Pottymouth: 21. 21

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21. 21


Alone at last.

Geez, thought they'd NEVER leave. I love Dorcas to death, and Cyndi's funny, but a little of them goes a long way – especially after a day like today, when I feel absolutely swarmed by people and just want to be left alone for a while. It gets old too when all they want to do is flirt with my man –er, Elf – well, fiancée, right? I mean, really; find your own Adonis. And even worse, the Wonder Twat kept looking and looking at my Elven Ass – more specifically, at my Elf's ass – wanted to ask her if she had crabs; she kept twitching and swiveling her hips. I suppose she thought it was sexy, rotating her backside in that tacky red plastic dress. That might've been alluring on a less, shall we say, Rococo girl.

Yes, I know he's gorgeous. Yes, I suspect every woman wants to have a chance at getting into his pants. Yes, I know he absolutely drips sexuality in the most blatant and obscene way, even when he's NOT wearing black leather. But geez louise, do you have to DROOL? Even Dorcas and Cyndi weren't THAT bad. Got a little irritated with Cyndi, but once I figured out she was just teasing, that hard tight knot of irritated jealousy loosened.

No reason to be jealous, either. I mean, even without his admittedly gauche proposal, it'd take a moron to not realize he's hot for me. Honestly; how many women have the assurance that sex with a particular man (okay, I know, not MAN, whatever) results in eternal fidelity? Arwen said something odd to me this afternoon, after we'd all sat around and knocked back a couple of toasts to the Incredible Returning Elf.

"You realize you're stuck with him, don't you?" she'd said while Lothíriel ransacked my toenail polish supply.

"I should certainly hope so," I'd said, a little defensively. I mean, geez! Like I'm the type of girl to love 'em and leave 'em.

"I don't mean you," said Arwen, uncanny how she can read my mind; must be an Elfy kind of thing. "I mean him. Now he's slept with you he can't sleep with anyone else until you die. See?"

That came as a bit of a shocker. I mean, I KNEW he'd been faithful to all those mortal lovers he's had over the millennia; I didn't realize there was a psychological reason behind it.

Well, to hear her describe it, it's not exactly psychological or philosophical or even religious. It's more physiological. Came as a bit of a surprise to find out she'd been a virgin when she and Aragorn were married. But as she explained it, once an Elf does the dirty, the genetic material that governs the psychic connection kicks into gear and locks onto the brain cells or whatever of the partner. That meant Legolas was not only sweet and thoughtful and unselfish in his faithfulness to those other women; it meant he had deliberately imprisoned himself in those relationships, simply through the act of physical intimacy. If they'd lived forever, he would've been, as Arwen had put it, stuck with them.

Kind of puts a new spin on when he bent me back over the kitchen table, five minutes after we'd walked into the house the first time. He said he was driven to it – he must've been; what a terrifying thing for him, to give up his sexual options for the rest of his life, just because I was horny!

He certainly doesn't seem to be regretting it. But it does explain his immediate capitulation into my life. He didn't just WANT to stay with me forever; he HAS to stay with me forever.

At first, that made me feel a little cheated. I don't want some weirdo psycho-Elven-locking-shit in our brains; he ought to be faithful to me because he WANTS to be, dammit! But on the other hand, it's so easy these days to divorce, to give up, to say, "This is too hard!", to leave your partner. Being physiologically constrained by these Valar-induced boundaries (I understand Yavanna had a lot to do with setting it up – figures, eh?) gives you the want-to to want to; he deliberately put himself in the position of being potentially mortally wounded by sleeping with me. He knew I wasn't an Elda and I wasn't hemmed in by these restrictions; he knew I could eventually say, "Well, that was fun; see ya" and walk out of his life, give him a case of Terminal Heartbreak, and he couldn't do a damn thing about it.

And yet – he did it anyway.

I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the pink-flowered chair. It puts what he did for Faramir into perspective, knowing how his brain works.

