I Love Them So Much I Might Die

I love them so much i might die

The GIGGS & Co. mega-compilation

(HUGE volume and flashing lights warning)

Whatever the opposite of a writer’s block is, I have it and now I want to write like nobody’s business. So! Those who come across this, feel free to throw me a request!

Key -

Type of writing

Oneshot 🌻, Word Vomit 🌿, Poem 🍂, Analysis 🥀

How the character is related to the work

Perspective character 🌕, Main Character 🌖, Central Side Character 🌗, Peripheral Side Character 🌘, Mentioned Character 🌑

I will write prompts including:

Rings of Power

- Young Galadriel

- Young Sauron

- Young Elrond

- Durin

- Disa

- Young Gandalf

- Nori Brandyfoot

- Arondir

- Bronwyn

The Hobbit

- Thorin Oakenshield

Voice like a drum, love like a melody 🌻🌖

- Bilbo Baggins

Voice like a drum, love like a melody🌻🌕

- Gandalf the Grey

- Any members of the company, just may need to do some extra research and it will be delayed a tad

-Thranduil

-Bard the Bowman

Lord of the Rings

-Gandalf the White

- Aragorn

- Legolas Greenleaf

- Gimli

- Frodo Baggins

- Samwise Gamgee

- Pippin Took

- Merry Brandybuck

- Boromir

- Faramir

- Eowyn

- Eomer

- Theoden

Dream SMP

- C!Tommy

A Lighthouse and a Void 🥀🌑

- C!Tubbo

A Lighthouse and a Void 🥀🌖

- C!Philza

A Lighthouse and a Void 🥀🌑

- C!Karl

Flame🍂🌑

- C!Ranboo

A Lighthouse and a Void🥀🌖

- C!Technoblade

- C!Quackity

Flame🍂🌖

- C!Charlie

Flame🍂🌗

-C!Fundy

In and Out (Of Sync)🌿🌕

-C!Wilbur (I will not write about him again, but I am proud of the work I have done with him)

Life Before You🌿🌕

Flame🍂🌗

In and Out (Of Sync)🌿🌑

If asked, I can also talk about my oc’s:

Searing, Scorching, Blistering

Modern Fantasy

Wherein two brothers attempting to lay low from their oppressive colonizers get swept into a underground society consisting of heists, blackmailing, and corruption. As they navigate their relationship with each other and themselves, could they learn to trust again?

- Wiljem

An Introduction to my Searing, Scorching, Blistering original characters 🥀🌖

- Taher

An Introduction to my Searing, Scorching, Blistering original characters 🥀🌖

- Liizesk

An Introduction to my Searing, Scorching, Blistering original characters 🥀🌖

- Rahn

An Introduction to my Searing, Scorching, Blistering original characters 🥀🌖

- Aire

An Introduction to my Searing, Scorching, Blistering original characters 🥀🌖

- Jeb

An Introduction to my Searing, Scorching, Blistering original characters 🥀🌖

- Tirakem

An Introduction to my Searing, Scorching, Blistering original characters 🥀🌖

Apprentices!

Semi-Satire Fantasy

In a world long after the dark lord evil thing gets destroyed, it is a rite of passage to go on a journey to mark the end of their apprenticeship, mirroring the tales of old. But, is there any real quests left? 5 apprentices and their resident exhausted chaperone expect nothing when they set out on a simple transportation mission. However, there is something deeper brewing within their adventure.

- Aminah

- Ikal

- Ruaridh

- Xhemal

- Dumi

- Aglaia

- Linh

- Yati

- Iustus

- Folayan

- Ailean

- Ix Kaknab

- Phiesak

In and Out (Of Sync)

A short story about Fundy, and how he interacts with water and his family.

Words: 610

Trigger warnings: Brief mention of grief, death, and blood

⛈️🦊🕯️

He stood where the land met the rolling waves, watching as the wind picked up and threw the water down again. Pushing. Pulling. Pushing. And pulling again.

A breath. In and out. Pushing and pulling.

The air was wet and cold. Sharp.

A breath. In and out. A push. A pull.

