When Muses Attack!
folder
Lord of the Rings Movies › Het - Male/Female
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
21
Views:
4,499
Reviews:
51
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Lord of the Rings Movies › Het - Male/Female
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
21
Views:
4,499
Reviews:
51
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own the Lord of the Rings book series and movie series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
When Muses Attack!
~~~
Summary - this is pretty much a shameless attempt to garner sympathy for what this particular author has gone thru being haunted by the specter that is the March Warden. Sort of how he continues to plague me as I write his story "Strange Allies". No real smut but implied. You see? You see what I put up with to make everyone happy? *laugh*
Disclaimer - I don't own any of this. And I haven't made one cent from this story. As a matter of fact, I have endured great emotional distress at the hands of this infernal elf.
~~~
What’s it like? Not all fun and games.
He’s hateful, selfish, demanding – pretty typical guy (except for the hateful part). He wants you constant undivided attention and if he doesn’t get it, he’s liable to resort to all sorts of horrible tactics.
For example:
I’m writing some very important stuff for work.
He wants my attention. “Write it now,” he demands, hovering over me.
“No – I’m busy. You wait.”
“No,” he says. “I want you to write it now.” And proceeds to literally breathe down my neck in an effort to get my attention.
I ignore him. Since he isn’t incarnate it’s easier that it would be but harder than it sounds. He’s quite persistent.
“Go away! I’m busy!”
“But you know you want to write it,” he whispers and leans over so I can smell him. His hair brushes my cheek.
“Yes, I do but not now. I have work to do. Let me finish these formulas and I’ll get right to it.”
“Formulas? Certainly I am much more interesting than those?” Purring, petting my hair.
I shiver. “It’s not a matter of interest. It’s a matter of necessity. Now go away and leave me alone for a minute so I can finish this. The longer you pester me, the longer it will take me to get this done and get to you, dig?”
He sighs heavily and flops down on the couch. He gives me literally ONE MINUTE then he’s back, this time with his shirt off. I hate him when he does this to me.
“Are you done yet?” He whispers in my ear.
I close my eyes and beg whatever entity might be listening for strength. If I strangle him, there will be no more story and that would be bad. My readers would never forgive me!
“No, I am not,” I answer and continue pouring over my formulas, determined to ignore him. But it is so hard. And so is he.
He stands as in front of me as he can with the computer desk in the way and leans over so his mouth is next to my ear and his bare shoulder is so very near my lips.
“It would be like this,” he murmurs. “Like this when I take her. I want to be on top. Me. On top.” He moans softly and closes his eyes for emphasis.
I grind my teeth. He’s killing me.
“If I promise to write it a bit now will you go away so I can get this formula done?” I hiss.
He smiles and straightens up. “Oh, yes, indeed! Now, let’s get started,” he is suddenly all sweetness and I half expect him to clap his hands together in glee. Makes me wanna slap him into next week.
“Fine. Start then,” I say, opening a word document, my fingers hovering over the keys.
“Hmmmmm. No,” he muses. “I don’t think you’re quite ready to write this part yet.”
I bare my teeth at him. “Fine. Whatever.” Just to piss him off (and show him who REALLY is boss around here) I start typing. Making him look “bad”.
He leans over and reads it, his scowl growing darker. I try not to gloat. I do not succeed.
“You are not very nice to me,” he accuses.
“No shit, Sherlock! Maybe ‘cause you’re not very nice to ME. And I’m the one who’s doing all the work here. Now you can either put up or shut up,” I say coming to the end of my very short rope.
He sighs heavily. He’s just threatening me. I can almost lip synch his next words, “Perhaps I should just go then.” He can be such a freaking drama queen at times!
“You’re not going anywhere, don’t kid yourself. You are the one who wants this written. You are the one who pestered me incessantly until I sat down and wrote it. You are the one who chased that poor Legolas away. So zip it,” I remind him.
At the mention of Legolas he smiles slightly. “Yes, Legolas. I will have him in the end. Make sure you get that in there,” he points one alabaster finger at the screen.
“We’ve already done that. It’s in there so just chill. Are you going to tell me how this ends?” I’m getting tired of this nonsense.
He purrs. “Not yet. I want to get the rest of this right first.”
“Fine. Let’s get on with it then. You were saying?”
“No. I want to see what they are saying about me,” he says flirtatiously. “Show me again their words.”