Complete selflessness. How often do you run into ANYONE who can claim that? Everything he's done has had one goal: the care and comfort of the Chosen primarily, and the rest of the world secondarily. You'd think he'd fight it and tell the Valar to kiss off, but I guess that's just not in his makeup. Even to the point where he gives up his freedom to live with a flaky psycho Shieldmaiden, even to the point where he gives up his life and his promise of an after-life to keep a mopey, self-centered dorkwad from suffering the same fate. You'd complain to the Valar about it, but good grief, look how they rewarded him! Even Gandalf admitted to me a few hours ago, after he'd had a few too many beers, that this was not something the Valar were in the habit of doing – sure, they'd brought back Glorfindel, but mostly because Arda needed him so badly – and they'd sent Gandalf back, but as he doesn't really need a body ("I'm a possessor only, I have no physical form," he'd said owlishly) this one he's got now is just a loaner – the only thing he could figure was that Legolas had proved himself so faithful the Valar were constrained by a Higher Power to resurrect him and give him an eternal reward.

At this I had blushed, but Gandalf had said quickly: "Oh no, Éowyn my dear; you're not the reward – at least, not the larger part of it. No, his reward is in the continuation of his tasks, the faculty to persist in his subjection. He is still the Listener, you know – I can feel that, being what I am – but there is something different, some deeper power . .. " He'd drifted off, staring into space, until I nudged him and he'd said, "Eh? What was I saying? Oh yes, jolly good show this; very good beer . . . " It was at that point I decided philosophical discussions and Guinness don't go hand in hand.

All in all, a very nice party. Gimli hadn't even had time to recover from his hangover from last night before he'd started drinking again, and he was so wasted when they left we had to roll him into the Hobbits' rental car, and Merry drove his motorcycle back to the hotel. He kept hugging Legolas and sobbing, his tears running down into his beard, saying things like, "Oh fuck, you're such an asshole, oh fuck I missed you so much – " When he cleaned out Dorcas' peach schnapps in one swig we cut him off and made him drink soda for the rest of the afternoon.

Aragorn and Arwen were pretty calm at first, but the more wine got circulated the more gushy Arwen got, and the more sentimental Aragorn got. By the time I pried them off of him they were both clinging to him, one on each arm, professing their undying love and affection and telling him they ought to have named one of their kids after him. The Hobbits weren't much better, either; Rosie couldn't look at him without bursting into tears, Sam stared at him as though Galadriel herself had paid a visit from Valinor, Merry kept refilling his glass and Pippin annoyed everyone by constantly asking him what weightlessness was like, Diamond and Estella huddled together in a corner for a hectic half-hour and ended up singing him a terribly written spoof of "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald," titled (of course) "The Return of Legolas Greenleaf." Only tequila can produce that level of stupidity.

And Frodo – well, Frodo just contented himself with gazing rapturously at Legolas' ass and sighing on occasion. I'd hit him, but considering there wouldn't even BE a world to live in if it weren't for him, I suppose that might be perceived as a little ungrateful.

Éomer surprised me the most. I mean, Lothíriel – or Lottie, as she wants me to call her now – was pretty straight-forward, as I'd expected; she'd launched herself into Legolas' arms (good thing he's got good balance or he'd've ended up on his ass), squealing and giggling like a Valley Girl on speed, then hauled me off to discuss wedding gowns – shit, that still gives me the heebie-jeebies – but my brother, my stoic, funny, practical brother could hardly speak. I could tell he was trying not to embarrass Legolas, trying hard to be manly and mundane and not rock the boat – but when he gave Legolas that masculine brotherly shoulder-squeeze I could see the tears start leaking down his cheeks; and what does Legolas do? Does he twit him, tell him in a bluff, offhand voice not to worry about it? Try to brush it off and be all masculine and sensible and jokey? No . . . he takes Éomer into his arms and embraces him warmly.

And my brother, my brawny, manly, hairy, solid, stable brother broke down and cried like a baby.

It was about that time things got REALLY emotional. Everyone wanted to touch Legolas, to reassure themselves he'd really come back; everyone wanted to talk to him, to make sure it was really HIM, that he remembered them. It was hard not to force myself in between him and whoever happened to be hanging all over him at the moment; I had to keep telling myself, "They missed him too; they missed him too." But after an hour or so I was ready to chuck them all out and grind against him like a sex-deprived teenager.