He brought his arms above his head, slowly. And then down again. Push, pull. In, out.

Again. A breath. In and out. Up and down. Push and pull.

One leg over the other, bare feet on freezing sand, sticking to his skin despite quick spins.

In and out and up and down and push and pull and forward and backward.

Feeling the sea and the land colliding, eyes closed, he moves his body in harmony. In tandem. In sync. In and out.

Hands on his chest and then off. On and off.

Eyes open and then closed. Open and closed.

Arm over arm. Over and then under.

Blood warm. Warm and cold.

Memories swimming. Swimming and drowning.

Hands being held and let go.

A mother and a father.

Dead. Alive.

He’s alive. In and out and open and under and closed and swimming and off and dead and alive and in and out.

A raindrop on his nose. And arm. And head. And open eyes.

Drawn to the sea like his mother before him. Drawn to his mother like his father. Scared like a father. Curious like a mother. Dead. And alive.

And yet so peaceful.

A mother’s voice.

In.

“I’m here, Fundy. I see you, my son.”

And out.

Grief, Fundy has found, has a push and a pull. It came in suffocating waves and fast currents. High and low tide. Receding shorelines and tsunamis.

Fundy never knew his mother, so he began to dance again. The rain hit him with increasing intensity.

And yet, there are bright shining memories of her at the edge of his vision. A sure voice.

Especially by the water. He could feel her in the push and the pull. The neverending cycle from sea to sky and back again.

He reached his arm out with closed eyes, lunging parallel to the sea.

Memories of pictures and stories told by his father flooded through Fundy, clenched his chest, furrowed his eyebrows.

He knew his father.

Such confusion and anger surrounded, clouded his father. Peace, his mother. Chaos, his father.

In.

Sweltering heat.

In.

Fire.

In.

The taste of warm blood.

In.

A lighting strike.

In.

Explosions.

In.

A comforting hug.

Out.

In.

Fundy closed his eyes.

Out.

He leaned backwards, out of the lunge, into a stretch.

The rain moved swiftly onwards towards the mainland. Fundy watched it go. As the thunder continued to clap and lightning lit up the sky, Fundy could hear the booming message.

In.

His father’s voice

“Fundy, my son. How proud of you I am.”

Out.

In.

And

Fundy brang his feet to meet each other, one arm outstretched towards the storm and the other reaching towards the calming sea.

In and out but both moving.

Pushing and pulling and both changing.

Up and down but both infinite.

Forward and backward but both steps.

On and off and open and closed and over and under and warm and cold and swimming and drowning and holding and letting go and dead and alive and it’s all the same.

The storm and the sea. Both are made of water.

Both are the same.

Everything. From the sun in the sky to the sand on the beach. The plants growing and the animals that eat them.

In one singular moment, Fundy felt that peace. The certainty. The balance. The understanding.

Out.

Flame

A word vomit about c!quackity and how he interacts with the world

Word count: 510

The flame was calling out to me like a siren’s song

Warm and inviting

Bright, inspiring

Glass floors and glass windows

Watching the sun come and go

A Bobeche is reaching out to me like a martyr, caught up in an age-old war

Looked into your eyes, unfamiliar gold pooling there

The rain bore down on my skin, mixed with my blood sweat and fucking tears

This whole time, I fought for you while you were forgetting me all along.

I’ve done things a monster couldn’t fathom

I am cruel. I am curt. I am undeserving.

The axe in my hands speaks, judge jury and executioner

Standing at the grave of an enemy, in death I envy you

You travel beyond the turbulence of your mistakes

I’ve scared a lot of people

Don’t know if that counts as hurting.

Or maybe I just failed at the hurting part, only intimidating before they call my bluff

Small boxes and sprawling skylines, chasing a feeling of home I never had

Going through the motions, just to look back and say I did

This all feels so familiar, i’ve smelled this candle before

Left burning while everyone goes out to a party

Stuck.

But, not stuck alone. No.

Surrounded by things to find pleasure in.

And yet, everything I touch burns instead of smiling

Is there anything more gratifying than taking a few papers, a table, a dream, a child down with you as you plummet?

