Pottymouth: 2. 2

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2. 2


Aaahhh. That’s more like it. Not open road, not really; not compared to, say I-10 coming through New Mexico. But 210 to San Dimas works. Better, at least, than fucking Pasadena. The Norton Simon can bloody well wait; haven’t even signed the contract yet. And the traffic bites but that’s the advantage to riding a motorcycle, mate; just hop on the verge and shoot past ‘em. All those poor motherfuckers in their cars stopped alongside the motorway glaring at us. Envy us, gobshites, envy us! Envy me, uptight ankle-biter in the gray suit, I have thirty fucking six inches of black-stockinged legs wrapped around my hips and it feels fucking wonderful.

“What exit?” I yell over my headers.

“Grand!” she shouts back. What the fuck? Oh, Grand Avenue, I see the sign now. “Then left at Canyon!”

I shift back a little in the seat. That’s the best thing about riding a chopper, you get to lie back. And at the moment I’ve got two nice firm pillows to lie back on. Her arms are wrapped around my chest and her chin’s on my shoulder. The breeze is cooler up here, but the warmth of her body pressed against mine is a leetle too stimulating. Goddam leather trousers, too confining. Ah, her fingers just slipped inside my vest. Accident I’m sure, but still – oh bloody hell, what I wouldn’t give to have her –

All right, mate, that’s enough. Belongs to fucking Faramir, remember? Don’t hack off the Valar; they’re bloody creepy when they get shirty.


I’d forgotten how nice it feels to hold someone. Body heat – I’ve really missed it. And this is such a nice body to hold.

Oh, down, girl. Bad, bad Winnie.
I’m so pitiful. I’ve been celibate so long I even get turned on by a guy who’s just my friend – remember, Winn, just a friend; and a friend you’ve known for millennia. So he’s gorgeous; so what? Frances was gorgeous, too. Not quite the same kind of gorgeousness, of course. Frances was dark and hairy and intense and moody; Legolas is all smooth skin and sleek hair and brilliant smile. And potty-mouthed. I don’t really remember him having such a foul mouth four hundred years ago.

This is an odd motorcycle. I’ve seen them made like this, of course, with the long fronts and the fancy paint on the sides, but I can’t remember what they’re called and I’m not sure whether I like it or not. There’s no doubt I’m liking being out of the traffic, though. God, I’ve fought rush hour so many years you’d think I’d get used to it, but no – compared to the amount of time I’ve been moving around Arda it’s a drop in the bucket. One hundred years; so what? Crowds are crowds; Avignon got pretty clogged up when it was the Pope’s playground. That place was wild – whores and traders and cardinals – but you couldn’t beat the wine. I remember the vineyards, row upon row of gnarled, twisty plants twined around wires, baking in the hot sun and being thrown about by the intense wind. Provence . . . Frances and I used to live there, back when I could still call him Faramir; we had a villa in Orange. Wonder whatever happened to that place?

In hindsight, I guess it was pretty foolish of me to let him take care of all of the financial decisions.

Legolas leans back a little, looks over his shoulder to change lanes. Those cheekbones, that jawline, those sweet pink lips; my face is reflected in his sunglasses and his hair is confined by the blue bandana. Long wisps snake out to tickle my neck. It feels like spun silk. Of course he’s right about the helmets. We can’t die unless the Valar allow us to. Frances went through a gloomy phase once, back around the Middle Ages, when Byzantium split; kept trying to hang himself but never died. Kept breathing and breathing and breathing. Scared the crap out of the villagers and we almost got burned as witches. Idiot – even I knew he couldn’t die.

Idiot? Selfish bastard. He was going to leave me even then. I can’t believe I didn’t see it coming.

Didn’t see this coming. I rest my chin on Legolas’ shoulder. It’s not big and beefy, but it has a nice ball of muscle coming down from his deltoids, and his arms are long and sculpted. You can see the dent his tricep makes when he shifts speeds. And no hair on his back, I bet. Frances had a hairy ass and it used to gross me out. Then he started shaving it when he decided –

Okay, don’t need to go there. Stop your train of thought before you start crying again.