What really irked me was that they kept asking him what it was like to be dead. Gandalf, bless his beard, headed those particular conversations off; every time one of them would start up with it he'd interrupt and say, "Now, now, that's proprietary information, you know," and change the subject. Good thing, too – I was starting to get a little worried, and angry, too. I could see that flash of remembered horror in Legolas' eyes whenever someone mentioned Mandos, and it made me want to drag him into a closet, throw a blanket over his head, and hide him until they all left.

Well, he survived at least. As soon as Dorcas and her tee-hee mob showed back up after seeing the Moody Blues ("They were so OLD!" Cyndi had squealed; I didn't feel like explaining to her that the combined ages of the people in the room made Carl Sagan's proclamations about the ages of the continents seem paltry), everyone started picking themselves up – well, in Gimli's case, barfing and passing out – and headed back to the Marriott. Everyone agreed to meet at Ari-Ya for lunch tomorrow, barring any unfortunate hangovers, and then go see Legolas' show at the Norton Simon.

Odd, isn't it? I'm going to be his wife and I've never seen one of his paintings. I asked Frodo what they were like, and he just shrugged and said, "Representational, of course, with loads of color and light and negative space. But with a dark undercurrent of mythic symbolism, just enough to keep the critics on their toes." I nodded but I have no idea what that means. Guess I'll figure it out tomorrow.

Tomorrow. I can't believe there's going to be a tomorrow. And days after that, too. Lots and lots of tomorrows – all filled with foul language, hot sex, jolly companionship and the smell of rosemary.

It's especially astonishing when I think back on the past four years. My tomorrows were so awful, so bleak and empty and full of bitterness. And last night – oh shit, don't get me started about last night.

It would help if I would just get up off the edge of the bed, pick up this stupid floral chair, and bring it back into the dining room where it belongs. That's why I came in the damn room in the first place. But here I sit, swinging my feet over the floor, staring at this dumb chair. I have no idea what's sparked this inertia – exhaustion? Delayed reaction? Too much wine? Fear?

Either way, I don't want to touch the chair. Call me irrational, call me drunk; I spent the worst six hours of my life on that thing and I'm about five minutes away from calling Legolas in here to take it out for me.

I know, I'm chicken. Even Sheildmaidens have their limits.

I wonder how long I can sit here until Legolas comes looking for me?


Ah, that's better; can finally put my hand on the kitchen counter without fucking sticking to it. And all the glasses are washed and put up, the booze – what's left, anyway; my sainted aunt can we drink – set back in the cupboard, the finger-foods cleaned up and set aside. It's nice having a clean kitchen; been a hell of a day for it anyway.

First brekky with my acushla – never look at fucking fried eggs the same way again, oh hell no, best eaten off her skin after all, lovely slippery things – then a quick knobbing on the davenport, barely fucking finished before the mob arrived – just zipped up my trousers when Grim nearly broke the door down; bloody hell thought he'd have the abdabs right there. Then it was drink and eat, drink and eat, and fucking A talk talk talk, plates on the floor, cups on the furniture, and then Ducky and Poppet and the Minger arrive, and they oh-so-fucking-nicely offer to help me clean up – oh bleeding hell, was I glad to see their backsides.

Not that they're very nice bloody backsides. If I want to squeeze a jacksie it's my acushla for me every time.

Such a nice arse to squeeze, too –

Speaking of, better see what she's got up to. Pretty flown herself, she was, all glassy-eyed and flushed, like an afterglow but with worse balance. Said something about straightening up the lounge, maybe I should give her a hand.

And then? Ah, fuck yeah, and then!

Call it quality control, mate. Have to make sure this bleeding new body performs well under high-stress situations, after all. Not that I can see returning it to the Valar under warranty.

Hm, doesn't appear to be in the lounge. I listen a moment.

Bedroom. Sitting still, breathing quietly. Not asleep though.

Be cautious, Greenleaf. The wine she has drunk has reawakened the wound of a painful memory.

Oh, fuck. You've got to be fucking kidding me. And here I was all ready to fill her night with dreamy bliss. Bugger!

There remain still symbols of unhappiness, though they are but small ones. And I have full confidence in you, my beloved Listener, that you will take those melancholic emblems and transfigure them for her.

