corazon x afab!reader, established relationship
Two Days by @jintaka-hane.
Themes: existing relationship, longing, kissing, flashbacks, suggestive themes, pretty.
Unspoken Affections by @icy-spicy.
Themes: idiots in love, refusing to label it, mutual pining.
Together by @cinnbar-bun.
Themes: dad!Beckman x mom!reader, they're parents to the Red-Hair crew, pure fluff, pining, longing.
Distractions by @discordantwritings.
Themes: NSFW, mutual pining, flirting, kissing, afab!reader
Give (in) & Take (me) by @sordidmusings.
Series:
Themes: NSFW, flirting, drinking, pining, longing, Dom!Beckman X brat!afab!reader
Multiples x reader:
Rotation by @standfucker
Themes: NSFW afab!reader, Eustass Kid, Massacre Soldier Killer, Heat, Wire, drug use, acts of revenge, slaughter, brutality, flirtatious dialogue
Songbird by @gingernut1314.
Themes: buggy x f!reader, enemies to lovers, strawhat!reader, singer!reader, NSFW.
The Heartless Giant by @cinnbar-bun.
Themes: Sir Crocodile x gn!reader, prisoner!crocodile x royal!reader, villain!crocodile, storyteller au
The Luck Child by @gingernut1314.
Themes: Buggy x f!reader, storyteller au, fairytale au, buggy is lucky, fantasy themes.
We’ve All Got Needs by @turtletaubwrites.
Themes: Zoro x afab!reader x Sanji x Robin, NSFW, strawhat!afab!reader.
Pain Management by @thus-spoke-lo
Themes: doctor!Law x afab!reader, medical impairment, semi-malpractice, NSFW
Masterlist Recommendations
Bby-deerling
WillowBelle
DiscordantWritings
EelNoise
Gingernut1314
Thus-spoke-lo
#one piece#x reader#opla#opla fic#one piece live action#buggy#mihawk#dracule mihawk#captain buggy#roronoa zoro#benn beckman#sir crocodile#buggy the clown#fic rec masterlist#donquixote rosinante#donquixote corazon#one piece koby#op koby#blackleg sanji#zosan#a few favourites#my favs#moots mooting#beautiful artists#wonderful creators#word whittlers
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heartbeat (thorin oakenshield x female!modern! reader)
gif by me!!
desc. - reader puts her CPR lessons to good use when thorin's on the brink of death. (inspired by an imagine by @imaginexhobbit but make it sad🫶 also i listened to "farewell to dobby" while reading this, it adds so muchhh)
warnings - angst 💔
word count - 2.7k
For most of the time you’d been traveling with Thorin and his merry band of warriors, you could only account a few times you provided yourself useful to the group. Bofur was a whittler and toy maker, Oin a healer, Ori a scribe. Thorin and his sister-sons, the rightful heir to a kingdom. Even Bilbo had squeezed his way into a position of burglary, though he was hardly fit, and was still fighting to prove himself.
You?
A few stories around the campfire. Some questions answered about where you’d appeared from out of nowhere in particular. Mouth watering modern food recipes you babbled on about, over rabbit stew Bombur happily served on the cold nights on the road. And sure, you were getting good with a sword, but not nearly as skillful as the fearless fighter Dwalin.
You could see the malevolence and distaste in Thorin’s eyes when Gandalf decided for himself that you would make a fine addition to the group. After all, some otherworldly stranger happening upon them just as their fateful quest began was no coincidence. To him it meant something. But to the leader of the group? Danger? Deadweight? You couldn’t tell. Whatever it was, it settled behind his cold, steel-blue eyes and swelled whenever he watched you fail miserably at every task given.
You simply weren’t built for a world like this.
Thorin didn’t hate you. He wasn’t necessarily fond of you either. And how you longed to fit in, impress him maybe. Break past whatever tough exterior that he used to keep a distance between the two of you. Pushing too much would surely annoy him, so you opted to keep to yourself, sitting back and placing yourself near Gandalf and the witty Bilbo Baggins, who seemed to have walked a few miles in your own shoes. If he could wear them, that is. Hoping maybe one day the King under the mountain would come around. Maybe.
But now, soaring over the horizon of a morning sun and above the towering mountains, on the feathered back of a massive bird, Bilbo had proven himself in his bravery, and you were alone and useless in your skills.
You were seated atop the same eagle as the halfling, right behind another that carried Thorin’s limp body in its talons, wind and the worried cries of his nephews rushing through your hair and past your ears. Azog’s fight was not an easy one. Not that you could do much anyways, dangling uselessly from a blazing pine tree and fingers slipping from its scorching branches. But Thorin, ever the brave, was taken down quickly.
Thank the lord for Gandalf’s endless alliances.
Now, the eagles circled a plateau, oddly sticking out from above high treetops like a sore thumb, and began to descend to its slanted surface where each member of the company jumped off. Some destination this was, hundreds of feet off the ground. You’d think they might find a safer spot to land this band of underground dwelling travelers but beggars can’t be choosers. At least you were out of harm's way for the time being. The eagle you and Bilbo rode flew low enough for you to hop off and land safely on the cliff’s surface, then turn and see Thorin, unconscious and unmoving, set down gently in front of the rest of the group.
They all crowded around him, shouting and shaking his body vigorously, but to no avail. Your stomach dropped when you heard one of them mutter a word that sounded like “dead”.
You rushed over, just getting a few glimpses of his face from behind the heads of thick hair and heavy fur coats circling him like vultures, Bilbo at your heels and following in curiosity.
“He’s not breathing!”
“Thorin! Thorin, wake up!” A hand tapped on the side of his face.
You immediately began shouting to clear some room. The sea of worried dwarves parted for you, just enough room to sling your haversack off your shoulders and lean down on your knees, bringing an ear to his mouth. They were right. Not a breath to be heard. Nor a pulse, you discovered, after placing your fingers to the side of his cold neck.
“No…no no, no.”
The company shared confused mutters and looks, worry lines still etched like canyons in their faces as they watched you clamor to unclasp his thick cloak and pull away as much clothing as you could from his chest.
Now, you were no doctor. Not even a medical student for that matter. Just barely scraping by with an art degree and two, low paying part-time jobs back home. Wherever that was. But, thankfully, those required CPR lessons back in junior high suddenly came rushing back to you, and you were gonna put to the best use you could.
You locked your elbows, flattened your palms, and then hastily pressed against the brute of his firm chest. Mahal, it was stubborn, and the armored shirt between your hands and his heart was no help, but acting quickly spared no time for shedding any more of his clothes. Again and again you pressed, one, two, just how the instructor taught you with her quick tongue and loud voice.
“An even pace! You’re going to lose him!”
The recall made your head spin, especially considering it might have been a bit comedic at the time, trying to revive an armless mannequin on the tile floor of your classroom. But under the steady pressure of your palms was a real person, teetering on the edge of life and death.
Gandalf landed somewhere behind you, being the last to touch ground, but he was forgotten in the sea of deep voices asking what you could possibly be doing.
By the 16th compression, you were beginning to break a sweat. Twenty, twenty one…
“Lass… what are ya’ doing?” Bofur's voice, usually friendly and jovial, was a low and cowering one. His question left the rest of the group quiet. You heard, but you didn’t answer. That would be for later when this was over. Preferably with a happy ending.
Thirty.
You moved to pinch Thorin's nose shut, tilting his head just slightly off the ground with the other hand tangled in his hair and breathed into his open mouth.
Any and all bewildered muttering was lost on the focus you had, to watch for any movement in his relaxed face.
You breathed again, and then bent over to listen. Nothing.
Now things began to get more grave than you’d taken them before.
You moved back to begin compressions again, this time pressing harder and deeper against his heart. You lifted a forearm to wipe the sweat gathering on your brow.
In your class, you were supposed to take turns, and rotate when one got tired so they could properly compress. But this wasn’t class.
Thorin was beneath the weight of your hands and his face was losing color.
“Come on… come on Thorin.”
You lost count after the 19th shove downwards, adrenaline kicking in and tears blurring the corners of your eyes as Thorin convulsed.
A warm hand settled on your shoulder above.
“Lass… he-” you smacked it away, anger bubbling in the pit of your stomach like fire that you spat out.
“No! No he’s not, n-not yet.”
Again, you breathed into his airway, heavy and even, like you were supposed to. You were doing everything right. So why wasn’t it working? Why wasn’t he breathing?
This was the quietest you had ever heard the company. Only birds and the sound of your exhausted, heaving breaths and choking sobs floating in the cool morning air.