Not that I feel much like crying now. I actually feel kind of – free. Must be riding this incredibly noisy, tacky, tasteless machine. Not much like riding a horse after all. Ooh, I miss my ranch – why did I let Frances sell it? Now all I have is a quarter acre of weedy grass and some stunted bushes. I had two hundred acres once . . . and the best stud west of the Mississippi.

Stud – hah! Obviously not talking about my husband here.

We’re at Canyon, and the light is backed up as usual. We coast to a stop behind a station wagon and the motorcycle brap-ap-ap-aps as we wait. We tip slightly to the side and Legolas extends one long, leather-clad leg to hold us up. The leather is worn, soft, wrinkled, shiny. I can see the bulge of his quadricep above the knee. His sculpted, ivory arms stretch out to hold the impossible chrome handles of this weird motorcycle. It’s painted in greens and oranges and black, to look like flames, and the gas tank looks like a big deformed teardrop. I can see the chrome letters, Harley Davidson, above the cap. Legolas turns his head to look at me and I can see my face reflected in his glasses. My hair is a mess, but I don’t really care. Why should I? Legolas won’t care. He’s never so much as noticed the way I look in the thousands of years I’ve known him.


Shit! She looks good. What a bit of all right she is, the little acushla. Hair’s all ruffled, lips and cheeks have color in them again. Much better. And it looks as though all that lovely wind has undone a couple of buttons on her shirt. Won’t fucking complain about that. I can see the top edge of her bra as it curves around one of her breasts. Nice curve that; very nice – hold hard, Leggsie, you’re fucking salivating again. Do not think of tongue tracing the curve, do not do not do not. Belongs to Faramir, belongs to Faramir, beware the rage of Oromë. So I’ll just caaaaaassuualllllyyy lean back and press the back of my shoulder against them. Mmm – nice and firm.

Damn leather trousers. Ow.

“So,” I shout over the roar of my chopper. Really need to get those damn headers looked at. “Why’d he leave you, then?” Why the hell did I ask her that now? Probably out of my pathetic need to make conversation, even if I have to fucking yell to do it. Please don’t cry, Éowyn, I didn’t mean to hurt you, dammit. It’s just me, it’s just bloody Legolas after all, the world’s least tactful bish-up. When have I ever said anything gently? Bloody hell, you’d think after all these millennia – Mum was right; she used to tell people that if it went through my head, it came out my mouth. And it does, mate, it fucking does.

She doesn’t look too surprised; doesn’t even look hurt, thank the Valar. Just frowns at me. Can’t blame the bird; I’ve had foot-in-mouth disease longer than you’ve been alive, luv.

“How do you know he left me?” she shouts back.

I have to grin at that. “’Cause you’re not a fuckin’ idiot, and he is,” I yell.

She actually smiles. It’s only a sarky kind of smile, not a big bright one like she used to give me I don’t know how many fucking years ago; now it’s kind of lopsided, like it was stunted at birth. “Well,” she yells, “You’re right – he left me.”

“Why?” I ask again. I don’t know why we’re having this bloody pointless conversation now. Except it’s easier to yell embarrassing questions than to whisper them. I noticed that every time I was in some sort of stupid fucking battle; things soldiers would never have said at room volume got bawled across the trenches so that every bloody git could hear it. Éowyn apparently doesn’t mind my asking, though I notice she turns her head away and rests it on the back of my shoulder. Can’t complain about that, either, mate. I hear her voice in my ear, not shouting.

“He found someone else,” she says.

Fucking A, I knew it, I fucking knew it. It takes a lot to get me brassed off but that bleeder’s managed to do it. I can feel my chest get tight. “Stupid goddam bloody dumb-shit motherfucker,” I hear myself say. I can feel her cheek bunch up against my neck; she’s smiled again. That’s not the response I usually get from women when I talk like that. “Bet she’s a manky kerb-crawlin’ bitch,” I add, as though that’s supposed to be a comfort that Faramir would leave her for some greasy blart.

“It’s a he,” she says. She’s speaking softly, as though she doesn’t want me to hear. But my ears pick up things human ears don’t, and I bloody well heard it, all right, mate. Well. Fuck. Figures.