Interesting thought. Any suggestions as to where I should start?

I am sure a solution will come to you.

Thanks a fucking lot.


I smell him, sense him. I know he's standing there without turning. He's watching me, silent, I can almost feel his contemplation on the back of my head.


Ay Oh When. The aural orgasm.


She stirs but doesn't turn. What the fuck is she staring at, the chair? I'd stare at the bloody thing too, mate; fucking awful color scheme. Bloody hell, can I not wait to lose this house.

She's sitting up, slightly slouched, simply staring. Staring at the chair. Hm, is that the symbol Manwë told me about? Pretty fucking stupid symbol.


When I woke up, Grim was sitting there.

But Rosie told me Éowyn had sat there all night.

Sat in that chair, hour after hour.

And I was . . .

. . . on the fucking bed.


Oh, fuck.


I feel his weight behind me on the bed, hear the springs creak as he crawls over to me. Then warmth against my back, his chin on my shoulder, long wispy tendrils of golden hair float across my breasts.


Warmth, weight, heartbeat, breath. Eternal, too. Get used to it, Éowyn; he's not going anywhere.


She leans back into me, drooping, wilted. I can smell wine on her breath, wine and tequila, and citrus in her hair.

Eclipse these unhappy thoughts, O Listener

As you wish it, Yavanna.


Hmmm? Thought I heard something there. Oh well. Must've been my imagination.


Big fucking sigh, her weight against my chest. I brace myself on my knees, wrap my arms round her waist.

So she sat there, all fucking night, watching me get cold.

Oh, my acushla.


His breath on my throat, stirring the tendrils of hair, his and mine commingled. Pale flaxen strands floating, ghostlike, ethereal; glossy silky curls, tawny and twining. The pressure of his fingers on my belly, strong, gentle.

"How many hours did yer sit there, lookin' at me, acushla?"

"Six," I answer. Why not? He might as well know. Can't do a damn thing about it now. What's past is past.

We are silent, we two, both staring at the chair. Or at least, I'm staring at it. He could be looking down my shirt at my boobs for all I know.

I've been curious about something, but I'm afraid to ask. What if I hurt him by asking? He was so frightened, so petrified when he remembered.

"You sat there watchin' me the whole fuckin' time, Éowyn?" he asks. His voice is soft, not accusatory or even apologetic. It just sounds as though he wants to know.

"Yes," I say. When he doesn't respond I feel as though I need to expand on that answer. "I couldn't do anything else. Just sit and stare." Well, that's not quite true. "Though sometimes I lay down on the floor." I point at the tile. "Here. I lay down here. And I found an earring under the bed."


Oh my acushla, my heart hurts for you.


His arms tighten around me. Well, good job, Éowyn, you just made him feel bad again. You bitch.

"It's over," I say. "You're back now. It's okay."

"But you're still starin' at the chair, luv."

Um. So I am.


So that's the symbol. "Eclipse" it, eh? Hm, how does one fucking eclipse a bloody chair . . .

By sitting in it, O Listener.

Ohhhhhh . . . good idea, my lady.

Fuck yeah . . . VERY good idea.

She turns a little in my arms, tips her face up to mine. Her eyebrows are knotted with thought.

"How long did you stay out there, Legolas?"

black nothingness no feeling no warmth or cold silence silence silence

This healing is for you as well, my Greenleaf.

Is this a fucking prescription, then, my lord? You're the Heavenly Pharmacist now, are you? Dosing us with sex until the hurt part of our brains go numb?

Take it as you will, Greenleaf. For you, the fulfillment of the senses is no longer tied to your obedience, for you have proved yourself worthy of a lifetime of gratification.

Unlimited refills. Fuck yeah, I can live with that.


Shit. He's quiet, still, I could feel him freeze. Shouldn't have asked him; what the hell was I thinking? Stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid! Tell him you didn't mean it, tell him it's okay, you don't really want to know, tell him –

Wait, he's talking. What?

"You can't really – express – the passage of time like that," he's saying, his voice thoughtful and quiet. So unlike the way he usually speaks – he talks like a bulldozer most of the time, or like a volcano, or a sword. Just explodes with words, burns and knocks down and cuts and overwhelms.

