#fellowshipofthefics

[fellowshipofthefics]

Happy New Year, Fellowship! 🎉

We hope everyone had a wonderful holiday! Now that we're in the new year, get ready to see some new changes to the FOTFICs blog that we're so excited to share. One thing that isn't changing, is our love for monthly events to help promote creativity!

Do you recognize this one from last year?

Welcome to January Trope Roulette! 

The goal is very simple - spin the roulette wheel (link below) twice and whatever AU/Trope(s) you get, write something (drabble, one shot, 100k+ novel, etc) featuring the two mashed together (If you get the same one twice, spin again 😉)

This is to encourage exploration into other tropes/situations that maybe we as writers never considered before, and can work as a great writing exercise to get you going for the day!

Be sure to tag #fotfics so we can see what amazing works you guys come up with!

→ January Trope Roulette Wheel

Bonus: let your followers spin the wheel and send in the fun combinations they get!

#writing game #writing prompts #fotfics #fellowshipofthefics #fotfics2024

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Y - Yearning

For @lathalea. With a special mention of @scyllas-revenge's cat :D

Words: 1,1k

Pairing: Boromir x OC

Warnings: Boromir is not doing so well...

Boromir reread his letter for the 40th time—already, the paper was worn thin by his fingers in some spots and the creases of the repeated folding and unfolding had marred the once beautifully smooth paper.

He knew that he could have asked his younger brother for help, but his pride didn’t allow him to admit his doubts and insecurities openly—especially not to that smug scholar.

Faramir, of course, was now married to the Lady Éowyn and, thus, he was perpetually gleaming with happiness and self-satisfaction.

It was not that Boromir resented his brother for having found his well-deserved bliss, but he was also not eager to lay out his own shortcomings before one who was undeniably winning at life.

The mere idea that Faramir could pity him made him cringe and he forced his eyes to return to his truly unfortunate letter.

He had not been feeling this out of his depth for many years—once upon a time, he had suffered a great deal under the fact that his brother and their father shared a good many character traits and habits, and he had ever had the sensation that he was an outsider in his own family.

In times of war, his nature and hard-won skillset were exceptionally useful assets but in this period of the strenuous aftermath of a world-changing battle, he felt at a loss again.

If only he had paid better attention to his tutors, droning on and on about grammar, syntax, and poetry. Back in those days, all Boromir had been able to think about was martial and military prowess—and the safety of his realm in the face of the growing darkness.

He had done well, he told himself comfortingly; he had played his part in the victory of the free people against their terrible foe!

Even though he was ashamed of it, he had to admit that a part of him had not expected to return from that quest and, sometimes, he wondered dejectedly if it would not have been for the better if he had died a hero’s death far from Gondor.

His country needed a strong leader—a man both wise and temperate—and Boromir suspected that his gentle, intelligent brother would have been better suited to the role of steward in times of peace than he ever could.

Especially because King Elessar’s decision not to abolish their hereditary title meant that Boromir was to find a wife.

In order to achieve this—in the absence of his father and due to his petty refusal to ask his brother for help—Boromir would have to locate, woo, and win a lady of good standing on his own.

Finding one he would have died a thousand times over to call his had not been nearly as hard as he had expected it to be, but this made the subsequent steps all the more gruelling.

How could he possibly delude himself into believing that a woman like her—beautiful, well-bred, witty, and charming—would ever consider someone as uncouth as him as a romantic partner?

It was an extraordinarily stroke of bad luck that the lady who had utterly bewitched Boromir had told him explicitly that she would never marry for wealth or station.

“Only a true love match will sway me,” she had claimed with a wicked twinkle in her eyes.

Boromir had to admit that he had reacted rather haughtily to that statement, believing that she was insinuating—oh, it had been his hurt pride and fragile heart speaking—that he could only win over a lady by dangling his title in her face.

It was hopeless—he was doomed.

Again, he cursed himself for not having developed and cultivated his courtly manners more, because—as he perused his clumsy letter obsessively—he realised that his words didn’t even sound convincing to him, even though he had written them straight from the heart.

The tingling of a tiny bell—announcing the arrival of an unexpected but certainly not unwelcome friend—tore him out of his dark thoughts.

“Buisine,” Boromir called and, as he was completely and woefully alone, he even made little kissing noises at the animal to draw it closer. “Your mistress must be very worried about you!”

Jumping on the exceedingly comfortable-looking lap of the famed hero, the feline visitor rubbed his furry head against Boromir’s equally hairy chin in a wordless expression of support.

“Maybe I should let you walk over a fresh sheet of paper,” Boromir cooed at the cat. “I am sure that your inky pawprints could not be significantly less eloquent than whatever gibberish I have come up with.”

Buisine blinked slowly up at Boromir, inviting pets and purring encouragingly.

“If only your mistress was as easily charmed by me as you are,” Boromir chuckled as his rough, calloused fingers slid through the silken, elegantly striped fur of the stately animal.

The cat had taken to him instantly and they had been fast friends ever since the day Boromir had found it pawing at a clump of insects.

“I have food,” Boromir went on musing aloud, “and hands to hold and to caress. That is enough for you, but…What does it say about me that it seems so easy to me to confess all my grievances to you when I swallow my tongue as soon as I find myself in your lady’s presence?”

After accepting the strip of dried meat Boromir offered him, the rotund tomcat started cleaning himself on his lap; it was a calming situation and, slowly, Boromir’s nerves settled.

What was the worst thing that could happen? He’d simply send his awkward letter and hope for the best—if she was dissatisfied with it, he would at least get the chance to explain himself to her in person without having to bring up the subject without prelude.

“Buisine?” a melodious, distinctly female voice resounded. “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty!”

Stretching out across Boromir’s thighs, the treacherous feline gave a loud, plaintive call.

“Traitor,” Boromir hissed and—for a second—it seemed to him that the cat was laughing at the sudden nervous flutter in his heart, betrayed by entirely unnecessary fidgeting with the straps and fastenings of his coat.

“Oh…there you are. My Lord Boromir,” the object of all his desires said, clearly taken aback, “you must not let him badger you so! Come here, you naughty bugger.”

Her eyes fell on the partially folded letter. “What have we here? Are you penning letters together?”

“Yes,” Boromir admitted dryly. “Buisine is helping me find the right words.”

“I sincerely doubt that, with all due respect,” she replied—amusement dancing in her eyes—and sat down by his side. “I could take a look though.”

Buisine gave a loud purr before curling up again, evidently considering that this was a job well done.

@fellowshipofthefics here's my second entry for the April Alphabet.

Special thanks to @lathalea (a great author, go check her out) for the request and to @scyllas-revenge for letting me borrow her cat (another great author, Scylla...not the cat).

Lots of love from me...

