Pottymouth: 1. 1

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1. 1

(A/N: Originally I wrote this story in the “He said, she said” style, differentiating between the two points of view with text color. As this doesn’t show up when I post the chapter, I’ve had to modify it by using symbols to cue the reader as to whose point of view is being read. Éowyn’s POV is symbolized by a string of asterisks; Legolas’ by a string of ampersands. And as there are no other points of view and they don’t notice everything, it makes the story – well – a little odd. Good luck. –Le Rouret)


I hate walking down this part of 24th Street. The sidewalk’s always torn up, because it’s in a perpetual state of “Under Construction” (in fact I think this is the third sign proclaiming its current condition that’s been propped up against the light pole – all the others keep getting knocked down) and since I have to wear heels to work I keep tripping in the most undignified manner over the chunks of concrete and asphalt. And don’t get me started on the construction workers! It’s so cliché, but it’s true – they can’t seem to keep their big traps shut when a woman walks by. It doesn’t help that I’m always in a suit with a skirt, and that I’m a natural blonde – Yes, I’m a natural blonde! And no, I’m not going to prove it to you! And stop calling me “bitch”! If that’s meant to charm me into striking up a conversation with you, I think you need to reconsider your gender preferences.

Oh god, why did I say that? That only reminds me . . . dammit.

My arms feel like they’re being pulled out of their sockets. Naturally, I would run out of milk the week my stupid car is in the shop. At least it’s not far to the bus stop. I wish it weren’t so hot – I can practically feel my mint chocolate chip melting from here. What’s the bank sign say -- 68°? Can’t be – maybe I’m just overheated from walking under the auspices of the Construction Worker Critics, who seem to be making comments about my legs. I know they’re nice legs – why do you think I wear short skirts? I want to show them off. Not that anyone important ever notices.

Damn. Did it again. Why do I have to keep remembering? It’s not the sharp, stabbing feeling, like he’s sliding a knife into my gut. Not any more. It’s settled down into a sucker-punch sort of feel, gloves off. Knuckles under the ribcage, pummeling my kidney. Time heals all wounds, like hell. More like, time changes wounds from bleeding externally to bleeding internally.

Yep, got called a bitch again. Why do guys think that’s alluring? I wonder if I dyed my hair brown if they’d leave me alone.

Who am I trying to fool? The Valar gave me my body and told me it’d stay this way forever. I’ll always be beautiful. It was such a nice thing for the first ten millennia or so, but it’s getting a little old. Sometimes I catch myself staring in the mirror, looking for blemishes or wrinkles or gray hair. Like that’ll ever happen. I wonder if this is how Arwen feels? I could ask her, I guess, but that would involve trying to find her. I wonder if she and Aragorn are still together?

Damn. Yep, still hurts.

Oh, great. Not only do I have to contend with lugging four grocery bags to the bus stop, not only do I have to contend with the Construction Workers from Hell whistling and woo-woo-hey-baby-ing me, now I have to deal with a rabid herd of bikers. Look at them – long greasy hair, dusty cracked leathers, spotted polarized sunglasses, bandanas around bald heads, earrings and what I heard Frances refer to once as “shit-stomping boots.” I’d envy them if I weren’t such a pathetic loser. At least they’re free. When was the last time I felt free, really free? These jokers can hop on their Harleys and brap-ap-ap down the road whenever they want to. I’m stuck. Stuck and broke and alone.

If you don’t count my roommate, which frankly, I don’t.

Now they’re looking around to see what the fuss is about. Several of them have spotted me. Are they going to be gallant and come to my rescue (it does happen, you know; I’ve been rescued before by these twenty-first century gypsies), or will they whoop and ogle and hey-baby me too?

Hey, that guy’s not so bad looking.


What the fuck is all this noise? Stupid goddam tossers, they’re sharking a passing lady. If that’s chatting up I’ll fucking drop an I-beam on them. Who’re they eyeballing anyway? Hmm . . . not bad . . . bit of all right there. Good legs, walks well, nicely dressed. Blonde, too – always liked blondes. Too bad I gave up gratuitous sex after that whole D.H. Lawrence incident. David was a nice boy, but my god, what was his thing about rimming? Fucking disgusting. And he was such a shite about it. Oo-er, she’d be a looker if she’d let her hair grow –

What the fuck -- ?