You moved back to compressions, starting again, one, two, three. You were begging him, hysterically pleading his unresponsive body to kick start back up.
“Please Thorin. Come on.”
Now tears rolled down the apple of your cheeks, warm and bothersome and blinding, falling over your hands and his clothes. Your arms ached at the now desperate shoving against his heart. You looked pathetic, like a widow begging for scraps of Thorin’s lifeline, something to get him through. The ground dug harshly into your knees, bruising and irritating them through the pants as they dully scraped with each movement.
Twenty two.
You were slowing down, growing weary and tired from the work. But it wasn’t good enough. At this point, with the silent stares, you knew that even the ever stubborn dwarves had lost hope for their leader some time ago. And you had too, but now you were already getting past the twenty-fifth press down. Curse the lot of them, just staring down at you with pity as you sniffed and wiped the snot and tears from your face. And curse the beauty of the morning sun peaking over the mountains, so regal and beautiful, and staring down at the morose show of a sad little human weeping to herself.
“Please… please, God you idiot. Running down there like that.”
A cry frogged its way out of the back of your throat, raspy and gurgling. You lift his head for the third time, sniffed in and then pushed your shaking breath as hard as you could manage, pulled away, then back down to press your quivering lips upon his cold ones and-
A breath. Soft and faint, just barely there, and it slightly cooled the tears on your face.
You froze, staring down at Thorin to see his eyes twitch just slightly underneath their lids. Another exhale fled him, his time much more apparent, and his brows furrowed as he stirred awake. The gasps and shouts from the company, scrambling over and circling him like they did before to help him up as he came to.
“He’s alive!”
“A miracle! Bless the Valor!”
You lifted yourself from the ground, onto your feet, but the shock of your attempts actually working, and exhaustion, just left you to stumble backwards onto your butt, crying harder than before, in relief and joy, nonetheless sobbing like your life depended on it. You gave into the fatigue of your muscles, the tiredness from the adrenaline, and exhaustion from your sobs, and fell onto your back, covering your eyes with a forearm with the other limply laying on the ground next to you. Bilbo kneeled next to you and laid his small hand over yours, watching as the king was pulled to his feet and grimacing at the noises of his jovial party celebrating with shouting and laughing.
“You did it,” The burglar said quietly, just enough for you to hear. It wasn’t just amazement in his voice, but reassurance. Something to ground you, like the warm squeeze of his hand.
You trembled, breaths coming in and out with a shiver.
Thorin’s dazed when you slowly sit up off the ground to look at him, swaying about and being jostled as each excited dwarf embraced and jumped around him, and an arm shouldered over Kìli’s to keep his balance.
“You were dead.” Dwalin’s normally stony, hard-set face, was graced with the most horrified look you’d ever seen in your life, eyes widened and brows twisted upwards in awe. That seemed to settle everyone down enough, and shake Thorin from the rest of his stupor. Once again, the world around you was blessed with silence that you hadn’t gotten a taste of since you arrived. It was short lived.
“Dead?” Thorin asked, incredulous and confused.
“Ye’ weren’t breathing lad!” Gloin chimed in, “we thought you were gone!”
The king’s eyes narrow, and shift between the members of his party, blinking away a head rush.
“How is that possible?” The second set of words he’d spoken since he screamed Azog’s name. Thorin’s voice was low and rasping. He slowly turned, following the astounded, wide-eyed stares from the surrounding dwarves, boring into you like you were some God.
You sniffled, wiping at your reddened, runny nose with the sleeve of your shirt.
He lifted a jeweled hand to graze over his heart, where you were reviving him, just staring at the sad sight of your tearful eyes.
“She saved ya’, Thorin,” Balin’s voice is serious and somber, breaking the silence, “Brough’ ya’ back from near death. Mahal knows how.”
Thorin’s eyes grew sharp, brows furrowing and piercing into you, where you pulled yourself to sit on your knees. His fingers tightened around the cloth where his hand laid, clutching at his chest.
��You,” he gruffed, “You did this?”
“I-I… I didn’t know if it was gonna work.” Your throat tightened and squeezed. Great, even more tears flowed down your face. Thorin’s eyes held the same glint that made your stomach twist with embarrassment and shame. The least he could do is offer a nod of gratitude towards you. Instead, he tore free from the group, ripping his arm away off his nephew’s shoulder and stumbling towards you like a drunken fool, with thudding footsteps.
Dwalin calls after him uselessly, just hanging back and letting the scene play out.
When he stops in front of you, eyes firey and broad chest heaving breaths in and out, standing a few inches over where you’re knelt, all you can do is try not to look away. You’re glad you hadn’t.
A boa-tight grip took hold of your heart and tightened when you saw his features soften, worry lines and crow's feet disappearing in the appearance of a small, incredulous smile. His softened eyes lined themselves with the hint of tears catching like jewels in the morning sun. Thorin dropped down to his knees to meet your height in a hug that you could never have prepared yourself for. You freeze for a moment, completely dumbfounded. Thorin, fearless, merciless, King Under the Mountain was hugging, no, embracing you, with the force of a thousand winds and strength of ten thousand men, because he was alive, thanks to you. And you hugged him back, pulling closer than you already were, and grasping at the back of his shirt and cried into his shoulder. The dwarves cheered in excitement behind Thorin. Through the yelling and praise, you can hear Thorin’s low voice next to your ear.
“I cannot repay this deed. Thank you.”
You pull away to see the kindest, warmest smile your eyes had ever been blessed to lay upon. It knocked the breath from your lungs. The corners of his eyes and the arch of his nose wrinkled upwards. It suited his face much more than the cold and stoic stares he was prone to.
“I wasn’t sure you were gonna make it.” Was all you could huff out.
“Yet I did. I misunderstood you greatly.” Thorin wiped a tear from the side of your face, “You make a member of this group. My life is indebted to you. And you,”
He peered over your shoulder at a wide-eyed Bilbo Baggins, standing just past your shoulder. You helped him stand from the ground, arm linked in his to meet the hobbit.
“You nearly got yourself killed,” he slipped free from your arm, and started toward Bilbo, just as he did you. “Did I not say you would be a burden? That you would not survive in the wild?”
Your face fell, akin to Bilbo’s solemn look. He stood there, taking the string of insults like a punching bag.
“That you had no place amongst us?”
And then he pulled the hobbit in just as he did you.
“I have never been so wrong, in all my life.”
Your heart reeled, and this time you smiled along with the rest of the company’s rejoices, watching the surprised grin spread across Bilbo’s face. Thorin pulled away.
“I am sorry I doubted you.”
“No, no. I would have doubted me, too.”
A hand planted itself on your shoulder, and you turned to look at Gandalf and his sagely smile.
“You’ve made yourself quite the home in these dwarves' hearts, young lady,” he said. It was comedic, the way his silvery hair and beard dramatically blew in the wind, “Perhaps once this has settled, you stay with them. I think you’d find yourself more than welcome in Erebor’s Halls.”
You hummed in thought. The band of travelers were gathered on the edge of the plateau, looking out in the distance towards the peak of the Lonely Mountain, calling their name through the mist.
Thorin turned back to look at you over his shoulder with a gentle smile, and nodded his head to you in a silent thanks. The ghost of a blush spread across his face.
“I just might.”
(aaaaaah! what did you guys think??? :3 it feels wonderful to get a full fic out after so long, ive had this idea in my head for dayyys ugh 💔 please send me some requests loves, i'm in desperate need of some comfort fics! don't forget to reblog and like!! love yas! 🩷🌺🌸🌷💝💞)
tag list : @kumqu4t @tolkien-fantasy @blueberryrock @to-be-frank-i-dont-care @luna-xial @legolaslovely @fizzyxcustard @pistachiozombie @imaginexhobbit @beenovel
#thorin oakenshield#xreader#thorin oakenshield x reader#peter jackson#thorins company#the hobbit#thorin x reader#the hobbit x reader#angst#happy ending#yayyy#i need thorin#tolkien#modern! reader
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just a whittler — joel miller x reader fluff
summary: joel whittles and reader watches
warnings: mostly fluff, established relationship, flirting, teasing (not the sexual kind), being a cutie w joel, mentions of depression(?), hugging joel, hurt/comfort, idk if this constitutes as angst but just in case... angst
notes: idk i just sorta need this right now and i dont know who else might, so here it is
Even from downstairs, you could hear Joel's quiet hums. Even as the fan in the corner whirred away, all you heard was his contented sighs. Even through doors and floors, that was all you wanted to hear. Your Joel Miller being what he never imagined he could.
