#send a kiss meme

[tathrin]

Please do gimleaf kiss 48: out of habit. Thank you!

Certainly, anon, thank you for asking! Prompt taken from this; anyone can feel free to send other numbers in at any time, I don’t care how long it’s been. (Just maybe add some context to your ask if it’s been like a month or more since I posted this, because otherwise I won’t know what to do with the random number in my inbox lmao).

The Men of Gondor are careful, cautious people; Gimli cannot blame them for it. They have lived alongside the threat of Mordor for a very long time, and their history is stained with the losses they have suffered to the dread powers of that land. Of course they have learned caution; of course they have learned care.

Gimli respects them for it and more than than, he understands them; for dwarves are careful and cautious too, keeping their own secrets close and allowing change into their hearts and caves only slowly; only once they are certain that they do not let danger in alongside. (And if Gimli chafes at some of that sluggishness these days, well, that is not the fault of the Men of Gondor.) They are right to be cautious, these Men of Gondor...

But they need not be so cautious about this.

"I assure you," Gimli says, not for the first time, "my people know their work well, my good lord." He cannot remember the name of this particular counselor; without proper beards by which to distinguish their lined, thin faces, too many of these Men look far too alike to his dwarven eyes. He has found that simple politeness can usually cover for his lack of recognition, however, and if ever it does not—well, he would like to challenge the Men in front of him to name and identify each dwarf that he has brought with him from Erebor to work their pale white stone.

He suspects they would do an even worse job of it.

"Your gates will stand a thousand years or longer when my people are done with them, and it would take an army twice as large as that which assailed your city three years ago to so much as crack their surface," he tells them. "No one builds doors like the dwarves."

"That is all well and good, Lord Gimli," says another one of these half-bearded, grave-faced Men. "But we need doors that will open, too, not just shut and stay that way. Perhaps dwarven arms would not balk at such a weight as that which your plans show," he says, glancing pointedly at Gimli's strong arms in a way that Gimli thinks is somehow meant to make him feel guilty or ashamed, "but Men are not so endowed, I fear. We—"

"Your pardon," Gimli says, holding up a hand in apologetic interruption. "A moment, if you please."

The flicker of gold and green that Gimli saw out of the corner of his eye resolves into a blur of movement swinging in through the wide window and, as the Council of Builders start and stare, Legolas trots over to their wide table as casually as though he has entered by the door at the far end of the hall and not via a window seven floors above the ground.

"Greetings, my friend," Gimli says, smiling warmly at the nimble elf. "Your meeting with the Healers has gone well, then, I hope?"

"Quite well, thank you Gimli," Legolas says, inclining his head in a regal bow to the slack-jawed Men. "Their garden of medicinal herbs will soon be flourishing, I do not doubt! But I do not mean to interrupt your own discussion..."

"Then have a seat, and we shall get back to it." Gimli pats the bench beside him—the Men sit in chairs, well-carved things of wood and age, but Gimli's shorter stature was ill-suited to the furnishing that filled this conference room; this tall workman's bench raises him to a more comfortable height against their table, and the small stool beside it makes climbing up and down easy on his thick legs—and Legolas folds himself gracefully down upon it, his own legs long enough that the toes of his soft shoes still brush the white stone floor.

"Now," Gimli says, smiling at the flustered Men (they will have to get used to elves eventually, he thinks, his mental voice smug; they have had three years to adapt to what took him mere months!), "where were we?"

"The...the weight of the gate, Lord Gimli," another Man says, picking up the thread when his companion merely gapes back and forth between the elf and the window. "It is too much; you must design something lighter."

Gimli shakes his head. "There is no need. The stone from which the gates will be hewn will be heavy, yes; but the hinges will be weighted so perfectly that they will be able to be opened with barely any effort at all. Why, a child might open these gates, if he had a sturdy friend to stand beside him!" Gimli reaches for the plans and draws his finger down the section that shows the proposed hinge-design (both functional and elegant, of course, as the Gates of Minas Tirith deserve!). "You see?" He looks up, waiting for the glimmer of recognition to fill the eyes of his audience. "They will be lighter to open than your old ones were, I promise you!"

"Lord Gimli, it is not that we do not believe you," a different Man says, in the tone that Gimli has learned means precisely the opposite. "It is only that we worry for the people of the city..."

"You need not worry," Legolas assures him blithely. "Dwarves are masters of stone to surpass all others, and Gimli would die before he spoke false word. Your gates will be marvels by the time he and his people are done with them!"

