Revisited My Design For Orome The Huntsman Of The Valar :)

Eowyn, in a high voice, holding Barbie: Hey Ken! I was thinking about going back to school and starting a career!

Merry, in a deep voice, holding Ken: Nonsense, Barbie. you’re staying home and having my kids.

Eomer: What the fuck are you guys doing?

Eowyn, giving him a deathly stare: Playing systemic oppression.

Ok but i love this tho? It gives me life

Is this fandom still alive? Anyways bagginsheild loml

Thorin is pretty much ugly by dwarf's standards. That's why company members can't quite get bilbo's fascination with their leader's appearance

do you think adler and graves are too perfectionistic when it comes to their significant other? if they were to struggle about their career etc, would adler or graves leave them?

No, not at all. Dedication to their own jobs doesn't reflect how they'd view a partner.

Adler's view is that if his partner is struggling at work, especially with coworkers? Fuck em, they're beneath you. Want to drink and complain about it? He'll insult the way Leslie wears her hair and massage your shoulders until it becomes moderate groping.

Graves offers to just come into their work and scare the shit out of people until they fall in line and make work easy for them.

I can't

once in a while i obsess over Bilbo & Thorin again, so in case that's your jam, here's another fanfic I won't ever write!

After a time in the Undying Lands, Bilbo dies peacefully and finds himself in Yavannah' green fields with every other hobbit that has ever lived. His parents, family, friends, everyone. It's beautiful and plentiful and happy.. and it's also full of hobbits wanting to make social calls.

Anyway, one day, while tending to his garden that always makes perfect tomatoes (how boring!), he thinks how nice it would be if his afterlife and the dwarven afterlife were connected.

And dwarves love to live underground. So...

He digs.

And digs. And digs more.

Since time, hunger and exhaustion are not a thing anymore, there's nothing that keeps him going back up, so he digs until he hits rocks, and then he gets a pick axe and keeps digging.

Until one day, he hits through nothing. He find himself in the ceiling of a huge cavern, cut into stone in very dwarven architecture.

Thousands of dwarves raise their eyes, completely stunned.

'Huh, hello? Are these the halls of Mahal? I'm looking for dwarves. Thirteen of them-- not anyone, thirteen very specific dwarves.'

And from the crowd, thirteen voices start yelling at the same time.

Hello! More headcannons! I am having lots of fun <3 kinda got a bit angsty oops

Anyway!

Have some lightly angsty cod headcanons!

Simon has a love hate relationship with cigarettes. Sure, they help him relax. But he hates them. The smell, the bite they take out of his bank account, how they make his teeth worse. He isn't a self destructive angsty teen anymore. So! He decides to quit. Tries his hardest to do it quietly, but the rest of the team notices quick. He chews a lot of gum because he scoffs at the stupid nicotine patches. Goes cold turkey, because he doesn't do things in half measures. Sure, he was grumpy as hell for the first few months, but after a while he notices how he's struggling less. Doesn't preassure anyone else to quit. Just wasn't for him, he says. He keeps chewing the gum though. Just ate mint and cinnamon when he first quit, but he branched out eventually. Likes watermelon the best now.

Johnny is an artist. It's canon, we all know that. I propose a Johnny who volunteers as a muralist when on leave. Goes around, painting walls anywhere he's asked. Hospitals, subways, schools, homeless shelters, bridges, ect. His family helps send jobs his way. He tells himself that it's just to help out. Just to practice and add to the community, have fun with a different medium. Won't tell himself that its a way to make sure he's remembered for anything besides the things he did while deployed. Does he regret those things? Hell no. But does he need to be more than just a soldier? Hell yes.

Price who doesn't have a life outside of the military. Gaz has his support group, Soap has his hobbies, Simon does...whatever the hell he does. Price has nothing. On the way to becoming everything he thought he needed to be, he forgot to be anyone besides the Captain. He pretends it doesn't bother him. And it doesn't, at least, not in a debilitating way. But it shows in the little things. How he always stays late doing work, checking on the wounded, helping out. Pretends it isn't him avoiding his empty apartment. His empty life outside of the military, his boys.