Tomorrow...Gondolin OT3

-> Masterlist

#og post #IDNMT writes #fanfiction #writing #tolkien writing #jrrt #LOTR #Boromir #Boromir x OC #Yearning #Y #April Alphabet #fotfics april alphabet #fellowshipofthefics

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Home

And here it is! My contribution to @fellowshipofthefics January Trope Roulette, where I got Bed sharing AU & Second chance romance. And since the majority wanted Celegorm/Oromë in this poll, the story is focused on them.

Pairing: Celegorm/Oromë

Tropes: Bed sharing AU & Second chance romance

Themes: Soft | NSFW | Reunion | Forgiveness | Alternate universe-canon divergence

Warnings: Weapons | Alcohol | Kissing | Mentions of blood and death

Others: Communication through ósanwe (bold, italicized text)

Wordcount: 2.2K words.

Summary: After he is given his pardon and allowed to live among the other elves of Valinor once more, Celegorm returns to the lord he once served and loved.

A/n: This fic is also available on AO3

Minors DNI | 18+ | You are responsible for the media you consume

When Celegorm returned after his long confinement within the Halls of Mandos, he found the tree-propped halls of his lord full to almost bursting.

“Hail and well met, my lord!” An elf by the door called out in greeting. He was young, born long after the blood of slain elves soaked the shores of Alqualondë and stained its crystal sands a deep, unnatural red. Celegorm could see it in his eyes. They were light and playful, and not worn by the indescribable sorrows witnessed during a long-lived life. “Have you lost your way?”

“I believe I am found,” returned Celegorm, and he introduced himself. The sentry merely nodded out of respect and said his own name in return. He did not know the elven lord before him or of his reputation. It was a strange thing for even Celegorm to experience because, in another life, many an elf found cause to curse his name and the names of his kin. “Is lord Oromë here?”

The sentry smiled when thunderous cheers escaped the vast feasting hall, and a loud, booming laugh was heard. Celegorm fought in vain against the distress that clenched at his heart. Once, only he and he alone could make Oromë laugh in such a manner.

“They are all here, and many more besides,” the sentry explained. “Tis the last day of the harvest feast hunt, my lord.”

The hunt. Once, Celegorm partook in them all, always outdoing the rest save for his lord. They would ride into the forests under a starlit sky and return days later, their garments soiled and stained, and their hair utterly disheveled. Then they would all retire to the halls to refresh themselves before they gathered together once again and ate and sang and drank and indulged in every pleasure offered without shame. Celegorm, for his own part, always found himself on the raised dais, seated by his lord’s right in the place of high honor. Now he would consider himself fortunate if he was allowed a place deep within the shadows, far away from the meat and the mead, and far away from those better than him.

“I would like to join them, if their lord would have me,” he said. The sentry bowed and bid him to wait.

When the high, wide door was thrown open, Celegorm was offered a chance to peer inside. The feasting hall was exactly how he remembered it. Finely forged blades and the bones of fell beasts adorned its walls and beams, and small golden lamps, along with vivid golden buds that produced a glorious light of their own, adorned the branches of trees that grew within Oromë’s home. Smoke drifted around thick trunks and trestle tables and benches, carrying with it the faint redolence of honey and herbs and roasting meat. Then the door closed, and the vision he had been feasting on disappeared from view. Celegorm would have howled in frustration had he not remembered who he was and where he was in the first place.

A cooling rain started to fall, and the scent of damp earth mingled with the scents of new leaves and flowers in full bloom. The elf breathed in every scent there was to be found and tilted his head toward the rain, sighing when it dampened his face.

It is a pity that the water cannot wash away my sins. And his sins had been many. Celegorm did not need to be told what they were; the memories of them all were enough. And it shamed him to think he cast a great future aside and damned himself all for the sake of an oath that was nigh impossible to fulfill.

Did he ever think of me? Celegorm thought to himself. Did Oromë ever think of forsaking his own vows and finding his way to my side?

I have, and more times than I could care to count.

Celegorm turned when he heard his lord’s voice in his thoughts as clear as a bell, then fell to his knees and lowered his head. “My lord,” he whispered reverently.

If Oromë was insulted or displeased by his presence, he did not give word to it. “Go and join the festivities,” he told the sentry, who stood at a pace behind him. “This elven lord and I have much to discuss.”

Nothing could be heard but the gentle patter of raindrops against tiles and wood and leaves. Oromë was studying him with those sharp, green-to-the-center eyes of his, and Celegorm was certain of it. Still, he did not say another word. He considered himself unworthy of doing so.

“So the prodigal elf returns,” Oromë declared at last, his voice just as rich and potent as Celegorm remembered. “You ask if I have ever thought of you. Tell me, prince Turcafinwë, did you think of me when you defiled the soil of this land with the blood of your kin? Did you think of me when you let your kinsman ride toward certain death? Did you think of me when you let go of every notion of honor I taught you and committed foul deeds during the remaining years of your life on Middle Earth? Ah, you did not!”

Every word cut through him like finely forged blades, and Celegorm, for the first time since before his own demise, did not resort to hasty words. He remained silent, ashamed of his own conduct, and then Oromë spoke again.

“You offer no protests,” he observed kindly. “No crudely spoken oaths. Has your soul’s cleansing changed you to such a degree?”

“Perhaps it has, my lord,” Celegorm replied, and he said nothing else.

“Perhaps,” the Vala repeated. “And why, pray tell, are you here?”

“I craved for nothing more than to return and offer myself to you, if you are still willing to have me,” answered Celegorm.  

Oromë was silent, as was Celegorm. He knew he was very much in the place of the errant supplicant, and it was in Oromë’s power to invite him or send him away. And he kept still, not even lifting his head, while the rain still fell down on them both, drenching them to their skin.

“Do you have another home to go to?” Oromë asked softly.

“I do.” A large, supple hand reached out to caress his cheek, and Celegorm shivered when he felt the warmth of it. When a thumb glided over his lips, he closed his eyes and went on to add, “But this is my true home, my lord. I wish to be by your side. It is where I belong.”

The sigh that followed was as gentle as the wind that blew around them both. “My savage,” Oromë began. “My beautiful, golden savage. Have you eaten yet?”

"No, my lord.”

The hand that kept brushing against his cheek reached for his own. “Then come,” Oromë said, and he lifted the elf to his feet. “And eat with me.”

The elves and other Ainur present stopped their eating and drinking and turned as one when the lord who hosted them returned, holding another elf’s hand in his. Those who knew little about Celegorm’s dark past looked on with eager curiosity, while those who witnessed the horrors that followed the darkening of Valinor were less than pleased with his presence in their midst. Still, they said nothing and returned to feasting as soon as Oromë took his customary place, with Celegorm seated to his right.

The others will not take kindly to my sitting in the place of high honor, Celegorm remarked wordlessly.

Let them think as they wish, Oromë responded. For it is not for them to decide who I have beside me, and who I do not.

It was said simply, not boastfully or out of anger. Oromë ruled these lofty halls and the great forests that encircled them. Custom allowed him to take in whomever he wished, whenever he wished.

