Pottymouth: 4. 4

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4. 4



Okay. Have to breathe.

When did I close my eyes? I’d better open them.

His eyes flutter open when I pull my lips away. Shit that’s so freaky, the blue is like neon now, glowing under the lids. And whose idea was it to give him dark lashes and eyebrows with that platinum hair? No fair! Who can compete with that? High cheekbones, smooth jowls, little dimple in the cheek – oh, oh, oh, this is so not fair. That’s it then, it’s over, it’ll never work between us, no woman can be with a man who’s prettier than she is. Shit.


Oh my sainted aunt, she is so fucking beautiful. Those honey-colored curls, starry mirrored eyes, rosebud mouth – Faramir’s such a bally git. How could he leave this? How could he look down at this delectable face and deliberately turn away?

Goddam tosser.

Pukka, every inch of her. I can feel the curve of her hip, the mound of her breast, feel that smooth silky skin against mine – a thoroughbred all the way. Oh and those legs, did I mention her bloody two-klick legs? Glad I found out where they end up, at least. Shit yes, sussed that one out all right, mate.

Yeah, fucking idiot. To just bung her to one side because some bleeding Mary Ann waves his arsehole in your face? Leave it out! What a nit. Bloody hell, if she were mine to keep . . .

All bloody right then, mate, let’s not go there, right? Leave it up to the Valar. Let them decide. Their business, not mine.



Now what?


What now?


Seems a little awkward to offer him that drink now. On the other hand, I’m STARVING. I hope he doesn’t mind that I can’t cook.


Better pull it back a bit, mate. Feeling a bit peckish anyway. Wonder if she’ll think I’m a bleeding ponce because I like to cook? Though it’d be bloody nice to have another go – take it easy this time, take it slow, show her how it’s done. And not on the fucking table this time, either. Good thing I’m an Elf or my back’d be bunged to hell.


Oooh, my back hurts. Wish I were an Elf. Wonder how he’d take a casual suggestion we move this party elsewhere?


Better ask her if we can move along to a more comfortable piece of furniture. Wouldn’t mind straightening up either.

Don’t growl stomach don’t growl don’t growl – oh, fuck.


Was that his stomach? Oh good, it’s not just me!


Hah! Made her laugh.


“I’m hungry too,” I say, laughing. He’s chuckling, that adorable face with its adorable grin. Hell, he even chuckles adorably. How nauseating. Though I’m not sure if I mean he’s nauseating because he’s so pretty, or I’m nauseating because I’m so – so – gushy about him.

Oh yeah, I’ve got it bad. Shit.

His arms go around me again, but this time he lifts me up off the table and carefully sets me by my bottom on the edge. My legs are dangling off on either side of his, I can feel the leather rubbing against my calves, and in a kind of fuzzy way I wonder where my pantyhose have run off to.

“Run” off – good one!

I hate those damn things. Wish I never had to wear them ever again.

He’s still pressed up against me, skin to skin in the MOST intimate area, but with that amusing smile on his face it doesn’t seem awkward, somehow. Sticky, yes. Awkward, no. You’d think it’d be awkward, having just done the dirty deed, our arms around each other, haven’t even been in the house five minutes, but no – seems all right; seems comfortable.

But I am hungry.

“Well, let’s eat then,” he says with a grin, and pulls me off the table. The marble is cold under my feet. “What d’you have? How ‘bout those prawns we unpacked a minute ago?”

Prawns? Oh, shrimp! “That’s what I was going to have,” I admit, pulling my skirt down to cover myself. He’s rearranging himself too, refastening those wonderful leather pants. “Though I have to admit, I’m not much of a cook, Legolas.”

“Don’t have to be, do you?” he says, giving me a wink. “Got me, now. I’ll take care of you, acushla.”

“You will?”

Damn. It’s out of my mouth before I realize what I’m saying.


Oh fuck, the wistful pathos of that question . . . if Fairy-Meer were here right now I’d fucking pull his teeth. One by one. With a rusty pair of pliers. And then get really fucking nasty. Can’t believe he did this to her. Woman was full of piss and vinegar and he fucking bollocked her.

She’s pushing her skirt down, eyes full of desperate hope. Something seems to click inside me.

Really? May I?

Yes, Greenleaf, this is it.

All right, then.

I step up to her, enfold her in my arms. She seems to melt against my chest. All of a sudden any residual questions about the appropriateness of our actions goes right out the bloody window.

Ah, yes. That’s all right then.

I bend my head down, kiss the crown of her head. I smell citrus in her hair, citrus and sunshine. Her face is pressed up against my neck, and I can feel her heartbeat through her back. “I’ve got you, Éowyn,” I whisper into her hair, rubbing my lips against the soft blond curls. “No more worries. I’m here.”