Gimli feels his cheeks flush a little at this earnest (and accurate) praise, but the Men of of the Council of Builders seem to be even less keen on the proposed gates now than they were before Legolas spoke. They exchange gimlet-eyed glances while the elf beams at them.

"Your pardon, Lord Legolas," one of them says at last. "While your confidence in your friend is just and honorable, you are...if you will forgive me...a Wood-elf." The smile of the Man's beardless face does not reach his eyes.

Legolas blinks at him. "Why should you need to be forgiven for that?" he asks. "I am a Wood-elf; you are correct!"

"Yes," the man says thinly. "And...well...I mean no offense, you understand, my lord, but...what does a Wood-elf know of stone?"

Legolas blinks again, as Gimli draws in a sharp breath in an attempt to cool his temper. It has the opposite effect; as though he has become a bellows, the embers of his wrath kindle all the hotter as he glares at these Men who would insult his beloved.

"My people's Halls in Mirkwood were built by dwarves," Legolas says. He is speaking slowly now, as though he believes that he is speaking to drunks or fools who need obvious things spelled-out with care. "I have lived within the embrace of dwarven craft for longer than any of you have been alive. I am no stone-shaper myself, no." He shakes his head, his long golden hair gliding like silken sunlight across his shoulders, and Gimli feels his temper ebbing away as his eyes catch and hold upon the sight. "But," Legolas continues, "I have sense enough to recognize skill when I see it, and to trust in the expertise of others when I find myself in an area in which I have none myself."

Gimli bites his lip to restrain a grin. How beautifully done! he thinks. Ahh, his elf has been learning. Three years ago, Legolas would have lost his temper and snarled something unforgivably rude; now, he answers almost as elegantly as Gimli himself might: tidily insulting the entire Council of Builders, but so politely that to rise to the insult they would first have to admit to their own lack of expertise.

Not that they are without all skill, these Men who claim to be the most talented and knowledgeable builders of Minas Tirith; but the skills of stone-shaping that created the White City have atrophied over the long years of Shadow, and there are now no Men in Minas Tirith who can claim even half of Gimli's gift with stone—if there ever were. Men have done great things with stone over their years of waking, it is true; but it is hard for anyone to claim to greater understanding of stone than the dwarves whose very blood pulses with the drumbeats of the earth.

Gimli sits back with a smile. "Well said, my dear," he murmurs, his lips barely moving beneath his beard; only one with the keen ears of an elf would be able to hear the soft words.

His elf turns and beams at him, and Gimli smiles back warmly. He takes Legolas's hand where it rests upon the bench and squeezes it tightly, then turns back to reach again for the gate plans with his other. "Kind words, Legolas, thank you," he says aloud, careful to keep his expression placid now (not that he thinks any of these Men know how to read his face beneath his beard). "And now, gentlemen, if I could draw your attention back to these hinge-schematics here..."

Gimli talks at length, explaining as best he can to Men who have only a rudimentary grasp of the stone-shaping skills upon which his people's plans for their gate rely how the dwarves will weigh and balance the great stone slabs of the gate so that their hinges will swing as easily and soundlessly as any delicate trinket-box; as lightly as elvish feet upon a forest floor. He sees glimmers of understanding begin to kindle in a few eyes and he talks faster, encouraged by the sight.

Legolas slides closer to him on the bench, tilting his head to stare avidly at the drawings that surely mean as little to him as the twittering sounds of his birds do to Gimli, a faint smile on his narrow beardless face. There is much about Legolas that Gimli still does not understand—and much in turn that he knows Legolas does not understand about him—but the understanding that they do have transcends such gaps in knowledge; they understand one another's hearts and souls, and have learned to appreciate the differences between them that they will never fully know. That is what truly matters.

"But what happens if one of the hinges cracks?" a Man asks, his scraggly-bearded face furrowed in concern. "The whole door will shatter under the strain..."

Gimli snorts—a rude response, but he cannot help himself. "A hinge crack!" he exclaims. "Balderdash! Such a thing has never happened, not to any dwarven door ever carved. It would take a battering ram larger than twenty trolls could lift to crack one of these hinges, so smooth will be their pivot and their fit. You might as well crack Andûril upon a twig as one of these hinges!"

