Pottymouth: 3. 3

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3. 3


All right, mate, steady. Back off. Don’t scare her. She’s hurting, she’s browned off, she needs space and understanding and tenderness and, and –

Bugger that. Fuck, she smells fucking great. And those lips, red red red, lush like berries, just begging to be bitten into –

He’s looking at my mouth, oh my god, Dorcas told me that when guys want to kiss you they look at your mouth, oh shit he’s going to kiss me, oh no oh no oh no –

Fuck! I can’t do this to her. If I shag her right now it’ll be because I’ve fucking nobbled it, taken advantage of her. Fuck, I can’t do that. Oh, bloody hell.

Back off. Back off. Don’t bish this up, mate. You can’t fucking do this. It’s worth too much. She’s one of the Chosen. The Valar are watching out for her. They decide her fate, not I. Not I. Not even to – to – to relieve tension a little. Her tension, of course. Not mine. I mean . . .

Oh holy fucking shit, I need something in my mouth. Where the fuck are my lollies? Why the fuck did I quit smoking?

Oh – because it’s bad for me. Right. That was it. Shit.

Hey –

All right, mate. Enough. Back up a touch. That’s right. No need to spook her. Look at her, her pupils dilated, lips parted, cheeks all rosy, hair all mussed –

Fuck, don’t look at her, then.

-- isn’t he going to kiss me?

“Acushla,” I say, smiling as best I can when I feel like my fucking testicles are going to explode. “And kife. Though that last one is probably not the politest thing to call someone like you.”

“Someone like me?” she asks. Her eyes look a little glazed, like a deer in the headlamps. Oh shit I want to kiss her.

“Yes. One of the Chosen. The Shieldmaiden of Rohan, sister of the king. Too informal, luv.” She looks surprised. Of course I fucking remember, darling; how could I forget? Your tale even made it into the traditional legends of China, the woman-warrior in disguise.

“What does ‘acushla’ mean?” she asks. Her eyes have drifted down, they’re looking at my chest, somewhere in the collarbone region. Touch me there again, please. My skin was on fire when you did. Then her eyes look up at mine, they’re grey, as Chaucer said, grey as glass. Deep, flecked with silver, rimmed with thick black lashes. Oh, fuck. Oh, bugger.

“A cuisle,” I say. It’s bloody hard to even speak when it feels like her hands are around my bollocks. “Irish. Means ‘heart beat,’ luv.”

“Oh!” Her eyes dart down to my lips and her tongue oh so fucking slowly runs across her lower lip, oh no oh no oh no. She wants me to bloody kiss her. Oh, shit. Oh, bugger. “’Acushla.’” She giggles, one hand touches the edge of my vest, plays with the split. Ought to get the damn thing fixed. “Sounds like I should say, ‘Bless you’ after you say it.”

“Ah, no ‘acushla,’ then,” I smile. That’s better, relieve this fucking uncomfortable tension a little. Laughter is the best medicine. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Wait – no, it doesn’t. Absence makes it bloody hard to catch up. Especially when this little bit is getting my todger up and running. The only thing absence did was make me bloody well forget how fucking gorgeous she is. Damn. And now she’s available. Double damn! Well, perhaps not really available. Have to ask Whitey about that. Shit, means I’ll have to fucking wait. Bugger!

Her fingers are wandering up the front of my vest, little pink fingers against the rough red leather. Like feathers on my skin. Don’t touch me don’t touch me don’t touch me. I’m not fucking allowed to touch you back.

At least, I don’t think I am . . . but the Valar didn’t really say –

Shit! What were we talking about? I can’t remember!

. . . What were we talking about?

Oh yeah, nicknames. Um. No, no acushla. Though it has a neat, exotic sound to it. Like him. Exotic, unusual, mysterious, sexy. I love the smell of old leather. Especially when it’s encasing old Elf.

Old Elf – hah! Sounds like a bad cologne.

Frances – Faramir used to wear cologne. Awful stuff. But Legolas – he smells – he smells like, like trees, and grass, and dirt, and there’s a pungent sweetness to him too – not pine – I can’t think what it is, but it reminds me of Christmas, and roast lamb. I can’t remember! Too many years go by, too much stuff to remember, it all blurs . . .

