Pottymouth: 10. 10

Reader Toolbox   Log in for more tools

10. 10

I’d forgotten how much Edan sleep. And how deeply too – if Éowyn tried to get out of bed with me beside her I’d suss it out pretty damn quick, but when I get up she doesn’t even move.

I stand, look down at her for a moment. So lovely – that warm golden skin, thick honey-colored hair, long graceful limbs, and did I mention those TITS? A good double handful, oh fuck yeah, topped with nipples the color of good creamy coffee.

Got it bad got it bad got it so fucking bad, and do I care?


Speaking of coffee, though . . .

I find my cutoffs and pull them on. No sense giving Ducky another bloody free show, after all. The flimsy, gimcrack door creaks a little but my acushla just gives a sigh and keeps on sleeping.

I hate this fucking cold tile. Think I’ll look for a house with wood floors. Always liked the feel of worn oak under my feet. This fucking ceramic tile reminds me of Aglarond before Grim got the fur carpets laid down. Fucking A, thought I’d freeze my bloody arse off the first time I went to visit.

Now, where the fuck’s the coffee? In the pantry? Let’s see, beans, crisps, soup mix, cheap nasty chocolates, if you’re going to eat chocolate at least make it bloody GOOD chocolate, muesli, oh fuck that is so manky I feel sick, is that powdered bloody milk? My sainted aunt these girls are pathetic. No coffee.

There’s a damn coffee maker on the counter, has to be coffee someplace. Try the drawers then. I can smell it . . . ah yes. And it’s even decent coffee. Thank the Valar for that – some things I just can’t compromise.

Fill up the carafe at the tap, put the grounds in the filter and let ‘er rip. Maybe the smell will wake up my acushla. Like to give her a good-morning squeeze – round the waist or at the bum, makes no never mind to me – wonder when Ducky gets up? We might have time for another shag or two.

At least she has eggs. I can make omelettes with toast. And are those cherry preserves in the ice box? Oh yes . . . that’s not so fucking bad, can make do with this until I get to the store to do my marketing.

I wonder why most Edan don’t understand how important food is? Especially the bloody Americans – with everything they have at their fucking disposal they eat the worst bleeding keech I’ve ever seen. Not that the English are much better, mind you. Do you have any fucking idea what goes into pub food? Makes my stomach turn, really it does. The French, for all their faults, have aesthetics right at least. If it doesn’t taste good, it’s not bloody worth eating.

Course, they can’t do plumbing for shit. Fucking gobshites, their motto must be “form over function.” Have you ever seen a bathtub that’s built to drain UP? Only in fucking France, luv.

While the coffee brews I might as well check the damn email. After our last round of fucklesticks last night I managed to send off a group message, letting everyone know what the hell happened, and to get here as soon as possible.

Not looking forward to that, oh hell no. They’re going to fucking KILL me. Reach down my throat and pull my bloody goolies right up out my gob.

Oh, I hope Éomer won’t hate me.


The smell of burnt summer grass, sweet like timothy hay, heat rising in waves from the red earth, blown by cool breezes. Sky bluer than the ocean, brilliant clouds scudding across the vast dome, snow-capped peaks sharper than razors cut the horizon. Pulsing muscles beneath my legs, the rocking gait of a gleaming chestnut body, the cut of leather in my palms. For one brief moment, one of many brief moments, ecstasy – moments that when chained together become a life of joy. Flashes of contentment, happiness staining a morose life from front to back – like ink on wet pages. By my side, not the raven-haired man who spent our lives belittling and emasculating me, but a laughing sprite, a foul-mouthed angel, whose long white fingers press back the pieces of my brittle heart. I am astride him now; we are strong, we two; locked together, pulsing and invigorated, neither struggling for unhappy dominance but streaming along through the uncounted ages side by side.


Your Edan dreams of you.

. . . what?

Already your work is being accomplished. You do well; she is healing.

But my Lord Manwë, what about her brother? What about her friends? Will they accept this? You never speak to them, only to me. What if they don’t believe me?

What will come to pass will cause them to believe you.

What’s that, then?

Patience, Greenleaf.


Got a message from Éomer. Hope to hell he used spell-check.

