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minaturefics · 4 months

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Watching, Wanting

A/N: Hello! (its been awhile) I just wanted to indulge in my love for Boromir (ft some faramir bc i love my brothers). Very vague plot if you squint. It's a bit spicy, but nothing explicit!

Reader gets sent out in a storm by Faramir and turns up at Minas Tirith soaked.

Boromir x Reader

Gender-neutral reader

Rated: TEEN

2.3k words

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The low hills of Emyn Arnen at your feet gave way to soft fields and in the distance the Anduin meandered through the landscape. There were dark clouds on the horizon, grey and heavy, and the faint earthy scent of coming rain was in the air. If you rode fast, you could make it to the city in a few hours, but judging by the clouds, you would be riding right into the storm anyway. You sighed and turned to Faramir. “Are you certain this is of such vital importance that I have to risk getting soaked to the bone?”

He nodded. “My brother requires these maps. I would have sent it with the trade carts this morning but it slipped my mind.”

“Rather uncharacteristic of you,” you muttered, raising your eyebrows at him.

He shrugged, an easy smile on his face. “My mind has been occupied of late. It is no easy feat, establishing a settlement.”

You softened at his words. Eowyn and Faramir had been working from dawn to dusk the past few weeks and the spring rains had been slowing construction and delaying the new workers and settlers journeying to Emyn Arnen.

“Very well.” You tucked the long, flat wooden box into your pack and buckled the waxed canvas securely. “I’ll be off now.”

“Safe travels, my friend,” he grinned and waved.

You swung onto your horse and, with a flick of the reins, started off down the road. As the grass and trees sped by, your thoughts drifted to Boromir.

You had become friends with Faramir first and, in the months Boromir had been away from Minas Tirith, you had helped coordinate the Ithilien Rangers from the city. Boromir had been civil to you when he returned, respectful of your battle and logistical strategies, but distant outside of the war rooms and planning councils. But something shifted one evening.

It was one of the many victory dinners, a smaller, more intimate one for The Fellowship and close companions. The hobbits had pulled you into their game of roughhousing and somehow you had ended up sprawled on top of Boromir. He had been large and solid underneath you, his hands heavy on your waist. You looked up into his grey eyes and your breath caught in your throat.

After that, it seemed as though his eyes were always on you. Across dinner tables, across courtyards, even, once, from across the throne room in full view of everyone.

You thought that with the end of the war, there would be no need for much contact between you and him, that all you would ever do is look, but Faramir had unofficially appointed you as a representative between the city and Emyn Arnen.

There had been so many afternoons spent with Boromir, shoulder to shoulder, pouring over maps and trade routes, so many nights spent eating across from each other in the low light of his private dining room. Yes, he was brave and proud and a fantastic tactician, but all that seemed to vanish when you saw him.

Really saw him.

Him with sleeves rolled up, exposing his strong forearms. His hair tied up, the pale column of his throat on full display. And those training breeches, somehow loose and tight at the same time…

What would he look like sprawled on your bed? Eyes glazed and chest heaving, hair mussed and lips parted. His breath hot in your ear, his voice low and raspy.

Thunder clapped overhead and rain started to fall on your overheated skin. The drops were cool and refreshing and you tipped your face to the sky.

How were you to spend another evening, another moment, in his presence? It was maddening, the way his eyes would blaze, the way he would draw close to you but never touch.

Why would he not act? It is true that you did not hold as high a standing as his family, but the brothers never seemed to care about such a thing. Even though that may be true, surely he understood that it was not as if you could do anything — it would be far more impertinent that you, of a lower standing, should be the first to move.

You shook your head and tightened your grip on the reins. You would ride back tonight to Emyn Arnen, even if you had to make the journey in the dark. It would be too much to spend another night near Boromir only separated by a few doors.

Boromir rushed down with the panicked servant who had burst into his study. What was his brother thinking? Sending you to Minas Tirith in the storm? He rounded the corner and found you shivering and dripping onto the polished marble. Someone had already taken your cloak and pack and you stood in your soaked clothes and saturated boots, clutching a wooden box. He swallowed at the sight of the fabric clinging to your form and strode towards you.

“Riding in such a storm is madness. What was so urgent it could not wait until morning?” You shoved the box into his hands and he stared at it for a moment before shaking his head. “Come, let us get you warm and dry first.”

He led you to his rooms and sat you down before the fire. “You cannot stay in those clothes,” he said, handing you some towels and a blanket along with some of his spare clothes. “You will catch your death.”

“But, Boromir, it is not proper —”

“I do not care. I would rather some impropriety if the alternative is illness or death.” He turned around and faced the wall. “I will not look until you are sufficiently… dressed.”

For a moment, he thought you were about to protest some more until he heard the slick swish of your clothes. He could imagine you, peeling off your layers, bare skin tinged orange by the fire. Heat crept up his neck to his ears. By the gods, he needed to control himself. He squeezed his eyes shut and drew a ragged breath in.

What sort of delightful torture was this? How many days had he spent beside you, close enough to breathe in your scent? How many nights had he spent staring at his bedroom door, willing you to walk through it?

He took a deep breath, trying to ignore the sound of your wet clothes hitting the floor. He had to be proper. A gentleman. A man of honour. He had to be mindful of his position and standing. Yes, his brother had appointed you various titles and responsibilities, but whatever they were, they were still ranked below his own title of Captain of Gondor.

He had heard too many stories of people being swayed and persuaded by the nobility — he would not allow you to feel obligated to reciprocate his own selfish desires simply because he was ranked higher than you were.

There was the rustle of cloth, the whisper of cotton on skin, and he fought the images of you donning his clothes. Oh, how will he ever wear that tunic ever again and not think of you?

You were wonderful and smart and were filled with endless ideas for new laws and trade. But in his quiet moments, he wondered what you would feel like under his touch, wondered what sort of sounds you would make.

How would you say his name? In a whisper? A gasp?

In a cry of pleasure?

He spied the wooden box you had brought with you on the side table and shook his head. Damn Faramir for putting him in such a position! What could possibly be so important?

“I, um — I’m just going to look at what my brother sent. Do not be alarmed by my movement,” he said and heard you hum in assent.

With slow, measured steps, he made his way to the box and opened it.

“Faramir said you needed maps,” you muttered behind him.

There were maps indeed, but they were just the regular sort that anyone could buy at the market cartographer. He frowned, rifling through the parchment, and pulled out the envelope tucked in between the papers.

Brother,

Forgive my deception, but I hope my interference will be forgiven. Aragorn has written to me saying he is on the verge of tearing his hair out at the sight of you two. Eowyn and I are not faring much better here in Emyn Arnen with the constant pacing and faraway looks my, our, friend has whenever they return from the city.