“Holy fucking shit, it’s the White Lady of Rohan!”

Well, okay, I haven’t been called that in a few millennia. Who on earth would call me the White Lady of Rohan in Pasadena? Wait, it’s that guy I thought wasn’t too bad looking. Oh hell, he’s walking this way. Wait – do I know him? Let’s see; blue bandana over long white hair, dark sunglasses, red leather vest with a rip in it, no shirt, skintight black leather pants and shit-stompers. No . . . wait . . .





That’s it. She’s recognized me. About fucking time.



I’m not even sure if I’ve said his name right. I feel like my tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth. I know I’m gaping like a dying fish but I can’t help it. Him! Here! After all these years of no contact! He’s sauntering up to me in a most un-Elflike manner, bare arms outstretched. Oh my god, is that a tattoo? He’s laughing, and I’m not sure if he’s delighted with my reaction or just happy to see me. I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt. After all, we really did get along well once, even though that was before --

Whoof, I haven’t been hugged this hard in a while! And he’s laughing and spinning me around; my groceries are spinning too, and the ice cream sweat is dripping down my panty hose. He finally lets me go and stands back, one hand still gripping my shoulder, pushing his sunglasses up onto his head. Yes – there are those wild cerulean eyes – and the bandana’s slipped so I can see the points of his ears. How on earth has he managed to survive this long without some government-funded scientist dissecting him?

Maybe that’s why he’s with this crowd – no self-respecting scientist would look for a non-human biological experiment among bikers. At least the government-funded ones wouldn’t.

“Look at you! Bloody hell, look at you!” he crows, laughing and shaking me by the shoulder. “My god, you cut your fucking hair – why the hell did you do that?”

“Legolas!” I say again. Not very profound, but I can’t really think of anything else right now. And just the fact he’s speaking with a heavy East End accent is a little distracting.

“Éowyn!” he says, smiling at me with those sweet pink lips. Really, he’s too pretty to be male. “Fuckin’ A, haven’t seen you in yonks!”

At least the construction workers have shut up; some of the bikers are watching us. Most of them are grinning, but some look wary or resentful. They really are a rough-looking bunch. What is he doing with them? I finally detach my tongue from the roof of my mouth and manage to speak. “Legolas! What are you doing in L.A.?”

“Ah, faffing about a bit is all,” he says, pulling off his bandana and running his long fingers through his platinum hair. “Gonna put some stuff in the Norton Simon, buncha keech it is, but they like it.” I have no idea what he’s talking about so I nod and look at him some more. I remember the first time I saw his hair – all that time I’d assumed we Rohirrim were golden-haired, but the sight of that sheet of pale gold made us all look so – dingy. No wonder half the maidens in Meduseld were in love with him. Half the boys were too, I think.

Oooh, shouldn’t have thought that, shouldn’t have thought that. Ouch.


Wait, what the fuck was that look for? What did I say? Does she hate fucking artists or something? Oh hell, she’s dragging plastic carrier bags around and they look damn heavy. Here comes my gentility kicking in. Doesn’t matter how many years I spend trying to be a pikey, it always comes back. “Let me take those,” I offer, smiling into her bewildered face. What the hell did she cut off her hair for? It was the most gorgeous color – rich wavy gold like liquid topaz. Made me feel like a fucking marble statue or something. Now she looks – well, modern. Wager she fits in with all the seppos pretty well. I could never do that – probably something to do with my not being human. Looks knackered, though. Wonder what she gets up to nowadays? Practically looks like a fucking working woman, dressed like that. Last time I saw her she was wearing a green velvet dress with a pin-collar. When was that . . . 1560? 1570? Damn, I can’t remember my dates anymore. Looked brill, but the collar was bloody uncomfortable. Ah yes, 1577, Sir Frances Drake – now, that fucker was a true pirate! I miss the Golden Hind, goddammit. Shit, that was a lot of fun, blowing those Spanish fucks out of the water.