I give him my mother’s patented “look of disgust” but it has no effect on him.
“Show me,” he says again, leaning over my shoulder and trying unsuccessfully to operate the mouse. I slap his hand away and go to the site so he can see.
He smiles and chuckles several times, nodding as he reads the reviews. Once or twice he frowns. “Horny bastard,” he grunts. “I am not!”
I crack up laughing at this. He scowls. “It is meant as a very sincere compliment,” I soothe him but I cannot keep from laughing as I say it.
He eyes me suspiciously and continues reading. “They think I die,” he snorts.
“Well, duh!” I say. “I showed you the movie.” I run my finger over my throat in the universal “goner” sign. “That wolf thing was your idea after you saw that. So – do you die or not?” I demand.
He preens and arches one perfectly shaped eyebrow at me.
“Where were we? Ah, yes,” he changes the subject. “My big scene.” He smiles. “This must be perfect. I want them to feel as if I am in the room with them.”
To emphasize his point, he returns to his former position in front of me and leans over to murmur in my ear.
“Yes, make sure you get this right. The heat from my body. The strength of it. The smell of me. They must know it all. They must feel like it is them under me as I take her,” he says softly.
My fingers fly over the keys as he continues talking to me, describing everything – his moans, her cries, how she feels under him, how he wants his body to feel as he takes her. When he’s done he leans over my shoulder and reads.
“I don’t like this word,” he says, pointing. The word is “rod” in reference to his – er – rod. “It doesn’t fit there. Change it.”
With the customary roll of my eyes, I pull out my “erotic” version of magnetic poetry. I’ve placed a bunch of “appropriate” words on the back of an old magnetic serving tray so I can just pull it out for reference. I turn the tray over searching for a more “suitable” word for him.
“Mmmm,” he says. “That one – shaft. Yes, I like the sound of that.” His hand slides slowly to his crotch. I giggle. He frowns.
“It’s still there,” I say reassuringly. He is not amused.
This word changing ritual continues for a while until he is either satisfied or I grow weary of the task and get up from the computer.
If I grow weary, then he will let me rest briefly. When he first came to me, he wouldn’t even let me do that – keeping me up until all hours, refusing to let me sleep or even eat sometimes. It’s a wonder that I could even crawl into work after all his nonsense. Now he is not so bad. I think he’s finally realized that I am much more amenable when I get some food and sleep.
~~~~
Summary - this is pretty much a shameless attempt to garner sympathy for what this particular author has gone thru being haunted by the specter that is the March Warden. Sort of how he continues to plague me as I write his story "Strange Allies". No real smut but implied. You see? You see what I put up with to make everyone happy? *laugh*
Disclaimer - I don't own any of this. And I haven't made one cent from this story. As a matter of fact, I have endured great emotional distress at the hands of this infernal elf.
~~~
What’s it like? Not all fun and games.
He’s hateful, selfish, demanding – pretty typical guy (except for the hateful part). He wants you constant undivided attention and if he doesn’t get it, he’s liable to resort to all sorts of horrible tactics.
For example:
I’m writing some very important stuff for work.
He wants my attention. “Write it now,” he demands, hovering over me.
“No – I’m busy. You wait.”
“No,” he says. “I want you to write it now.” And proceeds to literally breathe down my neck in an effort to get my attention.
I ignore him. Since he isn’t incarnate it’s easier that it would be but harder than it sounds. He’s quite persistent.
“Go away! I’m busy!”
“But you know you want to write it,” he whispers and leans over so I can smell him. His hair brushes my cheek.
“Yes, I do but not now. I have work to do. Let me finish these formulas and I’ll get right to it.”
“Formulas? Certainly I am much more interesting than those?” Purring, petting my hair.
I shiver. “It’s not a matter of interest. It’s a matter of necessity. Now go away and leave me alone for a minute so I can finish this. The longer you pester me, the longer it will take me to get this done and get to you, dig?”
He sighs heavily and flops down on the couch. He gives me literally ONE MINUTE then he’s back, this time with his shirt off. I hate him when he does this to me.
“Are you done yet?” He whispers in my ear.
I close my eyes and beg whatever entity might be listening for strength. If I strangle him, there will be no more story and that would be bad. My readers would never forgive me!
“No, I am not,” I answer and continue pouring over my formulas, determined to ignore him. But it is so hard. And so is he.