I pray you spare all of us any more heated longing stares.

Best of luck,

Faramir

The nerve of his brother! To send you out in the storm simply for the purposes of… of… matchmaking! The paper crinkled in his grip and his eyes wandered down to the scrawl at the bottom.

P.S. I am not so foolish as to send them out in anything threatening. Spring storms may be chilly, but hardly dangerous.

That mollified him little and he grumbled.

“Is anything the matter?” you asked. “Were they damaged in the rain?”

“No, not at all. It is nothing. Simply my brother being… my brother.”

He read the letter again. Pacing… faraway looks… heated stares… Was his brother implying…? No, that could not be, could it? But, then again, perhaps he did not imagine the way you would linger in the sitting room after dinner or how he would feel your eyes on him sometimes. Your expression was always unreadable, careful and controlled, that he could hardly be sure of what you felt for him. If you felt anything at all.

And yet, Faramir’s letter…

Your bare feet shuffled on the stone. “You may turn around if you wish.”

He folded the letter away and replaced it along with the maps into the box. He turned and his stomach clenched at the sight of you.

You were bathed in the warm light of the fire, your skin aglow, incandescent in the dim light. His tunic was loose on you and the front ties of the collar were undone, revealing the skin of your chest. His eyes wandered down to the pile of wet clothes on the floor and he spotted, what were unmistakably, underthings, heaped on top.

Heat flared low in his belly and he glanced away.

You. Naked under his clothes. Valar help him.

Boromir had that look in his eyes again, all aflame and intense, except he was directing it at one of the tapestries on the wall. You glanced down at the wet clothes at your feet. Well, he could not have reasonably expected you to keep your underthings on, could he?

He was still staring at the wall. His jaw was tense and his hands were clenched by his sides. You took a step forward and he stood straighter. His eyes cut to yours for a moment, smoldering with want, before they went back to the wall. He took a shuddering breath and you took another step.

Perhaps if you couldn’t act, you could make him act first instead.

You fought a smile and walked to stand before him. You could smell him fully then, his familiar musk mingling with cedar from the scent he favoured.

“Boromir,” you whispered.

His eyes snapped to you and he swallowed.

“Boromir.”

You tipped your head to the side and parted your lips.

“Boromir.”

He crashed his lips against yours, his hands coming up to cradle your face. He deepened the kiss, his chest rumbling in a low moan when your fingers curled into his shirt. He tasted like the bitter tea he favoured after dinner. His hand drifted down, skimming your waist before coming to rest on your hip. Your nails scraped at the nape of his neck and he groaned.

His body was warm, hot even. He pressed himself closer to you and you could feel him, hard, against you. Heat pooled in your stomach and you moaned his name. His hand slipped under the hem of your shirt and he pulled back for a moment. “Is this alright?”

You nodded and tipped your head back. “Don’t stop.”

“I’ve… wanted this… for weeks,” he said, kisses drifting towards your jaw. The delightful scratch of his beard was followed by soft, warm lips as he worked his way down your neck. “Wanted you.”

“You should have done something.”

He smiled against your skin. “I’m doing something now.”

His lips paused at the curve of your neck and shoulder, sucking for a moment, as his hand slid up your side, his touch gentle but demanding. Your fingers fumbled with the ties on his tunic and tugged on the fabric. He pulled it off and tossed it to the side and he stood flushed and grinning before you. You trailed your fingers down his solid chest, past his stomach, following the light dusting of hair down.

“Maddening man, you —”

There was a knock on the door and you yelped, startling away from him.

“Who is it?” he asked, voice low and rough. He cleared his throat. “What is the matter?”

“Should we prepare a hot bath for your friend in the spare room?” The servant’s voice was muffled through the door.

His eyes darted to yours before a smirk spread across his face. “There is no need for that, thank you.”

There was the sound of retreating footsteps and you exhaled. Boromir let out a relieved chuckle and pulled you towards him.

“Sending my warm bath away?” You threw a challenging look at him. “How ever will I get warm?”

“I can think of a great many ways.”

“Will I like any of them?”

“I think you will find that you’ll like all of them.”

He dipped his head, capturing your lips, and tugged you in the direction of his bedroom.

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I never realised just how quick things can head into a mature rating until I wrote this lmao. Not sure if I will ever write smut but well ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ (maybe)

Tags: @sotwk @ass-deep-in-demons @thetempleofthemasaigoddess @hippodameia

#boromir x reader #boromir x y/n #boromir x you #lotr fic #lotr fanfiction #lotr fanfic #boromir

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villain-crown · 23 days

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needle | @jegulus-microfic | words: 786

critical care, part 2 | (part 1, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6)

a Jegulus nurse!AU

“Prongs!”

Sirius strolled onto the medical-surgical intensive care unit with a coffee in one hand and an exasperated Remus Lupin in the other. James had to hand it to them—ever since his friends started sucking faces and Remus had flatly refused to let Sirius sabotage his 15 minutes early arrival policy, Sirius was never late to work anymore.

“Hey, mate,” James replied over his shoulder, examining the patient assignments that he’d just outlined.

“Are we in charge?” Sirius demanded into his Starbucks when he’d come close enough to read the board.

“Yeah, I'm charge nurse for the medical patients, you can have the surgical ones. Looks like your brother’s floating up here today.”

Sirius hurried to gulp down the sip he’d already taken. “Reggie? Yesss! Put him on my team! I want to boss him around.”

“How is that different from any other day of the week?” Remus asked.

It was on the tip of James’s tongue to ask—why would Marlene warn me not to stare at your brother?—when the two-toned wail of the code blue alarm blared through the hallway, automatically pulling their focus towards the far side of the ICU.

Sirius sucked up the last of his coffee, attempting to simultaneously shrug off his jacket and stagger towards the action. “Fucking hell, okay, OKAY!”

James was already taking long strides towards the other end of his unit, his eyes flicking to the blue light over room twelve’s door and the controlled chaos unfolding within it. Three people were already present: his two Gryffindor nurses, Lily and Mary, along with a very slender man in dark green Slytherin scrubs performing chest compressions.

“We started compressions about fifteen seconds ago,” Mary supplied from her position performing rescue breaths via bag mask at the head of the patient’s bed.

“Do you need a step stool?” James asked without thinking.

Stranger.

Slytherin scrubs.

This must be Regulus!

As the petite nurse looked up to spare him a glare while continuing to stand on his toes to maintain his rhythm, James realized exactly why he’d been warned not to stare.

