Pottymouth: 20. 20

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20. 20


Dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit! We were so CLOSE!

I'm going to kill her. I don't care if she IS over ten thousand years my junior, I'm going to cut her stupid head off.

The moment's broken; I see the look of frustration on his face, see how it fell. He drops his forehead to my collarbone, I hear him mutter, "Bugger."


Bloody hell. That's torn it.

Fuck – I was so CLOSE! Can't blurt it out now, mate; better wait for a more suitable moment.



All right; we're naked, we're sticky, I'm wearing thigh-high stockings and boots, and the bedroom door's wide open. Nuts!

"Dorcas!" I yell. "Don't come in yet!"

I can hear voices, whispering in the living room, then she calls back, her voice thick with humor:

"Are you in the bedroom AGAIN?"

"More like 'still,' Ducky," Legolas calls out. There's an explosion of girlish giggling and more whispering. Legolas pauses, head cocked, eyes abstracted, listening; can he actually hear what they're saying way out there? Obviously the answer is "yes," because suddenly he puts his dimples on display and yells, "No, just GIVE us a moment, will yer?"

Another burst of high-pitched laughter; I hear Dorcas say, "Okay, okay! Sheesh!"

Little twerps.


Ah, well . . . I'll work it in sometime today, I swear I will. Can't do it now, obviously.

Fuck, I need a lollie . . .

Odd. What I was so reluctant to do seems urgent to me now that I've been thwarted in doing it. Isn't that always the fucking case!

Right, then. More post-adolescent mingers to give me the look-over. Well, I'll just remember not to wear the –


Let's see, I was wearing them at the nightclub – and in the parking lot – then –

Oh, bugger. And then . . .


Might as well pull a dress on or something; I've managed to keep the boots and stockings on, seems a waste to take them off. Let 'em wonder.

I hate pulling out of his embrace, but it's very hard to get dressed with arms wrapped around your back. Let's see, what have I got in my closet that'll work? Oh yeah, I got that great Armani dress, that'd work with the boots –

"Éowyn," says Legolas behind me; his voice sounds funny. I look at him. He's kneeling on the bed, long white hands resting on his thighs; buck-naked, silky-haired, blue-eyed and gorgeous gorgeous gorgeous, but he's got the strangest expression on his face . . .


"Where are me leather trousers?"

Um. Good question. I look around the room, as though they'll jump out from under the bed and yell, "Here I am! Whee!" like we were playing hide-and-seek. No, I don't think they're in here; hard to hide something like that. Let's see, he was wearing them last night . .
"I had 'em on at the nightclub," he says carefully.

Oh yeah, I remember him leaving in them, remember watching that delectable ass bunching and contracting and filling the backside . . . "Yes."

"But – was I – was I still wearing 'em when I – when they – brought me back?" He asks this carefully, like he's afraid to talk about it. His fingers tighten, his eyes flicker, glance away from mine, then return, subdued, the light in them fading.

My eyes are drawn to the chair by the side of the bed, where I spent all those hours staring at him. Hard wooden chair, ornate scrollwork on the back, distressed white finish and painted roses to match that horrible pink dining room. Hell yes, I remember exactly what he was wearing.

"Yes," I say.


Fuck, her voice got all thick and chokey. Fuck. And she's got her eyes glued to that fucking chair. Don't know what significance it has but obviously I've bloody well brought back a bad memory. Nice going, Leggsie, nice fucking thing to do. Shit, I'm such a bloody stupid gobshite! Fuck, shit, bugger!

I try to think, try to remember what I did when I came back. I was lying there, I saw Grim, I looked at him through my hand –

-- wait –

What did Manwë tell me, "Shake off this old husk"? I did, I felt myself shrug out of my body like it was an old cardie, it slid back, burned away, vanished –

I was naked --

Oh, fuck –


"Acushla!" he exclaims, I tear my eyes away from the damned chair and look at him. His eyes are bright, present, oh god he's here, he's not gone any more, there's no need to cry any more. "Me shoulder – me tattoo – is it there? I can't fucking see it!" He's twisting his torso around, looking behind him, trying to turn so he can see his back in the mirror.

