Sick To My Stomach

bi4bi(4bi) appreciation for my soul and peace

Redrew two of my sketchbook works in digital while I'm having a crisis with my usual artstyle

(1/2)

The whole crew is so silly

Continuing with my silly little fic

https://archiveofourown.org/works/50958742/chapters/128742031

He's not coping well

Hurting myself at this point

Life will be full of heartbreaks but not a single one of them will hit as hard as the boy who buys you a popsicle on a train station in 2005

I'd post something like "me every time historical fanfiction gets turned into a smutty slutty horny musical" but the shitshow that went down for decades so that MOR could exist is truly one of a kind

we all know and love smitten-yet-ridden-with-guilt-and-insecurities-Thorin, so here - I wrote some!

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Gandalf was right; Thorin is not cutting a very fine figure as King Under the Mountain. He knows that much, his bruise-dark undereyes and unkempt hair hardly adding to his already lacklustre appearance (much still needs done, and rest is for those more deserving than he). He had, however, not shorn his beard since the Battle, and while poorly maintained, the little length since gained might mask his less appealing facets. Maybe.

Thorin had never been a vain dwarf. His faults were many, he could see that much now (…not a ssssingle… the memories still makes his skin crawl), but vanity had rarely tormented him, despite having long been aware he would never hold any great dwarven beauty. Kili's pitiful beard was a family heirloom, of sorts; the line of Durin had seen many an unpolished gem. However…

Curls of spun gold, framing steely eyes. A mouth cut from stone…

Now, this was rather late in life to wish he had been born with some beauty to tempt with. His hammer bears down on the white-hot metal once more. If the thoughts could not be forced from his mind, his hands would force them into his craft. The blade is taking shape. Thorin was confident in his smithing; bending metal to his will had always come easier than attempting to do the same with the councils of Erebor. He would not falter now. And yet, as the garden trowel glows under his attention and the flames of his forge, he worries. It is not a courting gift, he swears it. Bilbo has simply found a patch of weeds in one of the less collapsed atriums of the outer wings, and how he had shone when he told the company of the things he would grow there.

Thorin is glad for it. Carving a garden from the rockface would have been much harder to explain away as a token of their friendship. But oh, to have Bilbo take root here like this. Plant your trees, watch them grow… Would Thorin get to see that acorn again? Would it make his heart claw its way out of his chest to lay itself bare for a hobbit that would never spare a longing glance for the likes of him? No… Thorin shakes his head with a rueful smile as he douses the finished tool in cold water, steam hissing. If Bilbo Baggins were ever to have his head turned by a dwarf, it would surely be someone much more handsome than this haggard King. The Shire has no kings, and Thorin was glad for it - it would be infinitely worse could he entertain the idea that Bilbo might come to admire the lustre of his crown, even if never that of his smile.

Thorin carves his maker's mark into the wooden handle, wincing at his own shameful indulgence, and yet unable to truly regret it. Thorin would provide his gem with the tools to plant his garden, and if Bilbo would stay a single day longer than planned to tend to it… Well, the whole of the mountain should be merrier for it. Yes, he decides, a set of gardening tools could not hurt. The sketches of a hundred courting bead designs covering his desk could yet be contained if he permits his heart this less perilous outlet.