There was a gust of thick, warm air that hit you as you pulled open the oven door and pulled out the spring rolls you'd made for him, knowing how concentrated he could become whilst in his element, to the extent that he forgets completely about himself and his human need for nourishment.
As they cooled on the rack, you poured out two glasses of orange juice. You set them down carefully, put the rolls on a small plate and carried them up toward him on a tray beside the two drinks.
With your foot, you gently pushed open the already-adjar door, immediately smiling as you saw him, hunched up and breathing slowly, working on his next piece.
“Hungry, love?” you said softly.
He nodded, still facing away, but acknowledging your presence as he absent-mindedly hummed: “Uh... just need one more minute...”
For a moment longer, you lingered in the doorway, just watching him. His large shoulders moved ever so slightly with every passing second and you just smiled. You were glad he could have this.
Eventually, you were padding through, setting the tray on the end of his worktop and looking down at him with a smile. You waited for him to complete one more stroke of his knife before putting your hand atop his, saying, “You should really eat.”
“It's only been...” Joel glanced up at the clock above his head on the wall and sighed out, “three... hours? Fuck.”
Your palm moved to his cheek, your thumb gently rubbed at his beard. “Don't worry,” you assured. “That's what I'm here for, old man; making sure you don't miss your meals.”
“Old man?” he asked with a chuckle.
“Is what I said.”
His voice was low as he nodded along with his words: “Oh, I heard what you said...”
He moved his face closer to yours, but before his lips and yours reached one another, you pulled back.
You told him, “Food first.”
He sighed quietly, nodded, “Sure thing, boss.”
Softly, you smiled, and reached to your side where the rolls all lay on the plate, and brought the first one to his mouth. Instantly, he bit down on it, ripping it in two with his teeth. He inhaled sharply and his eyes widened as he mumbled through the pastry and noodles and vegetables, “Ooh, ow, that's hot. Very hot.”
Giggling lightly, you said, “Well, it wouldn't be so hot if you'd blown on it first, genius.”
He tried to mock you, but through his chewing, the task was more of a challenge than he had anticipated. You put the rest of the roll into your own mouth, after a few blows onto it first; such was necessary when you knew of his tendency to name you a hypocrite, particularly after finding you doing things such as shoveling snow without gloves, only hours after rushing out and insisting that he'd catch a cold and shoving a hat onto his head and quickly tying a scarf around his neck.
As you were chewing, Joel's hands landed on your waist, and with a gentle pull he had you taking some small steps toward him. Face close to yours by the time he'd brought you down to his head and your eyes were on one another's, he said, “That one was mine.”
Still chewing, you gestured to the pile of rolls on the plate on his worktop.
He shook his head, “Oh, no. I wanted that one.”
Playfully, you rolled your eyes. And once the rest was finally swallowed, you hummed, “Kiss it off me, then.”
He didn't hesitate, pulling you in and erupting butterflies in your stomach when he bit down gently on your lower lip between his kisses. The pad of his thumb ran circles on your waist, tracking little patterns over the leggings you wore as he took in the lingering minty flavour of you.
Your breaths were slightly heavier when he moved back and sank into his chair. His smile was slanted and his eyes were gushing upward into yours.
“I love you,” he said through a breath.
You replied, “And I love you. Want another?”
“Kiss?”
“Roll.”
He nodded, “Yes, please.” This time you dropped it onto his palm and reminded him to at least lightly blow on it first. Although he'd clearly had no intention to do so, he mumbled, “I was gettin' to that...”
Your eyebrows raised as you nodded your head and hummed, “Sure you were.”
Joel took a slow bite out of it, all the while maintaining eye contact. Actually able to get every flavour this time rather than just the heat, he let out a short, contented breath. “Thank you, baby,” he said softly.
With a smile, you shrugged him off and stepped back slightly, in your same position as before and rubbing your thumb over your palm, wondering too many things that you probably shouldn't have.
“What's the matter?”
You shook your head. He stood up and moved slowly toward you. His arms enclosed around you and, your ear pressed against his collar bone, you sighed softly. His hugs were always something that had the ability to make you feel better. But recently, that had changed.
You still felt safe and warm and comfy with his arms around you, but it was different. The sadness didn't go away this time. The emptiness still whirled around within you. The fear remained your sole focus. What if you lost what you had now? The people. Joel.
It was a thought that riddled your mind in quiet and busy moments alike, that stuck onto the back of your brain and kept itself busy there, torturing you from the inside out.
You hated times like this, when it got worse, and he could tell, and you'd just ruined a perfect moment.
You wanted to stop. That didn't mean you could, though.
Joel said some soft words against the top of your head, reminding you he was there, he wasn't leaving, he loved you. They soothed you for a while. You hadn't even noticed the tears as they trickled down your cheek and onto his thin grey t-shirt. You pulled away, wiped your nose and looked at the sodden fabric.
“Sorry,” you said, avoiding his eyes. Joel's head shook. His two strong hands grasped your face and he brought your eyes up to meet his. Red raw and tear-filled stared at perfectly clear and dry. No avoiding now. “I don't know what that was...”
His voice was gentle in his response, “Oh, baby. Don't apologise; you're allowed to cry.” Aware that sometimes you just needed to see her, he offered, “You want to go to Ellie's?”
Through a sniffle: “I want to stay here.”
“That's okay,” he said with a smile before pulling you in again to once more be wrapped up in his arms.
It was better that time, slightly.
—
notes: im sorry if that ending was abrupt, ive never been great at them. hope youre all okay. also, happy birthday to whoever is lucky enough to share one with me<3
#joel miller#joel miller fluff fanfiction#joel miller fanfiction#no smut#no smut just sad#a little bit of sad#only s little#i swear#i promise#x reader#joel miller x reader#nogendergiven#tlou joel#i love him
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Last week I decided to revisit my WIPs and @becausethathappens wanted to know more about one of them - “Find Yourself, Lose Yourself”, which has been sitting in my drafts since August 2021.
Now, I can’t really take credit for the idea behind this fic, I’m pretty sure I saw someone saying they’d like to read a story about R&L exploring gay bars together but for two different reasons and I just decided to try writing said story; the problem is though - that was nearly 2 years ago, and I absolutely cannot find that post/comment now. So, if anyone reading this happens to remember who first came up with it, please let me know, as I’d like to give them credit. (And if someone else already wrote a story like that - also let me know, and I’m sorry! I wasn’t keeping up with new fics while on my hiatus, so I might have missed something!)
I only managed to write 3 chapters back then, and I’m just posting the first one for now.
***Find Yourself, Lose Yourself***
Rhett finds himself having to come to Link’s rescue one night, when his friend’s journey of self-discovery becomes a bit too much for him. He promises to be Link’s moral support from that point on, but will there be consequences?
***1,2k***
An unpleasant and aggressive sound pulls Rhett out of his sleep with a gasp. He has been dreaming about something he can’t remember now; the end of the dream was too sudden. For a second, his brain feels cloudy, he doesn't know what is happening. The initial confusion associated with abrupt waking up goes away quickly, however; he's in his bedroom, where else could he be. It's dark, clearly still middle of the night, and the only source of light is the ring of bluish glow around the downturned screen of his phone laying on the bedside table. Phone, which is vibrating furiously, almost like it's trying to free itself and fall to the floor. So that's the sound, his brain finally catches up.
Rhett quickly picks it up, glancing at Jessie, who is thankfully still peacefully sleeping next to him, arms hugging a pillow and mouth open. He looks at the screen - unknown number. Then the time - 2:13 am. Who could be calling him at such an hour...? He briefly considers declining the call, but an uncomfortable feeling in his gut makes him reconsider. What if it's an emergency? His wife is next to him, both sons in their rooms, but there's still his parents, and brother, and- And Link, he realises, recognising the 818 area code in front of the number. He has to pick up.
Rhett quietly gets up and leaves the bedroom, simultaneously pressing the green symbol on his screen.
"Hello-?" he gently closes the door behind him and shuffles towards the door to the backyard in the dark.
"Mr. McLaughlin?" a male voice inquires in return, slightly drowned by a distant sound of music in the background.
"Yes...? Yes, that's me. Who's calling?"
"Brad Whittler, I'm here with your- friend? Charles. He gave me your number to contact you, so you can get him, I don't think he's in a position to drive."
It takes Rhett a moment to comprehend the stranger's words. Charles...? Does he know anyone…?
OH. LINK.
His heart speeds up so abruptly and with such a force, Rhett feels like it might want to jump out of his ribcage.
“What happened-?! Is he hurt...?”