Hard not to look at him anyway, when he's shifting and flexing all those lovely lean muscles beneath his marble-white skin; he's turning his head, lifting his right arm, straining to look at a place even Elves aren't flexible enough to manage. The skin is smooth, pale, flawless –

Well, I'll be –

"No," I say, I walk up to him and touch the spot where it was. Warm, velvety skin; I can feel the muscles tighten and flex beneath my palm. But where the script flowed over the back of the shoulder it's bare, untouched, as though the skin is brand new.

Which, now I think about it, makes sense. The old body had to be got rid of somehow, didn't it? Nice thought – he traded in his old body on a new one.

Boy, talk about me getting the best of both worlds! Same old sex god in my bed, but a brand new body to play with! Wow, this resurrection thing keeps getting better and better.

"It's gone. And the clothes you were wearing are gone."

He sits back on his heels, looks up at me with a wry, wistful expression.

"Well, fuck," he says.

"Fuck" indeed. No more ogling my Elven Ass in leather pants . . .



That lovely red lip pouts out, she's looking down at my jacksie like she's willing it to be covered in black leather. Poor acushla . . .

" 'S'all right, luv," I say, put my arms round her waist and bury my face in her tits, those lovely creamy soft tits. "I'll buy a new pair. Have to be a bit roomier round front, though – too fucking tight in the willy region, when I'm with you." I grin up at her from between her jugs. "Never was a problem before we hooked up, you know, acushla."

Her hands are in my hair, soft sweet gentle hands, letting it slide and fall through her fingers. "As long as it's tight around the back, that's fine," she says, and presses my cheek up against her.

Ah . . . fucking paradise, this is. View's not bad either – got a perky little nipple right in my line of sight.


Well, damn . . . better get him to the store as soon as possible. I'm going through withdrawal here.

Leather Pants D.T.s – I'm sure there's some sort of medical term for that, isn't there?

"You'll have to wear jeans today, I guess," I admit reluctantly. Though come to think of it, I've only ever seen him in cut-off shorts and those yummy black leather pants. "Um – you do have jeans, don't you?"

" 'Course I do," he says, pulling back and kissing my belly. Man, I'd love those lips to be elsewhere, but . . . Dorcas and Cyndi-with-an-I are out there, lurking about the kitchen and no doubt waiting to hear us get it on again. Damn! "Put me kit in yer chest of drawers – didn't notice?"

"No," I say. That's not really surprising; it's not as though I go rooting through my dresser drawers all the time, and just about everything I bought yesterday needed to be hung in the closet.

Speaking of, I don't think the Armani dress will quite fit the early-morning-post-fuck tone . . . oh well, I'll just have to take the boots off. Starting to get a little sweaty in there, anyway. Jeans and a tank top would probably do.

"You'd better wear a tee shirt, too," I say, sit down on the bed beside him and unzip my Fendis. "You need to hide your shoulder. Remember, Dorcas and Cyndi asked about the tattoo yesterday morning."

"Oh, right," he says, but he doesn't sound like he's paying attention. What on earth has distracted him? He's staring at me as I --

Oh. That's why.


Oh, fuck, those two-klick legs . . .

. . . and thigh high stockings and black leather boots, like fucking icing on the cake. My sainted aunt, I'm practically fucking drooling.

Nice to know the new me works the same as the old one.


Shit, better rein him in before things get out of hand again. Is he going to be this horny ALL the time? The next several millennia are going to be very interesting . . . I pull back, slide off the stockings and go to my dresser.


Oh please, please, acushla, get your kecks on quick or I'll knob you right here . . .

"Behave yourself," she says firmly, looking back at me over her shoulder. Fuck, she's a bloody bit of all right – look at that long lean back, that adorable arse, and those oh bloody hell those legs –

Oh yeah, bend over like that again – that way I can see your – oh fuck, she's getting dressed. Bugger.

Hmm. Nice pants, though – love the G-string.


Hope he likes these panties – I certainly paid enough for them.

Well, technically HE paid enough for them. So he'd BETTER like them. I love the way they feel – heavy, with those chains criss-crossing on the front, and the little rivets around the backside. I thought it appropriate, considering he's a biker.


