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a-little-buggy · 30 days

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"Amore mio, we cannot keep doing this." Ezio paced across the wooden floor, running his hand through his hair. It was entirely dark out, and the room was lit by a single candle on the table. "You were gone two full days! I practically turned this city upside-down looking for you!"

"How was I supposed to know I was still seeing things!? I genuinely thought it would wear off before now!" Desmond was sitting in a common room chair; the dark circles under his eyes were accentuated by his washed out complexion. He had just come from a bath, otherwise he would still be coated in sweat and hay. "I thought after a few weeks everything would just go back to normal! Well. . ." Desmond gestured around at the Renaissance assassin's guild hall. "Normal being relative, and all."

Ezio pulled a chair over by Desmond and sat down, picking at the stray straws of hay still glued to Desmond's skin. "I know that you are just trying to keep active, but please. If I get another report of you passing out in an alley, or landing in the river, I swear to Christo I will go gray." He stopped and cupped his hands around Desmond's face. "Don't do this to me, Desmond. I'm too young for gray hair."

"Oh don't worry, it'll be just as popular with the chicks as ever." Desmond gave a *swish* of his imaginary long locks, but the motion made his head spin. He braced his arms against the table. "Though I personally have less interest in the grandpa-type."

"Molto bene, that means you should have a personal investment in not causing me any more stress!"

"You think it's stressful for you? You're not the one running an imaginary Boston Marathon every other weekday!" Desmond scoffed, and laid his head down on the table in such a way as to still be able to give Ezio the stink eye.

"You know that isn't how I meant it. I just wish I could convince you to stay safe." Ezio rocked his chair back, and set his heels on the corner of the table. "At the very least, until we have some kind of answer as to when these episodes occur, or why."

Desmond gave a deep, shuddering sigh. "What if we never get any such answer? What little I know about bleeds is that I originally got them from using the Animus. Except now, I've somehow traveled back through time, so who even knows what kind of effects that could cause."

Ezio pressed a finger to his forehead. "Wait a moment. What is the Animus?"

"Seriously? It's the device that showed me your memories. We talked about this a few days ago."

Ezio removed his feet from the table and sat upright, eyeing Desmond suspiciously. "And when was this again, exactly?"

"Why? I. . . I guess it was four days ago, now, so Thursday? I remember it was raining."

Ezio bit his lip and grimaced, then giving a deep exhale placed a gentle hand on Desmond's leg. "I had a contract in Forlì that day."

"No, no. You're kidding." Desmond pushed off of the table and sank down into the wooden chair, as if it could absorb the impact of this new revelation for him. Ezio couldn't have imagined Desmond getting any paler, but he had. "No. No no no no no Ezio I -"

"Hey, it's alright, you're alright, I just need you to breathe." Desmond was badly shaken by this point, and his legs had given out, leaving him sinking to the floor. Ezio grabbed hold of his shoulders, trying to ease his downward descent.

Desmond's voice cracked. "No, no, it's not alright!" He grabbed Ezio back, desperate for some kind of tether. "How can you stand there and tell me it's alright, just after telling me that you may not even be here!?!?"

"I am here, though. I'm here." Ezio wrapped his arms tightly around Desmond, holding him as close as he possibly could. What else could he do? "Just try to breathe."

And so the two sat there, as the candle burned down to a stump. Slowly, Desmond's shaking turned to shuddered breathing, which turned to deep breaths.

Ezio rubbed Desmond's shoulders. "It may not be much longer until daybreak. Do you think you are ready to try for some sleep?"

Desmond slumped forward, burying his face in Ezio's chest. "Honestly? I think I'm too exhausted to make it to bed. Here seems fine."

Ezio chuckled. "For you, perhaps, but I am a creature of comfort." With one of his arms still wrapped around Desmond's back, he slid the other one under Desmond's knees and stood up, carrying him off towards the bunks.

Desmond wrapped his arms around Ezio's neck. "My hero," he sleepily crooned.

"Don't sing my praises just yet, amò." Ezio shifted Desmond's weight, fumbling to turn the doorknob. "I may expect you to return the favor one day."

"What?!" Desmond gasped, playing up the dramatics. " 's not fair, you're much bigger than I am!"

"Is that meant as a compliment or an insult?"

"I dunno yet." Desmond yawned. "I'll decide later, when I need one or the other."

Soon enough, they both had clambered into bed, and were able to get some much needed sleep.