I can’t believe I just told him that. But he did ask. And he has a right to know, I guess. I mean, if he ever runs across any of the other Chosen, he can tell them, warn them what Frances has been up to. Why isn’t he saying anything?


Not a whole hell of a lot I can say to that.


At least he knows. I don’t know exactly why, but I feel better with him knowing. Not so much that I’ve gotten it off my chest –

Hmm, seem to have popped a few buttons here, speaking of chest. I ought to – oh hell, just leave it. I’m flashing my panties at everyone anyway; they may as well get an eyeful of my bra.

And also speaking of chest, if I move my hand like this it ought to slip inside his vest, and I’ll be able to see if his skin is as silky as it looks. I’ll make it look like an accident, though.


Whoa. Bloody hell.


Yep. Seems nice and soft.

Or maybe I told him because I want him to be mad at Frances too, want him to take my side for a change. People are so paranoid these days about saying anything derogatory concerning homosexuality. Just give a hint you’re pissed that your husband’s come out of the closet, and everyone calls you a gay-basher. Hey, if anyone deserves to bash a couple of gays, it’s me!

Leather’s kind of stiff, and the edges are crackling. I can feel it brush against the backs of my fingers.


Mmmm. Nice. Bet it was an accident. When was the last time a woman touched my skin like that? Even a bloody accident is pretty fucking nice.

Ow, goddammit. Bloody trousers. No give at all.

What was I saying? Oh yeah . . . focus, mate, focus. Faramir’s a shirtlifter. Okay. Explains a whole hell of a lot. Holy fucking shit. Poor kid. Oh fucking hell, her fingers are under my vest. Oh god oh god oh god, Valar help me, Faramir’s a fucking faggot. Why the hell am I not surprised? All right. Focus. Light’s green. Um. Turning, turning left? Yeah, left at Canyon. Here we go. Damn. A poofta. Didn’t fucking see that one coming.

Oh. Bugger. I know she doesn’t want to fucking fall off but does she have to slide both hands under my vest?


Mmmm, nice and warm. Soft, soft skin over hard, hard muscle. Speaking of hard – oh, stop it, Winn, he’s just a friend, just a friend doing you a favor. I can’t help it if he’s handsome. Well, not handsome exactly. Beautiful? Pretty? Pretty works I guess, if pretty can be masculine too. Nothing girly about him, except maybe the hair, but it feels like liquid gold against my throat and I’m sure not going to begrudge him that.

Skin on skin. Yes. Oh damn, I’m getting excited. Shit.


Oh Éowyn, don’t don’t don’t tighten your thighs like that, don’t hold on so tight – aw, shit, bugger, bloody hell. Bad enough I’ve got your tits up against my back, bad enough I got a peep of them under your bra, bad enough your fingers are curled around my ribcage, bad enough my jacksie is far back enough on the seat to be nestled so nicely in that warm place between your legs . . . squeezing my fucking hips with your thighs just reminds me of the last time I went on the pull – when the hell was that, 1905? Busy century it’s been, haven’t had time to play at the fucklesticks like I used to. Gawd, my goolies are tight. Stupid fucking leather trousers. All right, mate, just focus. Focus. Remember what Oromë looks like when he’s cheesed off. Just the fucking sight of a Vala having the screaming abdabs is enough to cool me down.

Or not. Gotta get my plunker to calm down here. Shit, I need a fag. Where the fuck are my lollies? Think about something else, think about something else . . .


“Turn right here,” I yell over the roar of the motorcycle. It’s cooler up here above the valley, and my fingers were cold. I can tell Legolas that if he asks why I’ve got them under his vest. Warm in here. Warm up against him. If only he were anyone else – I’d be grinding up against him like a teenager. As it is, I just remember what Aragorn told me back when we were living in Greece – “Whatever you do, don’t mess with an Elf!” Well, he’d know, wouldn’t he? But at the time I thought it meant, “Don’t piss off an Elf,” now I’m not so sure he wasn’t just saying, “Don’t get involved with one.” Though he and Arwen seemed very happy.

