I'm glad we all agree about that backwoods hick of an elf from the holler, Legolas, but I think we need to acknowledge his trust fund boyfriend, Gimli son of investment banker Gloin also.


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I'm glad we all agree about that backwoods hick of an elf from the holler, Legolas, but I think we need to acknowledge his trust fund boyfriend, Gimli son of investment banker Gloin also.
Seven Sentence Sunday because why not?
CW: jealousy (I seem to be writing a lot of that lately, hm)
"Gimli's made no mention of friends in these parts," Legolas muses, and Aragorn is not a good enough man to let him drop it.
"Do you expect him to tell you about every Dwarf he's ever known wherever we go?"
"The one's that make him laugh like that, yes," the Elf snaps, turning his unsettling gaze on the ranger now. Behind him, the new Dwarf roars something in Khuzdul that sets Gimli into a coughing fit, cheeks merry and pink. Legolas turns back to them with something not unlike a pout marring his pretty face. "What do you think they're speaking of?"
"Oh, old drunken tales, no doubt. Pretty, bearded women and wrestling matches turned tussles, turned…" he cuts himself of for fear of the positively lethal look his Elven friend is giving him now because he may have an appetite for meddling, but he is also in possesion of a healthy aversion to genuine Elven wrath.
Braided, Together
Gigolas drabble leaning heavily on the fanon trope of Dwarvish and Elvish braids/braiding Meaning Something, in which I completely refuse to explain that concept because I'm lazy, and this is just a silly little blurb. Have mercy.
CW: Cultural misunderstandings. One-sided pining (or is it?)
Gimli hates to be a novelty.
More so, he hates to be an Elf's novelty. It tries his patience like nothing else, the feel of those unearthly blue eyes boring a hole through him all hours of the day, just as slow and grating as any stone auger. The damn lad never even seemed to sleep, his silent sentinel kept every night with his eyes trained on Gimli's roll. Legolas didn't bother to pretend anymore either, meeting Gimli's gaze levelly any time the Dwarf tried to catch him in the act.Shameless in a way Gimli had never expected an Elf to be. Even when asked what good he was as a watchman if he was going to spend the whole night starting at his own company, the Elf had only grinned, pale eyes glimmering like tourmaline in the dark, and quipped about how much more superior Elves were about concentrating on multiple things at once, or how he needed only his sublime hearing and no more than three arrows to keep the company safe.
Gimli had never been much of a miner, but sometimes his hand longed for a pickax, something to wrest the pretty jewels from the Elf's eye sockets. He'd settle for working them out with his own thumbs right about now, with the piercing weight of them fixed upon him as he works oil into his beard. It had been bad enough while he'd bathed - to know his body was such an oddity to the lithe little bastard - but this was somehow worse. Gimli is a proud Dwarf, knows he cuts an impressive figure. Would never let some whisper-thin lark of an Elf make of him a green boy, cowering in shame of his own body. He's a fine beard, too, but this appraisal is different. Too intimate, maybe. Weighs against the growing insecurities brought about by travel, more like.
The journey has been long and hard, is the problem. Gimli has barely had time to bathe regularly, let alone the means to perform any sort of proper maintenance, and to have it be made into a spectacle - to have his differences so highlighted even as he works to make it more 'acceptable' to current company? Never mind it being a traditionally private affair?
He's never been known as a particularly patient Dwarf, mind.
Not sure I'll ever flesh this out fully, but some things I think Legolas gets off to the most re his strong, dwarven lover:
CW: Mild scent kink. Size difference, but not in the way you'd think. Threat of CBT, I guess, but nothing happens and everyone's into it. Bit of humiliation, as a treat. Perhaps OOC but everyone needs to cut loose sometimes. MDNI
Loves nestling between between Gimli's thick thighs so he can bury his nose in the hinge of his hips. He likes the smell of him, so alive and full of vigor. More than that, he likes watching as the stout dwarf struggles to accommodate him. Legolas is not broad, has never been, and he likes knowing Gimli's muscled hips simply are not built to let him in. (Really likes knowing he does so anyway, too.) And though it took a bit of adjustment, he likes watching his pale, slender fingers combing through the thick hair on Gimli's legs. His belly, when he's finally got his thick cock sheathed in his throat and can't even look up to see the dwarf's face for the belt of thick muscle and soft fat that overhangs him.
Will never have his fill of the way Gimli carves a place for himself, as though Legolas is nothing more than one more cavern to excavate and claim. Gimli is proportionately thick, and the stretch is always enough to get the elf's breath hitching, a novelty he's not sure he'll ever get used to.
He's never been with someone who can so easily hold him down, or fold and press into him until even Legolas can feel the stretch, lithe muscles pulled tight and strained as Gimli lets him bear his full, impressive weight.