-----

Desmond spent the next few days occupying himself in the base. Besides helping sort through the dispatching of contracts, he got caught them caught up on some long overdue weapons orders and offered advice to whatever young assasin might come knocking. This was his favorite task. It was a reminder of a simpler time, of when he could stand behind a bar and just chat with people about whatever was ailing them. Except this was a little more murder-y. But having been a bartender in New York, it was not so much more murder-y as one might think.

But all the same, he was beginning to feel cooped up. And so he went to seek audience with the Mentorè, about perhaps being allowed on a group mission of some form.

There were two novices already in Ezio's office, a boy and a girl. They were likely discussing the details of an upcoming contract. Having already opened the door, Desmond knocked on the doorframe. Ezio waved him in.

"What can I do for you, Desmond?" Ezio propped his elbows up on the desk and clasped his hands, resting his chin on top of them.

"Oh, it can wait. Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt." Desmond glanced over at the novices, who in fairness, seemed unperturbed.

"So can this. Please, continue." Ezio leaned back in the chair, and the two young assassins stepped to the side.

Desmond cleared his throat. "With your permission, Mentorè," On this word he did a slight bow. Ezio rolled his eyes. "I would wish to be sent on a mission. As part of a group, of course," He hastened to add. "It's just. . . I don't do well feeling confined. And I'm about ready to go stir-crazy in here."

One of the novices smirked. "Is that different from the regular crazy somehow?" He asked. Desmond gave a dry, mocking laugh in response, but then turned back to Ezio and. . . Oh shit.

Desmond always knew that Ezio Auditore da Firenze was a dangerous man. He knew of all his great conquests, and had seen the fear in the eyes of his enemies. And yet somehow, to see the master assassin here and brimming with fury, it felt like the first time he really understood how terrifying such a man could be.

The other novice slapped the first upside the head, and then grabbed him by the wrist. "Thank you for the advice, Mentorè. We will send word as soon as we complete our task," She said, dragging him out the door, which closed firmly behind them.

Ezio took a deep breath, and settled back into his seat.

Desmond shuffled his feet. "Hey, so umm, you wouldn't have actually murdered that kid, right?"

"Fortunately, we will not have to find out." Ezio shot what he assumed was a comforting smile up at Desmond (it wasn't) and then rifled through some papers on his desk. "I actually have a mission that should suit you just fine. It should be straightforward, a matter of some scouting and interrogating a handful of people. There will be two others with you, and you will cover a fair bit of ground. Benè?" Ezio handed over a map with a few directions and way points marked on it.

Desmond nodded. "Yeah, benè. Thank you, Ezio."

"You're welcome. You leave in an hour. And Desmond," He continued, once Desmond had turned to leave. "I know you are highly skilled, but do still be careful."

"I will." Desmond walked back over to Ezio, then kissed him on the cheek and winked. "I promise."

Ezio kicked his boots up on the desk. "Oh, you are such a flirt."

"Well, I come by it honestly." And with that, Desmond left to make preparations.

-----

Desmond was sitting atop a window dormer, watching the surrounding area as another assassin prepared to 'talk to' a gang member in the alleyway below. A third assassin was perched on another neighboring rooftop, similarly spying for any potential complications. This was the method they had all decided on, and it had been working quite well. One person would go to meet the target, and the other two would remain above: out of sight so as to not cause any alarm, but close enough to drop into the fray should anything go awry. This was the last one on their list, and then they could all go back and herald their mission as a success.

He scanned the skyline. Besides the other assassin (whose name he had learned was Achille), there was no one visible up here. He peered down into the street. Piera (visible in blue) had just cornered in on the gang member (visible in gold). One or two of their targets had been willing to part with their information before it came to blows, but such instances were few and far between. Piera gave a quick display of her hidden blade, just to make her intentions and alliances clear.

As was typical, the conversation started with an exchange of thinly-veiled threats. "Next will come the unveiled threats, and then the diet violence," Desmond mused to himself.

The target started shouting. Desmond thought he heard another voice. He scanned the rooftops again, and this time saw a pair of guards off in the distance behind him. He looked back at Achille, who did not seem to react. "This again," Desmond muttered under his breath. He shifted to the right, and the guards were gone from his line of sight. "Please let that fix it." He turned back to watching the alley.

"You belong down in the street with the rest of the filth!" The voice was still distant, but it was definitely louder this time.

Desmond sighed. He turned to look behind himself, and saw the two guards from before making their way over, and a third guard climbing up behind them. "Just ignore them, and they'll go away," He said to himself. He turned back to the alleyway.