Maybe it’s because the candle is worried that no one will notice if it blows out.

People will notice a house fire, though.

The candle won’t be blamed. The candle has no feelings. The candle is only an extension of the lighter, that is an extension of the person holding the lighter.

Lighter, touch me. If I am going to burn, let it be a pretty match to set me off. Oh, how I’ve watched you rust and peel, Lighter. You are not the shiny thing you once were. But, that potential for destruction has always burned inside you. Just had to squint your eyes, and we look the same.

You light a cigarette and sit next to me. You tell me what you want. I tell you what I need. Never the same things.

I am sick. I am sick and twisted probably, so far gone. I have never been lower before, will never be higher again.

You, Lighter, you find purpose in me. And I find satisfaction in you, and a quicker death.

I will never envy you, Lighter.

I will die. You will become useless, still alive but without purpose. You will sit by my grave, jealous of travel beyond the turbulence of mistakes.

Oh, Bobeche, catching my scalding wax. I am sorry that I bleed out into you

We are tied to each other, stuck like a candle to a candlestick.

I know that I am hurting you, I know that I should conserve myself.

But, it is Warm and inviting

Bright, inspiring

Drawn to the Lighter like a moth is to a

you ever think about the rtd1? it's rusting spaceships and tangles wires. Cardiff Warf. that warm glow. Overcoats. cluttered apartments and 2000s fashion. its mascara and camp in just the right way for people to forget it. it's roses smile and donna's hoop earings. it's all the different shades of brown and that one shade of blue. it's watching the stars in the backyard with a thermos of tea. its the practical effect aliens. the coral tardis bathed in green light. its vworping/ its the history in the doctor's eyes and the way you know this man has a family. he's your best friend and your dad and you know the doctor is going to protect you. it's snow on Christmas eve. it's about being a solider in a war, any war, because it's always the same. it's downing street and those london houses layouts in every era they go to with the doors with windows at the top and staircase being the first thing on the right. it's the desperation in the doctors voice when he talks to the daleks. it's old, not ancient, but old and cobbled together. it is hope. it Is always hope.

Voice like a drum, love like a melody

🍂A Baggenshield angst word vomit because I love them🪨

⚠️Warning⚠️

The Hobbit Spoilers and Major Character Death

Word Count: 1407

I have never said I am a perfect man. Polite to a fault, kind as often as I can, truthful when it exists out of the realm of my greed. I am not perfect, and I am well aware of many of my shortcomings as they have made themselves evident over the course of my life.

When I was just a young thing, my father caught me scruffing with a wild fox over a branch neither of us had ever seen before. We had no claim over it, we laid eyes on it at roughly the same time. And yet, we both believed we had a divine right to this dead appendage of a birch tree. My yelling alerted my father, a slender man with a larger brain than anyone. That fact nearly made up for his lack of labor ability. And yet, the fox and I were tired enough that he was able to pry us apart. We must’ve been exhausted, for my father lost the strength to carry me a few months before. I was furious with him for letting the fox get away, and he held me still from squirming. He asked me if I needed the stick. Although I yelled that I did, he knew there was no true reason as I couldn’t give him one. It was then he realized that my greediness of youth would likely follow me to my older years. So, he gave me a rule to hopefully quell or confine it.

“Never take someone else’s need for your wants.” He shook me and let me fall onto the dirty, thornful forest floor and that was the end of the discussion.

And I have followed this advice as often as the opportunity has presented itself. For this reason, I have held myself with the title of a humble man for a long time. I acknowledge that once a humble man announces this, he will lose said title. And, yet, I continue. Because I lost my humility two years ago. I have spent the last two years trying to rope it back to me, but it has eluded me. Finally, with the encouragement of memories of friends eating away at my mind, I have caved and will finally describe this moment in pen, in hopes that doing so will allow it to cease being described behind my eyes every waking moment; even further into my dreams.