He chortles, shaking his head in disbelief at these Men—at this so-called Council of Builders—and Legolas grins beside him and leans down to press a kiss to Gimli's cheek just above his beard. Gimli catches the elf's hand, those spindly twig-like fingers, and without thinking he presses a kiss of his own to the slim knuckles before he lets it go again. Legolas rests his head on Gimli's and they both sigh in contentment—

And then Gimli goes still, realizing that every single member of the Council of Builders is staring at them now.

He feels his cheeks coloring, bright and hot against his beard. "Ah," he says. He clears his throat. "Well. About the bars to lock it, then..."

[jasakime]

me rn

[varpusvaras]

Fox, in some social gathering he, Bail and Breha were invited to: So...I know I'm here because I'm married to these two, and Cody is here because Kenobi is here, but why are you here again?

Rex: Because these two are here *points to Anakin and Padmé*

Fox: Are you guys like. You know.

Rex: ..........honestly I am not sure, but at this point, I'm in way too deep to leave

Fox: What do you mean by that?

Rex: Observe

Luke and Leia, running up to Padmé: Mom! Can we go and-

Padmé: Oh, you need to ask your father

Luke and Leia, running to Anakin: Dad! Can we go and-

Anakin: Oh, um. Did you already ask your mom?

Luke and Leia: Yes, and she said to ask you!

Anakin: Okay, uh. Go ask Rex if you can go?

Luke and Leia, running up to Rex: Rex! Can we go and-

Rex: No, you'll die and break your legs. Now sit down for a moment and have some juice

Fox: ....oh.

Rex: Yeah.

Fox: This might be a problem

Rex: You don't say

[betinh3]

Hateful Fashion?

I love them very much!!! ❤️💜💚😳🥰😍

I want to see the three of them together all sweet and Fear starts kissing Anger making Disgust impressed like... she starts kissing the two of them. It would be very funny and very cute for me to see

Ooohhh👀👀👀👀💚❤️💜

Kiss💚Kiss💜Kiss❤️🧍‍♂️🧎👀

[startanewdream]

Number 8 and hinny

In the dark kiss. (Under the cut for reasons, just to be safe)

Harry wasn't sure what he had expected, but full darkness claimed his surroundings as soon as he closed the door behind him. Maybe he should have paid attention before the lights were off because as he took another step in, he managed to stumble upon something metallic that rolled away from him.

Ginny giggled; he turned towards the sound, then promptly hit a shelf with his head.

"Here," she said helpfully, and he felt her hands on his arm, guiding him to her. "So—is the broom closet all you imagined?"

Harry shrugged, then remember she couldn't see him in the darkness. "I didn't think it would be like this," he admitted. The idea had sounded nice and daring, and he hadn't hesitated when Ginny had led him through the halls in search of a broom closet, but now he was remembering fondly that the grounds were warm and sunny, and he enjoyed the sunlight reflecting on her hair.

"Filch puts a door sweep to avoid rats," she explained, then snorted when he jumped. "There won't be any rats, that's why is so dark, remember?"

His face burned; Harry was glad that Ginny couldn't see it. It wasn't like he was afraid of rats, but there was something eerily in being in that small room, unable to see anything no matter how much he squinted his eyes; he was totally blind, unprotected. It was suddenly hard to breathe.

"Hey," Ginny called him, taking a step closer to him and placing his arms around her waist. "I'm here," she whispered, and it was easy to focus on her more than on the irrational fear that the walls were closing in.

He was holding Ginny, his girlfriend, and she was real. Her floral shampoo scent was real, far stronger than any citrus smell from the cleaning products; he inhaled her perfume, letting it comfort him. The warmth from her body was real, and he searched for that gap in her shirt that he adored so much, feeling her skin, tracing the goosebumps that arose under his touch.

And her mouth was real as she moved closer, and her lips brushed his neck, sucking the skin gently.

A gasp escaped his lips, the sound louder in the dark; he ought to break away, embarrassed, but Harry found out that as with many other things, it was easy to hide any self-consciousness and just enjoy Ginny's touch. Perhaps she felt the same, for as he leaned in, his hand holding her up to support her, he felt her fingers climbing under his shirt, her nails tracing his chest, leaving a burning path.

Even the sound of his heartbeat seemed to echo in that broom closet.

And then he pulled her closer, his lips searching for hers. He'd shared countless kisses by now, but there was something about being in the darkness with Ginny that Harry hadn't considered before; maybe the whole world had disappeared and it was just the two of them now, two bodies and souls together in that emptiness, but as long as he were with her, he was fine with it.