But not now.


How do I explain this? She deserves to fucking know already.

Try. Just try it, you bloody pikey.

"Time doesn't pass, you don't notice it. You just are." Well, that's pretty fucking obscure; bet she won't latch on to that one. "It's like – like being somewhere so long you forget how long you've been there. Time means nothing, existence means nothing. Everything takes forever because forever is all there is."

She inhales sharply at this. I must've made a connection.


Holy shit – all that darkness and aloneness and pain – forever?

Oh my god.

"So that's why you did it," I say without thinking. Damn, think I had too much to drink, I'm letting my mouth run without the benefit of my brain's input. "You went there because you knew Faramir couldn't survive it."


Well, fuck. Not such an untutored Edan after all. We might actually make this marriage work. Not easy between an Edan and an Elda . . . have to ask Arwen's advice.

"Holed it in one, acushla," I say. My voice is rough – fuck, didn't want her to think it was so bad. Well, doesn't matter. She might as well know. We've got eternity to work things out. "Besides, when my lord tells me to go, I go."

She knows, she knows the price of subservience. "I know," she whispers.


Damn, makes six hours seem like nothing. At least I had people around me.

All right. Enough with the pity party. I get like this sometimes when I drink too much wine; I get lugubrious and melancholy. And those are two adjectives I shouldn't use when I've got a warm firm body pressed up against my back, and hot sweet breath on my neck.

There – just that thought dispels the gray sugary fuzz and burns it away, starting with my stomach and working its way up and out.

Hmm . . . seems to have hit my breasts, I can feel my nipples bead and tingle . . .


She moves against me, presses back until her arse is nestled in the cusp of my thighs. Oh fuck yeah, wriggle a little this way – ah, yes.

Well, acushla, shall we pick up where we left off?

Nice view I've got here too; hell yeah, can see those pert little nips just begging for some fucking attention –


Oh how nice, he took the hint, not that it was a terribly clever one, but when you've had this much to drink you can't really be very subtle. Here come those long flexible fingers, drifting up up up, oh yes, make happy breasts for me . . .

Ah . . .

His fingers roll and knead, sparks shoot from my nipples to my stomach, yes . . .

Maybe if I tip my head back against his shoulder he'll take yet ANOTHER hint; I'd love to feel that mouth on my throat . . .


Oh my acushla to feel this warmth, this firm slim body pressed up against mine, fuck I want to be in you, want to touch you, taste you, ride you


gust of air on my throat – yes, that's it, get those lips on over here

-- yes --

oh I love that feeling, that soft warm mouth, the face nuzzling my hair aside, the heat from his breath, his sweet immortal breath, the –


Teeth too, love the teeth, felt that jolt from my neck to my belly, hard not to make noise when you're doing that


Fuck I love the way you jump and squirm, she's fidgeting, restless; oh bugger acushla every time you move your jacksie you rub rub rub against me oh fuck yeah . . .

Need some more contact, move you closer

-- ah --


Whoa I felt that, hard hot shaft pushing up against my ass, oh god yes let the sparks fly

He's breathing a little faster, a little louder, oh god oh god where is his hand going

-- oh --

good choice, wanted to feel a little – yes – getting that itchy tingly achy – harder, press harder – yes, that's it, oh god, the Moaning Bitch has taken up permanent residence in my body, think she's channeling disco-era Donna Summers or someone

not good enough the Screaming Bitch needs to make an appearance, come on you


Fuck if she grinds against me too much more I'll bloody well cream my kecks; can feel myself building, that tightness in me, oh fuck oh shit oh bloody hell, gonna sound like Robert Plant here in a moment

squeeze those tits, make her moan louder, love the way you sound, acushla


oh god


fuck yeah that's it, bloody hell you're hot down here, hot and damp, cup my hands over that thick denim seam


yes, oh yes, please, press harder, too many clothes


oh you smell good, can smell you through your jeans, can smell your throat, your hair, your sex, fuck I want you

Sit in the chair.