Where was I? Oh yeah, taking her marketing. Give over, mate. She looks uncomfortable. Must be Buckeye giving her the glad eye. That’d make any woman soil herself. “So,” I ask, wondering where to start. Where the hell does one start, four hundred years after you see someone? “How are you? How’s Faramir?”

Oh, bloody hell. Wrong thing to say. Dammit dammit dammit, Leggsie, why the fuck can’t you keep your goddam mouth shut? Wait – what did I say? I just asked –

Oh, bugger. Looks like she’s going to go spare. Shit shit shit, if that fucker’s hurt her I’ll fucking cut his bollocks off. I do not want her to start an eye-leak in the middle of the street, dammit. Make me look no end a prat. Now I don’t know what to say.

“Éowyn . . . “

Oh hell, that was original.

“What the hell happened?”

All right, mate, that was a bit better. Now she’s wiping her eyes surreptitiously, trying not to let me see she’s upset. Bugger that, like I could miss it.


“Um . . . “

Oh hell, that was original.


Oh fucking hell, this is gonna hurt.


“Frances – I mean, Faramir – um – we’re divorced.”


Blank stare. Yeah, mate, that’s attractive. Fuck.


He’s looking at me like he doesn’t speak my language. Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe the Eldar don’t have a word for divorce. But he’s been speaking English for centuries – he knows what it means. He just doesn’t believe it, that’s it. He doesn’t believe Frances would ever leave me. I don’t blame him. I didn’t believe it at first, either. I’m watching his face carefully. His mouth closes, those cupid’s-bow lips purse together and his winged eyebrows meet in a V over bright blue eyes. He looks beautiful even when he’s – wait – is he confused or angry?

Hmm. The perfect ivory pallor of those high cheekbones has flushed up all of a sudden. And it’s not reflection from his leather vest, either. Yep. Definitely angry. Frances told me I looked like a miffed Raggedy Ann doll when I was angry. Legolas looks – well – like some marble statue of an angry Elf. Impossibly perfect, that’s him.

It didn’t hurt as bad as I thought it would to tell him. Maybe having to say it over and over and over – “I’m divorced, I’m divorced, I’m divorced” takes the sting out of it. Or maybe it’s his reaction, disbelief and anger. I don’t know. Why isn’t he saying anything?


Fucking hell. I don’t know what to say.

Buy time, buy time, buy time. Run hands through hair. Bite lip. Look around. No, mate, no answers. Shift feet. Look at Buckeye and Black Steve. No, still no answers. Bugger. I have to say something. She’s hurt, dammit, she’s practically bleeding her fucking guts all over the fucking sidewalk. Damn damn damn, hell shit BUGGER!

“Éowyn – “

Very fucking original, Leggsie. Nice response, bet that’ll make her feel better.

“Um, I know this is kind of a shock,” she says. She’s bloody apologizing, mate! Apologizing because you don’t! know! what! to! SAY! My fault my fault my fault! Quick, cut her off. Oh yeah, bet that’ll make her feel fucking great.

“When?” Nice ‘n’ curt. Very polite, oh yes. But I can’t stand that diffident look on her face. Bloody women; always think it’s their own bloody fault when the bloody pillock throws them over. I’ll fucking kill Faramir. I’ll fucking kill him for putting those tears in her eyes that she’s trying so hard to hide from me.

“Oh, it’s been a couple of years,” she says with a laugh that’s supposed to be light and carefree, but I know that little wobble in her voice. She sounded the same way when the fucking Romans overran Masada. Lumme, that was a cock-up. Glad we’re bloody through with it. Never liked that part of Asia. “These things happen,” she’s saying, trying to sound oh so casual but I know better, oh yes mate, I know better. How the hell many recently divorced women have I listened to? They talk and they talk and they fucking talk and I sit there and listen and look sensitive. With this batty-boy face, what the hell else can I do? “We knew it wasn’t working out and it was only a matter of time.”