"Get down off this roof, or I will throw you off myself!"

Desmond scoffed. "I'd like to see you try. I think I'm finished throwing myself off of rooftops because of figments of my twisted imagination."

He heard another shout. This one wasn't from the target, or the illusory guard, but from Achille. "Desmond, look out!"

Desmond spun around, but not quickly enough, because a boot impacted him squarely in the chest, and he fell from the roof.

He desperately reached out, trying to grab hold of something to hang from. His right hand caught the wooden paneling of the window he was sitting above, but the wooden beam was brittle and snapped off, splintering under his fingernails. He yelled, and was unable to grab hold anywhere else.

Desmond's ankle rolled as he hit the ground, and he fell prone. The guard peered from the rooftop above, and apparently for the first time put together the implications of there being three hooded figures together. "Assassinos! Get them!" Well, so much for subtlety.

Piera ran over to help Desmond to his feet, and the gang member bolted. Desmond shook his head, and pulled himself up. "Don't worry about me, I can handle a few guards. Don't let the target get away!" He turned to face the building he had fallen from. The guards were already descending. He shifted his weight, and winced. Running's not an option. He readied his blade.

Desmond lunged at the first guard to get his boots on the ground. He hadn't yet pulled his sword, so Desmond easily grabbed hold of him, sliding the hidden blade between his ribs. Unfortunately, the next two landed with their swords already drawn, and Desmond could hear more footsteps fast approaching. "Shit, how many of you are there?"

He heard a shriek from above, and looked up just in time to dodge a guard falling from the rooftop, an arrow lodged in his chest. He landed with a dull, wet thud. Desmond spared a glance up towards Achille, who was already nocking another arrow. "Oh, this should be a peace of cake, then."

Desmond crossed blades with the two guards closest to him, parrying and deflecting their attacks. One of them leaped forward with an arcing swing of their sword. Desmond dodged under and to the side of the swing, then came around behind the off-balance guard, slitting his throat.

Another shriek, another thud. Desmond easily dispatched his next opponent, sweeping him off his feet and then skewering him where he fell. But the next guards approached together, and Desmond had to shift his focus to defense again.

Shriek, thud. One of the guards tried to bring his sword down on Desmond's head, who used both blades to intersect it. In the sword's reflection, Desmond saw another guard coming from behind him. "I've got you now, assassino!" Desmond shoved his current attacker off and spun around, swinging his blade in a wide arc. But as soon as his blade hit the guard's chest, he disappeared into mid-air.

Desmond growled. "Are yOU KIDDING ME!?!?!"

Shriek, thud.

A low chuckle from one of the guardsmen. "Jumping at shadows, boy? Ready for someone to put you out of your misery?" Desmond turned on his heel and lunged for the unlucky dastard's face, plunging both of the hidden blades deep into his eyesockets.

What few guards remained turned tail and ran.

Shriek, thud. Desmond turned once again to Achille, who was now clambering down the building, bow in hand. "They were already running, y'know."

Achille landed on the street, and shrugged. "They picked the fight. The least they could do is have the decency to see it through."

Desmond chuckled, then rubbed his shoulder. "Well, whether Piera caught the target or not, by now, she'll be heading back to base. We should be, too." He looked down at his swelling ankle. "No crazy parkour shit though."

-----

Ezio was pacing back and forth across the wooden floor, combing his hand through his hair. Piera had gotten back with her report on the mission two hours ago. He had already sent ten otherwise idle assassins out searching for Desmond, and he was deliberating about sending more.

"He has returned!" Came a voice from the door.

Ezio raced to the door. His stomach lurched when he saw Desmond, covered in blood and limping, except. . . He was also smiling? There he was, covered head-to-toe in blood, and grinning ear-to-ear!

"Desmond? Are you. . ." He looked Desmond up and down. Bloody. Beaming. "Did you hit your head?"

"Ezio!" Desmond threw his arms up wide, flinging blood on the assassins unfortunate enough to be standing near him. "No, I'm just fine! Well, I wrecked my ankle, but not nearly so much as I wrecked all of the guards!"

Ezio laughed. "So, you determined that what you needed was catharsis, and that any guard would suffice?"

"Well no, actually," Desmond responded a bit sheepishly. "I let them get the drop on me, believing they weren't real."

Ezio very abruptly stopped laughing. "You WHAT -"

"Can we discuss it later? I know it's a problem, but I'm currently riding a high, and I would like to enjoy it."