“No, no...” the tone of the voice is casual, not filled with concern, Rhett thinks. “He's not hurt, not physically, at least. He's having a pretty bad panic attack, though.” Rhett’s imagination is getting ahead of him, trying to complete what he's hearing. Was Link in an accident...? Is he at a hospital? Did something happen to someone else? “And he might be kinda drunk to be honest.” the man on the other side of the line adds after a few seconds, cutting right through Rhett's racing thoughts.
Drunk...? What the hell?
“I- Where is he? Where should I come?”
“Bullet Bar, do you know the address?”
He doesn't, he’s never heard of that place. What was Link doing there, anyway? It was obviously a bar, that much was in the name, but neither of them were ever really big on pubs, and certainly not in the recent years.
Rhett switched to speaker and wrote the address given to him by the man in his notes' app, thanking him for the information and promising to be there as soon as possible. The navigation showed him he was in for a ride to Burbank, a different side than the studio, but still around 35 minutes away.
Rhett went back up to he and his wife's bedroom and gently shook her shoulder, trying to wake her enough to let her know what's going on.
"Jessie? Baby."
"Hmm...?"Jessie opened her eyes and blinked a couple of times, trying to get used to the darkness and to being awake in the first place.
"I got a call, Link's somewhere in Burbank and needs me to get him." he spoke in a soft voice. "Don't worry, I think he's fine, I don't know much, but he's not hurt in any way" he added, seeing the sudden alarm in Jessie's eyes.
"Do you want me to go with you?" she asked, pushing herself up on her elbows.
"No, no, thank you. Go back to sleep, he's okay, it's not an emergency or anything. I'll let you know once I've got him, okay?" Rhett leaned down to leave a kiss on Jessie's forehead.
"Are you sure...?"
"Yeah, yeah, absolutely."
Jessie didn't seem entirely convinced, but she laid back down and asked him for a promise to call her and tell her if everything was alright as soon as he was with Link.
Rhett gave her another kiss and jogged out of the room, only grabbing a pair of sweats and a hoodie on his way. He quickly put them on, pocketed the phone, his wallet, and a set of keys, and rushed to the car.
The night was relatively cool, and the streets were calm despite it being a weekend. Rhett had to really control himself not to start speeding, his need to be there as soon as possible and find out what the hell happened was strong, and the fact that the roads were so empty made fast and reckless driving rather tempting. Wouldn't bring anything good if he got in an accident though, he reasoned, trying not to exceed the speed limit.
Without any external distractions from other cars around him or sounds of people going about their daily lives, Rhett's brain quickly occupied itself with more or less probable scenarios and mind-boggling questions regarding Link's whereabouts and the reasons for his panic attack.
In his rush, he hasn't even checked what that place was, it occurred to Rhett. He only put the address in the navigation and followed the directions.
He would find out soon, he realised, hearing his phone tell him to drive another 5 miles straight ahead and then turn right to reach his final destination.
The part of Burbank he was now in seemed to be significantly livelier than what he drove by on his way there. Colourful neon signs on both sides of the street illuminated the sidewalks and people standing or walking on them – numerous party-goers smoking, drinking, talking loudly and animatedly.
"Your destination is on the right." the navigation declared all of a sudden, in its dry and emotionless tone of voice.
Rhett slowed down and quickly glanced at the place he was supposedly trying to find. It was indeed a bar, or maybe a nightclub. The building looked innocuous, a bit shaggy even – with black walls with grey brick peeking out from underneath bits of chipping paint, and a simple red sign above the door. He parked his car in front of it, not caring about doing a good job of it, and as he was starting to reach for the handle to get out of the vehicle, he noticed something that has somehow slipped his attention when he first looked at the building. A big rainbow flag was stuck in a flagpole on top of the building and moving slightly in the wind. He brought his eyes back to the sign on the front of the bar and then opened his notes app to make sure he was in the right place.
He was.
He looked around and spotted another sign, standing next to the building and proudly declaring "Bullet Bar - 40 years of gay haven in Burbank!”
Was Link in a gay bar?
***
More disclaimers!
The Bullet Bar is a real gay bar in Burbank, I know nothing about it though, apart from what it looks like and that it’s been around since the 80s. I just wanted it to be a bar that’s not in WeHo or some other extremely busy place.
(And also, I promise Rhett has a legitimate reason to be surprised by Link’s whereabouts, not just “why would he be in a gay bar”)
#my writing#rhink fic#it's just a preview#i know there's not much going on here#but I promise I'll try to keep writing it
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For the ask game: 19 & 27
Questions from here.
19 - What is the most-used tag on your ao3?
...Canonical Character Death. I'm a knife-gremlin / angst demon, it can't be helped.
27 - What is your most and least favorite part of writing?
Editing, depending on where I am in the writing process.
Sometimes, editing is my favourite part: it's where I can really dig in to what I've written and check whether I've honed the words to the level of precision I desire of them.
Sometimes, editing is my one true weakness: I'm an irredeemable whittler, to the detriment of forward progress.
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firewood, all of it
title: firewood, all of it
word count: 748
summary: By the time his father died, Estinien had only learned to whittle the approximate shape of a boar. He was, in other words, the poorest whittler in Ferndale--or so he had huffed to his father, through the kind of anguish that hurts the throat.
notes: pre-canon; estinien varlineau and his father; estinien varlineau and alberic bale. vignette; backstory; rural coerthas worldbuilding. flash fiction about grief.
here @ ao3
#estinien varlineau#estinien wyrmblood#alberic bale#final fantasy xiv#final fantasy 14#ffxiv#ff14#fic tag
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Fic prompt: aprehension, sitting on the precipice of finally being able to achieve your goals, but being too afraid to reach out and grasp it + The Girl? (that counts as an emotion, i think?)
Thanks for the ask! I love/hate this feeling and it's so descriptive eee I hope I stuck to your vibe for the most part. Writing The Girl is always very interesting to me because she feels like an emotional liminal space. Anywho the fic is here and on ao3. Warning for one mention of self harm.
The Girl was cutting. She wasn't cutting class- no lesson she'd ever learned could be codified in such a way. She wasn't cutting but she still remembered it's sting. She was cutting wood. Axe in hand and Gravel Gertie's rocking chain weaning and creaking in time to her movements, she meditatively continued her work. Lug, line up, lunge, split, toss in the pile with a clunk, repeat. Normally she'd be getting gigs from someone else, anyone else in fact, than Gertie. This place brought back too much, she could never stay here long. But it was getting dangerous to be known again. Her reputation ebbed and flowed like her name. Last month she was Corkscrew, this week Replay. They weren't her best, Marked Deck was her favorite but a feisty girl kept asking her out and she had to disappear again. The real mistake was Hark.
She thought she was out of range of the folks who used to know her when a shock of white hair had shown up at her wares booth one sticky afternoon. She was apprenticing a nice bad luck bead whittler a keen luneshine with a splint on xyr wrist which had slowed their progress as of late.
"Well well well, funny seeing you here *Horizon*. Was just looking out for something to surprise Volume with didn't think it'd be your scowling face!"
"Hello to you too Vinyl. Horizon isn't home its um-" her attention was caught by a bird pecking at the canopy of the stall. Right at the corner that was already fraying. She shouted at it and waved it away, "The name's Hark now. What can I getcha? Or are you not really hear to buy?" She tinted her voice with a get moving if you're not and glanced up at him.
"Hark. Oh that does suit you, Val will love it. Well I'll get a pony bead and two black cat ones."
"We don't sell ponies here's your cat's eyes. Now get dusted." She counted out change for the two black charcoal beads with carved circular patterns resembling eyes. They were supposed to give better nighttime protection but The Girl never believed in the stuff. She was just here for pay and knife skills. She did, though, at least understand the desperation that can lead to believing in things while knowing it does nothing.
She knew about it a little too well now. They had flocked to her. Val's word had got out and Vinyl had been right, the name fit. It fit like bubble gum on the bottom of a shoe. It fit like a tightening guitar string refusing to snap. It fit like tears that well and don't fall.
And so here she was back where she started. All because she couldn't keep a steady job without looking like hope. And boy were there addicts around just combing the desert for some. She set down the ax and took some water from her cantina. She sat down on a log and rolled back and forth. She wondered where she belonged. She wondered if she was chasing fate, if the ones who were loud and loved fast and crashed harder were all revving up their energy to uplift and support her. If she was wasting away avoiding any actual change any real progress in this whole wasteland by sitting and chopping wood far from anyone uttering "Hark".