What am I doing? I’m touching his clothes – I really, really shouldn’t. But I really, really want to. Bad Éowyn!

Yes – Éowyn. Sounds better than “Winnie,” anyway. I hated being called “Winnie.” Sounds too much like a child’s plush toy. Fuck Frances and the horse he rode in on.

Bet Legolas would let me have horses.

Wait! What am I saying? That this would be more than –
More than what? A one-night stand? Not that he’s going to do anything. Thought he was going to kiss me there for a second, but nothing ever came of it.


“Well?” he asks. I look up at him. Whoops. Still touching his clothes. Oops. He’s smiling, though. I smile back. Not easy when all my lips want to do is latch themselves onto his collarbone and give him a mongo hickie. Whoa! Down, girl!

“Well what?” I ask, though I’m teased by the vague recollection of having said something like this before.

“What shall I call you, luv?” he murmurs. His eyes are so intense they’re almost glowing. They are glowing. My hand is still playing with the edge of his vest. He looks down at it, but just as I’m about to move it off he covers it with is own. Long, white, nimble fingers, long narrow palm, soft and warm. The fingers close over mine, press my hand against his chest. I feel his heartbeat, strong, steady. Oh. Shit.

“Éowyn,” I say. It hardly comes out at all, I have to whisper it. Ay-oh-when.

It’s like a breath, all those vowels. A breeze, a sudden stirring of leaves in dappled branches that have been motionless for uncounted ages.

My heart was made to beat forever. There is no corruption, no mortality in my flesh. The blood that stirs in me is faultless, immaculate, unchanging. My eyes see as they always have, my ears hear what has always been heard. What my fingers touch is merely the decayed and regenerated matter of perpetuity. It is no conceit. I have always known this. It is what separates me from the rest of the denizens of a damaged creation. The frenzied flutter of the mortal heartbeat, the frantic breaths for doomed lungs, the grasping for pleasure at the expense of perfection. But not for me. Not for us. For the Eldar is reserved the capacity to commit entirely, wholly, unreservedly. We know what it means, after all. It is surrender. Surrender to the unseeing void of infinity. Eternity swells its waves at us, deep waters, blackness far from the sun, tenanted by unknown horrors. We plunge, we descend, spiral down into the darkness to sands untouchable. It is submission. We relinquish the care of our eternal souls to the fate of Time. It sucks us down, pulls us, crushes the air from our immortal lungs, presses its immediacy upon us. And then – then – then the waters part, our bodies lifted up, light-steeped, joy-drenched. It is death to submit, but a glorious death that is undying. For loyalty is repaid, though briefly; allegiance rewarded, our labors renewed. I hear the voices of my people affirming this. It is a constant drumming upon my ears. Ever I hear it, this pulse of waves; it swells and recedes with each generation of the doomed.

I do not wish to submit to it. But it is madness by solitude that is the penalty.

So I take up the mortal’s hand before me and bring it to my lips.

“Éowyn,” I say.

What – was that? I feel as though the earth just moved under my feet. It wasn’t him kissing my hand, either. It was –

Oh god. His eyes. It’s there again. He’s – what was it Gimli told me? He’s Listening.

The Edan feels it. She cannot hear them but she senses their presence.

Oh, shit.

The promises that bound her in immortality have been broken. It is the treason of a corporeal heart stretched by ages, unable to submit to the deeps. Sorrow is there, unfathomable, perpetual. The curse of those incapable of surrender. It is the doom of those powerless to succumb to the design that they are cut off, forsaken, derelict of duty and compliance and the ecstasy that is its hallmark. I can do nothing to repair this betrayal. It is to the aid of the one damaged by the unfaithful Chosen that I am now called. The current finds me, the swells pull at me. Long have I gazed unchanging at the wheeling stars; now I am summoned to sink once again into the blackness, feel the temporal world whirling about me. And as always, I obey.

I take a deep breath. I plunge. The black water pulls me down.