Ezio started to object, but instead wrapped an arm over Desmond's shoulders. "Later then." He lifted his arm, and stared in horror at the gloopy mess now dripping from it. "Dio mio, someone needs to give you a bath."

Desmond smirked. "Are you volunteering?"

-----

I don't ever think of myself as a creative person, so I am ABSOLUTELY blaming @sulfies that I have done this again, lol. I hope you enjoyed though! Much less bleed effect whump this time around, and much less re-reading to check that it makes sense, lol. Hyperfixation + insomnia = I wrote another story, but now it's a quarter to six in the morning and I may low-key hate myself tomorrow (today?). Thanks for reading!

#assassin's creed #fanfic #heavy bleed effect au #cw blood #ezio auditore #desmond miles #I also didn't sleep at all last night so whoops #death by insomnia any% speedrun #but i got to write another story! so it was worth it!#the words just kept wording! and thats still very new to me!#should that all have been one story? idk! idc! (i mean of course i care but you get the gist)

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tathrin · 11 months

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Ehehe, hello, I am here to feed the procrastination gremlin! Those prompts all sound fun, but 21 and 28 are speaking to my heart rn.

Maybe 36 to if you feel up for it but it's your writing and you decide how many you wanna do<3

The procrastination gremlin thanks your mightily! Because I tend to Get Too Long when I write thing, I'm going to preemptively separate these out into their own posts and just assume that I'll ramble too much for it to make sense to do them all in one lmao. Also I will definitely do all three because yes more gimleaf yes. This is an ask meme that I will literally always be accepting prompts for (although if somebody sees this in the tag in like a month or so and wants to send one in, maybe include some context so that I know what that random number I just got in my inbox means? lmao). So, prompt taken from this; anyone can feel free to send other numbers in at any time. Literally.

#21....on a place of insecurity.

Gimli stared at his reflection in the round silver mirror, his hands paused even though his braids were still half-undone. "Do you ever wish that we had crossed the Sea sooner?" he asked.

Legolas blinked at him, cocking his head in that familiar birdlike tilt of confusion that Gimli knew so well.

"Sooner?" Legolas repeated. "How could we have come sooner?" A frown furrowed his smooth, beardless face; a temporary crinkling of skin that would never show the faintest wrinkle. "You mean before Aragorn died?"

"You're right," Gimli sighed. He tugged at his braids, their once-bright copper laced so heavily with strands of silver that he sometimes felt like he had just walked out of a snowfall. "We could not have, of course. But...do you ever wish..."

"Leaving sooner would not have spared us the pain of his death," Legolas said quietly. "It would only have meant that we would not have been there for him when it happened; only have meant that we would not have been there for Arwen or their children either. Knowing of his death only from stories brought by later travelers would not have spared us anything, I do not think; knowing of his death without having been there ourselves would, I think, have only made it hurt the worse, my dear."

"Yes," Gimli said, "yes, of course. I did not mean—"

He stopped. Legolas had walked up behind him and bent down to look over Gimli's shoulder into the mirror. It should have looked awkward, the sight of Legolas's long spine arced at such an angle, but elves were spindly, lithesome creatures. Wood-elves in particular seemed to be as supple and spritely as saplings, and Gimli had yet to witness Legolas contort himself into a position that strained his pliant bones.

"Gimli," Legolas said, "what is wrong?"

"Nothing," Gimli said. He lowered his eyes and his fingers both, twisting his remaining braids into place as quickly as he could without mussing the pattern of the plaits or dropping strands. He scowled, even though he knew that doing so would only deepen the wrinkles that already lined his eyes. "Nothing is wrong."

Long, smooth fingers pressed gently on his own calloused ones until they stilled. Gimli looked down at the overlap of those long digits across his own, the one set brown and spindly as twigs yet unblemished by time or strife; the other pale as underground mushrooms and gnarled by both time and heavy forge-work.

"Gimli," Legolas said. "Tell me."

Gimli turned his hand so that he could enfold those long brown fingers in his own and gave Legolas's hand a reassuring squeeze. "Nothing is wrong, my love," he said again. "I am only feeling melancholy this morning, it seems. Think no more upon it."

He raised the elf's ageless hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to those smooth knuckles, then released it so that he could continue with his braids.

Legolas did not rise. Instead he dropped lower to fold his arms across the back of Gimli's chair, his bright eyes studying the sight of the dwarf before him in the mirror. Gimli avoided his gaze, focusing instead on the intricate plaits that hung from his chin, but he could feel the weight of Legolas's eyes passing over his face, searching for the answers that Gimli would not give him.