Never thought I'd see Éowyn in underclothes that looked like they just came off the line at the Harley plant . . . bet she did that on purpose, the sweet little bit.

Fuck. Getting a little excited here. Better find some clothes or we'll be treating Ducky and her mates to another fucking free show.

Not a nice fucking concept, oh no indeed. I mean, exhibitionism's pretty bleeding nice in a small way, but having it off with the fucking rent-girl watching? Give over; there are some things that are better when kept between two people. Don't mind the lads sharking her, but to think of one of our mates watching me slide into her –

OH bloody hell, stop thinking about it stop thinking about it stop it stop it fucking STOP IT! Lumme, you'd think after two goes in one hour I'd be ready for a little pause in the action, but oh fucking A . . .

I think this new body's even randier than the last one. My sainted aunt, would I love to lock the fucking bedroom door and have it away for the rest of the bloody morning.

But Ducky and Poppet might get a tad squidgy, poor things . . . ah, well. And we still need to find a place of our own, leave the pink house in Ducky's care. If we don't move out soon we'll be permanently afflicted with Dorcas Interruptus.*

Time to suss out the real estate out west. Now I think about it, Montana's quite lovely this time of year . . .


Well, I know he's not crazy about me wearing a bra, so I'll forget about that and just pull a tank top on. Good thing I have plenty of –


Hold on a second there; wasn't expecting his hand on my ass, how the hell does he move so quietly, dammit? I didn't even SEE him!

When I turn to him he looks a little surprised. Might have something to do with my jumping a mile high when I felt him touch me. "Sorry, acushla," he says, brushes his mouth across mine. "Didn't mean to give yer the abdabs."

"That's okay; you just startled me, that's all," I say. Damn, my heart's beating fast; run silent run deep indeed –

Note to self: Never play hide-and-seek with Legolas. The leather pants are probably a lot less stealthy.

Oh shit, cut that out; now that thin warm hand is sliding around my left cheek, curving and flexing in –

stop it stop it stop it


Oh acushla, I heard that sharp intake of breath; give you something to fucking think about I will – not terribly nice of me but then, not a terribly nice little pikey, am I?

Find that hot damp crack, slide my finger into it . . .


oh shit, he's paying me back for teasing him


she flinches, eyes drop, hands clutch back at my wrist.

"Stop it," she whispers, looks up at me through those thick black lashes, oh my acushla you are so lovely . . .

What was it she said to me before, when I told her to quit mucking about with my ear? "Make me," I whisper.

Now, let's see how she likes it when I pay a little attention to HERS . . .


His head lowers, his face in my hair, his nose nuzzling the curls apart, oh shit the hot breath gusting around my ear –

Ooooh, those Power Fuzzies are conferring with the Hot Pricklies and they've decided it might be a good idea to start a dance hall in my abdomen

He's tracing the outline of my ear with his tongue

I think the Fuzzies and Pricklies have reached an agreement, got a pretty good remix of Destiny's Child going on in there, oh shit


She droops in my arms, her eyelids flutter shut. I can see her heartbeat pulsing in the little dent in her collarbone, can practically watch the slow blush of her cheeks . . .

All right, think I've fucking made my point already.

Speaking of points –

Down, boy!

That's the fucking trouble with teasing – makes the giver as bloody randy as the receiver.


That warm, that nimble, that strong hand glides up my ass to my back; can feel lips on my ear, my throat, my cheek, oh that's so soft and gentle, so sexy, I'm melting –


Did he just SMACK ME ON THE ASS?!


There – that ought to bloody well get her back out of the mood.

She jerks back, eyes fly open, mouth drops, rubs her arse with one hand. Oh fuck, I'm grinning, I can't help it –

"What the hell was that for?" she demands. She twists, looks round at her backside. "Shit, you've left a fucking handprint on my ass!"

"That's fer bein' a right cock-tease, acushla," I say, and brace myself.


Dammit, that STUNG! Better rub it to make the pain go away – there we are, it's fading, now it's all tingly and . . . and warm . . .

Oh, shit. I was right. I AM kinky.

Shit, shit, shit!