She draws her breath in like a sob. “For how long?” she whispers. No man would have heard it. But I hear.

“Until the Valar bid me leave,” I answer her, and release her from my embrace. She steps back reluctantly. I put my hand under her chin and tip her face up to meet my gaze. “Listen to me, acushla,” I say, holding her eyes with mine. Her face is flushed and teary and a little sad; it breaks my fucking heart to see her reduced to this. But that’s why I’m here. “I’m here as long as you want me, as long as the Valar tell me. I’m not leaving.” I bend forward, brush my lips across hers. She closes her eyes. “I’m not leaving.”


“I’m not leaving.”

And he can’t lie. He’s not leaving.

“Guess I’ll have to kick you out when you get too irritating,” I sniff, wiping the tears off my cheeks. Dammit, crying again. Stupid hormones. At least Legolas doesn’t seem to mind. It always got on Frances’ nerves.

Faramir’s nerves, dammit! I refuse to knuckle under to his fancies anymore.

Legolas laughs, strokes the side of my face with his thumb. “You can if you like, luv,” he says. His eyes aren’t glowing anymore, but they’re still kind of creepy; bright blue, intense, reflective. “But I’d rather you kicked me arse first. You won’t get rid of me so fuckin’ easily.”

“Good!” I take a deep breath. All right. Enough emotional shit. “Okay. Um . . . “

Hard to know how to make a segue from sex to dinner. Dinner to sex is pretty easy, but the other way around? Feel like I’m working this whole thing backwards. Next thing you know he’ll be introducing himself.


There’s no need to break your bollocks over me, darling. I don’t use proper fucking conversational etiquette and neither should you. Waste of bloody time, is all it is.

“I’ll get the prawns, shall I?” I say, and giving her chin a little squeeze I go to the icebox. Frozen solid, need to thaw. I put them in the basin and say, “Well, if you don’t cook much, d’you mind if I take a look round your kitchen? Give me a better idea what I’m working with.”

“Feel free,” she says, and starts to collect her underthings. I start exploring, hoping to find something at least halfway fucking edible in here. Be a waste of the bloody kitchen otherwise.


Ah. Elven ass again. I don’t think I’ll ever tire of it, even if he does stay forever.

Forever. That’d be nice for a change. Never really felt that out of Faramir. Always felt as though he was just enduring me – not enjoying me.

Love those leather pants.

He’s picking up limes, chips, salsa, Dorcas’ peppers, onion, oil. Now he’s rummaging around in a back cabinet. Elven ass . . . what a beautiful sight. And Elven ass in leather pants. What more could any Shieldmaiden possibly want?

Something occurs to me. “Do we have to stay here?” I ask without really thinking about it.

“Eh?” He turns, looks at me over his shoulder. Yep, that’s a tattoo all right, but I can’t really see what it is. I suppose I could walk over there and look. But the temptation to put my hand on his ass would be too great.

Oh, what the hell. He had his hand on my ass, after all.

“Stay in this house, I mean.” I walk up to him and look at his shoulder. What does that say -- osservi alle stelle, vela sull'oceano – oh man, it’s in Italian; I used to speak Italian . . . something . . . stars, something . . . ocean, it’d help if I could remember more than the stupid nouns.

“Nah, ‘course not. D’you have any tequila?”

“Tequila?” Tattoos and tequila are not two things I normally associate with Elves, but on the other hand I never thought I’d get used to seeing him in leather pants, either. “Um, I think there’s some in the pantry.”

He wiggles out of the cupboard and follows me to the pantry. Just as he puts his hand on my ass it occurs to me I missed my opportunity. I can’t help but squeak, and then we both laugh. He gives my cheek a comfortable squeeze and lets go.

I hand him the tequila. “You’re in a divorced woman’s house,” I tell him, smiling a little sarcastically. “Of course there’s tequila.”

“Hoped there would be,” he says, and gives me that shit-eating grin again. Damn! He’s just too cute. I’m going to spend the next ten thousand years fighting off every woman who sees him.

Retiring to the countryside is starting to look like a good idea.


Tequila, prawns, tortilla crisps, Mexican salsa . . . yeah, we’re doing pretty fucking all right here. Could use a little fresh coriander. Bet she hasn’t got any though.

Can’t cook the prawns ‘til they’re thawed. Where was that collander, just saw it a second ago . . .

“Where do you want to go?” she asks me.

What the fuck? Oh right, last conversation but one, like Humpty-Dumpty.