Her hand was over his heart now, and Harry knew she could feel how quick it was; his fingers traced her curves, going further than he had gone under the sunlight on the grounds, but as with everything, the darkness seemed to boost his boldness. Her skin was very smooth, so inviting. Ginny gasped when he touched her bra, and for a moment, Harry was almost brought back to reality; then Ginny pressed her lips against his once again, her tongue moving a bit more desperately, her hand burying itself in his hair to mess it, and that was all the encouragement that Harry needed; his fingers traced the fabric of her bra, then moved up, his heart racing even faster—

And then there was a light, blinding light, and where Harry was pulled back from that starless night to a burst of sunshine he didn't welcome for once.

"What—" He called, but he wasn't the only one to say something (or to curse lowly, in Ginny's case); when he could distinguish anything, he saw that Hermione was staring at them, mouth opened, and then he realised that he was still close to Ginny, her shirt lifted enough to show her ribs, and his hand was over her—

They jumped apart.

"I—sorry, Hermione," said Ginny, her voice an octave louder than usual as she fixed her clothes. "We were just sightseeing."

"Sightseeing," replied Hermione slow and disbelievingly.

"Yes, well." Ginny left the broom closet, her face now a mask of innocence even though her cheeks were still pink. "Harry had never been inside a broom closet before."

"Yeah," Harry agreed, recovering himself; he tried to comb his hair, as pointless as it always was. "I couldn't graduate from Hogwarts without the broom closet experience."

Hermione stared at them before shaking her head, apparently deciding they were hopeless. "Go on—you should be studying for your OWLs, Ginny—ah, don't look me like that. You should be glad it wasn't Ron that interrupted your... sightseeing."

Ginny looked mutinous, but Harry, face deep red, just pulled her down the hall, away from Hermione's sight.

"She would enjoy a few minutes with Ron in a broom closet," Ginny mumbled, annoyed.

Harry, who didn't want to imagine Ron and Hermione in the same conditions he had been with Ginny, just shrugged. "Sightseeing?" He asked instead, hoping to distract her. "I couldn't see one foot in front of me and you said we were sightseeing?"

Her face broke into a mischievous smile. "I didn't say you were seeing with your eyes," she teased, taking his hand and placing a kiss on his knuckles that sent a jolt down his body.

"Oh."

"Wanna keep seeing things? There is a broom closet in the floor above.

Harry raised his eyebrows. "I don't wanna get caught," he noted, placing a strand of her hair behind her ear.

"That's what Locking Spells are for." She grinned. "And since they are probably going to be on my exams, you would even be helping me study."

His heart raced. "All for your education," he said, accepting her pull to the stairs.

[pinnkchampagne]

Hi!! I'm recently starting to listen french music, I'm trying to find something that sounds similar to lana del rey, mazzy star or Jeff Buckley. Does anyone know about any french artist that sound like them??

[zimisnotdrifting]

Wake up kirby Nation I've drawn my human dedede again but now in color

[hitcritical]

permanent  interactions  call  ;  basically  giving  this  post  a  like  just  means  that  my  anxiety  can  chill  the  fuck  down  you're  cool  with  me  tagging  you  in  random  starters  /  sending  you  memes  even  when  you  haven't  reblogged  some  in  a  while  /  being  a  menace  in  your  inbox  on  random  occasions.  of  course  you  never  need  to  actually  respond  to  anything  i  send  you,  but  it  would  be  chill  to  know  who's  cool  with  me  being  feral.

[starswallowingsea]

Don’t just say someone doesn’t have reading comprehension or isn’t “media literate” just because you don’t agree with them lol. Enjoy your shitty gacha game that’ll never have characters get in fulfilling relationships because their target audience is fujos

I was going to take this in good faith until I saw you were sending everyone who reblogged Cryn's response to you asks that clearly show you aren't interested in an actual discussion. Go play D4DJ if you need characters kissing in a CG to prove that they're gay or something if that's what you deem a fulfilling relationship.

[strangewonderful]

does anyone want to plot with me on this fine evening? :)

[tathrin]

6... on a falling tear and 38... because they're running out of time （＾ω＾）

Oh how lovely and tragic, very nice choices! Thank you very much for the ask. I'll split them up into two separate posts because I'm incapable of ever writing anything succinct though, sigh! Prompt taken from this; anyone can feel free to send other numbers in at any time, I don’t care how long it’s been. (Just maybe add some context to your ask if it’s been like a month or more since I posted this, because otherwise I won’t know what to do with the random number in my inbox lmao).