He did not find them.

"Will you not tell me?" Legolas asked at last. His voice was soft, his eyes full of sorrow. "Please?"

Gimli sighed and let the braid in his hands droop loose and unfinished down his chest.

He looked up into the mirror again at last and met Legolas's searching, worried eyes there. He looked at that smooth, beardless, beloved face waiting there behind him; unchanging and unchanged from the day they had first met so long ago and far away in Rivendell.

His eyes flicked sideways to his own reflection, to the wrinkles that time had carved beneath his beard; to the strands of silver that wove through the bright copper braids that hung before him. He reached out and pressed his fingers to the mirror, to the sight of the lines around his eyes, and sighed.

"I would not be so old," Gimli said quietly, "if we had come sooner; that is all. I only wonder if you wish, sometimes, that we had. That is all."

Time did not pass in Aman the way it did in other places; or if it did, then it did not feel as though it did, and it carried no trace of decay with it. Gimli had not aged a day since they had first set foot upon these white shores—but he had aged two hundred and sixty-two years before that.

He was still hale and hearty, for dwarves—especially the dwarves of Durin's line—often lived many years longer than that, and rarely weakened before the very ending of their days came upon them. But he was no spritely youngster of sixty-two, either, moping because his father had deemed him too young to go along on a Quest; nor was he a mature youth of not quite one hundred and forty, boldly striding forward at last upon a Quest of his own, all bright brown eyes and ruddy copper beard.

Gimli was old, now, and he looked it. He could see it every morning when he looked in the mirror to do his braids, or every afternoon when he caught sight of his reflection in the cooling barrels at the forge or in some clear, still pool that held Aman's crystal waters. He could see it, and he knew Legolas could as well; how could he not, when he was surrounded by the contrast of all the smooth, beardless, ageless faces of his people?

"Are you tired?" Legolas asked, and his light voice was a dry croak. Shadows as thick as Mordor's fogs filled his eyes, and Gimli turned from the mirror with a cry and caught Legolas's hands with his own.

"No!" he cried. He knew that Legolas was not asking after Gimli's slumber, or weariness from working the forge; was not asking about anything as simple as a day's ordinary exhaustion. He was asking if Gimli was tired of life; if he was tired of eternity. If he was ready, at long last, to claim the gift of his own mortality.

"Legolas, no," Gimli said, squeezing those spindly fingers so tightly that had they been the frail twigs they seemed they would have snapped beneath the pressure of his grip—but elvish flesh was strong, so much stronger than it looked. So were dwarven spirits, and Gimli had no intention of ever growing weary of the world, not so long as Legolas was in it. "I promise," he assured his elf, raising first one hand and then the other to his lips. "Never, Legolas. I am here with you, and I always will be."

Legolas's smile trembled, but it was a smile. Gimli counted it as a victory, and pulled the elf up out of his crouch and into Gimli's lap. He had too much leg to fit on such a short chair, of course, but the two of them were used to that problem; it was no effort at all to fall into the long habits that had his ankles curling sideways under the chair, his elvish flexibility making easy work of the awkward position.

"Then what troubles you?" Legolas asked. He snaked his long arms around Gimli's shoulders and leaned his beardless cheek down to rest upon Gimli's head. "My love, please. Tell me."

"I am old, Legolas," Gimli said. He unwrapped one hand from the elf's slender waist to press his fingers to the cobweb of wrinkles beside his eyes. "You can see it plainly on my face. Old, as no one else in Aman ever will be."

"Bilbo is old," said Legolas.

Gimli rolled his eyes. "Yes, all right," he said. "And Sam, too. But aside from them, everyone else here is an elf—"

"Or a maia," Legolas interrupted. "Or one of the Valar. Or—"

"My point," Gimli cut him off loudly, "is that age is writ across my face in ways that elvish faces do not age. I am only sorry, my dear, that I can do nothing to erase those lines, these streaks of silver; only sorry that you cannot spend eternity beside a dwarf in his prime of life, but must instead contend with these wearisome wrinkles."

Legolas drew away far enough that he could gape down at Gimli. "Wearisome?" he repeated. "Sorry? Gimli!"

"I know, I know," Gimli soothed, "it is a little enough thing, I suppose, and I am not ungrateful; I am only sorry for your sake, my dear—"

"Sorry!" Legolas said again. "Gimli, you everlasting fool of a dwarf! Is this what you've been fretting over all this time?