Oh – fuck – bugger, I almost forgot – the eclipse, that's it. Fuck, sounds like a bloody astrological sanction, got the positions of the stars and planets aligned properly, let's go


oh god his hand squeezes, tighter tighter tighter shit I'm burning fluttering humming oh shit I need to get off

his breath in my ear, hoarse, tight: "Turn round, acushla."

I would if I could get my legs to work, feel like they're made of lead

He turns me, grabs my legs by the knees, pulls them to either side of his hips. I can barely focus on him, on his face, that white oval, pink sweet lips, brilliant blue eyes glittering, dark with lust; oh god press me closer

-- yes --


Oh fuck oh shit she's bloody gorgeous, so fucking gorgeous I feel like my heart's about to burst, it's pounding too hard, oh fuck she's got her ankles locked round my back, grating against me, oh fuck that feels so good

wait wait wait wait get up get up get the fuck up


oh yes yes yes I'm going to come right in my jeans oh yes

-- wait --

His hands on my ass, he shifts, he stands, turns, the room spins, oh god I had too much to drink, oh god oh god oh god


There you are then; steady, luv, I've got you – I've got you.

Get these fucking clothes off, get them off get them off quick quick quick

Oh fuck wish I knew what it was like to make love slowly, guess that'll take some practice, slow down, slow down.

I lay her down on the bed; she still clings to me, limbs clutching me; I untangle her, push her down on her back. Her eyes open, they're sparkling, flashing, flecks of silver in the gray, oh those kissable red lips, another way to slow down, kiss her kiss her kiss her



His mouth on mine, oh god kiss me, harder harder harder

He pulls away, chuckling. "We've got time, acushla," he whispers, lips soften, moving slowly, tongue flicking gently, sliding in

Oh yes

And his hands, busy busy busy while his mouth skims and engulfs and consumes mine


That's it, now, acushla, no fucking hurry here, everyone's gone for the night and we have hours, hours.

Damn jeans, hate those buttons, ah there we go

Nice little pants, love the chainwork, better suss this out


Whoops, there go my jeans, didn't even feel him undo them, they skim down my hips my legs my feet, can feel the air on my skin

Oooh, can feel THAT air all right . . .

What is he doing, he has his mouth over the panties, right where my lips are covered up by them, he's – oh –


oh that gush of warmth, from without, from within


I heard that, acushla


Now his hands are skating over my skin, can feel the warm lissome fingers floating, touching, teasing, oh please please please


She writhes, bucks beneath me, oh fuck I love that satiny skin beneath my fingers, my palms, and oh that smell, leather and your juices together, need to take a bite, just a little one


His mouth opens, can feel the light imprint of teeth behind the leather, oh god that feels good


Denim's a little better than leather but my plonker's still a bit confined; what say we let him out to breathe a bit, acushla?


What's he doing down there, can't see past his head, fiddling with something, ah there we go, shit his mouth left my crotch but I can see his


Is that for ME? I must've been very, very good this year, Santa. Oh yes, thank you very much, I know JUST where I'll put it . . .


Bloody hell, that feels better. Fuck, think we'd better rethink the bleeding ranch concept and move to a clothing-optional colony. If I have to spend the next ten thousand years touching and tasting and smelling THIS, there are no fucking trousers in the world will feel good.

And besides, oh my sainted aunt, that look of eager hunger when she catches sight of my plonker – fuck, might as well lick her lips.

I am the most fortunate pikey on the planet, got a Shieldmaiden who matches me need for need, touch for touch, the remuneration of obedience is the fulfillment of the senses, fucking A I'll have THAT tattooed on my shoulder next . . .

And now – time for the eclipse.


Big fat moist dusky shaft, oh hell yeah, all for me, mine mine mine, take THAT Wonder Twat!

Wait, come back – where the hell are you going, backing up like that?

No – stop –

Oh god.

Not there. Please.


I park my ronson on the chair, oh fuck it's hard, can feel my pelvic bones sticking into it, hopefully I won't even fucking notice in a couple minutes, come on acushla, come on . . .

Bugger! Her pretty face falls, the light leaves her eyes; her eyebrows come together, she pushes herself up on her elbows.

Fuck, what lovely tits.

"What – why are you sitting there?" she asks, but I can tell she already knows the answer.