Gertie had known her since she'd shown up on the orphanage's doorstep like every other kid. Gertie knew she went by many a name and kept to "dear" and "honey" instead of any actual names. Plenty of kids here don't have names yet. The Girl feels like she's filled with too many. Gertie had fallen asleep and the rocking chair lulled to a stop. The Girl could stay here, become a pillar for someone else. No one knew anything about Gravel Gertie- she was just there with apple sauce and power pup and a hand to hold onto your first steps.
The jingle of the front gate rang out and The Girl made her way inside past a gaggle of kids to see what it was. A zonerunner with a package she smiled wearily and signed it off "Zero-Sum" because that was what it all was now to her. She sighed and set it on a shelf the sandpups couldn't get to before sitting down to help one with his shoelaces.
What she needed was a bike a map and a mask. She could get out of here, find another village. Maybe even some place closer to the coast with a bunch of neutrals. Maybe there were more cities out there somewhere. Ones that she could actually skirt the borders of without her face getting pinged in the wanted list directory. She could leave this place leave it all behind. She could actually make a difference. Not in some grand way like Val wanted or in some dues ex machina way like the droids were always wishing on stars over. They believed those things to be dead satellites that could maybe hear them, maybe awaken their God. But Jet had told her all about the stars. And the stars don't care about you. The stars can't even see you.
No she would help in the small deliberate way that Gravel Gertie does when she rests down a sandpup in a cot. Its the tenderness of watering a plant every day, the care in carving eyes for the weary in the form of charms gifted to insomniacs, the grit of blood leaving knuckles to protect and stand firm. All she would have to do is walk out the door. But it seems so far right now and her legs are so heavy. And Gertie is standing in the doorway leaning on the frame of the old wire screen door. She looks like a specter in the fading light. The Girl stands up awkwardly and the sea of babbling kids is a blur as Gertie walks towards her. She lets The Girl swiftly embrace her with a desperateness coupled by Gertie's old but steady legs.
The Girl has ideas, but they can wait until at least tomorrow. She thinks, maybe her new name will be Orpheus.
#answered asks#snake writes#danger days#ddttlotfk#styxx lmk if you have an ao3 handle i can gift it to u :))
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Inner Monologue Shitpost Breakdown A.K.A. Review of Chapter 2 of "A Court of Thorns and Roses"
Commence Chapter Two
Even though just a few minutes ago narrator gave us that whole concerning spiel about how her world has no color in it anymore, the moment something good finally happened her world is "a living painting" once again. This is textbook catastrophizing, and I will say it again: protagonist absolutely has BPD. I love this, because it makes her more relatable as a heroine. But also...seek therapy, please. There is a less compelling counter-argument to be made for the possibility that she's simply suffering hallucinations in color due to starvation and/or hypothermia, but overall I'm feeling confident about my prognosis.
In chapter one narrator foreshadowed her two sisters as these sort of...2D villains...but now she's walking into the house and catches their muffled talking from inside and she's like (paraphrasingly), "I don't actually need to hear what they're saying to know it's something stupid about like boys or ribbons" which is so cunty but I love it. Like, this sort of knee-jerk condescension where she minimizes them to silly, shallow, frivolous little idiots without even HEARING them...chef's kiss. It's this implication that our protagonist isn't such a black and white instrument of morality that makes her character more likable in my mind.
She extends this same flavor of contempt to their father in the very next paragraph, because it turns out he's also wildly incompetent, and gullible to boot. We learn that this is a combination of their family's unfortunate financial situation, a smattering of PTSD (courtesy of some kind of evil banker crony guys attacking and crippling him), and what reeks of depression-induced executive dysfunction. Dad has basically fucked off and given up, sisters are essentially useless.
Verdict: there's definitely some weaponized incompetence going on in this household, and everyone just assumes narrator is going to pick up the slack (she does). She also vaguely hints at the fact that she's only DOING it because she has to. Reader (me) is not surprised to hear this. Narrator takes promises very seriously, and is constantly burdened by this promise she made to their dying mother. Their dying mother knew to place this burden on narrator, because...well...quite frankly the rest of the household fucking sucks. Dad is fruitlessly chasing the "someday I'll be rich" dragon, courtesy of the book's real-world parallel of our capitalistic brainwashed poverty regime; he is doing little wood carvings no one fucking wants because he's a freelance whittler in a destitute village where nobody can AFFORD HIS SILLY CURIO CURIOSITIES. Sister Elain is pretty and brainless and probably just needs to marry a rich man with a big garden (she loves flowers). Obviously this one is Dad's favorite, which is just an extra sting to the narrator's piling list of injustices. Sister Nesta is...a cunt? There's a line about how she deliberately places Dad's cane out of his reach, which is funny but also, what the fuck? This could also be some manifestation of her just being really unsatisfied with his mediocre parenting, which is pretty understandable in retrospect.
This chapter is...better than the first. Thank the forgotten gods. Author struggles with the concept of nuance. This is less of an issue for the narrator, because the author overtells everything the narrator thinks and feels (to an extreme degree); but once we are introduced to characters whose perspectives we aren't given directly, it becomes a problem. For example, I know I'm not supposed to hate the narrator's sisters. The only reason I know this is because the narrator has explained to me in exact words that SHE doesn't hate them. But are they WRITTEN as irredeemable villains? Yes, absolutely. Can I forgive the fact that they don't notice the narrator is covered in blood, or offer to help with any of the meal prep, but immediately both jump to what she can buy for them with the money she gets from the wolf pelt? No. But I get the sense that I'm supposed to, in that EVENTUALLY the narrator will insist that I root for them.
If the author had chosen to make the sisters CHILDREN, I would feel a lot differently here, because, despite being the youngest child, the narrator is shouldering the brunt of the household's emotional and financial needs. She promised her dying mother she would play mother once she was gone, which...is not fair to her, obviously...and now I SEE why she took 3 years to leave the forest and has a branching inner monologue that rivals Homer's Odyssey and a very pronounced, undiagnosed borderline personality disorder. They do SEE her as the mother of the household. But considering the narrator is 19, and they are both OLDER than she is, their lack of empathy just makes them look like fucking monsters. Do I hate them? Yes, I've been urging narrator to burn her house down with her entire family inside since I started reading this chapter.
I'm thinking there is probably some significance to the faerie wards on the threshold, but I also just generally like the implication that even in this world of forgotten gods you still get a bit of good old-fashioned fundamentalist inspired fear-mongering. I also like that this is lore-accurate based on the way Celtic fairy faith was very much driven by a similar fear. Families were constantly seeking ways to defend themselves against the fae, be it with religious symbols or iron or salt or open scissors above a newborn's crib. This is why you don't keep welcome mats on the doorstep, this is why you need protection runes and throw your infant in the fireplace if you suspect it might be a faerie changeling. Some of it seems so silly, yes, but it does conjure up a sense of real fear, and how it is deeply-ingrained into the MORTAL side of this book's world, but we also see where the protagonist deliberately separates herself from the DELUSION of it. She's like, "Yeah these wards are obviously fake, everyone knows we don't have magic, we can't even hope to defend ourselves against the power of the High Fae." Protagonist is a realist; she is not indoctrinated by the false sense of security provided by these carvings on the threshold. It is very significant that narrator CHOOSES not to weaponize this secular understanding of the world around her, she CHOOSES to let her father live in this naive bubble he's created for himself. Just like she acknowledges the blind, shallow, selfish nature of her sisters but CHOOSES not to confront and unpack those issues. It's the most multi-faceted element we've gotten of this heroine thus far, because we know now that only part of this is out of kindness and empathy. The other part of her ENJOYS the advantage she has over her family members. They ARE absolutely inept, incompetent, naive, shallow, blind, shackled sheep in a pen, and narrator gets some small satisfaction from that. She is smarter than they are. She is more responsible than they are. She spares them the burden of being held to a higher standard because it keeps her on this pedestal, and the resulting sense of self-worth is literally ALL she has, that is her ONLY sense of self-worth, no matter how she may resent it. These two halves of her personality are held together by obligation and guilt. It's not that she ENJOYS playing mother to a grown man and two grown women; she feels like she has to, and at this point, it's all she knows HOW to do.
Narrator’s name is Feyre. I had a hunch because I am both clever and wise, but it’s nice to finally receive confirmation. Author makes certain to include pronunciation directly after, because author realizes most readers will not skip to the pronunciation guide at the end of the book.