#38....because they’re running out of time. [mood music anyone?]

“Never thought I’d die as a diversion,” Gimli muttered, watching as Sauron’s army poured out of the Black Gates and surrounded the two small hills on which Aragorn had arrayed their forces.

Gimli could not count the teeming numbers of the enemy that stood before him—they were too many, too foul—but Legolas had the keen eyes of the elves, and he had told Gimli that their force of six thousand was outnumbered at least ten-to-one. They were not all orcs, either, which would have been bad enough; for surely each troll should be counted six or seven times at least.

The hills would help, Gimli thought numbly, at least a little; the incline would grant the defenders an advantage over the enemy that would have to scramble to climb up at them, and the slag pools of fetid Mordor that surrounded the low hillocks would be another impediment—but it would not be enough.

They had known it would not be enough even before they set out for the Black Gates, and they had all of them come anyway. Gimli did not regret his choice to follow his friends into doom, no; but that did not make the moment of the end any less bitter. And that moment was almost here, now; they were running out of time.

The enemy paused at the feet of the hills, hissing and cursing and some of them even spitting, and Gimli spun his axe to stretch his shoulders in anticipation of the battle to come.

He stood near the front, with Aragorn and Legolas and most of the mightiest of their fighters, where the attack would surely be the thickest. He eyed one lumbering troll that was pushing its way through the milling ranks of orcs, an ugly line of drool hanging off one side of its jaw where broken teeth distorted its already ugly grin into something macabre and ghoulish.

“Gimli,” Legolas said, standing so close beside him, his voice light with echoes of distant birdsong, and Gimli could feel himself smiling in instinctive response even as his heart twisted in sorrow at the thought of what was soon to come for them both. “Gimli,” Legolas said, “may I—I would ask a very great favor of you, my friend, if you would indulge me, please.”

“Of course,” Gimli said immediately. He turned to look up at the elf beside him, standing like a slender ray of sunlight in that bleak land, and tried to hide his breaking heart behind his smile. He could not imagine what sort of favor Legolas might ask at this late juncture—or if he could, then it was a favor that need not be spoken aloud, for Gimli had already vowed to himself that he would not allow the enemy to take this elf alive for torment when the battle ended and their defeat enfolded them.

“Anything, Legolas, you know that.”

Legolas gave a strange, half-choked laugh, and pressed his free hand to his face as though smother some strong feeling; with his other, of course, he held the mighty bow of the Galadhrim that the Lady had given him, and Gimli’s heart gave another pang at the thought of three golden strands tucked away safely behind white walls far away, waiting for a dwarf who would never return to reclaim them—but then Legolas moved, and Gimli’s eyes were drawn instead to tight golden braids that swayed before him as the slender Wood-elf suddenly swayed like a falling sapling and bent down close to Gimli’s face.

He caught Gimli’s bearded cheek with his hand and turned the dwarf’s face up to meet him, and then—oh, and then Legolas was kissing him and Gimli’s mind seemed to dissolve in a blaze of starlight. His whole world narrowed down to those smooth lips pressed so tight and hungry to his own; those long fingers twined so gently through his beard to cup his chin in their narrow palm; the brush of heavy golden braids against Gimli’s shoulders as Legolas bent low over him...

Belatedly, Gimli realized that he had reached up to press his hand to the elf’s face as well; he only noticed when the pad of his thumb brushed against the tip of one long pointed ear and Legolas’s breath hitched in both their mouths.

The drew apart, Legolas swaying back upright with a last lingering flutter of his fingers against Gimli’s beard before he pulled away. Gimli’s jaw worked soundlessly around words that would not come,his wide eyes fixed so fervently on the beautiful, beardless face before him that he almost forgot the stink of the orcs and the jeers of their ugly voices in his ears.

“Forgive me the liberty, I pray,” Legolas rasped. His mithril-bright eyes shimmered with unshed tears, in that moment looking suddenly so like the pool of the Mirrormere that Gimli almost felt as though he had been transported somehow back to the hills outside Khazad-dûm, and this desperate death at the doors of Mordor made into naught but a terrible dream.

But the creeping tendrils of fear that marked the approach of the Nazgûl was no dream; nor were the thundering steps of the trolls as they began to scale the hills, nor the shouts of the orcs as they struggled to follow. In moments, the enemy would be upon them. There was so much Gimli wanted, needed, to say; but they were running out of time.