Gaz goes to therapy at the behest of his mom. He checks it off like it was just another box. He pretends at all the progress he's making, hiding how everytime he goes in he goes into the mindset of an interrogation. Let them know nothing, deflect and distract. Lets the therapist think he's a good patient. Talking about his "regrets", the horrors on the field, the nightmares. He does the actual coping later. Journals, then burns them. No loose ends. Writes down everything. The things on the field, how he doesn't- can't- regret a damn thing. Just that he didn't do better. He's suprised when later, after a mission, he's using the breathing exercises the therapist taught him. Maybe it wasn't all pretend afterall.

Couples that were obviously gay but big time corp didn't let it be cannon:

I mean come on

" I learned that he had never married. I thought that odd, though I guessed why it was; No, I guessed that he wanted to remain "unattached" for some reason deep down which he did not understand himself - or would not acknowledge, for it alarmed him"

Me when- me when- when-

Nikolai and Price attend Gaz's wedding to his missus, Nikolai gets a little drunk and ends up learning the whole dance to Single Ladies from a gaggle of nieces and cousins who are absolutely obsessed with this sharply dressed Russian hitman-looking motherfucker Gaz says is his captain's husband. He teaches them swear words in eight different languages, they teach him to shake his arse like Beyonce. Fair trade.

"I had no idea he could move like that," Gaz says as he props up the bar at Price's side.

Price, into his pint, a little red-faced. "S'not even the 'alf of it."

Gaz chokes on his rum and coke.

This is just an entire work of art holy shit

kill me again

john price x fem!reader

when your old life is too much to bear, you decide you ought to kill it and bury it. not knowing who else to turn to, you beg John Price to aid you in your endeavor. he decides he wants to give you much more than just a fresh beginning.

tw: inspired by kill me again (1989), domestic abuse/violence, blood kink, blood eating, smut, dub-con, unhinged john price, retired john price, manhandling, light breeding kink

The dreams start the day your husband first places his hands on you. 

Brutal violence completed in a drunken stupor that leaves you with a swollen eye and has your co-workers questioning what you’ve done to yourself—you exercise a rigid equanimity that has them believing the honey coated lies that drip from your tongue. You play this game well—practiced for many years, shrouded beneath quiet smiles and well placed clothing. You keep this composure no matter what falls upon you. Be it his fist, or his lips. 

There is no time to crack or fracture, lest your dream slip between your fingers like fine grains of sand. This liberation—your deliverance—grows closer by the day in the form of hidden clothes and a separate bank account. A suitcase wedged in the boot of your car. A full tank of gas. An internet history littered with searches for a new home. Apartments you can rent. Someplace out of the way. Far from the city. Hidden in the depths below lowering skies and thick forests. 

Except he finds it. The empty dresser drawers, vacant of your clothes, and the letters from the bank about your new account. How your other one is emptied. You find him sitting in his recliner, stupid fingers choking a beer bottle, breath heavy with liquor and eyes brimming with a virulent desire to teach you a lesson. 

And he does. It’s a lesson he teaches well. One that sets every inch of your skin ablaze and leaves snot pooling in the back of your throat as your hands claw at thick forearms. 

“Think you can fucking leave me?” he questions. It’s slurred, but you’re not sure if it’s because of the liquor or the squeezing of his fingers on your throat. “The only way you’re leaving me is when you’re dead. Get that through your thick skull you stupid cunt.” 

So close. Tender and ripe, seeds waiting to spill into your mouth, gullet waiting to swallow—then, taken. Dumped on the edge of the bed. Shoved into overflowing drawers. Fabric stained with tears, suitcase shredded with the knife meant for your gut, offals ready to taste the sour breath of your malevolent lover. 

Your fantasies fade like smoke on warm water. They dissipate into the air, vanishing, utterly forgotten by your mind and soul as you cook for a man who spits at you, dead bed heavy in the evenings, mornings algid enough to leave you shivering. 

Until—one day—you finally wake up. 

“I need you to kill me.” 

It’s been years since John Price has laid eyes on you. Several tours around the world have kept his mind busy with paperwork and his hands occupied with a gun. He’s spent so long wading through the gore of war that he’s not sure he’s gotten the gunpowder to wash free from his skin quite yet. 

Maybe that’s why you ask this question of him, trembling on the other side of his desk, nails digging into the bottom of your seat, bottom lip quivering. His wrinkled crows feet deepen in the creases of his eyes as he smiles at you, a chuckle rumbling in his throat. 

