#legolas

deheerkonijn:

Meet me in the Mirkwood Doob CubeTM in 45 minutes to share a side by side hallucinogenic journey

A ficlet about how wood-elves do recreational drugs ‘cause they’re the rowdy party boys in the elf family. I’m pretty sure that this was born from the proposition that Thorin and Co. didn’t actually get lost in Mirkwood; they just ate some whack ass mushrooms and Thranduil locked them up because they were belligerently high off their asses. But I don’t quite remember because this is from last July haha.

Anyway, content warning for drugs, but it’s a nice experience for Gimli. :)

**

“I see it’s settled in,” Legolas says in an amused tone.

Gimli has hardly noticed, the dizziness crept in on him so slowly - but now he is newly aware of how time buzzes around him, expanding outwards and outwards like a bubble that will not burst, stretching up towards the imitation constellations in the pinhole-ceiling, and yet despite its enormous size never seems to fill the room. Legolas’ body is soft beside him, hips canted in an enticing landscape of peaks and valleys among the rolling hills of Rohan that are the velvet cushions they lay back on. His hair spills liquid lightning down his shoulders, waterfalls into the valley.

“I think it has,” Gimli agrees, somehow, around a syrupy tongue. His limbs are heavy and he is pinned beneath Legolas’ gaze, safe in his care, an offering to a husband who is also larger beyond fathom, towering above him and bending to pluck him from the tablecloth like a stray grape at a feast.

He tastes the lips, soft and yielding, and supposes that their tongues are wine-tart and dark, that kissing Legolas is a critical step of the vintner’s art. He winds his heavy arms around Legolas’ waist, strong iron rings of a fine oak barrel. Legolas’ hands alight on his cheeks gently, sipping with his soft mouth, pushing in and pulling out - then pulling away to say something that might be Westron, but comes out as little fizzing starbursts that escape like fireflies up to the stars above them. Gimli isn’t afraid of these creatures. Legolas’ eyes are so big and brown, sparkling as if lit from within, lit by those words. They are beautiful, but Gimli decides that his husband has let plenty of them go tonight, decides that he wants to keep them, keep them for himself to light his path through Mirkwood. So he presses them back into the elf’s mouth, and Legolas sighs, content to receive them home.

Time at once moves very slowly and very fast. Gimli feels as though he has been kissing Legolas for days when his lips retreat, when his golden head cranes a bit forward - skyward? - and he says into the air: “No, he’s doing well the way he’s going.”

Something moves, shifts, passes. An elf, a dark shape passing under his boat in the warm, dark water.

But it is still water, glasslike and mirrored, not ocean water - never a threat, and yet when the elf leaves Gimli releases a gusty breath.

“Tell me how you’re feeling, Gimli,” Legolas speaks against his mouth. Gimli would try to chase the hidden wine-tongue again, but he understands that this is a transaction, of sorts, so he does his best to focus all of his attention in his wandering mind. He feels like the depth of his emotion for life has been kept secret until this very moment in time, like a curtain has been pulled back to reveal a feeling too bright for him to look directly at, but one he will gladly be blinded by.

“I feel like I love you,” Gimli says into the crook of Legolas’ neck. “Like I was made to fit against you just as we are.”

Smouldering embers chuckle indulgently. “Made from the same clay?” Legolas whispers.

Legolas is not made from clay - he is made of soft leaf-litter and spicy autumn smells. He is painted with the pink and yellow hues of sunrise on fresh snow. He is a secret den of newborn kits, waiting patiently for their mother out in the woods.

“No,” Gimli answers. “No, not from clay. But I was made for you, all the same.” He feels the words with an intensity so strong he knows it is an ultimate truth, chiseled into the back of his skull by Mahal himself so that he might never forget. Gimli leans in, occupies his mouth once more with the slow meal of his husband.

Drew today’s Daily Legolas (@legolasoftheday on twitter) because it made me honk with laughter… he’s a goofball.