Now eat, Oromë turned to face Celegorm when he dithered over his meal. You must be hungry.

He was indeed hungry, and he found the dish that had been placed before him to be a favorite of his: roasted aurochs with herbs. Even the drinking horn that was pressed into his hand held a favorite of his: light, golden mead. Celegorm ate and drank his fill, then widened his eyes when an attendant served him a dish of berries in thick cream and honey. He stole a glance at his lord, admiring the magnificent ivory antlers that sprouted amidst his dark hair, and pondered if his presence had been expected. Oromë said not a word. He simply reached out, took Celegorm’s hand into his, and gave it a gentle squeeze. The elf shivered once again when all-too-familiar fingers knitted around his own. He dared to steal a second glance. This time, the great hunter caught his gaze, and his lips curled up briefly at the corners. Celegorm flushed and looked away.

Later, when the feasting had ended and the dishes had been taken away, the others retired to chambers given to them for their own use. Celegorm sat where he was, thinking where he would be asked to sleep and rest.

“Come,” Oromë said, rising. He took Celegorm’s hand into his own and pulled him up after him. “And share my featherbed. The other chambers are all quite occupied.”

The elf followed, his cheeks burning when more than one pair of eyes followed his every move. There would be much gossip after this, he was certain, about him calling on the lord he once served. The dark tales of his past life would be passed on to those who did not know, and many would wonder what Oromë himself planned to do to him once they were alone.

His skin prickled when he considered that last notion, for Oromë directed him through a dark passageway leading straight to the chambers they once shared together. It was there, in those dimly lit rooms, that their spirits cleaved to each other even as they became one in the flesh.

And now he brings me here again, thought Celegorm. The elf that turned his back on him and destroyed everything that was good and sacred between us both.

“I am not worthy of sharing your featherbed, my lord.” He stopped just by the doors to Oromë’s rooms. There were too many memories of them here: sharing pleasures, sharing secrets, and exchanging half-whispered vows. And Celegorm tainted them all by walking down a path his lord could never truly follow. “If it would please you, I will find someplace else to rest my head.”

Oromë turned to face him, his countenance softening as he came near, and he framed the elf’s face with his hands.

“It would please me to have you share my chambers like you once did,” he countered, his lips but a hair’s breadth over Celegorm’s own. “And it would please me to have you as you once were.”

“Which was?”

“The Turcafinwë I once called my own heart. Bold. Fearless. As wild and as nigh untamable as the forests you freely rode in.”

“Forgive me, my lord, but I am no longer the Turcafinwë you once knew.”

“Aye. I can hear it in your speech, and I can see it in your altered nature. But perhaps there is a chance yet for that part of you to still return. For now, allow me to have this.”

Celegorm closed his eyes and twined his arms around broad shoulders when his lord leaned down, and they kissed. Oromë drew him even closer, clinching his arms around his waist and almost crushing him to his chest when he made a low noise at the back of his throat. Then Celegorm shivered, though this time it was from the cold in his rain-soaked garments.

“Let me,” Oromë offered, and soon he laid them both bare with his quick, skillful hands. Then he renewed his kiss after he loosened Celegorm’s braid and let his golden hair spill free.

Do you forgive me, my lord? He was welcomed into his lord’s halls and then his chambers, and finally, he was welcomed into his embrace. Still, Celegorm desired to know if this was indeed a new beginning for them both and that all was not lost.

Oromë’s reply was swift. You do not have to ask such a question, my own heart, for you already know the answer.

Celegorm laughed softly this time as hope slowly stole its way into his heart. His feeling was returned when a richer laugh followed his own. When Oromë led him to his bed and tumbled him onto the pelts, he sighed with gratitude and welcomed his lord’s warmth with open arms.

“Will you leave my side again?” The Vala asked as he joined him. There was to be no coupling this time. Oromë simply tucked his companion against his chest, burying his face in thick, damp hair and entwining his limbs around Celegorm’s own.

“No and never, my lord,” the elf vowed. Celegorm, determined to prove himself worthy of his lord’s forgiveness and the second chance he had just been given, was resolute in his desire to honor this promise. “What happened before will never happen again.”

“Good. Now rest, dearest,” Oromë replied. “We will talk more later.”

tags: @asianbutnotjapanese @cilil

#writing game #fellowshipofthefics #fotfics #fotfics2024 #celegorm #oromë #celegorm x oromë #the silm #the silmarillion #the silm fanfiction #💫 a world of whimsy writes

[lithdraug]

Fili becomes King of Erebor | post-LotR:Rotk | 11k

Long lives the king

Thorin II. Oakenshield, Reclaimer and King of Erebor dies of high age three years after the War of the Ring. Of course, his heir Fíli has been prepared for this his whole life, securing Thorin's succession. However, burdened with grief, self-doubt and insecurities about his suitability as the new king of Erebor, Fíli suddenly finds himself at the verge of breaking apart. As his mental wellbeing is progressively worsening, it's up to Fíli's family and friends to help him realise that he's good the way he is and that there's something that makes life worth living for.

THAUC-Event by: @fellowshipofthefics

Partnered with: @starsk

REVEAL: DECEMBER 10th!!!

#teaser 💚

#Fíli #Dís #Kíli #post-LotR:Return of the king #thorin oakenshield #bilbo baggins #the hobbit #thauc23 #fellowshipofthefics #my first work as part of THAUC! #I'm sooo thrilled #I sacrificed hours of sleep for this work <3 #So be ready for the big reveal on sunday!!! #i suck at summaries #ao3 #bagginshield forever #thilbo #family feels

[wanderingjedihistorian]

A day late, but here’s a little ficlet for @fellowshipofthefics Fictober day 9 Prompt: Rainstorms

Set in my What Peace Brings verse

Summer rains fell upon the Pelennor Fields. Boromir welcomed it as he stood looking down at his city and out over the fields. Indoors had been nearly stifling the last few days, so the relief was welcome. Gentle rain fell on his face, and he smiled softly. It had been far too long since rain felt pleasant. He resolved not to stay out too long though, not wanting to trail too much water into the Citadel unnecessarily. He didn’t like making extra work for the servants without need.

“Even the rain feels different now.”

Boromir turned to see Faramir walking up beside him.

“It does,” the older brother admitted.

He hadn’t allowed himself to say such a thing out loud, but he’d thought the same. It was strange, just how much things had changed since the war ended.

“The gloom doesn’t feel oppressive either,” Faramir added as he came to stand beside his brother, looking out over the city and the fields.

That too was true, but Boromir couldn’t help teasing a little.

“We’ll see if we still say the same come winter.”

Faramir’s lips quirked into a rueful smile.

“Yes, we shall,” he agreed. Quietly he added, “Even then I think we will feel the change.”

If he was being truthful, Boromir was certain his little brother was right.

“The gloom of evil we faced every day made all other gloom feel worse,” he said after a moment.