I can’t stop myself. “Knew it wasn’t bloody working out!” I shout. “After ten thousand fucking years – “ Shut up, mate, shut the fuck up! Definitely not the right thing to say, now my mates think I’m mad at her. Hell, she probably thinks I’m mad at her. Tell her you’re not mad at her. “Sorry, luv. I’m not mad at you.” Finally, said something right. Fucking A, you’re a gobshite. She’s looking down, wiping her eyes. Oh, bloody hell, did I bish that one up. All right. I can do this. “I’m just trying to – oh god, now what?” I ask, as though a bloody Vala will answer me.

All right. So I’m floundering here. So fucking shoot me.


Well, that wasn’t the response I was expecting. Everyone’s been so – so – polite and non-committal and politically correct about the whole thing. But they’re mortal; they don’t know what it’s like. Legolas is right – ten thousand years of marital bliss (well, okay, maybe not bliss, but . . .) and then a kick in the stomach. And it’s not like I saw it coming. Maybe I should have; all the signs were there. But I didn’t. And it’s over.

Over. Done. Finished. Kaput.

That’s the hardest part, knowing he’s not coming back, not ever. Another ten thousand years, but this time alone, because the Valar gave me to Faramir as his partner for eternity and there will be no one else. No one else. He’s gone, he left me. Oh god, it hurts. Don’t cry, don’t cry, then his biker friends will think he’s being mean to you and they’ll beat him up or something. That, and I don’t want to cause a fuss, certainly not in the middle of the street. He’s moving around, looking around himself, like he wants to escape or something. Probably regrets ever stopping me. That figures. I just had to dump my bad news on him before I even asked him what he was up to. Frances was right; I’m so selfish sometimes, so self-absorbed. Men don’t want to hear about our problems.

Oh, wait. He’s not a man. I forgot.

Hmm. I wonder what Elves want to hear about? Not that I think they want to hear about mortals’ problems either, but aren’t they supposed to be a little more sympathetic than humans? You’d think so! And anyway he knows better than I do how to handle being alone for ten thousand years; after all, the Valar didn’t give him anyone.

I wonder how he stands it?

I wonder what he’s going to say now? Because I’m certainly not going to say anything; I don’t think I could without my voice cracking, and I don’t like to cry in public. It makes me feel all – I don’t know. Weak. Female. Emotionally manipulative.

Boy, took that right out of Frances’ book, didn’t I?


Say something, you wanker; just bloody say something! We can’t stand here in the middle of a zebra crossing, her crying and you pulling at your hair like you do when you’re at a loss for words. Amazing it hasn’t all fallen out by now. Not that it would anyway, whether I were an Elf or not.

No. Can’t make her give me an emotional disposition of her personal life in the middle of the bloody street. Not good form to start the argy-bargy, mate. Get out of here, find someplace to talk. A pub. Yeah, that’s right, a pub. Good place to discuss that manky git Faramir. Dark, smoky, noisy.

“Look,” I say. She’s still looking down. I can hear her breathing, deep and ragged. She’s trying not to cry. Fuck. “Look,” I say again. “We can’t – uh – “ Hand in the hair again. Dammit, why can’t I think without putting my fucking hands on my head? “Look,” I say for the third time. “This isn’t the place, luv. Let’s – let me buy you a pint or something.”


Did he just offer to buy me a drink?


Did I just offer to buy her a drink?


That has got to be the nicest thing a guy has done for me in years. Decades.


That has got to be the fucking lamest thing I’ve ever said.


I know he doesn’t mean it that way but – oh, I feel better. Tons better. Yeah, a drink would be nice. I suppose I should tell him that, instead of staring him in the face like a fish again. I seem to be doing that a lot.


I can’t believe I just said that. Makes it sound like I’m chatting her up. No wonder she’s just staring at me in horror. Fucking A, I can’t believe I just said that. Why didn’t I say, “Let’s talk about this somewhere else”? That would’ve been a damn sight better than what I did say. Oh god, I’m such a git. Bished it again. No wonder the Valar didn’t give me a partner.