I wonder if making love to an Elf is different than making love to a human? I’m sure they have all the matching parts – fit tab A into slot B, after all, Aragorn and Arwen reproduced – but wouldn’t they go about it a different way? They may be humanoid but they sure the hell aren’t human. I watched Legolas once, back before the Romans ruined the Celts, standing on a white cliff, staring off into the sea. The sky was slate-gray, the wind whipped his white-blond hair around his head, and his eyes . . . I couldn’t look him in the eye for weeks after that. Creepy. And he just stood there, perfectly still, all day. When I asked Arwen what he was doing, she just got this odd look on her face and told me not to ask her. So I asked Gimli and he just said, “Listening.” “Listening to what?” I asked. He gave me another odd look – come to think of it, every time I ask one of the Chosen about Legolas I get odd looks – and he, too, told me not to ask.


The Eldar are mostly gone, and I missed my opportunity to get to understand them much, but even their two remaining representatives – despite how long I’ve known them – are too deep for me, too profound. I will never understand the depths of their knowledge, their abilities, their intensity, their subtlety.


“When danger reared its ugly head, Sir Robin boldly turned and fled, brave brave brave brave Sir Robin . . . “


This machine didn’t seem so loud when we were on the highway, but now we’re getting close to my neighborhood I feel like it’s going to rattle my eardrums off. Doesn’t it hurt Legolas’ ears? His hearing is so much better than mine. Or maybe it’s his ears that are better, not his hearing.

I love the look of his ears. Curved, folded, delicate, like leaves, like shells. Translucent, sweeping. I’d love to touch them, but Arwen mentioned once they’re very sensitive, so I guess I’d better not.



“Yes, brave Sir Robin turned about, he turned his tail, he chickened out. Bravely taking to his feet, he beat a very brave retreat, hmm, hmm, hmmmm . . . “ Bloody hell, how’d I get this bally tripe running in my head? Been years since I watched Python. Wonder if Éowyn’s got it on DVD? Wouldn’t mind seeing it again.


I wonder what he’s thinking right now? I wonder if he’s even noticed I’m pressed up so hard against him? Probably not – it’s that Elven detachment; they must know how different they are from us and purposefully distance themselves to protect themselves. It’s not like I could ever really understand him. After all, the Eldar are the perfection, the First born of the Valar; they’re the pinnacle, the zenith of Arda. We mortals – all right, so technically I’m not a mortal any more – we humans, rather, are incapable of grasping the fineness, the subtlety, the profundity of their thoughts.


“"Brave Sir Robin ran away, bravely ran away away, when danger reared his ugly head, he bravely turned his tail and fled . . . “


I’d better snap out of it or we’ll miss the turn. Yep, there’s the entrance to my neighborhood. I hate this place. Hell, I hate my whole life right now; it sucks so bad I can kind of understand why Frances wanted out.

“Turn in here!” I yell, pointing to the sign. Of course, I oh so casually dragged the palm of my hand across his chest before I did that . . . wanted to linger on that pink puckered nipple but that would’ve looked, um, a little obvious.

Shame on you, Winnie, copping a feel like that. Down, girl!


“Brave, brave, brave, brave Sir Rob – “ FUCKING HELL! Shit! Woah, mate, talk about your knock-up call! All right, all bloody right I’m fucking paying attention already! My sainted aunt, almost went arse over tit that time.

Nottingham Estates, what a fucking joke. But it’s better than Hampshire Meadowes or Waterbury Cove or all that other soppy shit people call neighborhoods in the suburbs. Doesn’t look a fucking bit like Nottingham. Hell, I should know. Spent the best century of my life in what used to be called Sherwood Forest. Robin Hood my arse. Though Yellowstone’s nice this time of year, too.


All right, Winn, better not put on a show for the neighbors. Bad enough I’m riding down my street on the back of a Harley-Davidson, but feeling up the biker who’s giving me a ride might make people talk a bit. Take your hands out of his vest and put them somewhere else.


Shit, anywhere! Put them – um – oh; just rest them on his hips. He won’t even notice.


Ooooh, bloody hell, that’s even better . . .

