@hildyj keeps giving me nice things all the time, so I kinda filled a prompt of theirs, “enjoying each other’s company just before/after sex, maybe tickling/teasing each other? (…) Sweet and maybe a bit cheeky/humourous?”
(before) Bilbo cheekily honking at Thorin’s thing and also (after) a Bilbo jetpack for you, my sweet, brilliant, lovely HildyJ who keeps writing gorgeous things for us!!! ♥
Determamfidd has tagged me in this, and thereby sneakily arranged for another sneak peek of my current WIP, which we saw yesterday in mangled form as Regulus and Emily! 😀 Here’s a rather more accurate textual response to the meme:
WIP Game Rules: Go to page 7 of your WIP, count down 7 lines, share 7 sentences, and then tag 7 other writers.
If they’re not married, then they’re the next best thing to married. Basically. In my mind, tremendously frantic frottage counts!
It strikes me now that they both might consider it differently. To Gimli, that was most definitely sex, no bones about it (PUN, LOOKIT THE PUN). To Legolas, he might consider the ‘act of joining’ (to put it delicately) to be the thing. Either way, another Elf would be able to tell that Legolas has had… something happen, if they looked at his eyes right after Snowmelt.
But that ‘act of joining’ is barrelling towards us, the way I have it planned, so that’s a moot point! By the time Aragorn’s marriage rolls around and all the Elven guests arrive, there’ll be no question as to whether Legolas is similarly hitched. They’ll be able to discern it immediately.
So yeah, you’re not too far off the mark, Nonnie! Galadriel and Gandalf would be all YESS IT’S CANON HOT DAMN *Ship Captains high-five*
(and yup, I will be writing another side-fic for that ‘wedding night’ ksjdhfljsa)
You have blond hair, he has brown hair. You always have blond hair, he always has brown hair. You dye your hair brown, but suddenly his hair is blond, and you feel as though maybe you are him, and he is you, and you have blond hair again, and he has brown hair.
His gaze is impossibly fond, his eyes are impossibly blue, he pulls you impossibly closer, your heart beats impossibly fast, the bulge in his pants is impossibly hard, he should maybe get that checked out.
You don’t remember ever working out and yet you look down and see you have a six pack. When you next see yourself in the mirror you have an eight pack. When he takes of your shirt you have ten, twelve abs. You’re scared to look again in case there are more.
His eyes change colour depending on his moods. At first you thought it was a trick of the light, but now you’re not so sure. They switch between blue, green and grey. Once you thought you saw a flicker of red. You make sure to kiss with your eyes closed now.
You’re white, and so is he. Sometimes he’s your enemy, but you still love him, don’t you? Of course, it makes sense. You’re not sure what you like about him, exactly, but there must be something, right? There’s this intangible thing between you, isn’t there? You feel like you may have more chemistry with your non-white friend, but that can’t be right.
You don’t remember taking your clothes off but you’re naked now. Well, all you remember is toeing out of your shoes. You always toe out of them, although you don’t quite know what that means.
Your pronouns mix into a blur and you no longer know where you end and he begins… You reach out your hand to his hand on his arm… your arm… his… You are sitting and he straddles you but is facing away… There are hands everywhere…
THE ACCURACY HURTS.
You smell like sandlewood. You don’t know what sandlewood even IS.
Once your shoes are off, you pad everywhere. You try to walk, but you can’t, your feet don’t comply. Your only option if you want to get from room to room is to pad.
Your tongues battle for dominance. There can be only one victor. One tongue is not walking away from this battle. Will it be yours?
He tastes like smoke and wine, whatever he had for dinner, and something distinctly him. You don’t know what that taste is or where it comes from… only that it is distinctly…him…
Is he The Smaller Man? Or The Larger Man? Are you The Pale Man? Are you The Slender Man? The Blond Man? You no longer have a name… you are just an epithet.
You thought you were about the same size, but, the clothes come off… and he’s The Larger Man. So large. He’s got six inches on you. You can tuck your head under his chin. Ten inches now… is he growing? Are you shrinking?
this is reminding me that Elves do not in fact celebrate their birthdays, they celebrate their conception instead
and so, once a year, Thranduil would have done this. Once a year. ONCE A YEAR
“…SO THAT WAS THE SIXTEENTH TIME, AND NO LUCK. BUT THEN THE SEVENTEENTH TIME, YOU WERE MADE AND IT WAS SO JOYOUS, SO BEAUTIFUL. WE WERE UPSIDE DOWN IN A TREE AT THE TIME, THERE WAS WHIPPED CREAM AND GLITTER GLUE EVERYWHERE. I’D BROUGHT THE CLOTHESPEGS AND SPATULA, AND YOUR MOTHER WAS-”
Aw Yiss 