In short, things I do like: The deepening of the story’s morally gray protagonist, the impending burden of responsibility versus guilt, the name “Feyre,” a deeply fearful human settlement built on the outskirts of faerie territory, whose only line of defense from their hostile neighbors is…ineffectual carvings in the windows (and probably like bits of iron or something), details like the brassy hair narrator shares with her sisters—juxtaposed by the disparity of things like eye color, and how her sisters and father all have a “clean” face—while she comes home, the contrarian, covered in blood,
Things I don’t like: lack of effectual character development for narrator’s sisters and father, the way two people in the same two-room house asked narrator the same dumb question about “where she got” the two animals she very obviously hunted and skinned herself, author’s hyperbolic over-use of adjectives, and this sentence: “My father’s deep rumble came from the fire.”
#booktok#book tumbr#bookworm#acotar#a court of thorns and roses#book review#i'm reading the faerie smut#i'm reviewing the faerie smut#fantasybooktok#fantasy books#romance books#super candid super honest review of this book everyone else has already read
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Published, on the 2 of April 2017: THE "WHITTLER"; IS NEARING COMPLETION OF HIS WORK and I WILL BE GONE NEVER TO BE SEEN OR HEARD FROM AGAIN. C
https://soule2013mayor.wordpress.com/2017/09/21/word-salad-for-22-september-2017-the-whittler-is-nearing-completion-of-his-work-and-i-will-be-gone-never-to-be-seen-or-heard-from-again-click-on-anything-the-death-of-auburn-and-lewiston-ma/
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“you look like you've got something to say.”
Whatever he had to say, it had not come out in form of words. No, a sidelong glance and a frown was all that he had to offer her for the moment after bearing witness to her parked outside of her tent for the evening over an illithid dummy that was all but throttled and sliced to pieces in front of her. The wooden head used lay scratched and shaven nearby...a waste of a good carving.
Rousing himself out of his stupor with a light shake of his head, he offers her a weary smile. "Do you just happen to have a wooden bust of a mind-flayer on hand, or shall I consider you a fellow whittler?"
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#matchstickforyourmuse#matchstick for your muse#writing#prompts#mfym#write#inspiration#writer's block#fictional#story#language#authors and poets and all sorts of word-whittlers#whimsy#defensive wordery#304
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Poly Neville and Seamus
What a poly relationship with Neville and Seamus would include:
_______
- Neville teaching Seamus all about plants and herbology, and Seamus really does try his hardest to pay attention and not destroy anything but after the third pot falls off the shelf nearby, Neville gives up.
- You guys don't really have a specified 'game night' or 'movie night'. That's sort of like every night: it's hard to find a time when you guys aren't together and doing something entertaining.
- Neville bringing out the calmer side of Seamus. You three just resting peacefully on the patio, in your wicker chairs, sipping tea as the early morning sun shines on your face... and then Seamus' hand twitches, spilling the hot tea all over him and he swears up a storm that could make a sailor blush.
- Speaking of making you blush, Seamus will tease you in public. Poking you and whispering funny things in your ear, tickling you subtly just to get a reaction.
- Also, Seamus and Neville both have all the tea, and Seamus will 100% shittalk people with you. If you don't like someone, Seamus doesn't like them either. Neville won't shittalk with you, but he will nod along and offer advice or kind/comforting words as you and Seamus vent.
- After Neville complained to you guys about his stutter, you and Seamus devised a plan where every night Neville would read allowed to you. Only as much as he is comfortable with, and with the promise you guys would help him through it if he needs too, so he can work on his stutter.
- Seamus holding your hand and playing with your fingers, while Neville slowly rubs your back and reads aloud to you guys.
- Neville feeling really confident and snarky one day mocks Seamus' accent jokingly one day, which results in a water fight that drenches the whole house.
- Tickle fights. Always started by Seamus, always ended by Neville, who is ticklish but surprisingly good at keeping it together enough to retaliate.
- Cuddling but Seamus acts like he doesn't want to: squirming and whining and playfully complaining.
- But on that same note: when Seamus is sick he loves to cuddle.
- He will attach to you and Neville like an octopus and will not let go unless he is physically removed.
- Neville handcrafting Seamus and you fidget toys, and enchanting them with spells to make them even better.
- Seamus asking Neville to show him how to whittle too and then running away with it and becoming some sort of master whittler. He constantly whittles tiny figurines in the shapes of animals.
#hp#harry potter#neville longbottom#seamus finnegan#neville longbottom x reader#seamus finnegan x reader#neville longbottom x seamus finnegan#seamus finnegan x neville longbottom#hp imagine#harry potter imagine#hp imagines#harry potter imagines#poly neville longbottom#poly seamus finnegan#sfw#fluff
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Lost Then Found - Bofur
Requested By: @prestongoodplayisbabey
Could I have a Bofur x reader where the reader gets lost (she’s part of the company) and when Bofur and the rest find her she’s eating a bear she caught with her own hands? I loved ur fic for @iwazoomingouttahere 💕
It’s probably a little different to what you were expecting but who doesn’t love a surprise amiright?! Also, I’m really glad that you liked the other fic so much that you wanted to request something for yourself so I hope that you like it
Warnings: A lil bit sad, wouldn’t say angsty though. Fluff. Mentions of death (animal). Mentions of blood. Mentions Bofur without his hat lmao. I think that’s it, don’t quote me on that.
Words: 2,713
Pairings: Bofur x Reader (female reader)
_______________
It was definitely NOT your fault when you had become separated from the company. Everyone takes a wrong turn occasionally and loses the entire group they were travelling with. Right? It’s not like you heard a strange noise a bit away and went to investigate and when you returned, you found that they pressed on without you. If anything, it’s THEIR fault you were now separated from you. The big knuckleheads are completely oblivious sometimes. Anywho, that isn’t the point. It most certainly, definitely, absolutely WASN’T your fault.
Honestly, you actually had no clue in which direction they took off in but nevertheless, you followed your gut. They’re quite the noisy bunch so it shouldn’t be too hard to find them if you were on the right track. So, when you hear no rowdy group of 13 dwarves, a hobbit and a wizard, you deducted that you either went the wrong way of they finally learnt the meaning of the word silence.
_______________
You huffed as you sat down on the damp ground as you were surrounded by forestry. The towering trees and shrubbery provided great cover for when you slept alone at night. You brought your knapsack that contained your bedroll over to your side where you rested against the mossy tree. You wrestle your bedroll from its confinement within your sack and roll it out, ready for when you rest when it gets darker.
As you finish up sorting your sleeping arrangement, you turned and looked at the slight clearing which you’ve chosen to set up camp before groaning slightly and setting out ready to find whatever you could for kindling the fire you plan to build. You set out slightly away from where you’ve set up your bedroll and knapsack and begin searching the ground for anything that isn’t to damp and will burn.
All you can think about as you collect fuel for your campfire is of the company, more specifically, a certain dwarf who had captured your heart with his whittling, singing and goofy hat that never leaves his head. You sigh, wondering if he even cared that you had disappeared, if any of them cared really. You had been separated for almost a week, surely, they noticed at least.
You shake your head. ‘Of course, they care.’ You groaned as you realised you practically came to a standstill as your mind wandered instead of doing what you intended on doing so. You look at the singular stick within your hand and huff. “It’s gonna be a long night…”
_______________
Bofur’s mood had been off lately, everyone could tell, especially his brother and cousin. They all dearly missed Y/N and were concerned about where she is now and whether she is safe, but it’s Bofur who’s losing his mind over his missing One.
Bofur knew the moment he first laid on the girl that she was his One, he almost instantly confided in his brother and cousin about the subject. He even asked Balins’ ear off over what he should do. He loved how Y/N’s smile always happened to brighten up his day, or how her laugh could lure any man for it was easily mistakable for a sirens call.
He even loved how she was the only person to truly make him flush a deep red. She matched him perfectly when it came to humour, making him flush when a sarcastic, dirty joke passed her lips.
The dwarf sighed as he sat himself down on a log beside his cousin and the young princes’. The three all shared a concerned look towards each other then turned their gaze towards the love stricken, hat wearing whittler.
“Don’t worry Bofur, we’ll find her.” Fíli spoke, placing a comforting hand atop his companions’ shoulder, offering a sympathetic smile.
“Yeah. She’s probably right on our ass knowing her.” Kíli joked, attempting to lighten the mood. Bofur could only offer a solemn shrug and a smile that couldn’t meet his eyes. The brothers turned to Bifur, hoping he would know what to say.
Bifur shook his head and shrugged his shoulders ever so slightly before looking towards his cousin and offering him the most comforting of smiles he could muster up. “We will find her soon. I promise cousin. We will find your One.”