Damn, there’s Mary Jackson getting her mail, she’s heard us, she’s looking up, she’s oh crap she’s recognized me. Smile and wave. Like being in a Shriners’ parade or something. Although the look on her face is priceless!


Never pictured Éowyn ending up in an oofy place like this. I dunno, it’s sort of too fucking bourgeois for her. She was all horses and swords and politics and righting wrongs for all those millennia.

Bet Fairy-Meer bought this place. Lumme, looks just like him, the poncy ankle-biter. Little shite always was all mouth and trousers.

All right, now. This is it, mate. Give it a rest already, she doesn’t need to hear you dish the fucking dirt on her bendy ex all the time. But that abso-fuckin-lutely bollocks me. What that bloody tosser was thinking . . . I mean, gorgeous, funny, pukka horsewoman, what the fuck was he faffing off about? What I wouldn’t give –

Give over; it’s hopeless, no fucking use you thinking about it, mate. The Valar put her and Fairy-Meer together and it’s up to them to fix the cock-up, not I.



Well, and now there’s Mr. and Mrs. Burnie; that means it’ll be all over the homeowner’s association in no time. Isn’t there a meeting at the clubhouse this week? I can’t remember . . .
Not that I ever go anyway. That was Frances’ thing. He loved sticking his nose into everything.

Except me.

Oops, shouldn’t have thought that. Not all men like oral sex. He certainly didn’t.

I wonder if -- ?

NO! Don’t even think it! Geez louise, I can’t even imagine Legolas going down on someone. That picture just won’t focus. He’s too perfect and pretty and oh I don’t know, I just can’t see it somehow. But I bet –

No. No. No. Stop thinking about it.

Shit. I can’t.


“That’s my house, number thirty-one forty-five.”

Oh bloody hell, this is suburbia at its worst. She even has a fucking rosebush at her letterbox. Not that it’s in great condition – I can hear it whimpering from here. And that poor Bradford Pear – what the fuck is she doing to it? Probably hasn’t seen a bloody bit of fertilizer in years.

I may not be able to fix her marriage, but I sure the fuck can do something about this manky garden.

Wait, what makes me think I’m staying? Hold hard, mate; all you’re fucking doing is driving her home. You got the story about Fairy-Meer, and that was all you asked her for. You drop her off, mate, say cheers, and ride off into the fucking sunset. That’s all you’ve ever done, you sod.

But, bloody hell . . . I can’t just leave her like this. Shit, she’s all browned off, I can tell; I ought to at least have a cuppa with her to make sure she doesn’t go spare on us. Don’t know why she’s been in hiding all these centuries, but it’s time for it to stop.

Probably won’t want to talk about it. Bugger that, she’ll talk to me. I’ll fucking make her.

All right. We’re here. Cut the motor. Time to get those god! damn! legs! from around my waist. Now, if I were only facing the other way –

Down, boy!

Damn trousers.

See a little face peeping over the slats of that fence; bloody nosy-parkers. She’s starting to dismount don’t look don’t look don’t look oh fuck I looked and got an eyeful of black lace knickers. Fuck. Just smile at her, mate, smile nice and friendly-like, don’t let her know you’ve got a stiff willy on for her. She’d never fucking forgive me.


God, I need to get laid. I wish Legolas were human. I’d know what to say then.

Who is that -- ? Oh, it’s Mr. Davis. Wave, smile, try to straighten hair out. I must be a mess.


Shit, she looks good.


He’s just given me the nicest little-boy smile. So sweet, so fresh, so untouched . . . he’s always had this adorable innocence about him. I mean, I know he’s not “innocent,” he’s killed more men in his time than Hitler, and I remember Pippin telling me he was shacked up with a hooker back in 300 BC or so, where was he living then, China? Manchuria? I can’t remember. But “adorable” works. I’d just love to pinch those cheeks . . .

Hmm, those cheeks, too. Man, I love leather pants. And he’s wearing the hell out of them. Mmm . . . Elven ass. I could get used to that.

“Got your market bags,” he’s saying. I need to stop lusting after him! Although it’s pretty nice watching how the muscles in his arms flex when he picks up my groceries. Ah, it’s the little things in life we get the most pleasure from.