He’d seen it all in the course of his career: severed fingers, gaping wounds, and infested flesh. When Marlene had warned him to keep his eyes to himself, he’d figured it was because there was something physically off about Sirius’s little brother; a scar or imperfection of some kind.

He was wrong.

Regulus Black wasn’t some deformed hobbit.

He was fucking gorgeous.

Truly, James couldn’t imagine anything he’d like to do more than stare into those stunning silver eyes set in that lovely face. His eyes had barely swept down to register the man’s slender body and neat little waist when fingers clicked sharply in his face.

“Watch your fucking eyes, Potter!” Sirius snapped, having finally caught up, pushing roughly past him to join his brother at the patient’s side. “Hold compressions, Reggie.”

Regulus paused his movements, backing off slightly to come down off his toes as everyone in the room observed the meaningless squiggles on the cardiac monitor fade from the reading. A wavy, trembling line replaced the previously jerky chaos.

“V. Fib,” Regulus concluded, correctly identifying the lethal heart rhythm.

He was much smaller than James, which was exactly what James liked. It would make pinning him up against a wall by the hips as they fucked a lot easier.

“Yeah. Take over compressions, Lily. Reggie, can you give a round of epinephrine? Where’s Dr. McGonagall?”

“In a budget meeting, according to the intern answering her phone,” Regulus answered, drawing up the medication with a needle.

Fuck, even his voice was just incredibly lovely. James imagined how it might sound in a much dirtier context than they were in now.

“Ah. Pour one out for McGonagall,” Sirius instructed Remus, who obediently emptied a syringe of sterile saline into the garbage.

Regulus paused his own movements, watched this action incredulously. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“It’s good luck. What, you guys don’t do that in Slytherin?”

“We don’t need luck in Slytherin.”

James rolled his eyes. “See, this is why people hate you guys. Okay, one milligram of epi is in.”

“Hello, everyone!”

James looked up and scowled upon seeing Barty Crouch Jr., one of the resident physicians on loan to them from Slytherin, swanning into the room like it was a lovely day. He seemed distinctly unconcerned by his late arrival and more interested in sidling over to Regulus and throwing an arm around his shoulder, making James frown.

“Hey Reg! Wow, they’ve really got you slumming it with these surgical idiots, huh?”

“Are you here to help or hit on my baby brother?” Sirius snapped over his shoulder from where he was recording the code events with a dry erase marker on one of the windows.

Crouch frowned. “Where’s McGonagall?”

“Budget meeting,” came from three different directions.

“Oh. Hey, Lupin, pour one out for—“

“We already did that! Now fucking give us orders, you cretin!”

“Oh. Alright, pause compressions, let’s check a pulse…”

#regulus black #james potter #jegulus #sirius black #starchaser #sirius and regulus #marauders nurse!au #marauders fandom #jegulus microfic

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ofstardustanddreaming · 7 months

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comforting ways

preference summary: one way they comfort you when you're sad.

content warnings: none

fandom: the hobbit

characters: bilbo, tauriel, thorin, fili, kili, dwalin, bofur, thranduil

gender neutral reader

Bilbo: He knew you had been missing home along the journey, and tried his best to cheer you up. He would pick flowers that reminded him of you, he would talk with you under the starry sky next to the warm fire. He wanted to keep your mind off of things, but if it also meant being a shoulder to cry on while you did want to think about home. He's a sweetheart about your sadness, he also understands missing home, so he'll give you stories to help with relatability.

Tauriel: She would take a walk with you around the palace gardens if she wasn't on duty. She would listen intently while you talk about what it was that was on your mind. She would hold your hand lightly, rubbing soothing circles into the back of it. She would offer suggestions if that was what you were looking for, or she would offer words of comfort. Once you've gotten most of your sadness out into the world, she'll pull you in for a small kiss to try and get the rest of it.

Thorin: He would move the stars and sky if he could, to make you happy. He's more a man of action than comforting words. He would wrap his arms around you, pressing his lips to your forehead. It doesn't mean he wouldn't add some words of comfort, mostly whispering I love you's and Go ahead, I've got you as you let your emotions go into his shoulder, whether it's crying or quietly venting. He's just better at listening, and providing a physical comfort.

Fili: He was a mix of sweet words and soft jokes. He wanted to show you he was a reliable, safe person to come to when you're sad, and he'll do sweet things for you. He'll make you something warm, or wrap you up in something warm as well. He'll play with your hair, and lets you lie down on his lap while lightly stroking your side. He knows that sometimes silence, with the occasional words, with another person in the room is all it takes to ease the pain in your heart, little by little.

Kili: He would hate to see you sad, wanting to take the pain of your sadness himself. He would crack jokes, giving you his best puppy dog eyes to not be so sad. When he sees you crack a small smile, he feels relieved. He knows that sometimes your mind needs to be taken off of whatever topic it was on, but then he'll listen to what it is you want to talk about if it's what's needed. He'll plant small kisses around your shoulders and head as you talked, to remind you he was there.

Dwalin: He's a man of few words and more action as well, like Thorin. He is a little unsure at first though, what he should do to comfort. He'll sit silently near you, hovering, wanting to let you know he was there for you however you needed him to be. When you look up at him, wanting his comfort in the way you wanted, he wouldn't hesitate in getting closer and pulling you in tight. He was gentle with his hugs, but he made sure that you knew he would always be there for you.

Bofur: He would break into some soft songs, or hum, while having you leaned up against him to feel the vibrations. He would eventually get carried away, leading to a whole dance routine, and it would make you feel better with his happy approach to a lot of situations. He would pull you in afterwards, wondering how else he could help ease your sadness, and would do what it is you wanted. Whether it was hearing stories of the journey, or talking through your sadness.

Thranduil: He would check you all over, to make sure it wasn't an injury, feeling more secure in taking away a physical injury than an inner feeling of sadness. He has a harder time with emotion, but he's gotten better when fretting and constantly asking if you were doing any better. He would eventually calm down, realizing what you want is just him holding you and giving you comforting words. He would draw a bath, to help you feel more comforted from the heat as well.

#the hobbit #the hobbit preference #bilbo baggins #bilbo baggins x reader #tauriel #tauriel x reader #thorin oakenshield #thorin oakenshield x reader #fili #fili x reader #kili #kili x reader #dwalin #dwalin x reader #bofur #bofur x reader #thranduil #thranduil x reader

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nap-mak · 6 months

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LOTR in a modern world headcanons? I think yes.

I did this on one of my old accounts that i ended up deleting for some reason, i don’t remember, but here. Back on my Lord Of The Rings BS, let’s gooooo. This’ll be the fellowship with everyone intact, no one is dead.

As always requests are open and let me know if you want more!