Bofurs’ smile a tad bit more genuine at his cousins’ words. He sat up that little bit straighter before standing and facing towards Bombur who stood near the campfire. “I’m gonna see if Bombur needs help lads, thanks.” And with that, he slugged his way over, looking down towards the ground and sighing out deeply.
“Where the bloody hell are ya, lass…”
_______________
You head away from your camp and towards the deeper parts of the woods, ready to hunt for your meal. Crouching low to the ground, you spot small tracks, a rabbit most likely. You slowly and quietly followed the small tracks, hoping to come across meat for your food.
A small crackle within the bushes before you forced you to snap your head up. You smiled victoriously as you raised your bow and arrow, steadying your breathing, bringing your elbow back past your ear, forcing you to stare down the length of the piercing wood with a steel pointed head. ‘Got you, ya bastard.’
Just before you released your arrow to send the arrow piercing through the air, the small rabbit emerged from behind the bush, standing on its hind legs, revealing itself as not a small rabbit like you intended to find but a large, burly bear covered in a dark, fur coat.
You fell backwards from your crouched position on to your behind, clamping a hand over your mouth, your breathing becoming increasingly heavier, almost hyperventilating. Your eyes were wide with fear as the bear raised its snout into the air and sniffs, almost as if it were searching for you. You slowly crawled away backwards, putting some distance between you and the beast.
Your efforts had practically been futile.
The bear whipped its head towards you in a flash, staring at you for moment, a moment where you could only hold your breath and pray to whatever God could hear you. The beast released a loud, ground shaking roar, a heavy growl underlining it before it burst out into a run towards you. You scrambled to stand quickly and take lengthy steps back as you drew your sword, unsheathing it from its position at your hip, your bow and arrow long forgotten on the dirt ground.
It lunges towards you and you let a piercing scream tear its way through your throat. You drove your sword up into the chest cavity of the beast as it fell down from the force of its attack, impaling the beast on to your weapon.
It bawled out and whimpered in pain as it laid dying atop of your smaller form. You struggled to worm yourself out from underneath the beast and laid yourself beside it, sprawled out like a starfish and chest heaving heavily as your tried to catch your breath. “I’m sorry…” you whispered to the bear, a tear escaping from the corner of your eye.
You rolled on to your side and slowly came to a stand. You retrieved your dagger from your belt and stepped closer to the corpse. Embedding the blade into the bear, you began to skin and salvage any possible meat from the beast, your body quickly being covered in the luke-warm crimson liquid.
“I’m so, so sorry…”
_______________
The company had sat around the fire, eating whatever Bombur had been able to form into an appetising broth when they heard the loud roar of a beast. They all momentarily paused, all either halting their chewing or stilling the movement of the spoon coming closer to their mouths.
Their eyes travelled along each other as they sat a few moments in silence, some slowly lowering their bowls down, cautious if any over the few decibels they were making would draw whatever it was to them. But once they heard the feminine scream moments after, they jumped up and raced towards whatever they hoped to find.
Everyone was hopeful that it was their missing lass, all the while they wished it weren’t. The scream could never be a good sign. Bofur was the first to spring to action and burst through the treelines to head deeper into the woodland. All he could think is that his One could be in danger and he isn’t with her to protect her.
The others followed suit, rushing towards whatever it was. They dodged and weaved through trees and climbed over and under branched and roots. They ran and ran until they came across the carcass of a bear, a large one at that. It was partially missing some fur along with most of the meat that once encased its bones.
They searched the area, high and low. As Kíli crouched low towards the ground, he noticed the strange disturbances the ground had gone through. He assumed it was that of someone shuffling backwards in a vulnerable state. He brought the scuffle evident in the dirt to Thorins’ and the companies attention.
They backtracked the marks in the dirt and found where they had started, near a bush. They continued to search but one discovery had sent everyone into a state of panic and fear. Your bow and a singular arrow.
“She must’ve been here. You cannot deny it is hers!”
Finding your own tracks that came from your boots hadn’t been difficult to do. So, with that, they hastily followed your footprints, double and triple checking they were on the right track. A million thoughts whirled through their heads. What had happened? Were you alright? Had you been injured?
Bofur felt an array of emotions as he tailed the company, perplexed about what he had hoped to find. He so desperately hoped it was you, but what if they found you in a condition they so desperately didn’t want to come across. What he didn’t want to come across. He would never forgive himself if you had been injured or worse, never forgiving himself for not being able to protect you. His woman, his One.
He prayed to Mahal all throughout their search for you and soon, he found his prayer answered. There you were, sat beside a small campfire atop a thick coat of black fur, turning large chunks of meat over the fire, roasting it for your meal, all the while you were still covered nearly head to toe in nearly crisp dry blood.
Bofur dropped his weapon to the floor and rushed over to you, causing you to jump near enough a foot off the ground. “Mahal, Y/N, I’ve been worried sick!” He enveloped you in a bone crushing hug, dis-concerned about the blood, your shocked face and the other members who watched on. He pulled back ever so slightly and cup your face in between his hands, staring at you intensely. “Where did you run off to?!”
You swallowed down the dry lump that had formed into your throat and looked into his eyes, the other members of the company momentarily forgotten. “I uh-I heard a noise, so I went to check it out and when I came back, you guys weren’t there…” you trailed off, tears forming in your (E/C) orbs, threatening to spill at a moments notice. “I…I thought you guys didn’t care…”
The dam had broken and you now openly sobbed, tears had begun to stream down your face like salty waterfalls. Bofur had reacted quickly, bringing you into yet another hug, seeming more desperate than the last. You clung on to him like a scared child would cling on to their mother as you wept and wept into his chest. The other members all watched with saddened eyes, their hearts breaking the slightest at the thought of you thinking they hadn’t cared that you had disappeared.
“We’re right here lass, I’m right here. It’s okay, I’ve got you.” Bofur whispered sweet, soothing words in your ear as he laid a gentle kiss upon your forehead. “I ain’t ever letting you out of my sight ever again, ya hear?” You sniffled and even released the faintest of giggles as you lifted your head up to look Bofur in the eye. He smiled down at you and you could do nothing but return it with a tiny one of your own. “Aye, there’s my lass and that beautiful smile. Not as beautiful as mine though.” He spoke to you with such love and care.
You had laughed once more, always thankful for Bofur and his attempt at making others smile. “I missed you.” You whispered, leaning your forehead against his own.
He beamed towards you as the words passed your lips. “I missed you more, amrálíme.” He spoke not even a decibel louder than you before planting his lips firmly against your own. You froze, shocked by what was happening, but before you knew it, you melted into the kiss and matched his passion and love, raising your arms to wrap loosely around his neck.
The company all had smiles etched across their faces, some of them cheering and realising high pitched wolf whistles. You two broke the kiss as if remembering you were surrounded by others. You flushed a deep red whilst Bofur only seemed to beam towards you once more.
“I would like it if you would allow me to court ya and braid your hair, lass.” He spoke with such confidence that it almost made you neglect the pink tint his cheeks adorned. All you could do was nod and smile sheepishly as your blush intensified. He grinned from ear to ear and kissed you once more, one you happily returned.
Parting, he stood and extended his hand down towards you. You placed your smaller hand into his own before his encased yours and pulled you gently to stand beside him. As soon as you gained your balance, Bombur had rushed towards you and crushed you in his own embrace, him clearly missing you a lot just like his brother. You chuckled as you hugged him back, the company also finding Bomburs affection amusing. It even elicited a deep, throaty chuckle from the ever-brooding Thorin.
You all headed back towards the camp the company had set up, not without grabbing your belonging along with the meat and fur you obtained for the bear you had the misfortune of running into. Bofur had a protective arm around you the entire time, not even removing himself from your side once you had reached the camp.
Bombur and Bifur had taken it upon themselves to cook yet another meal for the company, seeing as you had salvaged much meat from the beast. You all sat and ate, they barraged you with questions about the week you had been separated from them. They even asked about the bear you had taken down and how you lugged so much its meat back towards your makeshift sleeping area.
As you talked and talked with the company on how you had no clue if you were even heading in the right direction towards them, Bofur stared at you lovingly, afraid that if he were to blink, you would become separated once again.
He thanked Mahal a million times over in his head, thankful that they had found you again, that he had found you again. He smiled, removing his hat which he then proceeded to place atop of yours. It fell past your eye, obstructing your vision, causing you to push it up whilst you giggled.
Bofur released a chuckled of his own as he brough you further into his side and rest his head on top of yours. “Amrálíme?”