Oh god, I can see something in his eyes, something in his face, he’s not here, he’s somewhere else, hearing something else. Where is he? Pupils swollen, gaze abstracted, lips parted, cheeks flushed –

Come back! Come back! Where are you? Oh shit this is creeping me out; no wonder Aragorn told me not to mess with Elves, oh shit I don’t understand this at all, maybe if I say his name he’ll snap out of it –


I sink. All is black. But the voices that throb against my ears soothe me. It is the same. This incorruptible flesh is stronger than the pulsing rush. Once again my reward is near me. The Valar bless me, the light of the Two Trees shines upon me. I issue forth into happiness, for it is my just due.

But I no longer care. It is my submission I crave. I am only a tool. My name, my memories, my deeds of valor and might pass away. For me it is only the turning tide, the flow and surge of eternity, the endless circling stars in the void.

Touch me. Bless me, O Elbereth. Give your word to me. Set the light of the stars into my very skin. Illuminate me, that I may bring light to a broken world.

One word, and all becomes light once more.



Holy shit, if I thought the world moved before -- !

It’s like the biggest rubber band in the world, stretched out into space, suddenly snapped back to earth. Bang, he’s here! Oh shit, what am I doing? This is an Elf, one of the fucking Eldar, and here I’ve been thinking about screwing him? Forget the perfect skin, sculpted body, sweeping ears, flowing hair, all of a sudden it occurs to me that this beautiful creature standing in front of me, pressing the palm of my hand to his lips, is NOT HUMAN.

And I’m scared shitless.

Not to mention horny as hell.

It must be the way his lips have opened up against my palm. I can feel his breath, sweet immortal breath, all over my hand; the edges of his teeth brush against my skin; and then oh my god the touch of his tongue, warmer even than the hand holding my palm to his face. Just the hot wet point of the tongue, touching, circling, pressing –

Ooooohhh shit . . .

An arm just slipped around my waist. There’s a hand on my back. I can feel its warmth seeping through my shirt. The fingers won’t stay still, they’re kneading, circling, stroking. I’m pressed against a body. When did I close my eyes? Long, taut, firm, warm, sinuous body. Mmmm . . . nice.

Hey, someone just moaned in here.

Oh. That was me.

Damn, that lovely lovely tongue stopped licking my hand. I may have to lodge a complaint about that. It ought to –

Whoa, okay, that’s better. Never thought I’d like having my fingers nibbled on but this is not bad at all, especially when Mr. Tongue gets involved, running his little wet self up my middle finger to WOAH! Okay, that was – strangely erotic, never had my fingers sucked on either. Makes my insides all jumpy, like they weren’t kicking around before, only this time it’s OH HOLY SHIT he did it again, took my whole damn finger into that hot wet mouth, pulling, I can feel the tongue curling around my knuckle, oh shit oh shit oh shit the tip of the tongue is flicking against that flap of skin between my middle and index finger and it’s doing the strangest things to my – my – oh my god all of a sudden I am reeeallly noticing my labia and the way the lace tickles up against it, whoa what is this sudden rush of heat –

It almost hurts, or tickles or itches or something, maybe if I press it up against this warm yielding body in front of me –

Okay, not so yielding. Pretty rigid, really. But that’s – quite nice too. Presses back. Nice bulge in just the right spot. Oh yes. Oh, oh yes.

Mr. Tongue is getting very adventurous. He’s left the fingers completely and seems to be exploring the inside of my wrist. Oh. He’s invited the teeth to join him.

Yes. That’s nice. Oh. Move your hips to the ---

-- oh --

Mr. Tongue and his Tooth Entourage are enjoying the inside of my arm. My arm is enjoying their visit too, I have to admit. Reached the junction of upper and lower, the pulse point –

-- ah --

Lips capture the loose soft skin, suckle it into the mouth, I can feel my heartbeat thrumming against his tongue. Whoever is moaning in here ought to shut up, very rude. Must be the hard bulgy thing moving around against that hot spot I seem to have acquired, the one where my legs join my body. I can’t decide whether it’s uncomfortable or not, though I think it’d be worse if we weren’t pressed so close together. Yes, definitely better when there’s that bit of movement and pressure, see –

Oh yes, he saw too; I can feel the vibration of his groan against my skin. Tongue and teeth and lips have encountered sleeve and have had to stop their climb up my arm; however as they are skimming along my collarbone and nipping at the base of my neck I guess I can’t complain, especially since the –