Right, then, I'm ready, acushla, go on and banjo me, I'm ready –

Wait –

She turns back, silver eyes contemplative, pretty red lips curving upward, still rubbing her arse.


Dammit, he's pretty when he's nasty. I love how his eyes darken, love that almost cruel curve to his mouth . . . he's obviously waiting for me to smack him back, but you know what? I don't think I will.

"Well, then, I'll have to be a cock-tease more often," I say calmly, and pull out a pair of blue jeans.

Feels funny to slide them on over that tingly prickly hot spot; I wonder if he left a mark?


Fucking A. Will this woman EVER stop gobsmacking me?

Bugger it, I hope not.


He's grinning, the cocky little shit. Well, what the hell do I care? At least he's here to smack my butt – that's a big fucking improvement over a couple of hours ago, when there was no one within a square mile who'd even CONSIDER it.

I hear some banging and clattering in the kitchen. We both turn to the door, then look at each other; he looks regretful, almost apologetic.


Manky little kifes, wish they'd bloody well take themselves off . . .

Éowyn looks as though she's thinking the same thing. Can practically fucking read her mind in those starry grey eyes – "knob me knob me knob me" – well, acushla, I bloody well would if we were alone in this fucking pink house, but we're not, so . . .

Now for a spot of brekky. Time, too; I’m awfully peckish.


"I'd better get out there," I say, though what I REALLY want to say is, "Throw me on the floor and fuck me senseless!" Not sure which would be worse, if he said yes or no.

"Right," he sighs, pulls a pair of very disreputable jeans out of one of my dresser drawers. Where the hell did he get those, and how old are they, anyway? Look like Noah could've worn them, for pete's sake. He shakes them out – I'm surprised the rivets don't fall off – and slides one long leg in.

Wait – he's not wearing any underwear?

I better get out of here fast. Nothing like Legolas going commando to get my heart rate up. AGAIN. I can just imagine his cock and balls, soft and warm, sliding around against the denim . . . I unzip, slide my hand in . . .

Okay, I DEFINITELY need to get out of here. And take a cold shower. Or something.


Bloody hell, she scarpered fast.

Let's see – what the fuck can I make for breakfast? Got some eggs left, not enough, some rashers . . . leftover bread, can make toast . . .

Fuck, my stomach's growling. Feels like ten fucking thousand years since I ate last. Wonder if Éowyn's hungry?


I can feel that itchy tickly prickly spot on my ass every time I take a step and the denim rubs against it. Dammit, how does he DO that? Little bastard.

Well, not so little. But still.

I probably look like something the cat dragged in. Better try to straighten my hair out . . . I round the corner to the kitchen. Dorcas and Cyndi-with-an-I are rummaging around in the fridge, and their Close Mutual Friend Tanya the Wonder Twat is drinking a glass of my orange juice. Dammit, that stuff is fresh-squeezed! If you've filched all my juice you'll damn well go buy me another bottle! Shit, I can't afford to feed every stupid little twit that –

Oh, wait. I CAN afford it now. Damn, so hard to go from being stingy to letting people take what they want . . . well, anyway, Tanya the Wonder Twat works at a clothing store in the mall and probably only makes minimum wage anyway – this is most likely the best orange juice she'll have in months. I shouldn't begrudge her that.

I begrudge her that fucking awful outfit, though. What the hell is she thinking, wandering around San Dimas at eight A.M. with a red faux-leather minidress on? Looks like something out of one of the more racy episodes of Rockford Files. The bleach-blonde look doesn't add much to the mix either.

All right, I know; bitchy bitchy bitchy. Not like the poor thing knows any better at this stage – she's what, nineteen? And I think I recall Cyndi-with-an-I telling me once her dad left them when she was two and her mother's turned out to be a real slut. Give her the benefit of the doubt already – chances are she thinks she looks perfectly acceptable.

Though I wish Dorcas would give her the heads-up about the blue eyeliner. Nasty stuff.

"Good morning!" I say brightly. All three of them turn around, eyes wide; what the hell's up with that?

"Win – Éowyn!" squeaks Dorcas, straightening up with a jar of mayonnaise in her hand. "I thought – um – " She blushes, looks at her feet.