“Thanks,” I say. I walk up to the front door. Should I invite him in? I know I was going to offer him a drink, but that motorcycle ride has gotten me so hot and bothered I’m not sure if it’d be wise. What if I slip up? What if I accidentally offer him a piece of ass instead of wine in a glass?

Do I have any wine left? I can’t remember . . .

I was expecting him to stand behind me while I unlock the door, but instead he’s hitched himself up on the doorjamb, grinning down at me. Wow. He’s delicious. Damn.

“Well?” he asks.

What the hell -- ? “Well, what?” I ask.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in for drinkies?” he asks, still grinning.


Fuck, I’m a bloody cocky shite. Usually works, though.



Okay, don’t look excited; look calm and sarcastic and cool. Be cool, yeah, that’s it. Don’t let him see how thrilled you are that he’s coming in for a drink. He’d think I was some pathetic horny loser.

Which I am. But I’d rather he didn’t know that. The Shieldmaiden of Rohan is better than that. Stronger! Smarter! Braver! Better!

Oh hell, I’m in deep shit.

“Would you like to come in and have a drink?” I ask, smiling. Oh yes, I can be cool and collected. Just don’t think about grabbing a handful of that truly delectable Elven ass. Maybe just a little tweak of the nipple, though.

Yikes! I can’t believe I just thought that!


Oh, all right, little acushla, I saw that glint in your eyes. I’m on to you now . . .


“Love to, darlin’,” he says, still grinning at me. Darling? Where the hell has he been the past hundred years? And why haven’t I been with him? Damn, I wonder if he’s good in bed? Wish I could’ve asked that Chinese hooker. But considering she’s been dead for about two thousand four hundred years, I guess I missed my opportunity.

That must be awful, having all your lovers die on you. Though having them leave you and not die is a lot worse.

I open the front door and we step into the foyer. It’s chilly in here, and dark too; I hate coming home to a dark house. Where’s Dorcas? She’s usually home by now. Did she say anything this morning before work about her going out? I can’t remember.

I have to reach behind him to shut the door. He looks very incongruous here, leather and long hair and big shit-stomping boots. Smells good, though – like hot dirt roads and dry grass and – what is that scent – it’s very faint – pine?

Okay. Back off. Drink. No, groceries first, then drink. My ice cream’s probably nothing but a big puddle of goo right now. Shit, it was Bryers©, too.

He’s looking around at the house; he looks a little puzzled. I don’t blame him. I can’t believe I live in this monstrosity, either.


Holy fucking shit, what the bloody hell did they need with all this space? Was Fairy-Meer just showing off? Just like him, the bleeder. What’s this then; pink walls? Pink marble floor? Silk floral arrangements? A fucking alabaster statue? And is that a white leather lounge and a dhurrie rug in that salon? Fuck, feel like I just walked into a furniture shop.

Except for the litter of papers and shit on the desk over there. All right, that looks more like it. Oh, leave it out; a fake Mondrian in a gilt frame – please, please tell me you didn’t pick this shit out yourself, Éowyn.


He’s being awfully quiet, looking around, taking everything in. Oh man, I hope he doesn’t approve of this terrible decorating job. Please hate pink, Legolas, I beg you.


Whoever decorated this place ought to be fucking shot. I have never seen so much pink in my life.

Well, not since I left Boca Raton. But still.

I wonder if she did it herself? Or hired a professional? Either way it’s bloody awful. Wait – bet Fairy-Meer did it. It’s too feminine to be done by a woman. Has to be a gay man’s work. Yeah, mate, bet you a tenner that’s it.

Ah, that’s a little better – I can live with this kitchen. Fucking awful color scheme but oh yeah, look at all this room! And the cooker! And the number of hobs on the cook top! Ah, stainless steel, a gourmand’s wet dream.

“Didn’t know you were a cook,” I say, putting the carrier bags next to the basin. She’s standing next to me, a little too close, acushla; you don’t really know what you’re doing to me, now, do you? I can smell you, smell the perfume you put on this morning, smell the citrussy shampoo you use.

