How Is It That Almost Every Time They Stand Together Like This They Look Like A Married Couple?

How is it that almost every time they stand together like this they look like a married couple?

First in Bag End

The path had led him through the green, rolling hills of the Shire, with its freshly tilled earth, gardens teeming with life, and flower boxes brimming from windowsills. He took it all in, but found it difficult to describe the peace and tranquility of this land—an unfamiliar feeling for one who had seen much strife.

He had never heard of the Shire, not by name nor by reputation, and upon his arrival, the lush landscape overwhelmed him. It was unexpected, this calm, this peacefulness—a far cry from the dark and sorrowful halls of the Blue Mountains.

A small, elderly hobbit, burdened by a sack of rice, stumbled near him. Thorin reached out instinctively, steadying the sack with ease.

"Thank ye, laddie!" the hobbit exclaimed, his weathered face lighting up with gratitude.

Thorin held the sack a moment longer. "Where shall I take this for you?" His voice held a quiet uncertainty, for his garb and stature drew the eyes of curious onlookers. He was an outsider here, and the gaze of the Shirefolk upon him felt both curious and judgmental.

"Oh, there's no need, none at all! I can manage from here," the old hobbit replied, tipping his hat in thanks before reclaiming the sack with a slight bow.

With a sigh, Thorin breathed in the fresh air. Gandalf said I would know Bag End when I saw it, he mused, his eyes drifting to the peculiar homes of the hobbits—each one built under the hills, their round doors set like jewels in the earth. It amused him to think of the dirt that must settle within, though the people themselves appeared anything but unkempt.

One door in particular caught his attention: a perfectly round green door with a brass knob set squarely in its center. He paused momentarily before moving on, continuing his search through the village. His feet carried him toward the market, where laughter and lighthearted chatter filled the air. The spirits of the Shirefolk were infectious, and Thorin felt a flicker of something he had long since buried—hope.

Amidst the market's bustling energy, a voice caught his ear. "Now, I don't suppose you've seen a Wizard lurking about?" The voice was that of a finely dressed hobbit, polished and perhaps a touch arrogant in his manner.

"A tall fellow? Long, gray beard? Pointy hat?" the farmer replied, shaking his head. "Can't say I have."

Before the conversation could unfold further, the hobbit rushed off, leaving Thorin to ponder. A Wizard… Could this be the one Gandalf mentioned? He followed the hobbit at a distance, careful to remain unnoticed, for he had no desire to make a poor impression on the fourteenth member of their company.

Soon, Thorin found himself standing before the same round green door he had passed earlier. As he examined it closely, he noticed a symbol etched discreetly upon its surface. He nearly groaned aloud—he had walked right by the very place he sought. So much for my directional sense.

He watched as the hobbit entered the house, and Thorin, unsure of his next move, sat quietly on a small bench nearby. For a moment, he allowed himself to breathe in the stillness, the tranquility of this place. A fleeting thought crossed his mind—could he one day live in such peace? Perhaps, when Erebor was reclaimed and his crown secured, he might retire to a small home here, far from the weight of the throne. The idea brought a rare smile to his face.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden glow over the Shire, Thorin rose and approached the door. He knocked firmly, and after a moment, it creaked open to reveal a hobbit, staring up at him with wide, startled eyes.

"Uh—who—"

"Thorin Oakenshield," he introduced himself with a small nod. "And you must be the hobbit."

The hobbit blinked in confusion. "Hobbit? Well, yes, I am indeed a hobbit, but... do we know each other?"

"Not yet," Thorin replied with a faint smirk. "You haven’t given me your name."

"Ah, yes! Bilbo Baggins," the hobbit replied, offering his hand hesitantly. Thorin took it, his grip firm.

"Now we know each other," Thorin said. "May I come in?"

Bilbo stepped aside, still clearly flustered. "Well, I suppose so, though I must apologize—I’m not expecting any visitors, and my dinner preparations—"

Thorin stepped inside, shedding his cloak and handing it to Bilbo. The hobbit took it, unsure of where to place it, before hanging it on a nearby peg. Thorin surveyed the hobbit-hole, his first impression upended. Despite being under a hill, the walls were not earthy, but lined with polished wood, the air warm and inviting. It felt... homely.