"...Yes?"

"Gimli!" Legolas squawked. "Oh, my beloved idiot! I feared you were growing tired of forever, and were going to have to leave me! Instead you've just been pouting over how handsome you are?"

"Handsome!" Gimli exclaimed. "Legolas, enough. I am sorry beyond words that I made you worry, but that is no call to mock me—"

"I do not mock," Legolas said. His lilting voice for once was as firm as stones. "I adore every inch of you, Gimli. Yes, even the wrinkles; yes, even the silver in your beard!" He shook his head, scowling down at his dwarf. "Perhaps especially the silver in your beard, for it gleams like mithril in the moonlight, even as the ancient lights of lost Trees are said to still gleam in the locks of the Lady Galadriel, oh Lockbearer!"

Gimli sputtered, heat rising fast in his cheeks. He tried to push the elf away, but Legolas tightened his grip upon his shoulders and refused to be budged from Gimli's knees.

"And your wrinkles," he continued in a softer voice, "are the signs that our years together have etched upon your face, even as your clever hands carve beauty into simple metal and plain rocks. How could I help but love them, when they trace our story out upon your face for all to see?" Legolas leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to the sparkle of crows-feet that framed first one eye and then the other, then traced the deep tracks that lines Gimli's mouth and nose beneath his beard. Finally he raised Gimli's hand and pressed a long kiss to those ruddy, wrinkled fingers.

"Legolas, I...I feel I've been a fool," Gimli murmured. He found himself once again unable to meet Legolas's eyes, this time because of the blush that darkened his cheeks with a blaze of hot mortification.

"You have been," Legolas agreed, "but fortunately I knew you for a fool long before I knew you for anything else, my love, and so I am not bothered overmuch."

A watery laugh spilled from Gimli's lips, and he could not help but smile. "And you are as irritating and irreverent as ever," he retorted.

"Of course I am," Legolas agreed, and hopped up off Gimli's lap and the low chair upon which he sat and grinned down at his dwarf with a twinkling smile. "Some things do not change with the passage of time—but even though my face does not show it, I have very much been changed by knowing you, my dear Gimli, and I would not trade a second of it in exchange for a single lifted wrinkle or silvered hair."

"Well," Gimli said, "I am glad to hear it, and sorry now that I did not voice my concerns sooner."

"So am I!" said Legolas. "But I cannot hold it against you when I did not voice mine either, although in my case it was because I feared to pressure you into extending your time in life beyond your own comfort for my sake alone."

Gimli stood and took his elf's hands in his and held them tight. "Forever is only barely enough time to spend at your side, Legolas," he said, "but as it is all the time the world will give us, I will take it; but I will accept not a second less than that, and would not see that time shortened for any reason even if it was only for your own comfort, and not my own. I can think of no greater purpose for one's life than to bring comfort to one whom I so love."

Legolas beamed down at him, his pale eyes bright with unshed tears. "Well!" he said. "That is all sorted, then!"

"Indeed it is," Gimli agreed. He knew that the smile spreading behind his beard was the sort of soft, misty-eyed grin that Peregrin Took had always labeled "absurdly sappy," but he could not help himself; he felt as though he was fairly brimming-over with love, and he could not contain himself from letting it show upon his face, erstwhile sappiness be damned.

"In that case," Legolas said, his damp gaze dancing suddenly with dry mischief, "let me get you out of that tunic and into our bed and I will find all your other wrinkles and properly express my love for them, too."

Gimli decided he could finish his braids later.

#first thought on this one was actually going to be legolas being insecure about his ''naked'' chin when visiting erebor or aglarond #and gimli reassuring him that he thinks legolas is beautiful even without a beard and he doesn't care what any other dwarf thinks #but then my fingers started writing this one instead so. here we are in aman again whoops.#also you should know that around about paragraph three or four i was SURE that this one was going to be short #and i was going to eat my ''oh gosh my stuff always gets too long tee hee!'' words on this one #NOPE!#lmaooooo #these fucking idiots just do not know when to shut up! (and neither do i)#gimleaf #gigolas #gimli #legolas #ask meme #send a kiss meme #lotr fanfiction #my writing #my stuff #aman #lotr #anyway fair warning this one gets a little sad but then it's happy again in the end #because these two are so relentlessly untragic they cannot help but have a happy ending always no matter what #and anyway isn't that just the elvish experience in a nutshell? (except happier because it's them and they're Like That)#this ship sails itself all the way to valinor

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