"What?" I ask. What's so embarrassing about me walking into the kitchen? I'm dressed, aren't I? Better take a quick inventory – jeans, tank top – nipples showing? Well, a little bit but not too bad – yep, I'm dressed, so what's the problem?

"We thought you'd be, um, entertaining your new boyfriend for a while," grins Cyndi-with-an-I; her cheeks are pink too, but as she's a little bolder than my roomie I guess she feels more confident about explaining.

Well, I guess I can't really blame them. After all, isn't that what Legolas and I have been doing the past day and a half? Precedent . . . I shrug. "We're getting hungry," I say off-handedly, head to the cabinets. I REALLY need some coffee . . . "Have a nice night? Where'd you stay, anyway?"

"They crashed at my place and watched a movie," says Tanya. She's put the glass down, looks a little self-conscious; guess she figured she could lift my juice with me none the wiser.

"Oh, good, thanks," I say. "Anyone else want some coffee? I didn't get any sleep last night and I need a mega-dose of caffeine." There's a desultory murmur of agreement; might as well make a full pot. "What movie?"

Dorcas and Cyndi exchange glances. "When Harry Met Sally," grins Cyndi. "In your honor, of course." She opens the fridge again and digs out a block of cheddar.

Well, I'll be damned. "Really!" I say, look at them. They're both smiling at me. Well – I guess it is kind of appropriate. "Okay – thanks, I think." Damn, now I'm blushing! Better get this coffee started . . .

"Didn't get any sleep? Why, were you up all night?" asks the Wonder Twat. Well, no shit, Sherlock; obviously if I didn't get any sleep I was up all night. Duh!

"Did you have a good time with all your friends?" asks Dorcas. She opens a loaf of sandwich bread.

"Up to a point, I guess," I say. Shit, it's hard to explain, and I don't really want to lie, but –

I feel him before I hear him; I know he's just walked in, though his feet make no noise padding on the tile. As I turn I see the Wonder Twat's eyes widen and mouth drop open.

Hah! You can't have him, nyah nyah nyah!


Fuck, what a lovely sight, Éowyn's arse in those tight tight jeans . . .

And oh, the smell of coffee. Could I bloody well use a cup.

Lumme, who's the slag in the red dress? My sainted aunt, where'd they pick up this scrubber? Close your mouth, dearie; you'll get drool all over the nice clean tile.

"Mornin', Ducky, Poppet," I say. Fuck, it feels good to stretch; makes me wish I was a cat; extend those muscles, love the warm burning feeling. "Who's yer mate?"

"Oh! Um, Legs, this is Tanya," says Poppet. Fuck, still has that shag-me-quick look on her face. I shake hands with the little minger – leave it out; purple finger-nail polish; how much do you charge for a bunk-up? Staring at me, too, like she wants to eat me. Ugh! Fucking nasty thought. Better stake my claim quick and settle who's sharking whom.

But first – a lollie. Yeah, there's the fucking bag, right where I left it. Ah, my lovely acushla, bought me Chupa-Chups – closest thing to a gourmet lollie you can get, here.

Dee-lish. Think this one's cherry. Fucking sexy flavor, anyway.


He sidles up to me, winds an arm around my waist, pulls me up close. Love the body heat; love the tickly swishy hair around my bare shoulders; love that smell – pungent, piney, clean. I tip my face up to his.

Oh thank heaven, he took the hint – mm, nice, soft lips, brushing over mine, fingers tightening on my hip, the smell of clean clothes and hot Elf.

Oh, and the taste of artificial cherry – that's kind of nice, too.

Whoops. Closed my eyes. Oh well, I'll just have to guess how much coffee I put in the filter . . .

That sweet warm mouth leaves mine, I feel his hand give my waist a quick squeeze before he turns, leans that gorgeous ass against the counter next to me. I wonder why he's got his arms crossed? Usually a sign of defensiveness – then again, seeing the way those three are scoping him out, I don't blame him for feeling a little hounded. I dump in the water and turn on the coffee maker.

"How're you two kifes today?" he asks casually around his lollipop. I can see his eyes moving, taking in everything in the kitchen – protecting his territory, I guess.