Oh please, no, don't make me do this. Just – just take the damn chair out – hell, take the whole dining room set, I'll torch it myself, please don't – don't know why it makes me feel like this but it does, it's like revisiting your death, I remember the pain, oh god it hurt –

"Come here, acushla," he says gently, holds out his arms.

No. I can't. Take me anywhere else, just not on that GODDAM CHAIR!

Oh I hate you, why are you doing this?


Tell her why you are doing this.

"It's only a chair, acushla," I say. Fuck, if she doesn't come over here soon I'm going to finish myself off, I can hardly see, it's like a shaft of light sticking out my belly. Come here come here come here . . . "Come on, luv, where's me Shieldmaiden? Right here, now."


I get to my feet, I can't do this. I know it's stupid, I know it's just a stupid chair, but it makes me think, think of that time –

Hell, you stupid cowardly little shit, six hours is nothing. He was dead forever and he hardly turned an eyelash.

You can do this.

He's looking up at me, his beautiful face composed, tranquil, smiling benevolently, he's an angel, an angel dropped from heaven onto this damned chair.

Well, let's send it to perdition, then.

If I could just get my legs to move . . .


She stands still, but I can see the capitulation in her face, can see it intensify, the courage burning the doubt away.

There is no longer any need to fear. Forever is a long time, and we belong together, you and I, Shieldmaiden.


He pats his thighs a couple of times, his smile gets mischievous. "Gettin' awful lonesome over here, luv," he says, takes his cock in the fingers of one hand and waves it at me, like a flag. "And he's gettin' so cold. Warm him up for me, will you, acushla?"

Well – fuck. How can I possibly resist that? Angel, Elf, Sugar Daddy, I love you too much to be afraid.

Besides, the Hot Pricklies are back and they've brought all their friends and relatives – think they're having some sort of party down there, really need to take care of this –

Fuck it. Off with the panties. Look better on the floor, anyway.


Two big steps and she's straddling me, my nose in her belly, she reaches down, oh fuck acushla that's right, hold me still while you





oooooh yes in you go

can't tell which of us moaned louder, shit the neighbors must hate us by now

I can feel his hands on my ass, he shifts pulses up

-- yes –

oh god yes that tightness, that rubbing right right right there, oh god yes

and down

god that felt good too

and up

oh shit he's biting my breasts, little bites but they're sending the climax back, slowing me down, damn you


Not so fast, not so fast my acushla, no hurry now, let it build, oh fuck I can feel it building


I need to go faster, I clench, press forward

-- ah, better –

yes there's that flash that hurrying feeling

he groans, drops his head back against the white and pink slats, his hair like a shimmery waterfall obscures it


oh fuck you little cow oh fuck


faster, faster, I need to go faster

I grind again, oh god yes, and again –


fuck, stop it stop it you're going too fast


-- and again --


oh god oh god oh god oh god you're so fucking tight so hot oh fuck


-- and – oh – again and – oh, god – again --

ooooh that was quick, here it comes, like a jolt, a, an explosion, oh SHIT HERE I COME


she arcs back, legs stiff, cries out, no words just incoherent pleasure, can feel her fingers in my shoulders clutching, digging

so much for perfect skin, going to have fingernail-holes everywhere, don't give a fuck

All right, then, acushla, you've had your fun, will you fucking slow down already? You're pulsing, pulsing around me, can feel that gush of wetness, we're gliding together now, she's weaker, letting me move her, eyes closed, smiling, panting, oh fuck you are so lovely

Now then . . .


Oh shit let me rest a minute before you start that, oh god

yes, well, okay, I'll concede that feels pretty damn good, oh yes, that slow drag out, that slow push in; oh god my clit's on fire, it's chafing, massaging, shit Legolas if you keep this up you'll polish it to a high gloss, oh god that feels so fucking good, don't stop


sounds like

you kind of

oh god

fancy this

do you?

oh god

I know that

oh god

I sure the hell do


Look at him look at him look at him, open your stupid eyes, don't miss it, you can feel the thrumming, the trembling in him start, that's the beginning, you know it's the beginning of his climax, you don’t want to miss it, he's so beautiful –