"You have a fine home, Master Baggins," Thorin said, genuinely pleased.

Bilbo, still a bit taken aback, smiled faintly. "Thank you."

"Where’s your kitchen? I might lend a hand."

Bilbo hurried after him, protesting. "No, no, you’re a guest—uninvited, perhaps, but still a guest!"

Thorin ignored the remark, already inspecting the small kitchen. "You’ll want to prepare more than this, Master Baggins. There will be more guests later this night."

Bilbo’s eyebrows shot up, his voice rising in pitch. “More guests? Who—? Wait! Wait! That’s the pantry!”

Thorin, undeterred, had already begun rummaging through the pantry, pulling out supplies with the practiced ease of a man accustomed to hard work. “Bombur alone could devour half this larder, so you might want to prepare more than this block of cheese.” He placed items on the table. “I’m no master chef, but I can manage slicing and dicing.”

Bilbo stood frozen for a moment, mouth agape, before throwing his hands up in resignation. “Fine! Fine! I suppose you're right.” With a deep breath, he took charge of his kitchen once more, pointing Thorin toward a cutting board and handing him a knife. “Slice these vegetables—thinly, mind you—and mind the pots while I prepare the bread.”

Thorin obeyed, a rare smile playing at the edges of his lips. There was something oddly pleasant about the hobbit’s kitchen, about Bilbo himself, in fact. For the first time in years, Thorin felt the weight on his shoulders lift, if only for a fleeting moment. He worked with surprising ease, the rhythm of the kitchen a welcome distraction from darker thoughts of dragons and distant mountains.

As they worked, Bilbo’s flustered chatter filled the room, though Thorin found it rather amusing.

“What is this even about?” Bilbo finally asked, stirring one of the simmering pots. “I’m preparing a meal for a gathering I know nothing of, and for strangers, no less! Forgive me, but I barely know you, Mister Oakenshield!”

Thorin chuckled softly, shaking his head. “I take it Gandalf neglected to inform you.”

“Gandalf?” Bilbo exclaimed, nearly spilling the soup. “That old wizard! He did say something about an ‘adventure’ this morning, which I very clearly declined.”

“Declined?” Thorin’s brow arched in surprise.

“Yes, declined! I don’t imagine anyone west of Bree has much use for adventures. Certainly not me! Do I look like the sort to go gallivanting off into danger?”

Thorin looked him over appraisingly, eyes twinkling with mirth. “No, if I’m being honest, you look more like a grocer.”

“Well, that wasn’t very nice,” Bilbo muttered, though he couldn’t quite hide the smile tugging at his lips. “I don’t look like a grocer! I could be an adventurer if I wished. Did you know that my great-great-great-great-uncle Bullroarer Took was so large, he could ride a real horse?”

“Is that so?” Thorin indulged him.

“Yes! In the Battle of Green Fields, he charged the goblin ranks, swinging his club with such might that he knocked the Goblin-king’s head clean off! It sailed a hundred yards and landed down a rabbit hole, and thus the battle was won, and the game of golf invented at the same time!”

Bilbo’s pride in the tale was evident, and Thorin couldn’t help but smile, amused by the hobbit’s sudden enthusiasm for adventure—despite his earlier protests.

“Here, taste this,” Bilbo said, interrupting Thorin’s thoughts as he offered a spoonful of the soup.

Thorin leaned in, tasting the broth, and hummed appreciatively. “That is fine soup, Master Baggins.”

“Family recipe,” Bilbo said, clearly pleased with himself.

As the preparations continued, Bilbo busied himself with more tales, and Thorin, to his own surprise, found that he enjoyed listening. It was peaceful, listening to the hobbit’s stories of a life so far removed from his own. Here in this little kitchen, with the warmth of the fire and the simple task of preparing a meal, Thorin felt a rare contentment.

At last, when the table was set and the food prepared, Thorin turned to Bilbo, his tone more serious. “Master Baggins,” he began, startling the hobbit from his task, “I would tell you my story now.”