He had a voice like the banging of a drum, deep and rolling as the ocean. For the longest time I felt as though love was the wrong word. It was more comfort than love, like a warm bath. He wore dark furs that covered him like scales cover a dragon or a vault covers a treasure. He strode with urgency, commanded with the bravery of a general, gazed at others with rarely a hint of kindness.

When trying to understand him, one must first understand the true language he spoke. His truest of intentions were not found in common or dwarvish, his face or his hands; but his eyes, oh, they held so much. They would stare at me so intensely across the campsite, I would think he was scolding me like an enemy. They would follow my every move, ready to sneer. If eyes could have killed back then, I would have been dead for decades by now.

Every step I took, I seemed to want his approval more and more. Like a river carving a mountain, slowly but surely I was adamant to convince him of one thing and one thing alone; that I deserved to be there. Among warriors and kings and the wisest of our time, I was just a humble hobbit who longed to be right and thirsted for a story to tell.

I quickly found that the task I had set for myself was impossible. There was nothing I could do for Thorin’s favor that would grant me it. The reason was very simple: It is impossible to convince someone of something that you yourself do not believe in.

This changed after our run in with the Orcs of the underground and our skirmish with the Living Mountain. Made to fend for myself after being separated from the group, I will say I even impressed myself with how I managed to escape. (However, my dear reader, that is a tale for another day.) In that moment, I felt surer than anything that I had proven myself. And that is when it began.

I began to see the sun reflect in his eyes, and began to see that he softened ever so slightly when he laid eyes on me. I saw that he began to really, truly see me; and I, him. On such a cold, treacherous journey, with so much left lying ahead of us, eye contact and conversations that felt like a spring afternoon were more than welcome. So, we hid during the day and shone like the sun at night, watching each other like how mortals watch stars.

We orbited one another like spinning magnets, like turning planets. It felt otherworldly, the admiration I could see him hold for me. Running from wargs and resting in glades blurred all the same, an underlying delight lightened everything. Suddenly, the room stopped when I opened my mouth. The world was brighter, laughter was louder, even anger didn’t last as long nor as bad.

I belonged among kings and warriors and wise ones. Not only because I was coming into my own, but also because I was now able to see that all these people of legends were also vulnerable and gay and excitable; and just like me.

Now, my dear reader, I am sure you are wondering when I lost my humility. I have been selfish in this writing, omitting what you are truly here for. For that, I apologize. But, please offer some sympathy to an old man, cursed to remember his life in a better light than it had truly ever shown. Over these many years I have found that the sun will never shine brighter than in a memory. But, I have held you in suspense long enough.

It was the battle of the five armies. Around me was chaos and bloodshed and fear and death. Something had been rifted between Thorin and I, about the arkenstone. A sickness had come over him, like how a dragon covers his treasure. The clouds blotted out the sun in his eyes, moving too erratically to reflect the love I once knew. Love still feels odd to say. But, it is the truth.

I hate to admit it, but I was embarrassed to have missed the entire battle. I was rendered unconscious quickly into the clash, and I woke up too late. I once confided in Balin and he asked what I thought I was late for. My chest ached and my eyes darted and he knew.

I was late to reach Thorin. Too late to protect him. Too late to call for a healer or take the blow instead. The nasty, nasty wound, killing my one love. My spring, my sun, my warmth. I threw myself over him, hands trembling and voice refusing to be used.

He grasped my arm like a vice and looked at me like a star. My mountain, my rock, he was slowly drifting away. His sturdy voice was telling me what we both knew, and then he was pulling me closer.

As the lips I had longed after for so long touched me so tenderly, as I finally reached the end of my journey to reach him, I could so keenly feel the cold of the world around me eating at my skin. I could hear every slash and clang of combat. He was kissing me with such a need.

And I was too late to kiss back with my want. By the time I returned the kiss, his lips were becoming as cold as the snow and his body went limp like a pile of rocks. And I lost him.

I am not a humble man. Friends I forged in the fire of danger, I left behind. I am selfish. I left his memory, his legacy, his love behind. Every night I laid in bed, trying to forget that Thorin died not knowing that I, Bilbo Baggens, man of so many faults and so much love, had kissed him back.