All right, Ducky, it's okay if you make a sandwich in my kitchen, but mind you don't dull the knife – and oh fuck, please Poppet, don't slice the cheese on the fucking countertop, use a cutting board! Bloody hell, it's like they're bleeding idiots when it comes to food preparation.

"We've got a concert up at the Greek this afternoon – Moody Blues," says Dorcas. "It's open seating so we need a picnic lunch for while we're waiting."

And you're making fucking cheese sandwiches? Give over; I can do better than that . . . " Collectin' a nosebag, are you? Take some leftover veal, pets; better than cheese anyway."

"He means, pack our leftovers from last night for your lunch," says Éowyn calmly. Yeah, that's right; need a fucking translator if I'm going to live with all these seppos. Lumme, what's it going to be like in the fucking wilderness when we get our ranch going? Not a bleeding gobshite's going to know what the fuck I'm saying. I look at her, all long golden limbs, topaz hair and mirrored eyes – oh fuck, oh bugger, what an absofuckinglutely bit of crumpet she is . . . be my voice, my mouth; say what I mean, acushla, none of these fucking Yanks know what the fuck I'm talking about.

"Oh, okay, thanks," says Ducky, and goes back to the ice box.

Poppet's looking at me, horny little tosser she is, says, "Kind of a shame you're actually dressed this time."


Little cunt, I'll shove her face in the toilet, scoping out my Elf like that.


Oooh, my acushla looks brassed; better diffuse this before it gets out of hand.

"Yeah, pet, seems like every time you come in I've got me trousers off," I say, curl my arm round Éowyn's waist again. She's stiff, doesn't think it's a great piss-take there. That's all right, acushla; just a little while and we'll be alone again. Think! The Moody Blues – got to get to that venue early; don't want all the good seats to be taken, now, do we?


Come on, won't you guys just LEAVE already? Geez louise, the Moody Blues; you have to get to the Greek early to get good seats . . . though I admit getting there at nine AM might be kind of overkill.

It's nice, though, knowing these three don't do a damn thing for him. I can feel his hand, playing with my side, drifting down my hips, can feel his hair tickling my shoulder, his wonderful heady scent fill my nostrils . . .

Oh, why can't they just TAKE OFF???

Now they're laughing, the stupid little twats, all three of them with their eyes drifting all over him – his pelvis in particular – well, too bad, you horny little twerps; that mushroom is all MINE.

"I know Éowyn stayed up all night," says Dorcas, putting the bread back in the fridge and taking out the Tupperware full of veal. "How late did you stay up, Legs?"


All right then, be careful here . . .


Oh shit, what's he going to say? He can't lie, after all . . .


"I dunno, pet," I say. Think think think, how can I make this sound right? Oh yeah – "Can't remember nothin' past about two; woke up in the lounge."

Right as rain, mate; holed it in one! They all laugh, think it's a right cod.

Oh, he's GOOD.


"Must've been a great party," laughs Ducky. I look at Éowyn. Well . . . fuck, it really wasn't, was it? Began well, but oh my sainted aunt did it go down the piss hole after that.


A great party? Well, if you don't count the malediction by the Valar, the hunting down of my ex, the death of my Elf, the six hours of LIVING FUCKING HELL, sure, I guess you could say it was a good party.

He's looking at me, blue eyes intense; almost as though he's daring me to crack in front of these little dimwits. No fucking way. These poor little twerps, life is hard enough; why scare them with pronouncements of doom and disaster?

"You can damn sure say that again," I say, with just the right inflection, so that they think it was such a freaking good time we can't even remember it.


Good answer, acushla. Oh, well done.


They laugh. They bought it. And they're at the age now where they think if you can't remember a party, it must've been good, Q.E.D. Alcohol consumption equals fun, right?


Well, that's done then. And now – time for some fucking brekky. About to faint, I'm so bloody peckish.

"Going to have some brekky – breakfast, I mean?" Better watch myself; remember, Legs, no one understands you here. I slide my arm from around Éowyn's waist and head to the ice box. Might as well suss out the eggs and rashers.

"Oh, we already ate," says Poppet.