“I’m not,” she says deprecatingly, starting to rummage through the bags. “Frances was the chef. This was his house.”

“Ah, figures,” I say without thinking. Oh please, don’t let her like fucking pink. She looks at me in surprise, but I can see a hint of relief there, too. “Doesn’t look like your kind of place, darlin’,” I add, giving her another one of those grins. Arwen calls them “charming asshole” grins. Aragorn just leaves off the “charming” part. Hell, maybe they’re both right.

She glances round, tins of beans in each hand. “Yeah, it’s kind of pink, isn’t it?” she says, and makes a face, wrinkling up her little conk and smiling. Oh yes, luv, you’re a bit of all right in my book. Haven’t noticed yet your shirt’s come undone, have you? Ah, and I’m not about to bloody tell you, either. Longer I can see the delectable curve of your breasts under that thin silk the better, my pet.

“Don’t like pink, do you?” I ask hopefully, emptying the carriers and putting the food on the counter. Tins, tins, tins, frozen meal, shit, doesn’t she know how to fucking cook anything? Or maybe she hasn’t enough time; looks like she’s up against the wall, really. Tired. No reason for it. Maybe I can help her out there.

Yeah, right. Get off it, mate. Like she’d want to have some pikey’s ronson planted on her lounge day in, day out. Belongs to Faramir belongs to Faramir belongs to Faramir oh fuck it, why can’t I have her now that the bloody bender’s thrown her over? Don’t think the Valar mentioned this. Should’ve posted a fucking instruction manual, What to Do When One of the Chosen Has His Plonker up Another Fecker’s Arse. I wonder what Manwë would tell me if I asked him his permission to roger her senseless? Not that she’d bloody ask me, of course.

But the way she looked at me when she was unlocking the front door –

No, just my fucking imagination. Bugger.


Do I like pink? No, I hate pink; I’ve always hated it! Frilly, poofy, wimpy, girly color, how I hate it. “No, of course not,” I say. I can’t keep the indignation out of my voice. “I told you, this was Frances’ house. One of his gay friends decorated it for him.” I sigh. I can’t help it. It still hurts me to think of my husband with someone else. “I should’ve guessed then he didn’t exactly like girls,” I say. Surprisingly enough I sound mad, not weepy. Well, I am mad, dammit! Don’t I have a right to be? I’ve spent the last four years crying and now it’s time to get over it. I look over at Legolas. He’s looking at me thoughtfully, those bright blue eyes watching me, contemplating me. Oh, that makes me nervous; what is he thinking? Is he thinking I’m a resentful bitch? A pathetic loser? What?


Shit, she’s gorgeous when she’s shirty. Always was. She’d screw up her lower lip, grit her teeth together, grab that sword and whammo! Fucking A, no wonder Fairy-Meer couldn’t handle her. Too much woman for that shirtlifter.

“Why are you calling him Frances?” I ask. Fucking prissy name anyway.

She shrugs, turns to the pantry and starts stacking up her tins. “He decided a long time ago we needed to fit in, stop using our real names,” she says. She’s bending over to put a tin on the lower shelf oh bloody HELL I wish she hadn’t done that. Oh my fucking aunt those legs, try not to imagine them wrapped around your waist STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT!

Ow ow ow, shit fuck hell, goddam leather trousers!

Think about something else, think about something else. All right, mate. Frances explained. “So what’d he call you, luv?” I ask, hiding my bulge behind a carrier bag.

Another sarky grimace. Fuck, I love her facial expressions. “Winnie,” she says.


I dare you to laugh, asshole.


Oh bloody hell, I can’t help it, I’m laughing. She’s brassed off, I can tell, but oh fuck that’s awful.

Stop laughing stop laughing stop laughing! “Sorry,” I snort, covering my mouth. Oh shit, bet she’s cheesed at me now.


Oh, I love his laugh. And I love the way his eyes light up when he thinks something’s funny. And I love his mouth when he smiles. Those sweet pink lips, those white California-boy teeth, that little dimple on his right cheek. Oh, he is delicious.

Guess that means I’ve forgiven him for laughing at my awful name.