At his side, Faramir nodded but said nothing. He didn’t need to.

For several long moments they stood in silence.

Then Faramir grinned.

“I’ll have to see if the ancient texts mention anything about the king’s return impacting the weather,” he teased.

Boromir groaned, but there was a smile on his face. His little brother the scholar.

“You do that,” he replied, shaking his head fondly.

Faramir just continued to grin and Boromir felt his heart lighten even further. They’d survived so much, and the future lay before them.

They could enjoy the summer rain for a few moments more.

#my writing #lotr fanfiction #fellowshipofthefics #Fictober #boromir lives au

[mxmia]

lepenya (fifth)

Rating | Warnings; G | No Warnings Apply Relationships; Gen | Findis & Faniel Characters; Findis, Faniel

“I can teach you some games, if you want. I asked uncle Ingwë to teach me the oldest game he could recall.” Findis explained, and Faniel let out an excited squeak. “Yes yes yes!!” She said, and Findis smiled, pulling a chair next to the bed and sitting. “Well, Uncle Ingwë said it was called lepenya…” Findis said, and Faniel nodded, shifting slightly on the bed—not without a hiss of pain—so she could face Findis better. [Or, Findis and Faniel spend the afternoon playing card games.]

Read on AO3!

(or below the cut)

Notes;

For more thoughts/hcs on Faniel, check my post here: The game, lepenya, is a copy of the Spanish game of cards "Cinquillo (Little Five)"; the names of the suits are also copied from that. Here, it's a Vanyarin game that Findis learnt from Ingwë. Quenya Glossary: - Nésaya = (My) sister, sis - Lepenya = Fifth

Findis entered the room and walked towards her sister, who was lying on her bed with a very unamused look on her face. The blankets around her seemed to be perfectly tucked in, so their mother had probably left a few minutes ago. Upon seeing her, however, Faniel’s eyes lit up.

“Findis! Nésaya! I didn’t expect you to come!” Faniel said, and Findis threw her head back with a laugh.

“Ai, you think so lowly of me, Faniel? I wouldn’t miss my sister’s begetting day!” She replied, showing her the box she was holding. Faniel gasped.

“That’s for… me?” She asked, and Findis nodded, giving her the box. She knew Faniel would like her present no matter what—because she was here to give her a present, unlike other years—but she hoped she’d chosen correctly. Faniel tucked a strand of pale-blonde hair behind her ear and opened it, revealing a set of cards. They were quite worn, but Findis knew how much she appreciated historical things with use, and this was exactly the case.

“I can teach you some games, if you want. I asked uncle Ingwë to teach me the oldest game he could recall.” Findis explained, and Faniel let out an excited squeak.

“Yes yes yes!!” She said, and Findis smiled, pulling a chair next to the bed and sitting.

“Well, Uncle Ingwë said it was called lepenya…” Findis said, and Faniel nodded, shifting slightly on the bed—not without a hiss of pain—so she could face Findis better.

“Fifth?”

“Yes. You must put all the cards in order, starting with the Fifth of Coins. The cards are the same as the ones in the Vanyarin deck, the ones we have are just older. From Cuiviénen, actually.” Findis said, before adding, “They somehow survived the Journey!”

“Woah! That is— Amazing, thank you, Findis.” Faniel said, wiping her eyes dry with the back of her sleeve.

“Hey, I’d do everything for my little sister.” Findis said, squeezing Faniel’s hand until the girl smiled.

She cut the deck in half, handing some to Faniel to shuffle and shuffling the other herself until she was satisfied. Then, she shuffled the two halves and dealt half the deck to Faniel, keeping the other to herself.

“The one who has the Five of Coins has to start, then we have to build up by adding the Four or Six or putting another Five.” Findis explained, and at Faniel’s slow nod she continued, “Such as the Five of Cups, or Swords—”

“Or Wands. Alright. What happens when you finish a suit?” She asked, voice more cheerful than Findis had heard since Faniel had come back from Estë’s Gardens with no apparent remedy to her pain. She could only imagine in how much pain her little sister was, but she knew she’d do anything to remedy it.

“Nothing, actually. The one who finished the last one is the one who wins. You can skip turns to mess with people, though.” Findis said, grinning.

Faniel’s eyes lit up mischievously. “Ohhh, I’ll definitely ask Lalwen to play with me next time she comes. Oh, and Ara!” She said, and her smile was incredibly wide.

“But before that you have to learn how to play, little lady! Come on, let’s start.” 

#findis #faniel #silmarillion #house of finwe #finweans #tolkien fic #my fic #my writing #fellowshipofthefics #fotfics treasure hunt #+2 points #the silmarillion #silm #lepenya (fifth) #finwëohíni

[heilith]

My three random words were: maid, am, embrace Lucky me! 

“I am not a musician.”

Proper ladies apologized for their faults, whether they thought it fair or not.

“You’re someone far more interesting, my fiery maid.”

You couldn’t help but give him a sidelong glance. Many of Eldar boasted unthinkable beauty, the beauty only the charm of the first cold star could compete with, but he was something different. Tall and stately, and vain of face, with a smile of a lover a heartbeat away from claiming the object of his want. And those eyes. Deep, honey golden, sharp – they didn’t look drops of molten amber just because you were too out of temper to admit they did. But you had to confess you’d never seen an Ellon as handsome. A ceremonial dagger, embellished with the finest of gems and still ready to slit open a beating heart.

Mesmerizing…  

You and she so deep inside, who was not you, recklessly wondered how it would feel to be courted by someone like him. What would someone like you find in his embrace?  

The thin-lipped grin of the newcomer became wider. Not uttering a word, he slipped down the bench and stood on one knee before you.  

“What are you doing?”

“Fulfilling my lady’s wish.”

Not that bad, I think. :) Thank you, @fellowshipofthefics​ , it’s a lovely game!

Dividers by Moonstrider9904

#wednesday word play #fellowshipofthefics #fotfics #wips

[marvelruinedmyspirit]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, tolkie Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Arwen Undómiel & Maglor | Makalaurë Characters: Arwen Undómiel, Maglor | Makalaurë, a sea dragon Additional Tags: Childhood Adventure, Arwen fights a dragon, Maglor doesn't introduce himself and barely helps, some music is played, neither Arwen nor Maglor is good at naming things Summary:

On any other day, Arwen would have told her father that she desired an outing, but today, she was looking for an adventure, and she had come to the realisation that adventures were skirting her when she was in the company of adults.

#arwen #maglor #tolkien fanfiction #lotr #the silmarillion #my fic #originally i was writing this for the august event of fellowshipofthefics but i didn't finish it on time

[retellingthehobbit]

Bilbo Baggins and Thorin Oakenshield, for @fellowshipofthefics The Hobbit event! @insidious-apple wrote a very sweet fic paired with this art, which you can find here. :'3

#me with a conspiracy stringboard explaining the color symbolism #the sun and moon imagery-- the butterfly imagery-- *a sniper takes me out* #the hobbit #lotr #lord of the rings #bagginshield #bilbo baggins #thorin oakenshield #but yeah this was my first time doing a Fandom Event thing in The Hobbit fandom and it was fun!