LOTR x GN! Reader, general headcanons for if you had to take care of them today, in 2023. Enjoy!

The ring most likely has no power in this dimension, so yay Frodo is free from torment!

Sam loves watching cooking, gardening and home renovation shows, and he gets very invested in the former two. You learn a lot you didn’t really need to know from his commentary

Once Pippin learns about pyjamas and fuzzy slippers he never goes back, you literally cannot get him out of them

Boromir and Aragorn, being human and coincidentally two of the most responsible members of the fellowship, are the easiest to take in public to the grocery store and such.

You can pass off the hobbits (if they cover their ears with their hair) as children, and Gimli is your friend with dwarfism.

Gandalf you can pass off as your grandfather, and Legolas looks pretty normal if you cover his ears.

Pippin is the type to bounce in his seat in the car and ask “Are we there yet?!” every 5 minutes

Frodo really likes to draw, especially when there’s so many cool places and movies to draw inspiration from.

Movie nights? No horrors. The hobbits are terrified by ‘em.

Movie nights are literally so difficult because they all have such different tastes

Merry really likes James Bond movies.

Pippin is obsessed with nail polish when you introduce him to it. Boromir gets his repainted every time the polish come off. His nails need serious help after a while

Pippin and Merry often start pillow fights, and drag everyone else into it

If you have space for a garden or plants in your home, Sam is on it. He finds it calming, so now you have some home grown plants :)

Taking the hobbits in public? Bad idea. You can trust Frodo and Sam, but Merry inevitably drags Pippin off to do something dumb and possibly dangerous.

Gandalf has an old man rocker. There is no discussion.

The hobbits do the classic “getting one sibling to ask for fast food because whoever’s in charge will say yes”, they get Frodo to do this because he has the best puppy dog face and he’s unsure about asking for things normally.

Pippin and Merry cannot handle too much caffeine or sugar or they go crazy

You thought Legolas’ hair was good before? He steals your hair care products and his hair is literally perfect.

(He’s also willing to do skincare with you, not that his face needs it. Again, flawless)

Game nights are so chaotic. You can’t play a lot of games since they don’t know what many things from this world are, so games like Trivia and Charades are off the table

Gimli and Legolas verse each other in video games, often enough it ends with Legolas winning and Gimli rage quitting

Aragorn is so responsible he’s literally the perfect man to do anything with, and he can hold the fort down if you need to leave

Pippin is so clingy, he trails you wherever you go and asks you random questions but it’s adorable

Boromir insists on carrying your stuff, bags of groceries, all that

Frodo often goes to the library to find new books to read, with you of course

There’s a whole debate on whether 3D or 2D animation is better, i would not get involved if i were you.

Pippin and Merry are also avid fans of quoting their favourite movies, once they see them

Legolas and Frodo are the best listeners, they will just sit there and not judge or try to give you advice they just. sit there. like the perfect men they are.

Legolas would have a meme for everything. Like any situation. You text him like “PIPPIN FELL DOWN SOME WELL WE DON’T EVEN HAVE A WELL HELP” and he just has a meme that fits the situation perfectly.

Frodo and Legolas would watch Avatar: The Last Airbender together because it’s their favourite show. Aragorn jumps in also.

Those three are also avid tea drinkers.

Boromir likes Game Of Thrones. I don’t know anything about it, he just does. Please confiscate Pippin while he does.

Pippin gasps dramatically whenever a plot twist surprises him.

Sam loves to cook, and he does a lot of cooking in the house once he arrives. You two just work together in the kitchen (if you can’t cook, he’ll teach you) and have nice sweet conversations

Legolas is great at doing people’s hair. If you ask him to, he’d probably agree, though he’d probably be a bit flustered as that is a courting ritual in his culture.

Ask Legolas to talk to you until you fall asleep. His voice is so heavenly istg-

The hobbits get sleepy when their hair is played with and it’s adorable

Won’t lie this hyperfixation came back then it circled back to TMNT and today i watched these films with my friend and now i’m back to LotR love. Most of this has been sitting in my drafts for a couple weeks.

Anyway, I think that’s about it from me, I hope you guys enjoy! :)

If you want to request, rules are pinned on my page! Let me know if you want a general part two or a set of modern headcanons for a specific character. I love LOTR in the modern world content so much.

Have a good day, and remember that you are loved!

#lotr #x reader #fanfiction #lord of the rings x reader #the fellowship x reader #gn!reader #frodo x reader #samwise x reader #pippin x reader #merry x reader #aragorn x reader #legolas x reader #gimli x reader #boromir x reader #gandalf x reader #everybody lives #lotr in modern world #im not making aragorn a single hobbit parent no sir #so many tags

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8thparadox · 2 years

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Fi with a Fiddle

#fili son of dis #fili #truths drawings #the hobbit #tolkien #he's from a while ago.. 2 months? mayby more?#either day i think we need more dwarves playing their little instraments content #mayby i'll draw thorin with his harp sometime

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deusvervewrites · 1 month

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The First Line

A lot of people out there will tell you that the first line of a novel is the most important. I've seen the wisdom that the first line must grab the readers attention, be some kind of a "hook" to draw them in deeper, or to tonally reflect the main themes. That the first line needs to throw the reader into the thick of it!

But how true is that really? It's been nagging me for a while now as someone who has started more fics than I've completed.

Out of curiosity, I grabbed a handful of my favorite novels and compiled their first lines.

"There are many legends about my mother." Daughter of the Moon Goddess, Sue Lynn Tan

This line doesn't really establish much about the plot of this book. Not the narrator's name, goal, conflict, or even the setting. We can make some inferences from the existence of legends around someone, but 'legendary' only narrows anything down because of the book's title. It is, however, indicative of the narration style and the novel's prose.

"Mary Jekyll stared down at her mother's coffin." The Strange Case of the Alchemist's Daughter, Theodora Cross

This line puts us right into a scene. Some real In Medias Res. Except... it's not really an action scene. It's a somber affair. And from Mary's staring, it's safe to say she has some heavy thoughts on the matter.

We can also make some assumptions from the wording choice. Looking down at the coffin suggests that she is standing over it, so we know at once this takes place during the funeral.

Interestingly--and I'm going to break my soft rule of not addressing the rest of the text here--this line does not allude to the novel's framing device.

"The temperature of the room dropped fast." Bartimaeus: The Amulet of Samarkand, Jonathan Stroud

This is another opening that's setting a scene instead of trying to introduce us to the cast or conflict, or even to the setting. Why is it getting colder? We can infer from the fact that the temperature is dropping fast that this probably isn't a good thing or at least not a normal thing.

