I can't tell where your hair ends and mine begins
Only one mug of brown ale had she drunk before they slipped away, yet Rosie felt dizzy, carefree and gay. Marigol’s soft body against her own, Marigol’s red-gold curls slipping between her fingers. She had tied it back with bright green ribbons and white daisies, now lost somewhere amidst the hay.
Two hobbit-girls in a hayloft.
read on ao3
0.9k, Mature, Marigol/Rose Cotton, No Archive Warnings Apply, Fluff, Making Out, Romance, Kissing in a Hayloft, interruptions, Spiders, Hobbits, Light-Hearted, with just a whisper of comphet angst