Now he looks embarrassed. That’s so cute. Or maybe he’s second-guessing me. I can’t tell. Oh, wait – I have ice cream. No drink. Damn! When was the last time I went into a bar and had a drink with a good-looking man?

Three years, that’s how long.

Ouch. Did it again. But if Legolas –

No, he’s just being nice.

Or not. Looks like he’s changing his mind.

Maybe because I haven’t answered him yet. I’m just standing here, staring at him like a dork. Say something. Say anything!

“Um. Ice cream.”

Okay, maybe not that.

“I mean – I’d love to. But I have ice cream in my bag. I need to get it home.”

“Oh!” he says, his face clearing. It suddenly strikes me as extremely odd to be discussing melting ice cream with the Prince of Eryn Lasgalen. Drinks yes, ice cream, no. He always did like his glass of wine, as I recall. Glass – bottle – barrel – come to think of it, the Elves drank quite a bit, didn’t they? I wonder if Gimli ever got him to drink ale? I wonder where Gimli is? I wonder where everyone is? I wonder if I’m going to miss the bus? Then my ice cream will melt and it won’t matter whether I go to a bar to have a drink with a gorgeous blonde or not. Moot point by then; bet he’ll have changed his mind.


Oh, that means she’s got ice lollies in her bag? Well, I guess that makes a bit more sense, doesn’t it, mate? That was a bit – odd, though. Look on her face was like I’d asked her to dance or some shit like that. Wait – I asked her to go to the pub and – oh yeah, she’s fucking divorced. Pay attention, Legs. This may be Éowyn but she’s still a divorced mortal woman.

Or not. Not mortal. And not divorced, not really, not according to the rules the Valar set down. Faramir can’t fucking do that, the bloody goddam fecker. What the fuck did he do, anyway, find some kerb-crawling minger? Why? What could any other woman offer him that Éowyn doesn’t have in spades? Even with her hair cut short she’s a damn nice bit of crumpet. Handy with a sword, too.

Oh shit, can’t believe I just thought that. I wonder when the last time it was she handled a sword?

When was the last time someone handled my --

Down, boy!

Ice lollies means melting, which means we have to get the hell out of here and get that shit in the ice box. All right, mate, time to get her home. Am I going home with her? Wait – hold the phone; that sounds fucking precarious. No, just going home to talk. To talk! I need to find out what that gobshite did to her. Nasty fucking manky mummy’s boy, I’ll have his knacks.

If I don’t say something soon, she’s going to think I’m a world-class shite. All right. Here we go, mate. Loading cannons, full speed ahead. Fucking Frances Drake again. “Well, let’s get your ice lollies home, then.” Oh god oh god, what a fucking stupid thing to say! “Where’s your car?” All right, that sounded better. Be practical, be straightforward, be bloody normal for a change. Pretend you’re not talking to a fucking divorcée but someone’s wife. That’s it, mate, someone’s wife; no bloody use at all getting your knickers in a goddam wad. Pretend it’s – it’s Rosie or Di or someone. Yeah – that’s it; just another female friend.

Female. Oh, god. Oh my fucking foreskin. When it’s been a hundred fucking years –

“Um,” she says again. She says that a lot. What is it, does she not know the answer? Oh wait, she knows the answer but doesn’t want to tell me. Why not? Is she embarrassed? Holy shit, I ride a fucking custom chopper, for godssake. With Jesse James fenders and Billet wheels. Who has the right to be embarrassed here? What the fuck does she drive, a Yugo? “My car’s in the shop. I’m taking the bus.”


Well, that’s it. Here’s where we say good-bye. He hops on his motorcycle and rides off into the sunset with his skanky friends and I hop on my bus and go home to San Dimas and put my melted ice cream in the freezer and eat my overcooked shrimp and do some paperwork and go to bed. Just. Like. Before.

Oh, I hate my life.


There’s no way in hell she’s taking the ‘bus home.