Oooh, yes, that’s very nice. Yes, right under the ear. Mmmm . . . teeth on skin, oh god oh god how I’ve missed that, not that it ever felt like this, this is better, hotter, more intense, oh god I’m shaking all over, move your hand your hand down to my oh yes that’s it, long fingers flexing and pressing against my ass, pushing me up against your OH MY GOD yes yes yes do that again that felt wonderful maybe if I do the little hip-grindy thing on my own he’ll decide to OH

-- yes --

I’m having an awfully hard time breathing here, between that nimble hand exploring my ass, the hot wet mouth traveling inexorably up my throat and oh my goodness that white-hot heat radiating out from my pelvic area; you’d think I was a crib girl the way I’m twisting and moaning and grinding against him. If I let go I can forget how inhuman he is, how his unearthly eyes glow deep within, don’t think about it don’t think about it oh wait what was I not thinking about? And how did my skirt get pulled up over my hips, when did that happen? Not that I can complain, it’s giving those marvelous fingers delicious purchase all over my waist and my back and my ass and my



Did he just touch me there oh shit I can’t believe it

I jumped right into his hand too, oh holy shit that felt MARVELOUS my heartbeat is hammering so hard against my sternum I think it’s going to leap right out of my chest I can hardly breathe, wait what is that hard cold thing against my ass oh it’s the kitchen table his hands are on my waist he’s lifting me up, oh that’s much better, getting off my feet, didn’t realize how tired they were standing in those heels, think I’ll just kick them off here, yes that’s much much better ooooohhhhh yes

He’s just parted my knees, settled himself right up against me, that’s even better than it was before, now he’s biting my jaw, his hands are trembling, they’re working at the elastic band of my pantyhose, he’s struggling to push it down over my ass and my legs oh dammit I’m never wearing pantyhose again, too inconvenient, maybe if I shift over a little – oh yes that worked, oh wait he pulled –


Down came my panties oh god oh god oh god what am I doing? This is too serious, this is too fast, I can’t I can’t I can’t, oh yes touch me there, oh holy shit no one’s touched my breasts in such a long time I can’t remember, his long fingers kneading and pushing, other hand is on my stomach, oohh to have his fingers on my bare skin I can’t care anymore, I just want him to do it, just do it, like that Nike commercial, do it do it do it I don’t fucking care what a freak of nature you are I can’t take this PRESSURE ANYMORE! He’s pushing my back onto the table, I can feel his weight on me, warm lean silky stomach his hair falling like a curtain across my shoulder it tickles, his breath is hot and ragged on my throat, he’s groping at something between my legs, not touching me but I can feel it moving, what’s he doing

-- oh --

that’s what he’s doing, he’s unzipped his pants, he’s – he’s –

this is it there’s no going back now not that I want to go back oh hurry up hurry up put it in quick quick before I explode I’m practically fucking whimpering oh god I’m so pathetic I don’t care I need this I need this I need this


stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop you can’t do this stop mate stop don’t do this don’t do this what if she doesn’t want I don’t dare do this if she doesn’t really I have to know stop stop stop stop

oh fuck what’s her name again, my tongue’s gone all wonky


Yes, that’s it. Try to say it without whining, though the way you’re wound up mate I’m surprised your bollocks haven’t crawled up your throat. Pull back, pull back damn you! Though the way she’s digging her fingers into my arms makes it a little hard.

Make that a LOT hard –

She opens her eyes, they’re all clouded and unfocused, she’s breathing as hard as I am right now, dammit why do I have to keep saying hard if I don’t have it off RIGHT FUCKING NOW I am going to FUCKING EXPLODE ask her ask her ask her pray she says yes because if she doesn’t I’m going to fucking knob the first appliance I can get my hands on!

“Are – are you sure you want this, acushla?” I say. I’m panting, I can’t help it; I can’t seem to draw in enough breath for my lungs, they feel shallow, like I’m drowning

I am drowning, I am pulled under

Do not give this burden to me; your yoke, Manwë, will crush my shoulders.