How strange for the one who got away to find his way back to him under such peculiar circumstances. 

“Not really kill me,” you clarify. You’re picking at your cuticles. He notices they’re not painted anymore like you used to when the two of you were younger—before he went off to be a hero and before you were stolen by another man. “I just- John, you’re the only one I can trust with this. I need to vanish.” 

“You want me to help you fake your own death?” he asks incredulously. 

“Tell me you’ll do it,” you beg. 

It’s far-fetched, even for him. Though it’s a set of skills he has honed for many years, that life is behind him now. Idolized in dog tags shoved in the back of the closet and pictures he can hardly stand to look at anymore. These days, he does office work. Paperwork that strains his tired eyes while wearing suits that make his skin crawl. 

“I think you’re taking the piss out of me with this one, sweetheart,” he says jocularly, cheeks pinching as he smiles. 

“He beats me, John.” 

A blink—then, there’s red. Ichor stains his vision, casting you in vermillion light. A glossy sheen coats your eyes, reminding him of the lacquered dolls his grandmother used to collect when he was a child; sitting pretty and pristine on ivory shelves. Hair so delicate and meant for petting, but always just out of his reach. 

“I tried to get away, but he caught me. He nearly killed me that night. I was terrified, and I just- I can’t go to the cops. They won’t work fast enough, and I have nowhere else to go, he’s taken everything I have. Please. If you don’t do this, if you don’t kill me, then he will.” 

John folds—wet tissue paper caught in the wind. “I’ll take care of it.” 

That night, John Price does not sleep. 

There’s a cottage that lines the environs of a lake where the bramble is thick and the bushes produce sweet berries in the summertime. Bequeathed to him after the death of his grandfather, it’s been sitting vacant for decades. Rotting from the inside out as time decays the wood and bevels the roof. 

His hands dance. Hammer and nails. Saws and axes. Paint drying on walls. Within three weeks it’s fit enough to be a home. A bedroom large enough for two, and a second room to be whatever you wish—a library, an office—

—a nursery. 

“How much do you need?” 

Your voice is quiet; squeaky like a mouse. The needle pinched between his fingers has your hairline glistening and throat bobbing. There’s swelling on the apex of your cheek, edema bleeding into your eye, but he does not mention it as he pierces your arm, drawing blood into a tube and letting it drip into a bag. 

“Only enough to kill you,” he quips. 

He does this three times. Spread over aching weeks where you’re riddled with migraines and dizzy spells so violent you find your hands gripping the walls at work. Your co-workers look at you with narrowed eyes as they pass you in hallways despite your gracious smiles and reassuring nods. 

Five months after the day you begged John Price to kill you, he finally does it. 

Stale bleach stings your nose as you stare at the hotel bed, stiff sheets perfectly creased along the edge of the mattress, pillows fluffed and pristine. John stands behind you, leather gloves stretched over his hands as he toys with the bags of your blood and the knife he intends to leave behind. 

Your heart thuds so violently in your chest that you feel it traverse up your throat where it swells, ready to burst. Freedom is so close you can nearly taste it. 

“Ready?” John’s voice is even—rough like steel. You shouldn’t be surprised. You doubt the blood scares him anymore. 

Nodding, you glance over your shoulder. “Yeah. Yeah, I think so.” 

There are several steps to John’s plan—ones he stresses the importance of following perfectly. Obeying, you knock the lamp over at his command, letting it topple to the floor where the lampshade bends and the bulb flickers. When he shoves you onto the mattress, leaving you to stare up at him with wide eyes, he only chuckles. Tells you that he has to make it look believable. There’s no murder without a struggle. 

Gloved fingers rustle the blankets up around you as he manhandles you into different positions along the bed. Despite his firm touch, there’s no pain that lingers or blood that pools in your arms like when your husband touches you. You giggle. Anxiety and relief coalesces into a raging river in your stomach, frying your nerves until there’s nothing left but adrenaline. 

Quirking a thick brow, John looks down at you, leather gloves tracing your ankle as he straightens himself. “Having fun?”

“Sorry, I’m just… so nervous.” But you’re smiling wider than he’s ever seen you before. 