[aimless-passerby]

A collaborative project with @fantasyinallforms (the story can be found here) for @fellowshipofthefics.

#thauc23 #fotfics #bagginshield #this too goes to furaffinity #literally a furry convention #(joking)

[8thparadox]

dwarven greetings are a bit much.. for @fellowshipofthefics hobbit collab with @cullendrawss

#event #thauc22 #thorin #bilbo #the hobbit #truths drawings #dain ironfoot #thorin oakenshield

[fellowshipofthefics]

Welcome to Fellowship of the Fics, a writer ran blog to help promote our fellow Tolkien fanfiction writers.

Our goal here is to spread a little love to the fandom’s fic writers and help them gain some much-needed attention. As writers ourselves we see the struggle of promoting and getting readers to view the pieces we are putting out. Hopefully this blog can help the writers just as it can the readers.

Whether you write ships or gen, OC inserts, strictly canons, etc, it does not matter, we will help promote you! All we ask is that everyone respects one another and helps get the word out about our fantastic writing community.

We’re currently tracking the tag #fotfics, so we will be on the lookout for any fics or promos to reblog!

Our Discord

Submit A Fic

An Unexpected Collaboration (2023)

Thank you, writers, readers, and creators of all types for everything you do!

If there are any questions, comments or concerns regarding anything above, as well as the blog itself, please feel free to send us an ask, or you can DM one of the mods! @lordoftherazzles​ @ahufflepuffhobbit​ @fantasyinallforms​​

Submissions

Fics for the queue can be submitted via → this form!

Tag your fics and promos on tumblr with #fotfics.

You can link your own fics, or another author’s that you’ve enjoyed! Submit as many as you like, but please be patient for the fic to be featured.

The queue will drop 3 times a day. We are keeping it at 3 simply because we want to ensure people take the time to read the fics we are dropping. Pumping out too many can have the others get lost in the feed.

The Discord (Click to Join!)

This is a place centered around Tolkien works! Writers, artists, creators, and all around Tolkien fans are welcome!

Support comes in many varieties, whether dealing with writer's block, needing new AU ideas, showing off your latest wip, etc, and this is where the discord comes in.

Please respect one another. This means be mindful of topics of conversation, no ship wars, no hate. These are basic guidelines for most social environments. If we see anyone bullying or spreading hate, we will remove you from the server.

FOTFICS Monthly Challenges

Here at Fellowship of the Fics we try to help bolster activity within the writing community, which means a slew of games and challenges that can get any writer (and reader) excited! Check out past events under the cut!

January 2023 → January Trope Roulette

February 2023 → Sweet and Spicy Bingo

March 2023 → March Madness Tournament

April 2023 → April Alphabet

May 2023 → Modern May Mashup

June 2023 → Happy Pride Bingo

July 2023 → Summer Stories

August 2023 → AU-Gust Mashup

September 2023 → FOTFICtember

October 2023 → Trick-or-Treat

November 2023 → Novel November

December 2023 → No Event (Mod Vacation Month)

#fotfics #fellowshipofthefics #tolkien #the hobbit #lord of the rings #the silmarillion #writers of tumblr #writers of ao3 #fanfiction #masterpost #thauc23 #updated december 2023

[i-did-not-mean-to]

U - Unexpected

This beautiful art has been done by @lycheesodas and thus, I am delighted to dedicate this piece to this amazing friend and artist :D

Words: 677

Pairing: Beleg x Mablung

Warnings: Minor injury

“Beleg!”

Beleg looked up from the dossier he was working on in surprise; he was working late, catching up on some paperwork, and had believed his beloved Mablung to be stretched out on the couch with a documentary by this time.

Consequently, he was astonished to behold the very man, storming into the small veterinary clinic as if the wolves of Sauron were on his heels.

“What is it, love? Are you ill?” Beleg asked automatically, only realising that Mablung would not have chosen this kind of practice if that was the case upon seeing the confused expression on the man’s face.

“No, but they are,” Mablung panted and brandished a cat dramatically.

Beleg looked at the brownish-grey tabby with professional curiosity and decided—barring some mysterious illness that would not show any visible symptoms—that the tomcat was in excellent health.

“It was meowing pitifully, surely it is hurt,” Mablung went on. The urgency in his voice was probably entirely uncalled for, but Beleg was nonetheless touched by how deeply his boyfriend seemed to care about a random stay he had picked up from the gutter.

“Let me see the little bugger then,” he said softly and reached across the counter to take hold of this unexpected patient—as soon as his hands touched the matted fur though, a quick paw lashed out and swiped a set of razor-sharp claws along Beleg’s cheek.

With a choked cry, the veterinary doctor flinched back.

“Oh no,” Mablung cried, overwhelmed and torn between wanting to avenge his partner and trying to protect the cat.

“It’s quite all right,” Beleg assured him. “He looks hungry and grumpy. Let’s see first if he’ll eat something. Once he’s been fed, he might be mellow enough to let me examine him.”

“It’s a boy?” Mablung asked while he watched his beloved measure out a cup of premium cat food.

“He is,” Beleg acquiesced. “If you don’t want to keep him, I’m sure we’ll find a good home for Noldo.”

“Noldo?”

Beleg chuckled awkwardly. “I would not have chosen this profession if I was not generally popular with animals—it is exceedingly rare that one takes an instant dislike to me. Except…”

Shrugging, Mablung had to admit that he was not entirely wrong. “Noldo it is then…”

Beleg set the bowl down on the counter and Noldo pounced on it without hesitation; satisfied that his first diagnosis had been correct, Beleg lifted his eyes towards his partner and smiled.

Mablung—so serious and stone-faced and yet so laughably transparent—was biting his lip and shuffling his big feet against the linoleum floor; it was evident that he had something on his mind.

“You want to keep the blasted thing, don’t you?”

“Well, he likes me!” Mablung said defensively—they were both so used to people falling over themselves to get into Beleg’s good graces because he was so charming and approachable, but it was much rarer that something similar happened to Mablung.

“Of course, he does,” Beleg laughed, “you are the kindest person on earth and you look good enough to eat in those trousers!”

“I do not think the cat has much appreciation for my wardrobe,” Mablung grinned, “but thank you, my love. So….”

Beleg patted Noldo’s head very carefully and walked around the counter to sling his arms around Mablung’s comforting, muscular midriff.

“Of course, you can keep the cat,” he purred, “and you two can conspire against me if that makes you happy.”

“I would never,” Mablung immediately refuted the mere idea. “He just needs a home.”

With a shivering sigh, Beleg leaned his face against Mablung’s chest, running his hands across that broad, strong back eagerly.

“There is no better home for a feral stray than you,” he whispered fervently. “I would know.”