You smiled as you hear his hushed use of the affectionate name. “Yes Bofur?”
“I love you.”
You turned and looked up at him through your eyelashes, that hat of his threatening to fall over your eyes once again and smiled. “I love you.” You snuggled further into his warm, loving embrace and you both sighed in happiness and contentment.
He’ll be damned if he ever got separated from his One ever again. And Mahal help whoever stands in his way.
_______________
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First fic uploaded in 2021, lets gooooo!
It’s a little different to what the requester probably envisioned but the overall plot is still there so all I can hope is that they like it
BRO I HATED THAT I HAD TO WRITE ABOUT KILLING A BEAR, THAT SHIT SAD BRUH lmao
I hope you all enjoy
As always, constructive criticism and requests are welcomed and greatly appreciated :D
#bofur#bofur x#bofur x reader#bofur the dwarf#x reader#x female reader#x fem reader#x fem!reader#the hobbit#the hobbit fic#the hobbit fanfic#the hobbit fanfiction#the hobbit x#the hobbit x reader#fluff#thorin's company#thorin's company x reader
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Beautiful.
"Love is beautiful," Atvir had said to her upon Mount Hyjal. Where Heaven's Crown met the land with thick and tangled roots, and the pair of them had sat upon the edge of the glowing waters below, watching lambent moonlight play upon its surface. And while that was a moment Amelia had been aching for since the night they'd rejoined after their unfortunate scrap with the hydra, she was afraid.
One night, not so long ago, she'd run her fingers over darkened circles upon his skin, where the remnants of frostbite still lingered. And despite the pain she was in, and the fact that she had all the right to be concerned with herself, Amelia had been more worried about him. As he'd laid down to face her that night, he'd found himself too tall for her bed, and curled his legs up with an overly-dramatic sigh. He turned to her, and erupted into a wide grin that quickly morphed to laughter so silly and riotous that Amelia couldn't help but join him. They'd settled slowly, and Amelia's shoulders had still been shaking with tiny aftershocks that occasionally bubbled forth when their eyes met. They hadn't said anything. They didn't need to. That moment had told Amelia all she needed to know. That this wasn't a truth she was escaping. And no matter how big or tough or unmovable she once thought herself to be, Amelia loved him.
She'd almost blurted it out a hundred times before she actually said it. It had felt natural, and right, and the words had sat on the back of her tongue, barely held back until the moment it wasn't possible to stop them anymore.
She'd had a plan. The old and beaten language primer upon her desk had been scoured and picked through a hundred times while she'd rehearsed the words to say. Kene'thil Surfas. She'd been hopeful that what was too clunky and frightening to say in Common would come easier in a smoother tongue. It did not.
That same primer sat closed upon on her desk now, yellowed and water-damaged pages bookmarked instead to phrases unknown. Its worn purple cover had clearly seen better days, as the leather binding had begun to crack and peel. Tucked aside for now, it sat behind a few small cups of oil paint. Each cup of paint, purples, blues, yellows, and blacks, had their own paintbrush nestled within, for Amelia hadn't wanted to take the risk of using brushes wet from switching colors upon the wood.
The item she was painting sat upon the desk's edge. It was a box, made of light colored wood and that switched closed with a small golden clasp. It would have possibly made a fine jewelry box. And perhaps it would, at some point. Its recipient had enough in the way of amulets and other jewelry to justify making use of one, after all. She looked to have mostly completed the task of painting it, save the details, which she was going over with a needle-thin brush and an intensely focused scowl. Indeed she looked quite sour as she hunched over the thing, though it was far from sour work. The brush in her left hand moved smoothly, with a medic’s steady movements. Each small stroke left another dark branch in its wake, slowly completing the silhouette of the treeline over the starry sky that she’d dutifully painted upon the wood’s surface. She had little in the way of artistic skill, and was neither a drawer nor a painter, but this was good enough. It was pretty, although not refined.
The box was mostly to be used as a vessel for the actual gift, which sat wrapped in linen on the side of the desk opposite the paint, and as she set the box aside to dry, content with what she had done, she unwrapped the item from its bindings. A whittler’s blade, with a dark and curved handle that would, according to the merchant, allow for a better grip upon the tool. Amelia held it up to the light, watching the glint of the metal. Making sure it was sharp, for there was no knife more dangerous than a dull one.
She gently opened the box, careful not to disturb the drying paint upon its top, and set the blade down upon her desk before gingerly taking up the fabric wrapping. It was with a diligent hand that stuffed it into the box, arranging the fabric as evenly as she could. So it looked nice. Amelia stood back, eyeballing it critically, and then decided it was good enough, taking the knife up once more so she could set it inside its new home.
She nestled the blade inside and, giving it one last nervous glance, closed the box. Once again, she was careful to not disturb the paint, but she still managed to come away with a smudge of black upon her hand. Her eyes widened and flitted to the box, trying to find where she’d managed to smudge the little detailed branches and trees in the art. Only to find no streaks or smudges at all. It was as it had been moments before, undisturbed and untouched. The black smudge had come from somewhere unknown. Or at least, somewhere where the damage wasn’t noticeable.
Amelia stepped away from the craft, and resolved to let it dry. She picked up the cups of paint, gripping them in clawed hands, and shuffled to her kitchen to rinse them out. The brushes were set aside in the bottom of her basin, and each cup washed out individually and set aside to dry. The colors splattered as they were rinsed away, creating a patchwork of color upon both the sink’s bottom and the skin of her hands. She’d discover later that the black and the purple both stained, much to her chagrin. But for now, she lived wholly ignorant of that truth.
For now, she simply cleaned up the aftermath of her labor of love. For that was what it had become. And perhaps that was silly, and hearing the words from another would have twisted Amelia’s face into a polite but terse smile and summoned forth an uncomfortable uncertain awkwardness within her, for matters of the heart were not matters she was well-versed in. And they were not normally matters she had an interest in. But she could think of no other way to describe it. And maybe Atvir was right when he’d called it beautiful, and maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t as scary as she’d once believed.
(tagging @atvir for obvious reasons)
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Hey!! I saw and really liked the presentation you made recently on wtnv!! I just gave it a relisten this last month, and I noticed you mentioned that Carlos’ autism isn’t always handled well? I’ve never noticed that before- I was wondering if you could explain further? Thank you!!! 💚💚💚
hi! I wasn't personally the one who wrote that part of the presentation, but when I asked for some examples I was provided with the following (vaguely spoilers but not really!):
"I told Carlos he had to stop, but he insisted he had made a major breakthrough in his doorless fridge invention. "Cecil, this is so exciting," he said, bouncing up and down, like a child who wants a toy or needs to pee." - 158, The Heist
"Carlos, like a child on Santa’s lap, cooed and asked the old man for a super conducting super collider," - 169, The Whittler
No ill intent behind any of this, of course, but it's in quite poor taste to compare a grown autistic man to a child. If I or someone else remembers anything else, I'll probably reblog this with more. Like I said, no harm was meant but it still was not a great choice of words.
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Reunion - A Voice Returned
It was as the passing of letters agreed, to meet in Oribos.
The Voice would be greeted on arrival by, of all things, a Felflame Imp, one that had never quite been seen before, at least not in this skin. Not bothering for a second to retract his fiery aura, the demon was 2 feet tall of smarmy mannerism, with a grin to match.
"Ayyyy! Now there's the Princess! Here ta lead you to your 'courier', if that suits," Whittler explained, complete with a wink. There was something goblin-esque about the imp's personality and speech. Akin to a dodgy salesmen trying to hike up the price of forbidden grimoires in Murder Row.
Securing that Aranya would follow, he shoved each fist into a pocket of apparently flame retardant trousers, and made his way across the immortal halls of Oribos. His melodic whistle as he trudged along interrupted the calm silence of the halls, interfered with some ethereal chorus of humming sourced elsewhere.
Tucked away on a bottom level, cradled by a functional but uncomfortable looking metallic lounger, Safrona awaited. The Black Harvester was hardly what one would deem her typical look of a professional, instead wearing loose silks that left her legs half uncovered. Her long braid had been left unattended and untethered, sprayed down her shoulders as it would fall down to its full length. Most defeating was the quiet, disconnected look that held her face, staring off absently into a corner of the chamber she occupied.
"Here she is, as promised!" The imp announced, and it seemed as though Safrona reanimated to a certain life as her gaze quickly flicked up to her visitor. A smile came to the empty face, a glimpse of hope in familiarity.
There were no words, only the outstretching of a hand, encouraging Aranya to fill it with her own.
{ @theperished-wra }
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