When it comes to the blood, John spills it on top of you. Legs caging the side of your hips, he pierces the bag with his knife and lets it drip over your chest, your stomach, the mattress—when it stains his pants he tells himself he has nothing to worry about. Soon enough, your DNA and his will be used to mingling. It’ll be natural. Necessary. 

“I can’t believe this is really happening,” you breathe. The blood is cold against your skin but it spills as if it were warm. Pooling in your neck, sticking to your palms, John tells you to paw at the duvet, and you do. “You said there’s a cottage I can stay at? We’ll be heading there next, right?” 

“Mhm. Fixed it up nice and pretty for you, sweetheart,” he confirms. 

You beam, skin illuminated with your own blood, clothes sticking to every curve of your body. John tosses the first bag to the side before adding another one, this time making sure to wet his knife and fling it, high impact splatters staining the wall, the ceiling, your own face. 

Then, he grabs you again, leather pressing into your wrists as he pins you. He assures you that he’s just making the scene more realistic, an act well done, but the whimper that leaves your lips is very much real. He stares down at you, and the way your eyes trace the way his beard lines his mouth, and he thinks you’ve never looked more beautiful than this—on the precipice of escape. 

“John…” His name bleeds off of your tongue.

He’s done for. 

You keen pretty for him when his knife slices through your shirt, exposing your breasts, torso gleaming with ichor like wine. When he decides to have a taste for himself, you can hardly wiggle against the flat of his tongue on your stomach. He smothers your protest with a kiss. You’re rigid against him, lips like cement left out to dry in the sun, but then, you melt. You deliquesce beneath his touch, gloved hands raking down your body, yanking your pants off before your mind can fully make sense of it. 

When he feeds his cock into your aching cunt, he tells you this is how he seals the agreement—a proper bond, an unbreakable promise. This is how he kills you, with thrust after reaming thrust, nestling into the deepest parts of you that your husband has yet to destroy. And when you clasp your hand over your mouth to stifle the moans that leave your mouth, and he catches the glint on your ring finger, he snatches it. Metal free from your skin, he tosses it; lets it topple along the musty carpet before interlacing your fingers with his. 

Then, you’re a corpse. Lifeless beneath him, chest heaving with heavy gasps as your eyelids flutter shut, thoroughly fucked until your brain is mush. He spills the final bag and drowns the room in it before he wraps you up in the blankets and moves you to his car. Bridal style. White linens like a dress. Red blood like the breaking of a hymen—this is your union. 

This is your fateful conjugality. 

Three weeks go by in the blink of an eye. The hours feel like mere minutes when your husband is no longer breathing down your neck, huffing his hate and vitriol into the shape of your spine. John brings you fresh groceries every few days before leaving you on your own to wander the edge of the lake and collect flowers to place in your windowsill. Every morning you wake up and the bed is warm. You can cook without the television blaring or a man grumbling. Your fridge is not marred with alcohol. 

On the morning of the third week, there is a forearm around your waist.  

You startle until you feel John’s voice purr against your ear as he wishes you good morning. His comfort fuzzies your mind to the point you don’t even bother to ask him why he’s here, or why his chest is pressed against your back. Instead, your muscles relax, body morphing to the shape of him. 

“Is everything okay?” you ask. 

John nuzzles his nose into the back of your neck. “Of course they are.” 

Truly, they are. He’s here in this bed with you, half naked and lazy, enjoying the way the daybreak gleams across your form. Everything is just as it ought to be—

—at least where you’re concerned. 

You have yet to notice the reports of your fictitious murder, or how the police found your diary where you recounted the events of your abuse. You have yet to notice the news of your husband’s arrest, or how he’s being charged with second degree murder.

You have yet to notice the fresh flowers resting on your nightstand, or the new ring on your left hand. 

But John tells himself you’ll learn all about this in due time. 

“How long are you here for?” you question, voice thick with your lingering slumber. 

John’s grin sticks to the back of your neck. 

“For the rest of my life.” 

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

More Dwobbit Frodo! This time it’s baby Frodo with his adad! I was given on discord the idea dwarves wearing baby wraps to carry their babies with them and I loved it so much I just knew I had to draw Thorin carrying Frodo in one. In the first one Frodos maybe 1 years old? His crazy amount of hair is explained by his dwarven genes lmfaoo. In the second one he’s maybe a few months old. Anyway- I love the trope of a tough guy with a small babe, that’s literally them.