“Like hell you’re taking the bus,” I say. Another original phrase; why hasn’t Barrett’s picked you up by now, mate? “I’ll take you home and we’ll suss this out.” Talk about this motherfucker Faramir buggering you up. Oh I’ll talk about it, dammit, I’ll hunt him down and ream his arse out so far my knife’ll stick out his eyeballs. She looks like she’s going to object. What is there to object over? Like I’d chat up the Shieldmaiden of Rohan. She’d kick my arse. Or maybe not. Never tried myself against her. Wonder what kind of archer she is?

All right, mate, that was a bloody queer question.

“Get on me wheels. We’ll talk about it when we get you home.” Nothing like the domineering turkey-cock line. No one can resist. Oh god, Legs, you’re such a fucking shite. I need a fag. No, wait. I quit in 1961. I need a peppermint humbug.

She looks like she’s wavering. Is she wavering?


I can’t believe I’m considering this. Ride a motorcycle into my neighborhood? What would my neighbors think? Isn’t that breaking the neighborhood covenants? I’m not sure what they said about motorcycles. It’s not as though I paid attention to that part of the contract. I mean, why would I care about motorcycles? Frances couldn’t even drive a stick shift. Wait, maybe it was only parking a motorcycle, not riding one. Parking one for a couple of days would be okay.

Days? Did I think that? I meant hours, of course. A couple of hours. I’ll – what will I do? Offer him a drink. That’s what I did last time I had him over. Of course, that was four hundred years ago and I was living in a mansion in London. Didn’t he say he wanted a drink? No, he said he wanted to buy me a drink. Buy me a drink, sailor? So I’ll just offer him one. Yeah, that’s it. As payment for driving me home. Before my mint chocolate chip melts. Yes. Okay. I’ll do it.


Oh shit, she’s going to turn me down. Say yes. Say yes, dammit. You need to tell me what happened so I can bash up that motherfucker so hard he shits teeth. Say yes. Yes yes yes yes yes!

Should I phone Longshanks and Whitey? They need to hear about this too. Whitey especially, seeing he’s a Maia. I wonder if he’s still riding that Softail? I hope Grim’s Fatboy isn’t being horrible. I need these fuckers on my side. I hope Faramir hasn’t called Longshanks. They were close, once.

Say yes. Say yes. Say yes.

Buckeye and Big Al and Black Steve are going to give me never-ending shit about this. Running off with a woman. I don’t give a shit; this is Éowyn, dammit; she was one of the Chosen. I have to be there for her.

Where the fuck has she been all these years? Why hasn’t anyone heard from her?

Say yes. Say yes.


“All right.”


Close enough.


He’s turning away from me, back onto the sidewalk. He has my groceries. I look down at the bags; the one with my ice cream is dripping and leaving little star-shaped blots on the concrete. I look up his legs to his ass.

Ooooohhhhhh big mistake

You never saw Elven ass in Middle-Earth, not even in the Fifth Age when everyone was getting so-called “liberal” and they started wearing trousers. They were always so modest, wearing tunics and things that covered them up. Even when I ran into Legolas onstage on the Globe playing Iago his leggings were covered with a codpiece. Now I know why. The drool dripping off my lip is probably the same consistency as the ice cream sweat dripping off the grocery bags.

One thought: Hooray for leather pants.

Leg down cheek bunches up; leg up cheek sliiiiiiiiiiiiides. Oh god, he’s got a great ass. Bunch and sliiiiiiiiiiide, bunch and sliiiiiiiiiiide. What kind of inseam has he got, thirty-eight inches? He’s all leg, leg and delectable round ass.

He’s turning around in the midst of his biker buddies, looking at me. His vest swings open. Okay, not all legs and ass. How can a hairless chest be so sexy? Are his nipples pink?

Okay, Winnie, calm down. So it’s been four years since you’ve gotten laid. That’s no reason to lust after an old friend. Especially when he’s the only old friend that’s shown up in centuries. It doesn’t matter that he’s got a great ass. I mean, really. He’s an Elf. Of course he’s got a great ass. He’s probably perfect everywhere.

Ooohh. Didn’t need that mental image.


What the hell is she staring at? Do I have something stuck to my arse?