From: Eking
To: Legs
Subject: Éowyn
Lottie woke me and told me about your IM. Then I got your email. Shit,
what the hell happened?! Not that this is necessarily a shocker, but I’m
still a little surprised the Valar stuck you in the middle. You sure you want
to take Éowyn on? Faramir may have been a royal sonofabitch but Éowyn
can be a little difficult as well. Not that I can see you having any trouble
with that – you were always sort of progressive on women’s roles anyway,
weren’t you?

Well, hell, mate, that’s a nice way of putting it. Slag me, why don’t you! You mean I never bowed to the conventional wisdom that the female of the species was only put on earth to pump out offspring? Fucking amazing! What the fuck to I look like, some bloody berk?

We’ve got a flight coming in to LA on Friday morning. I’ve got directions
to Éowyn’s house and I’ll call you from the airport to let you know we’re
on our way. From what Lottie tells me, you may need advance notice to
be presentable.

Ah yes, there’s that dry, cut-your-fucking-throat humor that made him such an effective king. Who needs the damn noose when you can blister your subjects’ bollocks with a singe phrase?

Longshanks, Grim, and Whitey are on their way too. And I got a hysterical
phone call from Merry in the middle of the night asking what we were going
to do with Faramir’s nads – he suggested freeze-drying; I thought
formaldehyde would be more effective.

Ha! Figures Merry would take Éowyn’s side. Always had a soft spot for her, he did.

This means all the hobbits are coming. Wonder which side of the goddam fence Frodo’s riding these days? Haven’t seen him since that fucking debacle with Warhol – stupid fucking arse-poking batty boy, thought I’d have to tear-gas him to get him to leave me the fuck alone – Frodo got on with him well – too damn well. Poor bloody little sod, doesn’t know his arse from a hole in the ground. Well, he did better than I would’ve done, carrying that stupid goddam motherfucking Ring of Bloody Power.

Which begs the question: Where the fuck are we going to put everyone?

Hm. Better find an accommodating hotel somewhere.

At any rate we should all be converging on you between Friday afternoon
and Saturday morning (early, but as you don’t sleep much I don’t think it’ll

Sharpening my knife in anticipation of revenging myself upon my former
brother-in-law, and buffing my handshake in preparation for accepting
my future brother-in-law,


Did I not tell you, Greenleaf, to be patient? All will be well.

Easy for YOU to say, Mr. Knows-All.

But it is a relief. Whitey’ll be stroppy, that’s for damn sure, but as an Istar he’s got a better idea of what the fuck they think about; Longshanks . . . well, he knows how to work an Eldar/Edan marriage pretty bloody well. Arwen’s the happiest little kife this side of Valinor. And Grim . . .

Oh, fuck. Poor Grim. Always wanted the wedding bells in the cathedral, only got the manky, grotty little gold-diggers. Wonder if the Guinness Book of World Records has him down for Greatest Number of Divorces? Even Frodo hasn’t gone through more lovers than my poor old Grim. And considering Frodo’s got both genders to work with, that’s really fucking saying something.

The Naugrim is the servant of Aulë and is in his care.

Did anyone ever tell you that eavesdropping is a bloody nasty habit?

Peace, Greenleaf. The happiness of the Naugrim has never been your task. To you have been appointed the tasks pertaining to the comfort and wellbeing of the Edan’s offspring. It is to this final end you have been led. Your Edan still dreams of you.

I wonder what it’s like to dream?


I see the pillars of the Golden Hall, carved and gilded with horse-head shapes, green paint and red stain. Rich intaglioed armor, a floor strewn with damp musty rushes, the bite of new ale on my tongue. A crowd of men, straw-haired, raucous-voiced, dirty and musky, but standing apart in the shadows a slim white form, still, quiet, a shaft of light upon an alabaster pillar. My eyes meet his, gleaming blue, blue like the sky above as it holds its ceiling to protect me when I ride – his voice clear, unsullied by lesser emotions, an unlined face of perpetual youth masking ageless observation –

“My congratulations to you, Lady of Rohan. Though I suppose I must now address you as the Lady of Emyn Arnen.”

The laugh dies in my throat. I will never find home again.