Bilbo blinked, then nodded, taking a seat as Thorin gestured for him to do so. Thorin sat opposite him, the flickering firelight casting long shadows across the room.

With a deep breath, Thorin recounted the tale of Erebor—of the dragon Smaug, of the desolation wrought upon his people, and of the long, bitter years spent in exile. As he spoke, he watched Bilbo’s face change, amusement giving way to concern, and finally, fear. He couldn’t fault the hobbit for his reaction; it was a story filled with loss and peril.

“I cannot guarantee your safety,” Thorin admitted solemnly, his voice low. “Nor will I be responsible for your fate. But if you are to be what Gandalf believes you can be, we will need your help to reclaim what was stolen from us—our home.”

For a long moment, Bilbo was silent, his small frame hunched under an invisible weight. Thorin could almost see the thoughts turning in his head, the quiet struggle within him. Though they had only just met, Thorin found himself liking the hobbit. He was unsure yet whether he could trust him fully, but if they had met under different circumstances, Thorin thought he might have enjoyed getting to know Bilbo better. Perhaps, in time, they could even have been friends.

“I—I don’t know,” Bilbo stammered at last, his voice shaky. “I’ve never left this place, not once.”

Thorin nodded, thoughtful. He understood the appeal of the Shire, its charm, its tranquility. He even envied it. For all his efforts to make the Blue Mountains his home, they had never truly felt like one. And though Erebor was his birthright, the truth was he no longer knew if it would ever feel like home again.

“At least hear the others out when they arrive,” Thorin said, offering a small smile. “I will not hold you to anything if you choose to decline.”

When Bilbo remained silent, Thorin found himself continuing, his voice tinged with a longing he didn’t quite understand. "But in other circumstances, Master Baggins, I would love nothing more than to sit here, share a cup of tea, and listen to your tales for hours on end.”

Bilbo opened his mouth to reply, but at that moment, the doorbell rang. Both hobbit and dwarf turned to the door.

“They’re here,” Thorin said, standing from the table. He crossed the room and opened the door to greet his company, his expression turning more serious.

As the others filed in, filling the quiet of the place with noise and movement, Thorin found himself wishing for a little more time—just a bit longer with Bilbo, in the peace of his home. But the road ahead called him, with all its dangers and responsibilities. Such peace, he knew, was too much to hope for.

---

So this was inspired by my own musing. Once I have more ideas, I'll probably turn this one into multiple chapters. But for now, I hope you enjoyed this one! ---

Now posted in ao3 as well! xoxo

fanart from House of Feathers, Hall of Night by thatfancygirlinred

More fanarts

Thorin is experiencing his first crush and acts so adorably embarrassing lol look at the second gif he's like "Hmm it's not that interesting- oh oh bilbo is interested. I'm interested too." He is such a cutie 🤣

Bilbo making the king under the mountain act goofy as hell by just existing.

My brother and I ate at a grilled pork and beef restaurant, and now I can't get the smell of smoke out of my clothes, even though I've already taken a second bath. It seems to have stuck to my skin!

I'm currently working, but I've just taken a quick break to write this post. I haven't yet decided what I want this Tumblr blog to be about. I might just use it as a personal journal or focus more on reblogs. I suppose only time will tell.

What should I talk about? I think it might be my hyperfixation. I've been really into The Hobbit trilogy, the Good Omens series and the Our Flag Means Death series lately.

I've just realized that these three have a lot in common. Well, at least for me. They're all middle-aged men and there are two gay people. One is a brooding dark guy, and the other is the soft fluffy man.

I think I have a type when it comes to this kind of thing hahahaha

I think there's something special about media centred on middle-aged men who love each other, whether it's platonic or romantic. I feel like we need more shows like this. There's nothing wrong with young men, but middle-aged guys really have that charm. Or maybe it's just the fujoshi in me speaking.

So, about these characters... They've been through a lot - traumatic, if I might add, because of their friends, one way or another. I just want to wrap them up in a warm blanket and give them hot chocolate with marshmallows.