“I refuse to call you ‘Winnie,’ darlin’,” he says, still grinning at me. “Shit, that’s a fuckin’ awful name. What the fuck was he thinking?”

“Well, if you won’t call me ‘Winnie,’ what will you call me then?” I ask, putting the ice cream away. I give it an experimental squeeze. Ah, perfect – still firm.

Like to give the Elven Ass a squeeze. Bet it’s perfectly firm, too.

“Hmm,” he says, tapping his chin with one long forefinger. Pretty hands he’s got, long and white and strong-looking, and clean – always so clean. Even digging around in Bronze-Age ruins he managed to keep his fingernails clean. He leans against the counter, legs crossed at the ankles, arms folded. Oh I love the look of him, that long lean body, that long shining hair – I’d love to just bury my hands in it, put my face in the hollow of his neck and breathe for a week. “Well, I’ve called you ‘darlin’ ‘ and ‘luv,’ but I’m pretty partial to just ‘Éowyn,’” he says, eyes twinkling. “After all that’s your bloody name, always has been. Can’t just start calling you something else, now, can I?”

“Not even a nickname?” I ask, my voice deepening. Oh geez, I just gave him the wiggly-flirty-eyebrow thing. I haven’t used that move in a while. And am I really standing here, legs spread, my fist on my hip? I bet I look like a real dork.


That’s right, poppet, slag me off! Fucking hell, are you sharking me? I haven’t been this randy in – oh, fuck, she just lifted her chin like she used to, when she was throwing her hair behind her shoulder, looking down her nose at me. That sarky, snarky, go-to-hell look; I always loved it but now it’s giving me the cold chills.

Or not so cold. Bloody hell.


He’s grinning now, has a funny gleam in his eye. Is he coming on to me? I can’t tell, been so long since a decent-looking guy has even looked at me.

Wish that plastic bag wasn’t in the way. I’d love to see up close how well those pants really fit him.

“Call you poppet, may I?” he says. “Or acushla. Or kife, or ducky, or pet. Call you all those things, if you like . . . Éowyn.” Now he’s saying my name like he means it, and oh it sounds nice rolling off his tongue. And oh how his lips stretch over those vowels! Frances – Faramir – always made it sound like EEE-winn, which I hated; Legolas says AY-oh-when, like his tongue is caressing the word.

Tongue – caressing – okay, I could get into that.

Now it’s my turn to consider. I make a big deal out of it, looking up at the ceiling, tapping my foot on the floor. Nice foot, nice high heel, makes my legs look about two miles long. Wonder if he’s even noticed? I don’t know, the way he’s been looking at me the past few minutes –


Shit, would I love to find out how far up those legs really go. That little skirt isn’t nearly short enough.


“Hmm, poppet, ducky, pet . . . what were those other ones?” I look over at him. He’s dropped his chin a little, looking up at me through his winged eyebrows, a half-smile smirked all over his face. He pushes himself up off the edge of the counter and starts stalking over to me. Stalking, that’s it; each step seems so measured, so careful. He uncrosses his arms and that red vest splits open. I can see the flat muscles of that beautifully taut stomach, the curling dent of his navel, a few golden hairs glinting below it, leading to the extremely impressive lump in the front of those glossy black pants.

Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look –

Oh, what the hell.


Fuck, she’s checking out my package.


Well, that ought to have been pretty obvious to him. I’d better look up at his face and see if he’s pissed, or embarrassed, or something.

Of course, the fact that he’s still prowling up to me is pretty indicative of his interest. How close is he going to come? Oooh, boy, I think I’ve bitten off more than I can chew here. His eyes have gotten all dark and cloudy and he’s got this feral look on his face –

Man, he’s tall. I don’t notice it normally, but he’s standing so close to me I have to tip my head way up to look at him. And that is definitely pine I smell on him. And leather. Oh lord, gotta love the leather. He’s got this, this odd smile on his face – dangerous – predatory. Don’t back up don’t back up don’t back up, stand your ground, dammit! You are the Shieldmaiden of Rohan, the daughter of kings! You fought before the gates of Minas Tirith, you slew the Fell Beast and the Witch-King! You are powerful! You are perilous!

You are in over your head!


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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