Heru en amin, Manwë. Amin naa tualle, manka lle merna, amin lava*

“Yes – yes,” she’s gasping, pulling at me. “Legolas – please – “ Shit, she must be desperate as I am; she’s reaching her face up to me. Don’t kiss her, mate, you’ll be in even deeper than you already are –

Oh, bugger. There’s no turning back at this stage. She’s hooked me. I have no choice in the matter; I’m being driven, I can feel it – this is not just lust, this is my duty as well.

“Detholalle, lirimaer**,” I say, and move forward.

I am enclosed.

-- oh --

oh that sweet warmth and wetness, pressure gripping me right right right where I needed it, oh fuck that’s fucking great oh yes yes yes oh fucking A I’m going to explode hold on hold on hold on

-- I – I can’t – oh god – oh – I didn’t know – he’s a lot a lot longer than I, I’m being touched oh my god how did he do that oh oh oh I didn’t even know I had that spot in me it’s a bright point of light it’s spreading it’s spreading oh my god

-- yes --

don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop oh yes right there there there

I – I can’t – I can’t hold on – it’s too much – oh fuck –

I – oh –

-- yes --

I can’t hold on I can’t hold on oh god oh god oh


Didn’t last bloody long, did I? Ah, that’s what I get for being so fucking particular; can’t have it off with just anyone after all, so it’s been so so so so long. Oooooooh kaaaaaayy, let’s do a little damage assessment here, mate; she’s done, felt her grab my fucking knob so hard I’m surprised the little bit didn’t pull it the hell off. My legs are shaking – can barely stand. Hold it up there, mate, you’re a bloody Elf remember, supposed to be stronger and have better stamina, but whoof! That was a good one, felt my spunk get sucked right on out of me. She’s got her arms around my neck, holding me tight, poor little kife, probably hasn’t been rogered in a couple of years, not that I think Faramir –

Oh, bugger. What the fuck did I just do?

That . . . was . . . I can’t think of an adjective to describe it. Oh. My. Yes. I could live with this.


Did I say live with this? What do I mean – live with him? He’s the world’s original drifter, what on earth would hold him here, especially in this awful house in this awful neighborhood where he’ll never fit in –

-- like he fits in anywhere, no wonder he’s a drifter, he has to be --

Oh, what have we done? What have I done? I was so damn desperate to be touched and so lonely and pathetic I just got a sympathy-fuck on my kitchen table. The corner of which is digging into my ass. Oh I am so embarrassed. I can’t believe I just did that.

He sure smells nice, though.

What was it he said to me before he entered me, “Detholalle, lirimaer”? What did that mean, I can’t remember –

Oh yes, “lirimaer” means “lovely one.” Wow . . . suppose he meant it?

Well, Frodo did tell me once that Legolas was incapable of saying anything but the unvarnished truth. Made him awfully unpopular at times but he couldn’t seem to help himself; the truth just sort of flowed out of him, like breath. So if he called me “lovely one” –

Whoa, got a little warm fuzzy there! He thinks I’m lovely – so it can’t have completely been a sympathy fuck – and speaking of lovely – if I run my arms down his back, how did my hands get under his vest oh who cares – ah yes, smooth, lean, lissome – oh, gotta love that. Not that I’ve had a lot of experience, but he is definitely the best-looking lay I’ve ever had.

I wish he’d lift up his head and look at me. Then I’d know what he’s thinking.

What the fuck was I thinking?!

This was not what the bloody Valar told me to do. Take care of her, they said, comfort her, they said, protect her future, they said, they didn’t tell you to FUCKING KNOB HER!

Oh, bloody hell, I am so fucked.

What do I do now, wait for the lightning bolt to fall? Will Oromë kill me himself or will he let Námo do it? Maybe I’ll get lucky and he’ll just let Ossë suck me under. I hope I get to say goodbye to Grim before I go. I should apologize to the rest of the Chosen for my LACK OF FUCKING JUDGMENT. Kill me quick, Manwë; just fucking kill me quick, that’s all I ask . . .

Hm. Nothing.

I’ll have to think that feeling over, the one I had just before I – well – the feeling I had that I was being driven to it. Was it Them, or was it just me?

Better say something here or Éowyn’s going to think I’m a world-class prat. Don’t want her to think I’ve pulled the old rumpy-pumpy just to treat her like a fucking slag afterwards. Shit, last thing she needs. She’s been hurt, she’s been betrayed, she’s been buggered by that manky cock-up Fairy-Meer and it’s up to me to make things right.