"I've seen Steelheart bleed." Steelheart, Brandon Sanderson

This line fascinates me. It says a lot and, at the same time, very little. We know that someone named Steelheart exists, obviously. However, the narrator is giving gravitas to the sight of them bleeding. So we've already learned that Steelheart doesn't bleed very often, and seeing it was worth remembering. But who Steelheart is and why the narrator cares? Nothing in this line indicates that.

"Kendra stared out the side window of the SUV, watching foliage blur past." Fablehaven, Brandon Mull

I think this is the most relatable opening line I have listed here, since I can instantly in my mind picture the expression on Kendra's face knowing nothing else about her, or where she's going. We can guess she's probably not happy to be going there since she's staring out the window with what I would assume to be boredom. That's some conflict there. But, like, extremely minor conflict.

"The tired old carriage, pulled by two tired old horses, rumbled onto the wharf, its creaky wheels bumpety-bumping on the uneven planks, waking Peter from his restless slumber." Peter and the Starcatchers, Dave Barry and Ridley Pearson

Well this sentence rambled on a bit didn't it? But it's very evocative. It tells us very little about the story (beyond Peter's name) but it sets the scene beautifully. Not only is it evocative of the scenery, but the time period (from the horse-drawn carriage) and the tone as well. We also know that Peter wasn't sleeping very well, which indicates that he's either anxious about something or that sleeping in this carriage wasn't very easy. Or both.

"In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit." J.R.R. Tolkien, The Hobbit

This is the kind of line that would get me murdered by a lot of writing advice that I've seen over the years. This line tells you next to nothing, not even whether or not its weird for hobbits to live in holes. What this line does do is ease us into the narration style that Tolkien employs, which is generally slow and descriptive.

Okay...?

So what was the point of all of that?

Well, this experiment has solidified my opinion on something. As I said, I've been having thoughts about opening lines, but I think that the actual first line of the book is not as important as the first scene of the book. None of these lines out of context are that good. Sure, The Hobbit is iconic, but that's not because that line itself is phenomenal. It's practically "Once Upon A Time."

But it works for the scene.

The first scene is far more interesting to me than the first line. I'm not so impatient that if the first line fails to captivate me I'll toss the book aside. And I know that's true for other people because H. Bomberguy posted a four-hour video on plagiarism and we all watched it.

What this means, I think, is that we don't need to treat our audience as if we're in an arms race against their dwindling attention spans as if we'll lose them forever to TikTok if the first sentence isn't the pinnacle of literature.

People will give a work a chance. That's what the summary is for; to tell people if they'll like it so they can know to give it a try.

If you were afraid to write, or to share your writing, because you didn't think the first line was good enough... I don't think that matters. I think that people won't hate it. Won't turn up their noses in disgust.

#writing advice

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itsonlydana · 2 months

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"passenger princess" | chapter four

the hobbit | a modern!AU by itsonlydana

❱ pairing: Thranduil x fem!reader

❱ wordcount: 3,3k

❱ summary: a ride home

❱ warnings: none

❱ an: could he be any more perfect? y'all, tell me if you have some guesses how this will go on🤭

general m.list + series m.list

🌿 reposts and comments are appreciated, they motivate me a lot - especially with longer projects <3

CHAPTER FOUR: STARS

"Come on, I'll give you a ride."

You whirled around to Thranduil, ready to argue that it was far too late considering he had to work the next morning. You'd imposed on him too much already, the kitchen was in a state that would need a deep cleaning and the boys would certainly sleep in.

"You don't have to," you tried as he passed you and grabbed his coat from the counter. "In fact, you shouldn't–"

Pushing his arms through the coat, Thranduil flipped the collar up and sorted his long hair over his shoulder. He seemed unbothered by your protests and continued to slip into his boots. "I forgot something at work that can't wait anyway, so grab your shoes."

Pursing your lips but swallowing the pouty reply you wanted to throw at him for ordering you around, you slipped into your sneakers, glaring at him while hugging Legolas and Gimli, and then Aragorn Goodbye.

Gimli even dared to wink at you, shoving his elbow into your side with a rumbled: "Fun ride"

Naturally, you punched his arm for that.

Your bag shouldered and the phone that continued to light up with messages shoved deep into it, you followed Thranduil out into the surprisingly cold night.

The gravel path leading to the, well, almost mansion, crunched under your footsteps, filling the silence that you yourself didn't know how to break.

Your last conversation didn't offer much transition to normal small talk, and you didn't want it to.

You wanted to be wrapped up in the warm flirt in his voice, in that heated look that he had thrown you as you'd left him in the hallway.

The nerves of the skin he'd touched still fizzled and ached for him to return his hands onto you, an itch that only he could scratch, a burn for him to sooth.

That though, was most definitely not what you would say right now.

But you didn't want to spend the rest of the way in awkward silence, so you resorted to the manners Thranduil valued. Not only because he worked as a lawyer with a very important –rich, conceited, snobbish– clientele, but because he still held onto the hope that some manners would rub off on Legolas.

"Thank you for offering to drive me." You bit your bottom lip through a smile that has him cracking one as well, soft lips breaking up the stern expression his dark eyebrows sometimes gave him.

"Don't," Thranduil shook his head, the movement sending some of the shorter strands framing his face back over his shoulder, "knowing you're home safe gives me a peace of mind. I wouldn't have been able to sleep if you were waiting on some bus right now."

"Well," your cheeks grew hot, "thank you anyway"

Turning to the road you watched your shadows move in sync, the lights of the house falling through the trees lining the way and flittering on the gravel like scattered fireflies.

You saw how his shadow stepped closer, your hands dangling close enough that one small movement would've led to them brushing against each other. The space was small, easily crossed yet it stayed that way for the rest of the walk.

It wasn't the time.

Not right now; nevertheless how fucking close you had been to kissing him in the hallway.

Arriving at his car, he opened the door of the passenger side, your place, as Legolas had once joked.

He had a point because after Thranduil had first picked you up from the bar, he'd come to your rescue many times, and he helped you to the passenger side first each time, as if he wouldn't allow anything else.

You didn't complain.

Sitting next to him allowed you a perfect view of those sharp cheekbones and cutting jawline that your hands itched to cup and draw your fingers along of. Not only that but whenever the whole group was being driven around, you could enjoy the drive without a shoulder nudging yours or a hand reaching over to open a window.

As you sat down, you took notice of the seat setting, namely how it was perfectly adjusted to you.

If Legolas had ever ridden with his father, you always had to pull forward, because Legolas, in addition to his looks, did, of course, inherited Thranduil's incredibly long and enviable legs to tower over everyone else. A gift he constantly misused to kick you, or to rest his arm on your shoulder.