“Dunno,” I say, standing up with the collander and putting it in the basin. I tear open the package of prawns and bung it in. “Can’t blame you for not wanting to stay in this fuckin’ place, though, luv. Want to move east? Set you up on a horse farm. Seems more your style, little acushla.”

“Oh!” she looks surprised, a little shamefaced. “Um. Horse farm? That’d be – I mean – well, the house has two mortgages and I, I don’t think I can, um . . . “

A bloody awful suspicion starts to nag at me. I turn to her, hoping I don’t have any further reason to get cheesed off this evening. Fuck, was hoping to settle in for a nice meal, a chin-wag, maybe a prolonged shagging . . .

“Can’t afford it?” I don’t like the look on her face.


Oh, shit. I don’t like the look on his face. Looks like he’s going to blow up again, like he did on the street. Oh, well. He was bound to find out eventually . . . at least he’s used to not having anything, being a drifter. That won’t be so bad. I can learn to do without. Anything’d be better than working my ass off to keep a house I hate.


“No,” she says. “I can’t. It’s all I can do to pay the bills. I don’t have anything in my savings account.”

“Why the fuck do you have to work at all?” I ask, exasperated. “You and Faramir set up housekeeping ten thousand bloody years ago. It doesn’t take genius to accrue money – just takes time, luv. Where the fuck’s your money?”

Oh, now I REALLY don’t like the look on her face.


He’s gonna be pissed . . .

“Um – “ I can’t believe I’m starting every sentence this way. Just say it, dammit! “Fran – Faramir, um, froze our assets – um – and I can’t get at them.” He looks disbelievingly at me. I can feel myself blush. “I guess in hindsight it was a mistake to let him take care of all our money.”

Yep. He’s pissed.

“FUCKING HELL!” Very pissed. “He nobbled your lolly? All of it? And left you with this fucking pink house?” When I nod he says, “What about the courts; they can order him to pay up, can’t they? Can’t they bloody well order him to pay? It’s not fair, Éowyn!”

“I know it’s not fair!” I want to shout, but I’m afraid it’ll turn into a screaming match. I’ve had enough of them to last a lifetime. And Faramir always told me he wouldn’t shout if I didn’t start shouting first, and then I’d cry, and then he’d get mad and storm out and . . . oh, shit. I don’t want to start that cycle again. Not with Legolas. Certainly not so soon. What’s it been, an hour since we ran into each other on 24th, and I’m already upset?

Shit! This is NOT my fucking fault! This is FARAMIR’S fault! If he hadn’t been such a shit head it never would’ve come to this!

For some reason, just that indignant twinge brings me around, calms me down. No, Legolas and I have no reason to yell. Legolas is angry, that’s why he’s yelling. He’s not yelling at me. He’s yelling because of Faramir.

Can’t blame him.



Calm down, calm down, not her fault, fucking Faramir’s fault. Oh hell, oh shit, oh fuck.

“So what about the courts?” I ask, forcing myself to lower my voice. Fuck fuck
fuck. “What about your bloody barrister? What the fuck is he doing to set things right?”

“He says there’s nothing we can do,” she says. Shit, she’s calmer than I am.

Probably having to live with that poncy scrubber gave her more patience than I have. Fuck. Bloody hell. “He says he’s done all he can. We don’t have any more options. He’s given up.”

“Fucking hell,” I sigh. I lean my hands on the counter, think for a minute. Fuck, fuck, fuck.


Didn’t think he’d take it this hard. Wonder if he really wanted a horse farm? Too bad. Oh, well. Maybe in the next century or so, when I dig myself out of this stupid hole.

“Well,” I say, approaching him cautiously, “that’s why I don’t think we could swing a ranch. It’s a nice idea – I used to have one and I loved it – but not now. It doesn’t matter, really,” I say, trying to reassure him, because he really does look pissed. “I don’t care. I’ll – I’ll dump the house and buy a motorcycle. We’ll live that way. It always did kind of look like fun,” I add, hoping I sound sincere.

“Fuck that,” he mutters. He’s still staring at the sink. I want to go up behind him and slip my arms around his waist, hold him. But I’m not sure if I can yet.

Has it really only been an hour? I’ve had enough high emotions ripping through me to last me another couple centuries.


Well. The Valar didn’t give me an easy assignment this time. Ah, well. When the going gets fucked up, send for bloody Legolas to unravel it. I’ve fixed so many prats’ problems it ought to be fucking second nature to me now.

That’s it. Time to pull in the big fucking guns. I’m writing Whitey.

All right. And for now . . .

Comfort. Dinner. And if I play my cards right, another round rogering.

“We’ll find you another barrister,” I say. “A good one this time, not a cock-up like the one who helped Faramir fuck you over.” I turn to her, hold out my arms. She comes to me like a magnet. Oh, fuck yeah, that’s better. So nice to have a warm bit of crumpet in my arms . . . ah.