How the fuck do I go about doing that?

Especially after what I just did to her.

I hope she doesn’t think it was just one big mistake. Oh Ilúvatar, I don’t think I could bloody take that.

Say something. Say something. Say fucking anything. Just say something to her.

Though it’s awfully nice keeping my face tucked into the dark warm cusp of her neck. The soft curls behind her ear are tickling at my nose, oh she smells good, think I’ll just nuzzle a little. . .

Ooohh, that felt nice . . .

Fucking A, she’s practically purring. What the hell did that soppy gobshite do to her, anyway? This wasn’t even that good, as far as fucklesticks go, and she’s acting as though this was the best damn thing to ever happen to her. I can do better than this, Éowyn, just give me a chance . . .

Did I just think that?

Well, at least I know he’s retained a relatively pleasant afterglow from this absolutely! amazing! sex! we just had. Wow, I’ve never felt anything like that before. It was almost . . . magical. I wonder if it’s because he’s an Elf? No wonder Aragorn’s so happy . . . Oh, I wish I hadn’t thought that. Arwen belongs to Aragorn and he’s happy. Legolas doesn’t belong to me. Which makes me . . . unhappy.


I did just think that, dammit. I want to give it another go.

Hell, I’d like to give it a go, period.

She doesn’t belong here. Check. She needs to be comforted. Check. Her life’s mucked up and I can help her fix it. Check.

The Valar told me to help her. Check check bloody check.

You’ve never left a lover in life before.

Fucking check.

Oh, bugger. I am fucked.

Well. Can’t bloody well do anything about that now, mate. Not in your character to bugger things up worse than they already are for her. You had your bunk-up and now you’ll fucking live with the consequences.

Hell, I may even enjoy this. Hope this is what the Valar meant after all. Considering Námo hasn’t called me home yet, it’s a distinct possibility. As always, with the submission comes the reward.

If I could choose my reward, it would be this.

Odd. I haven’t even kissed her yet.

Faramir always wanted to settle down, find homes, hide out, slink back into our caves with our tails tucked between our legs. He never understood the tendency of the other Chosen to wander. Always said a castle was our best defense against a changing world. So we hunkered down, hid behind a veneer of wealth and respectability, avoided our neighbors so our ageless faces wouldn’t be suspect. Alone, us two, with only occasional visits by the other Chosen; it worked, for a little while – but only for a little while.

They always seemed so free, the others. Legolas and Gimli especially. They’d drift in to check on us every now and then, and after about a month of partying would move on. They were always busy, always needed somewhere else. I was never sure what exactly they were doing, but it involved lots of politics, lots of fighting, lots of righting wrongs. I never knew why they did what they did, how they knew they were needed, why they knew they were needed. Faramir never wanted to talk about it; he seemed to consider it an affront to the dignity of the Chosen that they couldn’t keep their noses out of other peoples’ business.

I’m tired of hiding. I want to be free, too.

And I am. Faramir freed me. To a certain extent.

Then why do I feel so trapped?

It might be because Legolas’ arms are clasped around me, holding me up to him so tightly I can barely breathe. He’s got his head tucked in my neck and I can feel his breath on my shoulder, tickling me. He’s gone all soft so he’s slid out of me, and I’m all wet and sticky now. Probably dribbling on the table, too. Gross.

Faramir would never have fucked me on the table like this. Too squeamish. Was that his squeamishness rubbing off on me? I hope not, because I wouldn’t mind getting used to being screwed on furniture other than beds. Couches, loveseats, ottomans, dressers, desks, book shelves . . .

What – is Legolas laughing?

I can’t believe I fucked her and I haven’t ever kissed her. What a prat I am. I don’t believe myself. Oh, shit.

I hope that’s a good laugh and not a bad laugh. At least he’s not crying.

Better let her know why I’m laughing or she’ll never fucking forgive me. And now’d be a good time to figure this bish-up out before she slags me off for being a bloody berk. All right, up with your head, mate. Can’t believe it’s only been a couple seconds. Feels like fucking forever.

Loosen up your arms a bit, mate, bet you’re squeezing the breath right out of her.

