Home is where the pants aren't

Cause like he’s hot when he was chubby.

And still hot now when buff and ripped 

And like he does nice things like visiting sick children in the hospital dressed as Star-Lord. 

and treats the paparazzi and press with respect and like gives them homemade jerky 

And says things nice things to them in general 

And he’s so cute with his wife

like, there have to be elves who do Rivendell’s laundry right? While Arwen and Elrond and Elladan and Elrohir are all swanning around in all their lovely silks and velvets, there’s got to be some elf woman bent over a giant steaming vat, a cake of lye in one hand, cursing in Sindarin at wine stains. And she’s immortal, she’s been doing this for centuries, her palms are cracked from scalding water and she’ll never die, she’ll never age, she’ll always be fair and six foot three as she hangs sheets up to dry.

and someone’s doing dishes in Mirkwood, mucking out stalls in Lothlorien—even if you build a race that’s all singing and air and light and beauty, someone still has to scrub the garderobe afterwards.

do Tolkien’s elves even sweat? do their muscles ache at anything short of three-day battles with the incarnations of darkness? are there elves who get told to shut up about their sadiron designs and write some more on poetry about stars?

and then it came to me