After a quick once-over—Beleg had been right and the cat was as fine as he possibly could be—and a short trip to the storage room, they finally took the newest member of their household, firmly snuggled into Mablung’s protective embrace, back to his forever home.

@fellowshipofthefics: here's the next one!

As always,

Lots of love from me

-> Masterlist

#og post #IDNMT writes #fanfiction #writing #tolkien writing #Beleg x Mablung #jrrt #April Alphabet #fotfics april alphabet #fellowshipofthefics #U #Unexpected #Silm

[lordoftherazzles]

𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐭-𝐌𝐞-𝐍𝐨𝐭

I had the absolute pleasure of working with @kerkusa this year for @fellowshipofthefics's THAUC event!! This story was so much fun to write, and the artwork is immaculate! Be sure to give Kerkusa some love!

bagginshield | post-botfa, amnesia au | 14k

After the Battle of the Five Armies, Thorin remains out of consciousness until his outbursts of pain become too much for Bilbo to witness. Bilbo - the hobbit whom Thorin married in Lake-town - begs Gandalf for assistance. Magic may have pulled the pain away and brought Thorin to a lucid state, but it also took his memories of the quest, Bilbo, and their marriage, away from him. Now, with a fair warning from Gandalf that rushing Thorin's memories too quickly may cause him to relapse, Bilbo must tread carefully around his feelings, while Thorin is dead-set on courting the hobbit he can't remember he married.

↳ NOW ON AO3

#bagginshield #thilbo #thauc23 #the hobbit #thorin x bilbo #thorin oakenshield #bilbo baggins #hobbit fic #bagginshield fic #razzywrites #fic: forget-me-not

[erathene]

F*ck It (Part 1)

Summary: Strider pays a visit to the Prancing Pony where you are working as a barmaid, but all does not seem well with the wandering ranger. You do your best to fix it. 

Word count: 2.1k

Pairing: Aragorn x Female!Reader 

Warnings: LOTS of swearing and cursing, you have been warned. Intoxicated behaviour and alcohol. Mention of menstruation in a humorous manner.

AO3 Link: F*ck It

Author's note: Special thanks goes to the members of @fellowshipofthefics discord group (vamp_ress, prettea and spider__lilies) who helped me explore new ideas when my inspiration dried up 😊 Also thanks to DocFigureskaterM for being my beta reader. I tried a completely new writing style with this fic; my toddler son is starting to understand words now, and I have had to really watch my mouth around him! 😂 So this fic was born out of trying not to use curse words in front of a 16 month old haha.

Part 2 has now been posted!

..........................

The Prancing Pony was busy tonight. All of the parlours were crammed with punters, and the air that lingered around the bar was thick and heavy with sweat and drink and pipeweed smoke. 

You picked your way carefully through the crowds, collecting glasses as you went. You didn't mind bar work, but it's not like you had much choice. You couldn't shoe a horse, your needlecraft was shit, and you had fuck-all artistic flair for floristry, so that eliminated about half the jobs going in Bree. You didn't have two pennies to rub together, so that ruled out buying your own land to rear livestock or grow produce to sell. Fuck it, tavern work would do. It kept your belly full and a roof over your head, so it would do nicely. 

Barliman Butterbur, the Gaffer, ensured you were paid fairly, but it wasn't a high-earning job. It wasn't a glamorous job either; your days mostly consisted of emptying piss pots from the upstairs chambers, scrubbing the parlour floors, or wiping out the tankards ready for the evening drinkers. And drink they did. As night fell, the punters came, downing pints and pints of ale and cider and anything else that could be poured into a flagon. Some were regulars, loose-lipped locals trading gossip and louts one-upping each other in pointless contests to see who could win in an arm wrestle or a brawl out back. Some were strangers, passing through from abroad or travelling merchants wanting nothing more than a bite to eat and a soft bed for the night.

And then there was him.

You rarely traded conversation with the punters. The less they knew of you and you of them, the better. Moving mouths made idle hands, so your Mam used to say, and she was absolutely right because striking up a conversation with any punter would mean you had less time to get through all your cleaning. But you knew his name, Strider, and you knew he was a ranger. He wasn't a regular, though he frequented the Pony about once a month, and neither was he a stranger, for he knew your name and was on first name terms with the Gaffer too. He was just Strider. He was tall, towering over most men, with a mop of dark hair and curtain bangs that occasionally hid his grey eyes. Grey eyes that were never cold despite the colour. Broad shouldered, a bow and bedroll usually strapped to his back, and a large-as-fuck weapon at his belt. He wore a mottled green cloak with a hood, the type that you'd use if you wanted to fuck off into a forest and never be found again. Whenever he turned up, he had a ragged look about him, like he'd been through a bush backwards and had a good story to tell about it too. 

You would never admit it, even if you were on your fucking deathbed looking at the lord creator himself. But if you had to describe your "type", it would be Strider.

So it's no surprise when your heart stuttered for a microsecond as soon as his giant mud-soaked leather boot stepped over the threshold. He'd been gone for a while and it had been months since he was last here. Not that you were counting the days of his absence like some lovesick maiden awaiting the return of her knight in shining armour. Fuck that shit. 

Normally, Strider would ask for a half-pint of the local cider, take it to his favourite table in the corner of the bar, and settle himself comfortably, retrieving his pipe and tobacco from his travelling pack. Fuck, if there was a sign you'd worked here too long, knowing his exact routine was probably it. You readied a half-size tumbler as he approached the bar.

"An ale today, y/n" he said, placing a fistful of coins on the bar in front of you. "And make it a full pint, if you would be so kind."

That was.. odd. You did as instructed, like a good tavern girl, pouring dark amber liquid into a larger flagon. As the container filled, you noted Strider looked more roughed up than he normally did; flecks of mud clung to his skin and hair along with perhaps a fortnight's worth of grime, the filth on his palms and between his fingers would have rivalled that of any gardener, and you'd bet your last copper his clothes hadn't seen the inside of a washbasin in over a month. Placing the tankard down in front of the man, you took just one coin from his pile. "The ale's no dearer since your last visit, Strider," you commented with one eyebrow raised and a glance at his gold. But he paid you no mind whatsoever; the flagon you had handed him moments ago was almost vertical as he downed the pint. 

"Another," he croaked, planting the empty flagon on the bar beside the coins that remained. You poured another from the same barrel. The second pint disappeared almost as quickly as the first, and was soon followed by a third.

Upon ordering his fourth drink in what felt like as many minutes, you slammed your hands on the bar and looked him dead in the eye. "What the fuck's the matter with you?" you asked, not bothering with pleasantries. His grey eyes met yours for a fleeting second before he looked away. You thought you caught a look of shame in those eyes before he broke contact, as though he knew he was getting a telling-off for his behaviour but he was going to carry on anyway and fuck everyone else. Very strange indeed. This was unlike the Strider you'd had dealings with in the past, who would politely ask you to share any tales you'd heard from locals over diluted cider and a puff of pipeweed. This Strider seemed out of sorts, as though he was holding onto thoughts and feelings about fuck knows what, and all he could do to control it was to force more alcohol down his throat, to drown it and make sure it never saw the light of day. You'd seen this behaviour in other punters plenty of times before. But not in Strider. Strider was always in control, always predictable. 