Okay, stop lusting over an old friend. He’s an Elf; you’re an Edan. In – com – pat – ible. Remember? Except for Aragorn and Arwen. Not so incompatible. I mean – oh, damn, what was I saying?

He’s putting my groceries in some sort of bag-thingie on the back of his motorcycle. They look like saddlebags. I wonder what they’re called? He’s turning to me, smiling a little. What a beautiful smile. Perfect teeth, gorgeous chin and jowls, and oh those pink rosebud lips. Yum.

I did not just think that. “Yum”? What am I, fifteen again? More like fifteen thousand. You’d think I’d be over gorgeous men by now. Even gorgeous blond men. Especially considering –

Ow, ow, ow. I didn’t think that, either.

His friends are giving him a hard time. One of them looks contemptuously at me and says, “What the fuck is this, Legs? You ditchin’ us for some broad?”

“Broad”? What decade are you from, you jerk?

“Shut yer holes,” he says. Such an erudite Elf he is; no wonder he was voted Most Likely to Have Sex with the Queen back when Catherine was really THE GREAT. Woah, didn’t need that mental image, either. Crazy old dried-up prune she was. “Been a rave-up, have a good life, Buck.” It’s like he’s speaking in some weird biker code. Oh wait, I know what that means. He means he’s leaving them. Does he mean he’s just leaving his friends to take me home? Does he mean he’s leaving them for good? For me? Can I handle this guilty feeling it’s giving me? Can’t they wait? I mean –

“Hop about,” he tells me, gesturing to the long black seat.


In a skirt?


What the fuck is she waiting for? She looks like she’s not so sure about this. What’s not to be sure about? Sure is bloody better than riding with this bunch of ignorant yobbos. My god, if Black Steve grabs my arse one more time I’ll bend his elbow backwards so far he’ll be able to fucking kiss it. And although Bike Mike doesn’t think I can hear him, my amazingly sharp Elven ears can pick it up every time he calls me “faggot-boy.” There are disadvantages to being better than the average human. I’ve even heard him and that randy bugger Mac discuss how I manage to wash my hair so often without them seeing it. Stupid little shites, just because dirt falls off of me doesn’t mean I’m a Mary Ann. Makes me wish I’d managed to hang onto Haldir or Elladan before the Valar put up the ban.

Wait, just remembered; I would’ve had to have had them both. Bent arse-fuckers. Bet they could ride, though.

Get on the bike, please; don’t look at the seat like it’ll bloody bite you on the arse.

Not that biting your arse would necessarily be a bad thing.

Oh shit, did I just think that?

“Um,” she says. She says that a lot. “Don’t you have a helmet or something?”

Helmet? What the fuck do I look like, an astronaut?

“You spent way too much time with Faramir,” I say firmly, shoving her toward the bike. “G’wan now, luv, or your lollies will melt.” She edges her arse up to the seat and I can’t help wondering what the fuck kind of mental damage that unctuous git did to her. Helmet! Doesn’t she remember we’re fucking immortal? What the hell good would a helmet do? Then oh my god she had to part her legs to mount the bike I just said mount is she wearing black lace knickers or was that my imagination down boy! Belongs to Faramir belongs to Faramir belongs to MOTHERFUCKING FARAMIR oh my god I’m going to fucking kill him. Because I know that in another hundred years or so he’s going to come crawling back to her and the bloody kife will take him back, end of story.

Sometimes I hate my life. But then I get over it. I mean, what’s the point? Long-term, you know, mate. After all, it’s not so bleeding bad shimmying onto my chopper in front of her, feeling her thighs tighten around my hips, her hands on my waist. Yeah – things could be worse, mate. I kick-start and Buckeye shouts over the roar.


“FUCK YOU!” I yell back, and for good measure give him the International Symbol of Goodwill as we peel out onto the pavement.

This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.

Story Information

Author: Le Rouret

Status: General

Completion: Complete

Era: Other

Genre: Humor

Rating: Adult

Last Updated: 09/30/04

Original Post: 04/19/04

Go to Pottymouth overview


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