Once seated in the car, you pressed deeper into the fabric of the seat. Even the headrest was perfectly at your height, so you didn't have to do more than place your bag in the foot well.

As Thranduil's door swung open a gust of chilly air rushed into the already cold car, prompting you to roll your shoulders and hug your torso.

Apart from your shirt, you hadn't brought a jacket, considering it had been warm earlier when you stashed your backpack in the dorm after class.

Thranduil folded himself into his seat, his long legs first, and shamelessly you stared at him as he elegantly lowered himself and tossed his hair over his shoulders before pulling the door shut.

Another flood of cold air.

This time Thranduil noticed how your arms wrapped tighter around yourself and without saying much, he turned slightly and reached behind his seat.

"Here," in the silence of his car, his voice sounded even deeper and the warmth in it was almost enough for you when he'd already put something in your lap. "And don't you dare tell me it's not necessary. Not giving you a choice!" he ordered, a teasing smile taking out all the sterness of his tone.

"Thank you," you breathed, unfolding a navy blue sweater, one that had a white deer stitched over the breastbone, and as soon as you pulled it over your head, the world flimmered at its edges, reducing to just the inside of this car.

"It's not washed, but I promise you it's clean."

Which you couldn't care less about, not even a flying fuck was given toward this precious item of clothing that rocked your world and completely spun it out of its axis.

This was his sweater, his clothing that he gave up for you. This happened in dreams, in books and stories and wishes and hopes– not in the real life.

Maybe this was another thing that separated Thranduil from those Fratboys and overmasculine guys that thought the most romantic thing they could do was pop a mint-gum before smashing their mouths onto yours in slobby kisses.

He has years of experience against their lousy teenager moments.

The sweater smelled so much like him and his house, only much stronger. His scent, rich, full of his perfume and him, took over all your senses. The fabric was so damn soft, so warm, so cozy; you were ready to sink into it and never leave.

Literally, because even sitting down, the waistband bunched up in your lap and you would have had to push the sleeves back, but you made yourself comfortable in the way too big sweater.

Thranduil –most likely unintentionally but who knew– seemed to have decided on torturing you in the cruelest way possible, and maneuvred the car one heel of the palm on the steering wheel, and the other conveniently placed behind your headrest, his head angled so that he could watch through the back window instead of the mirror.

That position, arm outstretched, muscles subtly flexing and his prominent jawline close enough that it could cut your held breath in two, did unexplainable things to you.

If anyone asked you would deny that this movement alone had you blushing and your stomach curling, heat rushing through your body over something so simply yet breathtakingly beautiful and assertive.

He caught your gaze quicker than you could have fixed the blown-wide look on your face, the corners of his mouth twitching.

So he did know.

You laughed softly, "Show off."

His grin became sly. "No idea what you're talking about," he murmured, low and deep and very much a lie.

"Besides, there could've been something behind the car, who knows," he said nonchalantly as he steered the car toward the front gate, the black, tall halves that opened for you at the push of a button.

My ass, something behind the car, you thought and coughed to cover up a laugh.

The mansion grew smaller in the rearview mirror, hedges and tall trees framing the white brick facade and gray shingles until the last of the lit up windows was nothing more than a small dot that disappeared after blinking.

There was something special about driving around at night. The lots in the area where Legolas and Thranduil lived were large, as were the houses and the distance between them, and unlike the city, you were the only ones on the streets.

The night was dark, the sky black, like ink and endlessly stained with countless stars that you couldn't see from your dorm room due to the many skyscrapers and their ever-shining lights. At your place, it was loud and bright, and you leaned back in your seat to watch the sky through the window in front of you.

There was no one else on the road, not this time of night, not in a neighborhood where most didn't even need to work much: no headlights, no cars, no one else but Thranduil and you.

Where that awareness would've brought a subtle panic and anxiety with it a while ago, there was tranquility instead.

All worries about the crush you harbored for Thranduil and how he could find out were replaced, softened up by the memory of his hands on your body, that damn painting burying itself into your back and the sharp edges reminding you that this had been very much real.

This was very much real.

"You're thinking very loudly."

You turned your head, furrowing your brows at Thranduil, "Am not."

He scoffed. "No, darling, you most definitely are. I have never met anyone who is that bad at keeping a straight face." Thranduil switched the lanes, this time checking the mirror and meeting your gaze in it, "Next time we play poker, please remind me to bet on your cards."

Huffing and rolling your eyes you did what any other adult in your position would do, and stuck your tongue out at him. "Maybe I won't play poker with you anymore, how 'bout that?"

"What's your other option? Legolas is good but honestly- the boy would throw his cards away for Aragorn," Thranduil mused and when you laughed he raised his thick eyebrows once, "It's me or Gimli, sweetheart."

You didn't even need to think back to the last poker game you'd played with Gimli, that was too far away and this evening's endless round of Monopoly sufficed generous arguments against him as well. Why you've ever thought it was a great idea to play any competitive game against the most thick-headed people was a mystery on its own.

Another shudder ran through you then, but not because of the cold– the sweater provided so much warmth and your cheeks burned from smiling so much, but rather because your mind did in fact remind you of the faithful poker night. The most chaotic one in the history of poker games.

"Oh," you exhaled a deep breath.

Thranduil's head turned and you made a point of looking thoroughly distressed.

"I don't think I'll ever recover from the awful talk I had with Professor Gandalf." Your whole body shudders just like then, transporting you back to the awkward shuffling around, the stuttering and the many, many, many excuses you'd babbled.

"It couldn't have been that bad," Thranduil said and then, tilting his head as you slowly shook your head, he added an unsure: "Right?"

"Thranduil," you stared at him, barely noticing how the corner of his eyes crinkled at his name out of your mouth, "Thranduil– I was piss-drunk and sent my 70.. or hell, 80-something Professor an E-Mail…at three in the morning. With just a winky smiley!" Your voice had taken on a desperate edge at the end, cutting it close to such a high pitch that you fell breathless into the seat.

All the while Thranduils laughter grew and grew until he gasped for air, his one hand swatting dramatically in front of him. "Mhm.. oh yes, I'll never get tired of hearing it," he giggled, a sound that did not fit the first impression most people got of him.

"Yeah you can laugh all you want," you tried to come across as stern though failed miserably at the sight and sound of Thranduil chuckling. He made it impossible to do anything else but smile. "Jeez, thank god the old man found it funny as well. I think I would've died if I'd sent it to Professor Sauron instead. He hates me."

Thranduil opened his mouth, then closed it again.

A bit quieter than you expected he started again after a while: "This may be delusional since my line of work shows me the worst of people, sides you wouldn't think exist, but I think that you are the loveliest woman I've ever met. That Professor must be out of his mind to hate someone as clever, beautiful, and magnificent as you."