Pukka! We can nobble it all to ourselves! Hide your smirk, no need to let them know you're happy as Larry they're buggering off. Five eggs and rashers, all to ourselves! Fucking wicked!


WHOOPEE! I know we only have about a half dozen eggs, and I don't feel like sharing!

Especially not with these guys. Gimli or Lothíriel would be one thing, but –

Oh, shit! I was supposed to call them!


"Oh, shit!"

I turn to Éowyn; her eyes are wide and she's biting her lip.

I'd rather bite it myself . . .

All right, leave it out, mate, settle down . . .

"What?" I ask. I take out the eggs, the rashers, some butter. Eggs fried in butter – oh, fuck yeah, they slide down so nice –

Bugger, I AM hungry. What's it been, almost twelve hours? Fucking hell, you'd think I'd never put a scrap of food in this stomach.

Oh, wait – I haven't.


"I was supposed to call – " Okay, can't use her full name, too many weird names for them to assimilate – need to use a nickname; what was it again? Oh yeah " – Lottie and let her know – " Let her know what? Careful here " – that we're up."


Excellent! Wonderful digression; these soppy nits won't suss that out.

Although – well, fucking hell, as soon as she calls Lottie, the whole crew shows up to see me. Seem to recall there being a bit of an exodus there, when everything was blue-white and I couldn't quite focus –

Bugger. Guess I won't get my third piss-proud shag of the morning. Fuck.

"Well, give her a ring, then," I say. Bloody hell, bet Grim and Whitey are browned off; better let them slag me or they'll go spare. "Not enough kippers for everyone, though. Tell 'em to feed themselves."

Fuck. So much for an empty house, just me and my acushla . . .

Bugger, now I think of it, not going to have an empty house all day. Because once Ducky and Poppet and the Manky Slag leave, everyone else shows up and it's bye-bye roger. Damn!

Won't be able to – to tell her, either. Running out of time, here. What's it been, thirty-six hours? Need to tell her need to tell her need to tell her –


"Okay," I say, and head to the phone. Well, so much for spending the rest of the morning exploring all the sensual nuances of his new body –

Oh, stop being so selfish, you bitchy Shieldmaiden, you. They mourned him too. It's only fair they get to see him back to being his normal potty-mouthed self.

Let's see, Merry wrote the number of the Marriott down on a little sticky-note – here it is – and their room numbers, let's see, Éomer and Lothíriel are 205 . . .

Before I can dial Legolas says, "Oi!"

We all turn to him. He's standing in the middle of the kitchen, long blond hair, bright blue eyes, long legs and perfect face, bright red glossy lollipop in one hand, but his expression is determined, stubborn.

Now what?


Do it do it do it do it! Quick quick quick you grotty oik before you bottle out!

She's looking at me, my eyes have gone all wonky, can only see her – I know the other three are here, but it's a black tunnel leading to her, I can see only her – tall, slim, poised, confident, beautiful; my Shieldmaiden, my acushla, my Éowyn.

Say it. Even if you just fucking blurt it out, mate, it's better than making her wait any longer.

"I kept meaning to tell you and couldn't," I say, "I'll say it now before I can get interrupted again. Éowyn, I love you; will you marry me?"


Holy shit.

My mind just went blank. I think I must've dropped the phone; I heard something go thunk. Maybe it was my jaw.

It must've been my jaw because my mouth won't work. Oh shit, isn't this what you've been wanting forever? Say something say something say something! He's going to think I'm the world's biggest jerk if I don't say something immediately, he's going to think I don't want him, can't tell him I love him back, and I DO love him, I love him I love him but my mouth is numb and I can't SAY ANYTHING!!!


My sainted aunt, you can see it in her face. I've never seen that look before, not directed to me, anyway. Holy fucking shit, the Shieldmaiden loves me. She doesn't even need to say anything, I can just see it.

And the other three little mingers? They just melt and say, "Awwwww," their voices creeping up the register to a squeak.

Fucking little tossers.

*"Dorcas Interruptus" is part of the Pottymouth vocabulary thanks to the creative efforts of April Duchess, who coined the phrase in one of her reviews. Thanks, Duch!

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

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