Hiddlestoned
My Tom Hiddleston affliction continues unabated. If anything, it's worse than ever. I now have exactly 594 photos of the man in a file on my computer. Whoever does that 'delete my browser history when I die' can you also please take care of this folder for me? And by 'take care of', I mean, of course, bury me with glossy 8x10 copies and then
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Hoggle closed his eyes and gingerly bounced two ripe apricots up and down on the palm of his other hand. They were warm and yielding, the fuzzy skin taut and near-bursting with juice. Next month, she'll remember, he assured himself, willing it to be true. Next month for sure.
Hoggle pumped, jiggled, stroked, fondled, squeezed and even manhandled for what felt like an eternity before giving in to a vicious hand cramp and fumbling the two apricots. They dropped to the ground with an ominous splat, and Sir Didymus tutted reprovingly.
"A regrettable lapse in form, my friend. But nay, we shall not dwell upon it, what's done is done. But hold, excellent news! I believe thou hast beaten thy best time yet." The little knight held up a stopwatch in triumph. "Forty-two minutes, by my reckoning! His Majesty will be pleased."
Sarah had once observed that Didymus was constitutionally incapable of innuendo, but on occasions like this, Hoggle wasn't quite so sure.
"Could we take a break now? I could use a... a cup of tea." A bottle of whiskey, he thought rebelliously, And a fast horse to get me the hell out of the kingdom.
"Indeed. I would not refuse a cup of tea myself, for reading is thirsty work." Sir Didymus closed the book and thumped his friend on the back. "And 'tis very wise to keep up thy fluid intake. Thou wilt need thy strength, and by no means wouldst thou wish to suspend His Majesty's sporting pleasure..."
Indeed not. Hoggle recalled all too well the last occasion when His Majesty's pleasure had been suspended due to a disappointing performance. Ludo still hadn't recovered, and in some places his fur hadn't grown back at all.
The little knight bustled back and forth between the garden and Hoggle's kitchen, spreading a cheery tablecloth on the grass and bringing forth a thermos of tea and another of lemonade, along with a plate of strawberry tarts.
"Drink, eat and be merry," he said brightly, helping himself to a tart, "Mayhap after the refreshments thou couldst attempt the technique known as 'depe-throatynge'."
Hoggle's shoulders slumped, as did his entire sense of emotional well-being. He knew there was no 'maybe' about it.
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Probably still in too pissy of a mood to post the prompt tonight as I am in full on 'I DON'T GIVE A FUCK' mode, but maybe tomorrow...
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In the meantime, enjoy the whole lewd-acts-with-root-vegetables routine that is quickly becoming my greatest strength as a writer!
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Meh. It's nothing worth subjecting you to, really. I am going through a minor existential crisis which stems primarily from my dealings with epic, utter, unadulterated douchebaggery of the highest caliber. I suspect some part of it is hormonal, other parts of it are NOT and those are the parts that I am resisting the urge to end with the pointy aspect of a kitchen utensil.
No doubt, this too shall pass...hopefully before I forget why I need to resist.
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