But those brilliantly blue eyes see this, the white arms embrace me, the heat of his body envelops me. Seething through my skin is the assurance that I am home when he is near.

I know it’s a dream; I know I’ve dreamed this before. It’s never ended like this, though, with the shining one in my arms. It always ended the same way – Faramir takes me away, and I’m weeping, watching my brother as he stands in the doorway of Meduseld, a wistful look on his face. We had never been apart before, he and I. Like twins, really – since the deaths of our parents we had been forced together, obliged to rely upon each other. That marriage outside of the nobility of Rohan ensured our rending and it was very painful.

It was worse after the Valar brought us back. Éomer and Lothíriel were so . . . happy. My marriage to Faramir, though it started well, was so rocky. He resented my interests, said they were “unbefitting a lady.” That tomboyishness that endeared me so much to my uncle was repulsive to him. Put that sword down, Éowyn; there’s no one to fight anymore. Ride sidesaddle – it’s obscene the way you sit on a horse. What are you thinking, laughing aloud like that? Why can’t you be more sedate? Calm down; I’ll take care of it. This is none of your business.

Like a mosquito buzzing in my ear. And biting – sucking my blood, infecting me, leaving me covered with little holes, like insect bites, itching and hurting and driving me mad.

My dream shifts. I float along with it, not willing to drag myself to the surface of consciousness. I know where it will take me, where it always takes me.

The endless ages drag by. Niggling arguments, mutual intolerance, petty disagreements, fading over time into a sort of peevish unhappiness. More and more often we spend time away from each other, finding our own interests. Seeing Legolas board The Golden Hind sort of clinches it for us – at least, for Faramir. Why does he take Elizabeth’s part against her cousin Philip’s? Why is he so willing to butcher and burn and pillage and pilfer? Why do the other Chosen constantly pry into human business? We are above this, we are above them, they do not deserve our interest. Look what they have done to you, Éowyn; they’ve made you so discontented with our lot. If it were not for the frantic delvings of the other Chosen into the mess of humanity about us you would not be so unhappy. All I want for you is peace and quiet. Come away from all of this.

Somehow, the sight of that lovely Elf striding up the gangplank of Drake’s ship is indicative of our retreat.

Four hundred years doesn’t sound like much compared to the endless millennia we spent among the other Chosen . . . but let’s put it into perspective, shall we? Without Aragorn and Arwen, without Gandalf, without the Hobbits, without my brother and his wife, without Legolas and Gimli, that odd pair, what grounding did I have? Faramir let me drift – no anchor, no weight, nothing but that constant disapproval, that irritating compunction to be someone else, someone I wasn’t. And let’s face it – the past four hundred and fifty years have been a whirlwind. Ever since the Renaissance, time seems to have accelerated, so much has happened, so much discovered. Ever since we moved to the New World I’ve hardly been able to take a breath. Suddenly alone, forced to rely upon each other, we discovered we had no foundation, nothing to rest upon.

Then comes the frenetic twirl of lives, the breathless compulsion to catch up. Hopeless.

Bereft of anyone who could possibly understand, I retreat. Like a turtle, a snail in a shell. Faramir, frustrated, beats upon the shell, demanding entrance. But I resent him, curl away from him. He’s done this to me, taken away everything I loved.

I feel the tightness in my chest, the tears beneath my eyelids, the burning in my sinuses presaging a weeping-fit. But then –


Poor little acushla, she actually whimpers in her sleep. Pucker between the eyebrows, teeth gritted, breath accelerated.

I can do better than that, luv. Oh fuck yeah.


-- then a butterfly, a sparrow, a feather touches my mouth.


Sweet . . . flick those lips with my tongue


What is that, ardor? Where did that come from? How did that intrude upon this unhappy dream? What is this aching in my breasts, the desire to be touched? It has been ages, millennia . . .


Those creamy breasts, they just beg to be kissed. Oh, acushla, they taste like butter –


The pull of the suckling babe, Fastred, dead and decomposed for ages. But this time, it is the mouth of a lover, one who desires me, who knows me.

Touch me – I beg you, drive out these unhappy memories; fill the aching emptiness with recollection of ecstasy and union. There is heat in my belly, it circles, seeking egress. Let it out . . .