“There is—there is nothing to forgive, Legolas,” he managed to croak.

“I am relieved to hear it,” Legolas replied. “For I could not bear to die without ever kissing you, Gimli.”

Gimli reached up for those golden braids and bright eyes again. “Legolas—!”

Legolas flashed him a brief, bright, heartbroken smile, and then turned away to face the enemy as the orcs rushed towards them. Gimli raised his axe more out of habit than intention and stepped up beside the elf. “Legolas...” he tried again, but his head was reeling and he could not find the words he wished to craft; they all slipped through his mental fingers, like he was trying to scoop cave-cold water with naught but his bare hands.

Then the first troll reached them, bellowing as it knocked three soldiers of Gondor off their feet to tumble down the hill towards the waiting blades of the orcs below. Gimli growled and gripped his axe, and then suddenly Legolas was scaling the troll, blasted fool of an elf that he was!

“Legolas!” Gimli shouted again, and raced to follow him into the fight.

The troll was too slow to catch the nimble elf, but its attempts to do so blunted its attention to the axe in Gimli’s hand as he hacked at its knees. The creature roared belatedly in anger, even as thick blood wept down its legs. It reached down to try and swat Gimli away, and Legolas scampered across its shoulders and drove his long knife in deep into the troll’s eye. Even that was not enough to kill the beast, but when two Rohirrim came up with long spears the troll was too woozy with pain and blood-loss to bat the weapons away from its throat.

It went down with a thud and a cry of rage rose from the orcs in response. Legolas skipped away from the body and landed on the ground again at Gimli’s side. Shaking with fear, anger, and adrenaline, Gimli caught him by the wrist and gave the elf a shake. “Don’t do that again!” he shouted. “You’re going to get yourself killed!”

Legolas laughed, fey and unfettered, his merriment as sharp and keen as his arrows. He slashed his knife through the throat of a climbing orc and twisted easily away from the resulting spray of black blood. “Gimli, we are all going to die here,” he said, wiping the blade clean on the skirt of his tunic before sheathing it and drawing his bow once more. “Put aside your fears, my dear; we have moved beyond that now. All that is left to us is to make our deaths worthy of those that came before us, and to sell our lives dearly enough that we might hope to buy enough time for others to save all those who may come after from this Shadow.”

His arrows flew true, burying themselves in throats and eyes and black-blooded hearts even as he looked back at the dwarf more often than he did at the oncoming orcs. In Legolas’s eyes, Gimli could see the glimmer of all the years together they would never have; could see the crumbling eternity of an immortal life cut short and the unscalable chasm that lay forever between the fates of elves and dwarves, sundering them from one another for all time even unto the breaking of the world.

This, he realized, was all the time they were ever going to have.

Tears stung his eyes, hot and bitter. It was not enough. It would never, ever be enough—and it did not matter, because there was no more to be had.

Gimli shook his head, swallowing down the urge to weep; he had to focus on the orcs. There were too many coming up the sides of the hill now, too fierce; it was all Gimli could do to swing his axe in time to block their blows and cut them down. It was all he could do to keep close to Legolas’s side, the elf now reduced to fighting with nothing but his long white knife. There were maybe half a handful of arrows in his quiver yet, but even elvish speed was insufficient to allow for proper archery at sight a tight distance in this tumult.

Oh, why had Gimli not seen to it that his elf was better armed before they rode off to this final battle? Legolas was deadly with that little knife, yes, but oh it seemed so short in his long fingers. Why had Gimli not sought the armories of Gondor, and borrowed some mightier blade for his friend? Why had he not sought the forges, and made him one to suit his lanky frame?

He was such a fool. What had he been wasting his time on instead, when he could have—should have—been seeing to Legolas’s safety?

When he could have been kissing him?

Gimli growled, and swung his axe harder, and watched one burly uruk go down gurgling and clutching at its guts. Gimli swung again, and its head toppled free and he could turn to the next enemy, the next threat. Beside him, Legolas whirled and slashed in a flurry of golden braids and a black-blooded blade. He lunged over Gimli’s head to slit the throat of an orc that was angling a spear towards Gimli’s ribs as Gimli kicked-out low and took the feet out from under another orc that had managed to get a grimy hand around one of those bright braids.