Those words, coming out of his mouth shot you straight into the heart, hollowing out that pit in your stomach and filling it endlessly with messy butterflies and fireworks in such an overtaking force you couldn't find it in you to answer.

You knew he liked you, or at least appreciated your presence.

You had felt it earlier, had seen in his eyes that he was interested and oh– that this picture-perfect specimen of a man would look at you like that was more than you could want.

It had been such a far-fetched wish that there would be anything else except this lust that hearing him compliment you, raising you to a pedestal you never dared to dream about, was astounding and unfathomable.

Thankfully, Thranduil put you out of the misery of searching for something equally important to retort.

He reached over to rest his hand on your thigh, calming the slight bouncing you'd fallen into. "I know it's nothing like Legolas poetic words."

The heavy air that had taken hold of you lifted as you let out a breathy laugh. "He's an idiot. Took after you, am I right?" you teased and slightly flicked a finger against the soft skin of his hand.

You didn't know what led to that sudden contact, one he mostly initiated wherelse you didn't dare to act upon more than friendly handshakes or brushing his fingers while passing the butter or salatbowl.

He grinned, wiggling his eyebrows teasingly, "When they grew him in the lab I made sure to tell them to crank the dumbass level high enough as to not let an identical version of myself get loose on the world."

You pretended to frown, sizing him up and down, "Surely they should have added less then."

The disgruntled snort coincided precisely with a playful tap against your thigh, a swift movement you couldn't have defended against. The moment his hand made contact with the outer part of your leg, you heard the smack, felt the entirely harmless and certainly not painful pull, and your jaw dropped as you stared at Thranduil.

"You didn't just do that!"

"What?" Thranduil blinked innocently at you.

"Ohh, how dare you pull off the eyebrow thing."

"What eyebrow thing?"

"You know," you raised a hand and gestured towards his entire face, which now turned back to the street with a far too sly grin. "That thing you do. You raise those thick eyebrows and open your eyes wider like you're patronizing me and act all virtuous at the same time."

"I have no idea what you are talking about," he said and did exactly what you'd just explained.

You simply glared at him and flicked his thigh as well.

The car turned, departing from the serene country road to navigate through the sparse traffic of the city streets.

Instead of stars, blinkers and billboards now raced past the window, casting their bright lights on you and immersing you in a cascade of brightness that prompted you to blink a few times.

Previously, where it had been just you, Thranduil, and the hum of the engine, you hadn't realized how comforting those few sounds were. As Thranduil drove along the main street, more focused and enveloped in the watercolor hues of the city, you almost asked him to turn around again.

A yawn overtook you just as you wanted to reply to his compliment from before, feeling slightly dazed by the atmosphere, cutting you off just as you said his name.

"Oh god," you mumbled and checked the display for the time, "How can it be two already?" Unconsciously you cuddled the sweater, burring your nose in the seam while fighting another yawn.

Thranduil turned his head and a soft smile played his lips. "Nearly there, sweetheart. When do you have to be up again?"

You groaned, rubbing a hand over your eyes, "Eight? I think… maybe eight thirty if I skip breakfast and rush straight to uni." He tilted his head and you shrugged, "Eight fifteen and a small breakfast?"

Satisfied he nodded. "Better."

It was such a small thing that he cared about, though the heat rushed into your cheeks all the same.

He parked the car right in front of the dorm complex and after peeling yourself out of the comfortable warmth he led you to the main entrance.

Not wanting this night to end, you took your time searching inside your purse for the keys, fumbling around and pushing some mints and loose papers back and forth until you couldn't drag it out any longer, and then some more finding the right one.

Thranduil waited patiently, leaning against the brick wall, the headlights of cars washing his ivory skin silver.

"So," you said as you couldn't drag the goodbye out any longer.

"So," he repeated.

Standing together in the small alcove of the entrance felt more confined with the tension between you, drawing you closer to him.

Tilting your chin towards the ground, you looked up at him through half-closed, weary lids. "Thank you again. For driving... and thank you for what you said. It.. that whole speech, y'know? That means a lot to hear it and like especially from you."

Thranduil smiled. "Anything for you," he whispered.

Then, he withdrew his hand from his coat pocket. Your eyes followed as he approached your face, his fingertips gliding over your temple, following the curve of your eyebrow until he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and cupped the back of your neck.

Yielding to the gentle pressure, you let yourself fall into the embrace he pulled you into. His coat cascaded down your sides, brushing against your knees pressed against his, and as he rested his chin on your head, you couldn't help but sigh contentedly.

Even though you stood there, fully clothed in street attire and the entrance of your home, it was as close as you could imagine to falling asleep with him. And you nearly did.

"Goodnight, darling." His words were nothing more than a whisper, rough and muttered into your hairline, but you still beamed, your face pressed against his chest.

"Goodnight, Thranduil."

"Oh, wait–" you stepped back, realizing your still wearing that sweater, hands already on the hem, "here"

Large hands covered yours before you get to pull it off, stopping you with a gently push.

"Keep it. You wear it better than me."

He paused, breathing in and out as if to assure himself that whatever he thought was what he wanted to say. "Keep you thinking of me while you get some sleep."

You're nothing but a blushing mess as you quickly hurried up the staircase to find your roommate on the stairs, typing on her phone and sparing you one lousy "Thanks" that you ignore to rush into the silent apartment.

You didn't even turn on the light in your room but went straight to your window, facing the street. What usually bothered you turned out to be incredibly practical because you could wave to Thranduil one last time.

As always, he had been waiting next to his car, his gaze directed up to your window, and only when he saw you behind the glass did he get in.

However, he didn't continue straight to his firm; his car turned on the street, taking the same direction you came from. Towards his home.

taglist [still open]: @mushroomemeralds @mssuguru , @solartoge @12134z03 @fruitymoonbeams-blog @finallyforgotten @lady-of-imladris @123forgottherest

#📁files: passenger princess #thranduil x reader #lotr x reader #the hobbit fanfiction #the hobbit x reader #thranduil fanfiction #thranduil x you #lord of the rings fanfiction #lord of the rings x reader #lotr fanfiction #Thranduil #modern au

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passengerseatsam · 2 years

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Eddie's son, your son, is in third grade the first time he brings home an A+ on a book report— and Eddie cries.

You don't know what to make of it when you find him in your shared bedroom, sitting on the very edge of the bed. He laughs softly, wetly, feeling foolish as his fingers wipe his cheeks. You crouch down between his legs, leveling yourself with his red-rimmed eyes.

"He's so smart," he says, voice cracking. “He didn't get that from me."