What the fuck did he do to her, bleed her of every ounce of self-confidence she ever had? I’ll fucking kill him.

She tucks her head under my chin, I can feel her breath on my throat. Her arms tighten around my waist. Yes, acushla, I told you I was here for you. I’m not going anywhere.

“And anyway, your lolly’s no good with me,” I tell her. “Didn’t offer you a bloody horse farm just to make you pay for it, acushla. I’m not such a shite as that. I told you I was here, I’m not leaving. I’m here to take care of you, luv. That means the fucking farm is on my account, not yours.” She starts in my arms, but I hold her firmly so she can’t back away. “And there’s no fucking way in hell I’m dragging you round the country on the back of a machine I know you don’t like. I’ll ride me Harley round the fences, but I’m putting you back where you belong – “ I smile “ – with a stallion between your legs, acushla.”

She pulls back harder, and I let her back away from me. But she stays within the circle of my arms, her hands on my waist. She’s looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.

I haven’t. Just found it, is all.


How can he mean that?

How can we have a ranch if I don’t have any money?

How can he have the money for it? Does he not know how much they cost?

How can he give up his free and easy masculine lifestyle? For me, especially? Won’t he resent me?

How can I possibly refuse him anything when he’s looking down at me, blue eyes like aquamarines, pink cupids-bow lips, pretty pretty pretty face?

“How?” I ask. That’s it; just “how.” I need to know if this can be done before I get my hopes up. They’ve been crushed so many times before. But even when I ask him, I get the feeling he can’t possibly disappoint me. He is an Elf, after all.

“’How’?” he echoes, and laughs. He pulls me up to him, reaches down with his lips to find my mouth. Oh, he tastes good. I open my lips, wanting to feel his tongue in me again, but he’s talking, his lips brushing against mine. “Where the fuck was I when you last saw me, luv? What was I doing? You remember, Éowyn?”

Oh, I could listen to him say my name for YEARS. Ay-Oh-When. That’s it, just lie down for a century and all he’d ever have to say was “Éowyn.” Over and over and over. Ah.

Oh, wait. He asked me a question. Oh, shit . . . where was he?

“Oh! Uh . . . we were in England,” I say, though it’s very hard to concentrate on what I’m saying, since he’s started kissing and nuzzling my ear. I can feel his breath tickling the lobe and OH shit teeth too, here come the cold chills . . . “You were, um, about to sail with Drake . . . “

“That’s right, acushla,” he murmurs. Oh goose bump city. “And why’d I ship as a fuckin’ matlow with Drake, eh, Éowyn? Know that?”

“Um . . . altruism?” I guess, though I’m pretty sure that wasn’t it.

That makes him laugh, soft breathy laughs in my hair. His hands are roaming now, I can feel them on my back, kneading, circling, teasing. “Altruism? No, pet. Gold. Fucking Spanish gold, acushla. And I didn’t need it. Still don’t. I’m a wise investor, acushla.” His lips and teeth have found my throat; I’ve dropped my head back to let him have at it. Who am I to stand in the way of his goals? Oh yes, that’s nice too, getting his tongue in the hollow of my throat. “I have excellent taste,” he’s saying, the words buzzing against my neck. His hands are straying lower, and between trying to press up against his leather-clad bulge, and push back into his hands, I don’t know where to go. “I understand the value of precious things.” His fingers curl around my buttocks, pressing me up to him. Oh, shit. There’s that bitch moaning in my kitchen again. “And when I get me hands on something precious, acushla . . . “ He’s grinding himself up against me, making sparks flash across my eyelids, which for some reason have closed . . . not that it matters – he can do whatever he wants with me as long as he doesn’t stop – “Once I get me hands on you, acushla,” his hot breath flows over my throat, oh god my hands have turned to lead “I’m never letting go. I get the feeling, Éowyn – “ he’s dragging his teeth up my throat, one hand leaves my ass and slides up my stomach to cup my breast, oh there are the sparks again, and that itchy-tingly-achy feeling between my legs, oh man I thought I was wet before this is nothing, nothing, thank god there’s nothing under my skirt, nothing to keep him from – from – “I get the feeling you’ll be the best damn investment I ever make.”

His mouth is on mine, sucking my lips and tongue into his, teasing them, pushing his tongue back into my mouth, stroking and probing and tickling, oh it feels so good . . .

Then his hands turn me, his arms lift me. I open my eyes. Those bright blue eyes sparkle down at me, mischievous, amorous, playful.

“Not knobbin’ you on the table this time, luv,” he says. “It’s the bedroom for us.”

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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