Yes, gorgeous, oh shit he's so gorgeous; cerulean eyes heavy-lidded, rosebud lips curved into an abstracted smile, flushed, pulsing and flexing beneath me, inside me, can't tell who's riding whom, doesn't matter, oh god does this feel good –

oooh think I'm gonna come again, wait wait wait, he's not there yet, want to come with him, how can I speed this up, wait –

I can't wait, I'm –

-- I'm going to –

oh shit


Look at her, sweet little acushla, tense shivering open-mouthed cloudy-eyed throbbing above me, I'm so close so close my Éowyn, just wait, wait a moment and we'll



quick the ears remember the ears


hot swirling electric jets jolting thumping pounding oh fuck

bugger it here I go


okay – here – I come – take the tip of the ear into my mouth






I hear the shriek, hear words this time, it's my name, oh fuck the waves are on me, they're crashing over me, tumbling me, drowning me





well, I know what THAT means.








Wow, I . . . just Wow.

Maybe I should pretend to be scared of inanimate objects more often. If he's willing to dispel my fears by fucking me on top of them, this could be a profitable exercise in creative seduction. Let's see, dresser, washing machine, kitchen counter, end tables . . . where else haven't we fucked?

Funny, I used to hate this dining room set. Think I'll keep it now.

He shifts, about a gallon of semen leaks out from where our bodies are joined. Hopefully it'll lift this awful finish. He's panting, eyes closed, head resting against the back, hands still lightly encircling my hips. I rest my forehead on his collarbone, we're slick with sweat.

He takes a deep breath, I lift my head. His eyes are open, cloudy, he's smiling faintly.

"Never – should've let you suss out me ears, acushla," he says weakly.


Oh fuck, that was a mistake – that wicked smile, her fingers stroke up to the tip

. . . oooohhhhh bugger . . .


He pulses up again, I feel him give a strong, brief tremor, and with a deep throaty groan I feel him send another spurt of wet up inside me.

Yeah, I like his ears.


Oh fuck . . .

I feel her chuckle, she lays her head back down on my shoulder, arms locked round the back of the chair. "And deny you more pleasure?" she says; I can feel her cheek bunch up, she's smiling, the brill little bit.

"Need to teach you how to work 'em," I say. Fuck yeah, if she gets good enough she can get my plonker off without even touching it. Just the thought makes him start to think about another round. She feels me stiffen in her, looks up again.

"I'd like that," she says. She smiles, winds her arms round my neck, presses her forehead to mine. We sit there a moment, let our breath still.


You know, I think it's time to practice other things, too.

"I love you," I whisper.

Never said it to him before. I've thought it, but never said it.


Bloody hell. That just made my insides turn to treacle. Ask anything of me right at this moment and I'll tear the fucking world to pieces just to make you happy, Éowyn.

Have to untangle my tongue and lips, not sure if it'll come out right.

"I love you too," I say.


Silence, not uncomfortable but recognizing a boundary has been crossed. At last he shifts his hips.

"Can see why you bloody well hate this fucking chair, acushla," he says, forcing his voice to be light-hearted. When I give him a quizzical look he grins, flashing those adorable dimples at me. "Awful hard on me arse. Feel like I'm growin' a fistula here. What say we move this party to the bed, luv?"

"Fine by me," I say. Not romantic, not even sexy, but I can't see my Elven Ass with a fistula . . . I get up, we're all sticky and gooey, but he's still hard as a rock.

Ah, yes. Elven stamina . . . bet I can take advantage of THAT.

He must've seen me admiring his not-so-little-soldier, because as soon as he gets to his feet we're down again, this time sinking into the soft mattress. It creaks beneath our weight; I can feel him on me, his long lean warm body, that silky fragrant hair forms a curtain around our faces. He kisses me, his tongue and lips playing lazily with mine.


Lovely, lovely; she answers me desire by desire, accepting, embracing, consenting, craving. Twine your limbs about me; let me descend into you, rise up to meet me.

You've promised us we'll be together forever . . . suppose we'd best make sure the rest of the world knows it too.

"This mean you'll marry me?" I ask. She looks up at me, red lips smiling, starry eyes alight.

"Detholalle, lirimaer," she says, and my heart melts.

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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