"What are you talking about?" you ask, bewildered.

Eddie has always kept his insecurities locked away. There’s a box in the dark corner of his mind where he’s shoved it all, out of sight and out of mind. He thought he had thrown away the key. He wasn’t just lousy in school, he was the lousiest. Couldn’t focus for shit, couldn’t keep his assignments organized, and by high school he was so behind that he stopped bothering to try. The teachers were split; some called him stupid, others called him lazy. All were happy enough to say it right to his face.

He locked all of it in the box. The only thing he was good at was pretending not to care.

But then, the little plus sign on the pregnancy test. Old hurt started creeping up somewhere between ultrasounds. The box faltered, and things started seeping out. He had dreams about the disappointment on Wayne’s face when the school informed him that Eddie wasn't graduating. And the disappointment when it happened a second time.

He wasn’t afraid that his baby would be stupid. He was afraid that his baby would try and fail, like he had. He was afraid that the world would count him out, like they had done to him. Or worse, that he would learn to count himself out before anyone else got the chance.

“Eddie,” you call to him, dragging him out of his own head. Your grip on his knees gives him something to anchor himself to. “Honey, yes he did. Are you kidding? You started reading him The Hobbit when he was in diapers,” you laugh gently. Not at him, but with fondness. “You made it magic for him, and now he loves to read. You made him imaginative and creative. He had everything he needed to ace this book report— and every book report— because of you.”

He draws in a breath. The familiar smell of your shampoo eases some of the tightness in his chest. “I’m just— relieved, I guess. You know, I knew I wasn’t gonna be the kind of dad who could help with math homework. Not that my dad was ever around to do that either…”

“Being smart and being good at schoolwork are two different things, Eddie.” You assure. He’s never thought of it that way. You reach up, wrapping your hand around his hip with a tender squeeze. “Fortunately, our kid is both.”

“I know.” He laughs again, a little more steady this time. “Shit. What are we gonna do with him?”

One day, he’ll run circles around you both. And honestly? Eddie can’t wait to see it.

You smile. “We’re gonna get in the car, and take our son out for ice cream. And tomorrow, we’ll start saving for college.”

#anyway who wants to cry #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie headcanons #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson angst #eddie munson imagines #eddie munson drabble #my posts

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frodo-with-glasses · 4 days

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Dreams in the House of Tom Bombadil (and the Four Elements of Trauma)

Now that we've gotten to the point where the hobbits spend the night in Tom Bombadil's house, I'd like to expand on this bullet point from my chapter review:

Much apologies to my girlies on the server who headcanon the hobbits with phobias corresponding to the four elements; sadly, Tolkien is not on the same page as us this time.

For context, I present to you these screenshots of messages sent on the Fig Tree Discord Server back in January:

This started as a half-joke, but it's since evolved into something of a shared headcanon for some of us. Pippin has a Thing about fire, because of the Pyre of Denethor. Frodo has a Thing about water, because his parents drowned. Bri has since told me that she headcanons Merry has a Thing about air, specifically cold air, after his encounters with the Black Breath. And that leaves Earth to Sam.

The good news is that this is a really fun headcanon; and when you look at LotR through this lens, it's actually kind of staggering how well it fits with the events of the book.

The bad news is that Tolkien did not write LotR with this idea in mind; and the whole thing with Old Man Willow, and the subsequent nightmares that the hobbits have in Tom Bombadil's house, make that abundantly clear.

After all, what does Old Man Willow do to Frodo? Lulls him to sleep and then tips him face-first into the water. He almost drowns. He almost drowns. Sam finds him face-down in the water, unconscious, held down by a root and not struggling; there's water in his nose and his mouth and his eyes and ears and he can't breathe, he can't breathe, he nearly goes out the same way his parents did, in a river that connects to the one where they died. If Tolkien was writing Frodo with hydrophobia, this probably would've gotten a bit more attention than it did. But no; in Tom's house, Frodo dreams of Gandalf and Black Riders, because he's the protagonist and Tolkien needed an efficient way to foreshadow things a bit.

What does Old Man Willow do to Merry? Closes its roots over him, so that only his legs are sticking out; and when Frodo and Sam set fire to the tree, Merry screams, and begs them to put it out. "He'll squeeze me in two, if you don't. He says so!" He could feel the roots of the tree clamping like a vice under his ribs, squeezing, crushing, bruising; he could hear the voice of the tree in his head, demanding he communicate the ransom message. And as our beloved former anon, Meg, pointed out: Could he breathe in there? Was it dry and stuffy and stifling inside the tree? How much air could he even draw in, when his lungs were being crushed and had no space to expand? He screams with what little breath he has left, but can they hear him? He's going to die. He can't breathe. He's going to die.

But, ironically, he's the one who dreams about nearly drowning, and his dream-brain convinces him he's lying in a "soft slimy bog" before he wakes up and finds himself in Tom's house again. He's not the one who got tipped into the water, but go off Tolkien I guess.

What does Old Man Willow do to Pippin? Closes its roots over him completely, with a click like a lock snapping into place; and when Frodo and Sam set fire to the bark, and Old Man Willow gets angry, they can hear Pippin's "muffled yell" from deep inside the tree. Fire. Smoke and ash and anger. Could Pippin smell the burning wood around him? Could he feel any heat or sting? Did he hear Old Man Willow's voice, the same way Merry did, cursing the flames and threatening to smother him if it wasn't put out?

His nightmare, out of the three of them, is the only one that makes sense to me; he dreams that he is again inside the willow, hearing the wood creak as it sways in the breeze over him, and hearing the voice of the tree laughing at him again. But, sadly, no mention of fire.

All of that to say, if I wrote Lord of the Rings—which I realize is a terribly presumptuous thing to say given that I am, unlike Tolkien, Not A Genius, but hear me out—I definitely would have Frodo's nightmare be about drowning, Merry's be about suffocation, and Pippin's be about burning alive. This would then be foreshadowing for the later horrific stuff they're going to encounter concerning water, air, and fire respectively.

I dunno. It just seems like a missed opportunity is all. Which is probably why, despite how much I adore the “nightmares revealing inner turmoil and then characters waking up in safety and comfort” trope, I never really liked this sequence in the book all that much.

Sam, meanwhile, is welcome to continue sleeping “in deep content, if logs are contented". Good for him. 10/10, no notes.

#four elements of trauma #old man willow #frodo baggins #meriadoc brandybuck #merry #peregrin took #pippin #samwise gamgee #lord of the rings #lotr #my writing #long post #i do realize that it is very silly to criticize tolkien for not adhering to a headcanon we made decades after his death but hear me out #we’re right 🤣#that is all

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