You already knew you weren't getting an answer to your question. Fuck, you shouldn't have even asked in the first place. Another punter down the bar started growling loudly about the lack of service. Resisting the urge to tell the prick to pipe down and wait his turn, you quickly refilled Strider's flagon. 

For the rest of the night, your work mostly kept your attention away from the ranger. The fleeting glances you did make in his direction confirmed to you that he continued to drink, and the more he consumed the more he leaned into the bar for support. As the punters began to clear off for home or to their chambers upstairs, Strider was one of the final ones who remained. When the Gaffer called last orders, the ranger had folded his arms across the bar with his head rested upon them. You approached him slowly, ready to take away the many empty flagons that surrounded him. 

"I'll.. need a room, y/n", he said as you neared, his words slurring together.

You sighed. Fuck's sake, Strider. "We're full for the night, I'm afraid." If the fucking fool had decided that earlier rather than at last orders, he might have a bed upstairs by now.

Strider groaned in disappointment. Clearly this wasn't what he wanted to hear, but there was fuck all you could do about it. He made to rise from the bar, but his movements were completely uncoordinated, and he staggered sideways, catching himself by the edges of his fingertips on the solid bar. He glanced at you with a confused expression, probably wondering why the world was spinning and why there were six of you standing before him. You'd seen that look before in patrons who couldn't hold their drink. Seemed that Strider was one such patron.

Fuck. With every room upstairs taken, the only option for Strider would be to sleep on the street, and if he was lucky enough to find an alleyway that wasn't covered in pig shit and piss, he'd likely find himself mugged for his remaining coin or possibly worse. Bree was often subject to petty crime with so many people coming and going. Were you resolved to letting this man wonder the roadways until he collapsed in surrender to his drunken stupor? You gritted your teeth. The Gaffer would be locking up soon, he was already rearranging empty chairs and stools at the other end of the room. 

You glanced back at Strider. Actually, the street was not his only option. There was a free bed upstairs: yours. 

You moved quickly whilst the Gaffer was distracted. Yanking Strider's arm, you pulled the drunkard to his feet, catching his dead weight as he failed to remain upright. You both awkwardly shuffled to the narrow stairway that led to the upper floors of the inn. Strider was muscular and well-built, and that made him fucking heavy. Lifting and shifting barrels over the years here was paying off though as you managed to get him upstairs with only minor difficulty. As soon as you crossed the threshold into your dimly-lit and modest bed chamber, Strider doubled over and vomited violently onto the hardwood floor. 

A stream of curse words flew from your mouth, the likes of which would make your Mam turn in her grave, god rest her soul. This was one extra cleaning job you could fucking do without. Fucking Strider and his lightweight stomach, no wonder he never strayed from his fucking cider if this was how he got after one too many ales. You dropped him ungraciously onto your single bed in the corner of the room where he curled up into a ball on top of the blankets, his hands cupping his head. You took a deep breath and tried to calm your emotions. The fool was probably suffering enough right now.

"Wait here whilst I get something to clean this mess up," you instructed him. "And any more where that came from can go in there," you added, kicking an empty bucket in his direction. Strider grunted in acknowledgement, but did not move.

It took you over twenty minutes to mop up the mess and scrub the stink of bile out of the floor. On your way back downstairs to return the mop and bucket, you grabbed a couple of flagons and filled them with fresh water. Strider would probably wake up with a giant fucking hangover tomorrow and he would need liquids that were alcohol-free. Once back upstairs, you tried to hand one of the water-filled jugs to Strider, only for him to crudely bat away your hand.

"It's water, you moron. Drink." You were not in the mood for his shit. You were already facing the prospect of sleeping on your own floor and this thought left your bedside manner extremely lacking. But you tried, adding "you'll feel like utter shit tomorrow if you don't."

Strider lifted his head from your feather pillow. Taking the flagon, he uttered his thanks before drinking deeply. "I s'pose you think I'm a complete fool," he slurred  as he returned the goblet to you.

Before you could respond, there was a harsh knock at your door. "Y/n! Are you in there?"

Shit, it was the Gaffer. He was probably wondering where you had got to whilst you'd been spending time tending to the drunk fucker sprawled on your bed. You pulled a throw from your laundry heap and tossed it over Strider to hide his form, before hurrying to open the door.

"Sorry Gaffer, I was just.. changing," you said quickly. The Gaffer looked you up and down with one eyebrow raised, clearly seeing you remained in the same basic dress and apron that you'd been wearing all evening. "My underwear," you added hastily. "Y'know.. Women's problems." You flashed him a friendly smile. He wouldn't ask any more questions after that. 

It was well into the wee small hours when at last, your shift was done for the night and you were able to ascend the stairs. You pushed the door to your chamber open and found Strider exactly where you had left him, his dark head poking out from under the blanket. He was snoring softly. Peering into the bucket, you saw with satisfaction that he hadn't lost any more contents of his stomach, nor had he made any more mess anywhere else. This was good. You pulled a spare quilt from your solitary cupboard and laid it out over the floorboards. Sinking to your knees without even bothering to change clothes, you wrapped half the quilt over yourself and within minutes entered a dreamless sleep. 

#aragorn x y/n #aragorn x reader #aragorn x you #aragorn #lord of the rings #lotr fanfic #fanfiction

[lathalea]

Please, Fili x reader, Perfect proposal :) Thank you!

Hiii @heilith 💚💚💚 I hope you still remember your ask for the Sweet and Spicy Bingo by @fellowshipofthefics :) I'm sorry it took me so long (real life happens), but here it is. I hope you'll like it!

Relationships: Fili x Reader

Rating: G

Warnings: none

✨ Perfect Proposal ✨

Fíli looked into the mirror and gave his moustache a nervous tug. There was not even a single wrinkle on the festive clothes he wore, his hair was freshly braided and adorned with beads and yet his face seemed uncharacteristically pale. He swallowed. It was finally going to happen today, after so much waiting, after years of pining for you in secret, and—what was most important—after surviving the Quest. Now Erebor was reclaimed and he was finally able to speak of his feelings and ask you to marry him. Fíli dreamed of the moment when he would be allowed to call you his wife… if you agreed to his proposal, that is.

His stomach decided to tie itself into a knot and Fíli realized that he was even more terrified—no, warriors never got terrified!—he was even more nervous than before the Battle of Five Armies began. What was worse, at the very moment when he imagined your lovely face, your smile, and the way your soft lips parted, saying “yes”, every single word of his well-rehearsed speech seemed to have disappeared from his mind. 