He stands as in front of me as he can with the computer desk in the way and leans over so his mouth is next to my ear and his bare shoulder is so very near my lips.
“It would be like this,” he murmurs. “Like this when I take her. I want to be on top. Me. On top.” He moans softly and closes his eyes for emphasis.
I grind my teeth. He’s killing me.
“If I promise to write it a bit now will you go away so I can get this formula done?” I hiss.
He smiles and straightens up. “Oh, yes, indeed! Now, let’s get started,” he is suddenly all sweetness and I half expect him to clap his hands together in glee. Makes me wanna slap him into next week.
“Fine. Start then,” I say, opening a word document, my fingers hovering over the keys.
“Hmmmmm. No,” he muses. “I don’t think you’re quite ready to write this part yet.”
I bare my teeth at him. “Fine. Whatever.” Just to piss him off (and show him who REALLY is boss around here) I start typing. Making him look “bad”.
He leans over and reads it, his scowl growing darker. I try not to gloat. I do not succeed.
“You are not very nice to me,” he accuses.
“No shit, Sherlock! Maybe ‘cause you’re not very nice to ME. And I’m the one who’s doing all the work here. Now you can either put up or shut up,” I say coming to the end of my very short rope.
He sighs heavily. He’s just threatening me. I can almost lip synch his next words, “Perhaps I should just go then.” He can be such a freaking drama queen at times!
“You’re not going anywhere, don’t kid yourself. You are the one who wants this written. You are the one who pestered me incessantly until I sat down and wrote it. You are the one who chased that poor Legolas away. So zip it,” I remind him.
At the mention of Legolas he smiles slightly. “Yes, Legolas. I will have him in the end. Make sure you get that in there,” he points one alabaster finger at the screen.
“We’ve already done that. It’s in there so just chill. Are you going to tell me how this ends?” I’m getting tired of this nonsense.
He purrs. “Not yet. I want to get the rest of this right first.”
“Fine. Let’s get on with it then. You were saying?”
“No. I want to see what they are saying about me,” he says flirtatiously. “Show me again their words.”
I give him my mother’s patented “look of disgust” but it has no effect on him.
“Show me,” he says again, leaning over my shoulder and trying unsuccessfully to operate the mouse. I slap his hand away and go to the site so he can see.
He smiles and chuckles several times, nodding as he reads the reviews. Once or twice he frowns. “Horny bastard,” he grunts. “I am not!”
I crack up laughing at this. He scowls. “It is meant as a very sincere compliment,” I soothe him but I cannot keep from laughing as I say it.
He eyes me suspiciously and continues reading. “They think I die,” he snorts.
“Well, duh!” I say. “I showed you the movie.” I run my finger over my throat in the universal “goner” sign. “That wolf thing was your idea after you saw that. So – do you die or not?” I demand.
He preens and arches one perfectly shaped eyebrow at me.
“Where were we? Ah, yes,” he changes the subject. “My big scene.” He smiles. “This must be perfect. I want them to feel as if I am in the room with them.”
To emphasize his point, he returns to his former position in front of me and leans over to murmur in my ear.
“Yes, make sure you get this right. The heat from my body. The strength of it. The smell of me. They must know it all. They must feel like it is them under me as I take her,” he says softly.
My fingers fly over the keys as he continues talking to me, describing everything – his moans, her cries, how she feels under him, how he wants his body to feel as he takes her. When he’s done he leans over my shoulder and reads.
“I don’t like this word,” he says, pointing. The word is “rod” in reference to his – er – rod. “It doesn’t fit there. Change it.”
With the customary roll of my eyes, I pull out my “erotic” version of magnetic poetry. I’ve placed a bunch of “appropriate” words on the back of an old magnetic serving tray so I can just pull it out for reference. I turn the tray over searching for a more “suitable” word for him.
“Mmmm,” he says. “That one – shaft. Yes, I like the sound of that.” His hand slides slowly to his crotch. I giggle. He frowns.
“It’s still there,” I say reassuringly. He is not amused.
This word changing ritual continues for a while until he is either satisfied or I grow weary of the task and get up from the computer.
If I grow weary, then he will let me rest briefly. When he first came to me, he wouldn’t even let me do that – keeping me up until all hours, refusing to let me sleep or even eat sometimes. It’s a wonder that I could even crawl into work after all his nonsense. Now he is not so bad. I think he’s finally realized that I am much more amenable when I get some food and sleep.
~~~~