Nuzzle into the curls, those honey-amber curls, tangy like oranges by your ear; soft white column of your throat beneath my fingers


weight, I crave weight upon me


I kneel over you, my lips on your skin, the soft sheets rasping my legs, my hands on your body, no, MY body, you are mine mine mine, you are my reward for those ages of obedience, you are the lover I will never have to bury, no more heartbreak for the wild Wood-Elf left to wander in the world, I have a Shieldmaiden of my own and she is strong strong strong, strong enough even for me, strong enough for a fucking bastard like me

never never never never take her from me

There is yet one more obstacle, my Greenleaf.

Oh, bloody hell.

You need not concern yourself with that at the moment, however . . .

Oh, good. May I knob her now?

You will know when the obstacle presents itself, and I have every confidence in you, Greenleaf, that you will accept and overcome it.

Push that worry aside, lower myself onto the bed


Ah, the weight of another being, the heat of another body, the beat of another heart


She opens her silvery eyes even as her limbs entwine me


“What a nice way to wake up.” Is my voice that husky? I can barely focus on him, my vision is bleary, but I can see his perfect alabaster face, those glowing blue eyes, the shimmering silvery hair. And I can smell rosemary, earth and pine, and even a little taste of my dream, of the sun-burnt grass. He settles on me, hips finding the groove between my legs, like the fitting of the last piece of the puzzle.


Sweet, you are sweet, like strawberries and sugar and cream, just the right bit of tang in you; do you feel that, pressing against you? Part denim and metal, part flesh and blood, hard against your receptive softness, answering the insistent need I have for you.

She pushes up against me, wanton, willing to be taken, eyes clouded and drowsy; lips rosy and parted and moist. My arms slide beneath her, lift her sagging like a rag doll in her sleepy state, settle her on my lap as I sit up. Warm, soft skin beneath my palms, curls twining round my fingers, the citrus scents of hair and the silky giving skin. I touch her lips with mine. Paradise.


This is the ink staining my pages back to the beginning. All that paltry, irrelevant unhappiness bleeds into insignificant blurs beneath the crimson blot. I don’t particularly care what you want from me – just take it. So long as your skin touches mine, take it and sanctify it with your kisses. Fingers kneading the muscles at the base of my ass, teeth on my throat, my arms around your surging shoulders and my fingers sifting the silky strands of hair through them –


It’s time, it’s time, take her quick before she wakes up all the way; an orgasm’s bloody better than caffeine any day


His hands move beneath me, knuckles brushing the hot wet skin hidden by those coarse curls; something pulls and pops and he shifts on his knees, then –


I’m out, I’m out, straighten it out and push it in


there's an urgency suddenly, a quickening in my brain, my breath clears the fog, something is going to happen, something I want, what is it














oh bloody hell I will never get over this


electricity shoots from my groin to the top of my head and I’m split up the middle, I’m as big as a house, a cavern, and he fills me up


how can a kife fifteen fucking thousand fucking years old be this fucking tight


shooting tingling tickling pulsing throbbing and oh did I mention pressing against that bundle of nerves so conveniently located at the front of my




there he goes again how the hell does he DO that


better than a bloody handjob this tight grip, slick hot wet grip, she’s moving against me, knees on either side of my hips I’m kneeling before her, the suppliant, the libation within her, her breasts on my collarbone, head thrown back, she clenches

oh fuck

didn’t last long did I

but arguably neither did she here she comes she comes I can feel it she’s throbbing


“Oh, god, Legolas!”

I’m like a plate shattering on the floor, pieces of me flying all over the place. Like a cold brisk breeze, a sheet of freezing rain on my hot face, it jolts me, lurching me up out of a fog into sunlight. Rising out of a dim cold grave to life again. I can feel it coursing through me, shimmering down my nerves and surging through my blood.

Oh, and dripping down my cunt – did I mention that too?

Yowza. What a wake-up call.


Good morning, acushla. Sleep well?

My plonker’s gonna wear out if we don’t start pacing ourselves.

Oh, what the fuck. I’m having fun at least. And so are you, if your volume is any indication. Let me just lay you back down on the bed and we’ll begin negotiations for Round Two.