Muttering a swearword under his breath, Fíli left his chambers. A breath of fresh air was all he needed to clear his head. He was a prince, after all, and he would act like one. He only needed to find his composure. There was still some time until he was going to meet you for dinner in the Royal Wing. Everything was prepared, the music, the atmosphere, the candles, the food... It just had to be perfect. He had to make it happen. But now, Fíli needed a few moments to himself, and he had to be quick about it. Hurriedly, he directed his steps towards one of the outer terraces of the Lonely Mountain. 

As he strode ahead, barely registering the surroundings, his mind focused on recalling the speech he was about to make, something thudded against his chest.

“Ouch!” a familiar voice reached his ears. Your voice.

“Gamzûna! What are you doing here?!” Fíli used the moniker you gained after one of the orc attacks during the Quest. It meant “fierce lady”. He looked straight into your eyes, smiling.

“I’m so very sorry, Fíli! I mean, I didn’t…” you started, trying to catch your breath. At that very moment you both realized something. You stood very, very close to Fíli, your hands placed against his hard chest, his arms wrapped around you. He must have instinctively embraced you at the very moment you bumped into him.

“It looks like you have been in a hurry,” he murmured with that alluring smile of his. His arms were still around you, holding you close. Fíli was not letting you go. You tried not to think of what would happen if someone saw you embracing in the middle of a public corridor, his face so close to yours.

“I was seeing Princess Dís and realized what time it was, and I wanted to be quick so that I wouldn’t be late for…” your voice trembled. “For the dinner you invited me to.”

“You are here and I am here too. It seems that we have plenty of time to reach the dining hall, don’t you think?” Fíli winked playfully. “By the way, you look stunning tonight.”

The smile you gave him in return was barely visible.

“Thank you. Since this is going to be our last evening together, I thought…” you cleared your throat, looking away and pulling at one of the intricate laces of your elegant bottle-green dress.

“What are you talking about, Gamzûna?! Last evening? Are you going somewhere?!” Fíli’s eyes widened. He was so close to telling you about everything he felt for you! That couldn’t be happening!

“It seems so,” you took a deep breath. You dreaded every single word of what you were about to say, but it needed to be done. There was that old saying, If you love someone, set them free–right?

“Please, tell me that you are joking! You can’t go!” Fíli protested. His embrace became even tighter.

“It will be for the best. You’ll see. Until today, I had hoped that tonight…” you tried not to sob and shook your head instead. “I like you, Fíli. I really do. And we grew closer during the Quest, all those evenings together, all the dangers we survived… I felt the bond between us was special. You were always so good to me, so caring. I don’t know when exactly I understood what I felt for you, but tonight I wanted to tell you… Well, it doesn’t matter now any more, does it? No, please, let me finish. Today at breakfast Balin say that you needed a wife now, someone worthy of you. And Bofur added this had to be someone who made you smile. Dwalin kept on saying how you admired women who were fearless warriors. And then Kili told me that a beautiful lady stole your heart a long time ago and that it was time you proposed to her. Ori even wanted to show me her picture but then Thorin told everyone to stop prattling. Fíli, it is time for me to return to my old life in the Blue Mountains. I will not stand in the way of your happiness, but I wanted to have this last evening with you. For old times’ sake.”

Fíli’s heart beat strong and fast under his tunic. His brow furrowed. His eyes searched your face in silence.

“I’m going to kill every single last of them!” He finally huffed.

Your jaw dropped. That was the last thing you expected him to say.

“Fíli…?”

“Yes. I’m going to strangle Balin! Then I’m going to cook Bofur in a stew! And I’ll throw Dwalin from the rampart!”

“Fíli! What are you talking about?!” 

“ I’ll feed every single one of them to the mountain trolls! And I’ll drop an avalanche right on the top of my brother’s stupid head! That lulkh! And Ori…”

“Please, Fíli! Could you at least let me go?”

“No! You are not going anywhere!” Sparks of anger glinted in his eyes as he covered your hands with his. His voice softened. “Gamzûna, will you tell me now what you wanted to tell me tonight? I would very much like to hear it.”

“There’s nothing I can tell you,” you whispered, avoiding his gaze. “You are supposed to marry that beautiful lady of yours, remember?” 

Fíli was now holding your hands in his. His skin was as warm as sun on midday. And his radiant smile was back on his lips, his moustache beads clinking as he tilted his head.

“Aye, it seems that the cat is out of the bag now,” he chuckled, making you frown. 

“What’s so funny?”

“Come. See for yourself,” he held your hand and pulled you gently after him, down the corridor. “There is a lady whom I want to marry. She makes me smile and she is one of the fiercest warriors I know. And she captured my heart on the day I met her. This is her.”

As he spoke, he turned you around until you faced one of the stone walls of the corridor. This particular wall was covered with a large mirror in a golden frame.

You were looking at your own reflection.

“What are you saying, Fíli?” your eyes met the reflection of his silver-blue gaze.

“I love you, Gamzûna,” he murmured, stepping to face you, his voice laced with tenderness. “Was that what you wanted to tell me too?”

“I’m afraid not,” you replied.

“Oh…” Fíli’s smile faded away.

Now it was your time to chuckle and hold his hands in yours. 

“I wanted to ask you whether you would do me the honour of becoming my husband, Fíli, son of Dís.”

“Gamzûna…” Slowly, reverently Fíli cradled your face with his palms as his lips hovered over yours. “You are perfect.”

“Does that mean ‘yes’?” you whispered, brushing your nose against his.

“Guess,” his hot breath fanned your skin a moment before your lips met but you already knew the answer.

💙💙💙 Read it? Like it? Spread the love and reblog it! 💙💙💙

📜 Searching for more stories to read? Check out my masterlist!📜

Taglist: @fizzyxcustard @shrimpsthings​ @dark-angel-is-back @sherala007 @anyaspidergirl-blog @jotink78 @rachel1959 @saltwater-in-the-afternoon @linasofia @bitter-sweet-farmgirl @legolasbadass @yourqueenunderthemountain @reblogunderthemountain @guardianofrivendell @elrawienthewhite @xmly-xo @mrsdurin @nelleedraws @beenovel @vee-vee-writes @mcchiberry  @dumbassunderthemountain @errruvande @laurfilijames @emrfangirl @s0ftd3m0n @lilith15000 @kami-chan1512  @ragsweas @enchantzz @aduialel @myselfandfantasy @thewhiteladyofrohan @elliepie1226 @middleearthpixie @i-did-not-mean-to @blairsanne @fckmini @clumsy-wonderland @wormsmith @mailinsblogofstuff  @medusas-hairband @xxbyimm @knittastically @saucyminxbrainspill @quiall321 @frosticenow

If you'd like to be tagged in my fics (or removed from the list), please let me know!

#fotfics #sweet and spicy bingo #fili x reader #fili fic #ask box #fili the hobbit #fili fanfiction #fili x you #fili #the hobbit