“Away from him!” Gimli bellowed, and the orc feel back squealing over the stump of its arm. Gimli stepped closer to the elf—his elf—and they ended up fighting back-to-back, or back-to-shoulders at least; their disparate heights should have made them terrible battle-partners, but it was so easy to fall into a rhythm with Legolas, a balancing of their skills and statures. Legolas spun high with his short knife and Gimli swung low with his broad axe, and the enemy gave way before them.

But more came, replacing those that fell. Always more came, and the fight went on. Gimli could feel his limbs tiring, his bones aching from the weight of his blade and the blows that had glanced off his mail. A dozen small cuts he could not remember taking bled sluggishly, adding a dull sheen of red to the viscous black liquid that splattered his armor and his skin.

More came, and the Nazgûl followed, and all around them men shrieked and cowered beneath that mindless fear. Gimli fought on, so numb with grief that he barely startled at the cry that the eagles had come. That felt unreal, like something out of some other story; one that had a better ending than theirs. Despair rolled thick across the Host of the West and even Gimli, stout-hearted dwarf that he was, faltered for a moment before it—

And then Legolas laughed.

There was nothing merry in that sound, and the only brightness was the sharp brightness of a pale blade flashing out of the shadows of tall black trees. It was a laugh full of teeth, and claws, and all the dark and dangerous things that lurk within a wood. It was the sort of laugh that would send wise folk fleeing for strong walls and sturdy doors; the sort of laugh that might send children shivering to hide under their beds and wait for dawn. It was the laugh of a wild thing, untamed and dangerous, and it rang out light and sharp-edged above the gutteral shouts and screams of the orcs and the roaring bellows of the trolls.

Legolas laughed, and Gimli smiled to hear it. He lifted his head high against the weight of Mordor’s bleak despair and raised his axe high once more. Legolas was right; there was no longer any cause for fear. They had faced the end already, and the end was here; there was no sense cowering before it. Better to stand tall, and die fighting proud and unbowed, defying the power of the Dark Lord to the last.

And then—and then, on the other side of fear, after all hope seemed so long lost it was little more than a memory, everything changed.

The Nazguûl fled; the army crumbled; the towers fell.

Sauron was destroyed. And they had lived.

They lived.

Gimli could hardly process it. He turned to Legolas, still at his side, the both of them weary and blood-stained and heartsick from the tangled mingling of hope and despair, and he opened his mouth to speak—but no words came out.

He saw all their tomorrows flow suddenly back into Legolas’s bright eyes and the elf swayed, as though the sudden lifting of the Shadow had left him unsteady on his light feet. Gimli caught his hand and held him steady.

“Legolas—” Gimli began.

“Tomorrow,” Legolas interrupted him with a smile. “Let us help the wounded now, Gimli; we will talk on other things tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Gimli said, rolling the taste of the word around in his mouth; rolling the feel of it around in his mind. “Yes,” he said. “Tomorrow. To think that there will be such a thing!” He laughed from bewildered joy and squeezed his elf’s hand once, tightly, before letting go and turning back to the grim battlefield. “Tomorrow. We will talk on all things then.”

Legolas bent and pressed a light kiss to Gimli’s cheek. “Tomorrow,” he said again, the word heavy with promise, and then they walked off together into the carnage of hopes renewed and deaths well-fought.

“Tomorrow,” Gimli murmured once more to himself, and there on the bloodstained soil of the Black Land, he smiled.

[quietlyblooms]

if anyone wants a lil kiss as a treat for later, pls feel free to send one in 💜 slowly working on things, but i’m tightly clutching the kisses i have in my inbox and shaking them 💜

[savingthrcw]

send kiss for a kiss-y situation where my muse kisses yours (as long as you know I ship either because we talked ooc or they are listed in the 'open to ship with' connection or they get along in threads), ONLY IF THEY ARE NOT STRANGERS and if your muse is okay with it, so I don't have to stop at the second their lips touch to wait for a reaction.

and reverse kiss for one where your muse kisses mine (as long as you know I ship or as long as you are okay with gentle/harsh rejection)

you can specify any detail! This can also include the typical 'we kiss for external reasons and now I'm into it' tropes.

[mcmorare]

i NEED more screencaps from this movie because this look. This Look. the expression the hair the sleeveless top the shade of green. very katrina

[romantically-yours]

I just wanna go on dates with her

[erebius]

ok i've done like half of the kisses so im gonna format them n post some then sprinkle in the rest with my queue which i am about to build up with drafts HEHE