She’s looking up at me like she’s scared, and excited, and nervous, and upset all at oncers. Poor little poppet, bet she’s all spare. All right, mate, make it right. Make her feel better. Fix her up. Make up for fucking Fairy-Meer and make her feel like a princess again. She deserves it after all, dammit.

I smile down at her. She slowly smiles back, hesitant, unsure. Her hair is spread all around her head, like a halo, a golden rim. Fuck, she’s so sweet. Her cheeks are pink, her lips red, she’s still trying to catch her breath. Nothing sexier than a woman with an afterglow.

“Do you realize we haven’t even kissed yet, acushla?” I ask. I bring my fingers up to her cheek and stroke her very lightly. She still looks unsure, but I notice she leans a little into my hand. That’s encouraging.

“That’s right,” she whispers. Husky voice, oh bugger so sexy; those delicious lips curve up a little. Oh fuck I want to bite them.

“Seems a bit off, luv, doesn’t it? I want to kiss you. You mind? Bottle out if you like.”

She gives me a puzzled look. What the fuck did I say now?

“Bottle out”? What the hell does that mean?

I’m going to assume it means to back off. He looks a little – diffident. Not a look I associate with the Prince of Mirkwood. And he’s right – it is a little weird that we just screwed on the kitchen table, without our lips ever touching. But – screwing is one thing; kissing is – well – it almost seems like it’d be more intimate than having sex with him. Pushes it past the I-need-to-get-laid line and puts it firmly in the I-have-romantic-feelings-for-you arena. Sex is just the loins getting it on – kissing is right up there in the head, right with the thoughts and ideas. Scary.

I glance down at his mouth. He’s smiling slightly, seems a little unsure of himself. That in itself is a little comforting. Just the fact we’re both off-kilter makes me feel better.

So. Do I kiss those delectable, those luscious, those sweet pink lips?

What will happen if I do?

Stupid time to be getting cautious; should’ve done this before he bent me back over the table. And it’s not like he didn’t give me an out – just the way he asked me, “Are you sure you want this?” means I could’ve just said, “No!” and he would’ve stopped. I know he would’ve, too. Even with his potty mouth and slangy ways he’s too much a gentleman to force himself on me.

Which brings me to an interesting question.

What happens when I kiss him?

Where are we going with all this?

Should I be cautious, guard my heart, try to keep from being hurt any more? Not that he’d hurt me on purpose, but if I decide I want to keep him with me, and he doesn’t want to stay – yeah, that’d hurt like hell. Damn, I hate being female sometimes. Always have to drag the personal element into it. Frances was right – too much emotion.

Oh, fuck Frances!

I’d much rather fuck Legolas.

Even without an emotional connection?

Let’s do a quick inventory of the libido – yep, still screaming like a banshee. Then, yes. Even without an emotional connection, I’d love to fuck Legolas again. And again and again and again and . . . wonder how many times an Elf can do it in one night? Their stamina’s better than a human’s, after all . . . hmm.

All right. Kiss it is.

Interesting. You can almost see the whole bloody play of emotion flicker across her pretty little face.

Come on, say yes. Say yes. Yes yes yes yes yes.

Let me kiss you. Come on, acushla. It won’t hurt, I promise. I’ll even make it feel sooooo bloody good.

Come on. One kiss.

Or two.

Or more. Those cherry-red lips, curving up into the delicious little dent under your nose . . .

She smiles. Lifts her head, tips it to the side.

Oh fuck yeah.

He’s looking at my mouth again. I raise my head, lift my lips to his.


Ah, that’s what I’m talking about, acushla. Warm, soft, wet . . .

That damn person’s moaning again. Make her stop.

. . . tease those ripe red lips open, flick of the tongue, slide it in . . .

Mmmm . . .

. . . deeper . . .

can’t breathe, don’t care

oh my acushla you are delicious

never imagined

feel the stirring again

curl in

so hot

well now that’s a surprise, thought he’d need a couple more minutes there, but I can feel him already poking into my thigh

Are we ready for round two, darling? Because I sure the fuck am.

Oh, yeah.

* “My Lord Manwë, I am your servant; if you wish it, I yield.”
** “Your choice, lovely one.”

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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