Weight and warmth over me again, comforting, assuring. I’ve got flickers and sparkles of my orgasm still shimmering through me, so nice . . . Even Mr. Softee going all gooey and squishy inside me is gratifying; good to know my Elf enjoys a morning-hardon-fuck as much as I do.

Oh good lord, I’d better quit my day job pretty damn quick or this pace’ll be the death of me. My heart’s hammering against my sternum like it’s demanding entrance. Open up, Sex Police, we have a report of a pre-consciousness fucking . . .

Who the hell needs an alarm clock with my Elven Ass around?

Speaking of clocks . . .

Oh, shit. Seven already?


Fuck, fuck, fuck, bloody fucking HELL!!! Saw those shoulders sag when the eyes met the face of that fucking digital clock. Time to get up, time to put on those ankle-biter clothes and bugger off to that ankle-biter job. Can’t even skive off till she gives notice.

Oh, well. Part and parcel of the whole fucking do-no-harm gig. Might as well try to smooth things over for her. Do what you can while she does what she must. Bugger.

Meanwhile, she wakes up peckish, doesn’t she? Seem to recall that . . .



I can’t help it; I snort with laughter. Food and sex – am I POSITIVE he’s not Italian?

But hey – I haven’t had a decent omelette in YEARS.


Hm, guess it sounds pretty bloody funny to end a good fuck with a thought about whipped fried eggs. But behind her laughter, quivering behind those mirror-grey eyes, is a primal, an earthy appreciation for hunger and sweat and physical gratification.

The fulfillment of the senses is the remuneration of obedience.

Fucking A, even down to the taste buds?

Yes, Greenleaf.

Well, THAT explains a whole hell of a lot.

Behave yourself.

Whoops. Sorry, Yavanna, didn’t know you were listening.


“I have to go to work.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. I mean, he KNOWS I have to go to work; why did I say that?

Poor little acushla, it’s like she’s apologizing for this fucking miserable existence she’s been trapped in. I know you have to go to work, my Éowyn; it’s only for a little while longer. Give your notice, arrange your affairs here; I’ll get you your land and your horses and your comfortable old house and a couple good solid fucks at least twice a day. Manwë bless us, Elbereth shine your light on us.


“I know, acushla.” Oh lord, I’m NEVER going to get tired of hearing him say it like that, crooning smooth voice rumbling through our chests. Say my name, please say my name . . .


Ah . . . . the aural orgasm.

“It’s only for a little while longer, luv. Give your notice today and we’re free.”


No more pantyhose? No more time cards? No more humming fluorescent lights? No more irritating agents flirting ineffectively with me? No more paper cuts, bad office coffee, high heel blisters, supply cabinet rendezvous? No more press of humanity, pre-fab housing, neighborhood covenants, unpaid bills? And no more GOD! DAMN! BITCH! of a manager sticking verbal needles under my nails?

Free? REALLY free?


Ah, look at the light kindle in her eyes; it strikes her, my acushla, she sees it. Yes, I’m more than a good fuck; I’m your ticket out of this bloody awful place.

“Now, get on up,” I say, and roll off of her, stuffing my sticky plonker back into my cutoffs. She lies there, flush and lovely, oh so lovely, tousled and drowsy and pink. “I’ll fix you some brekky and we’ll get this day goin’. Got a lot to do, you and me, acushla.”

Then there’s the bang of a door and the running of a tap, Ducky’s up. Reveille in San Dimas.


Damn. Dorcas is awake. Now I’ve got to share my omelette with her. He glances back, then looks down at me, winks and bends over. I smell him, piney and sharp, feel the heat of his body on mine.

“Patience, Éowyn,” he whispers against my lips. “We’ve got fucking tens of thousands of years to make up for this.”

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


No one has commented on this story yet. Be the first to comment!

Comments are hidden to prevent spoilers.
Click header to view comments

Talk to Le Rouret

If you are a HASA member, you must login to submit a comment.

We're sorry. Only HASA members may post comments. If you would like to speak with the author, please use the "Email Author" button in the Reader Toolbox. If you would like to join HASA, click here. Membership is free.

Reader Toolbox   Log in for more tools