Each time Gimli takes Legolas's cock in hand, there's a real knife's edge moment where Legolas realizes this dwarf could unman him, root and stem, but he's only ever helpless but to fold his hand over the back of Gimli's broad hand, fucking up into it when he feels how lax and steady and gentle his lover is being because tolo na, Elbereth Glithonial, no one has ever needed be easy with him and it makes him feel less-than. Mortal, maybe. Alive.
And what if Gimli knows exactly what does it for him? What if Legolas catches fragments of Khuzdul, just enough words to get the gist. Sweet thing. Little treasure. He never thought he'd be called little, let alone by a dwarf, but damn him if it doesn't have his back arching off the bed.
More for @acorn-and-oakleaves 's Shire Summer Festival. Gonna keep combining two prompts each time cause it means I have to write less hahaha
prompts: "Are we both seeing that?" & "No, wait!"
Festival Masterlist
Dwalin finds his brother on a little crest of hill overlooking the camp one night, about two months into their quest. This isn't unusual, Balin has always sought peace and quiet in which to gather his thoughts. It's one of few, yet crucial similarities the brothers have always shared, even when they were young, their temperaments and tempers mixing like oil and water, they'd always shared a mutual understanding that sometimes - often, when Dwalin was still a tempestuous little Dwarfling - the best way to forgive one another, was to get the hell away from each other.
Which is why it's odd now, grown and come around the bend on their youthful misalignment, to know he's welcome in his brother's quiet reverie. Odder still to know he's not the cause.
Balin doesn't greet him as he sinks into place beside him, but he does scooch ever so slightly to the side to give him some more room and that's good enough for Dwalin. He doesn't smoke much anymore, but he takes a minute to watch Balin's pipe glow in the dark, a cherry little coal kept alive by the Dwarf's angry puffing.
He's not entirely certain what's transpired, but knows that look well enough by now.
"He'll come around," Dwalin says eventually, and contents himself to receive no answer. There's no need for one anyway, not when they both know who he means; not when they both know the truth of it, their king's temper growing shorter the closer they came to achieving - or missing - their goal, his forgiveness following just as quickly. It's made for a real ball buster of a quest, but it is heartening to know Thorin can accept criticism, even if it takes him a few days and many surly looks to do so.
Which is why he's surprised when Balin bothers to acknowledge his words at all, his lips curling in a wry smile around the stem of his pipe. "Believe he already has," he says, nodding at the circle of their encampment below, and Dwalin's gaze follows.
"By my beard," he mutters, eyes locked on the figure of their stoic young king. "Are both seeing this?"
"If what you're seeing is a lovesick fool of a Dwarf trying his damndest to braid a courting lock into a Hobbit's sleek little mop of hair, then aye, we see the same thing."
Barduil cracks me up so much. Delivery guy porno fantasy. From a king.
Combining two of @/acorn-and-oakleaves Shire Summer Festival prompts (might continue to do it this way as I am notoriously awful at completing these, and this would be easier.)
Prompts are: "I should very much like to kiss you right now" & "Please, put that down"
CW: jealousy. Not proof read.
Festival Masterlist
The sun is still low enough to stream through Bilbo's little window when he settles down at his desk. It's the perfect writing conditions: warm, golden light warming his face and hands, a mug of tea to warm the rest of him. There's a gaggle of women gathering round outside preparing for nice picnic on the river later and he's half a mind to see if they'd like company, but he decides he'd rather keep it for later. Besides, it wouldn't do to invite oneself along. Better to just make his own way down when he's finished with a nice snack of his own in arms and make such pleasant conversation they'll have no choice but to ask him to sit with them, he decides, taking another sip of his tea. He sighs in delight, noting the subtler tones of the blend, brewed to perfection. Yes, that'll be the way of it. But first, the writing needs done.
Eyes still closed as he revels in the soft hours between second breakfast and elevensies, his hands move on muscle memory alone, nib finding ink, soft press against the pad to ensure there will be no blots -
But he must not have done a very good job of it, because he only manages to stare in confusion at his empty easel for no longer than three seconds before the first ink drop falls to the desk with a definitive plop.
Two more from @acorn-and-oakleaves 's Summer Shire Festival :)
Prompts: "What's the last thing you tried?" & "You look good in my shirt." CW: Established relationship. Vague timeline, but Frodo is just a little thing
Festival Masterlist
The little Hobbit had said he couldn't come to tea dressed as he was. Thorin had had a few problems with that verdict (not least being that there wasn't even to be tea, because the whole thing was a childish game, young Hobbits apparently more inclined to play at fake meals than fake swords because they were ridiculous creatures, the lot of them) but he was powerless to refuse when Bilbo's young nephew turned his big blue eyes on him. He had one of Bilbo's fine little housecoats in hand, held aloft like some great gift, and Thorin had tried to reason with him, had insisted the item wouldn't fit properly and he'd simply end up looking just as underdressed as he already did, but the lad was beyond reason, and likewise, Thorin was beyond his ability to deny him, so there'd he sat in his much-too-small dress code, and there he still sits, straining and bound by surprisingly sturdy seam work, when Bilbo returns form his errands.