Pottymouth: 7. 7

Reader Toolbox   Log in for more tools

7. 7


I run down the hallway to the kitchen. I can hear Dorcas and Cyndi-with-an-I squealing and carrying on in there, oh-my-god-ing and whispering in high squeaky voices. Sure enough, as soon as I round the corner they stop, eyes big and goggly, still grasping each other’s hands.

Dorcas’ eyes travel down to my boobs. Yes, I’m not wearing a bra. Yes, I’m older than you are, and yes, I know you probably think I’m TOO old to be indulging in this sort of exhibitionism. And no, I don’t particularly care if it bothers you or not. Got it?

Actually I kind of like the way the cotton rasps against my nipples. Hmm. My tactile senses seem to have hit some sort of overload. Guess I can blame my Elven Ass for that.

Although I don’t think I should call him that to his face. He needs a nickname . . .

“Dorcas!” I gasp. “Cyndi with – Cyndi, Dorcas, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know you’d come in, I didn’t know the door was unlocked.” I’m babbling, fortunately I’m also laughing, so they can see I’m not really THAT sorry. And why should I be? I was in MY house, in MY room, in MY bed, fucking MY piece of ass. They walked in on ME. THEY should be embarrassed.

And boy, are they!

Their faces are scarlet – whether through embarrassment, surprise, or suppressed mirth; who the hell cares? – and they’re stifling giggles behind their hands, nervously looking at me with wide deer-in-the-headlamps eyes.

Mortals! Sheesh. Like they’ve never seen coitus interruptus before.

Or – wait. Maybe they haven’t.

Shit. I keep forgetting how damn YOUNG Dorcas is . . . she’s what, 25? Though when I was her age I’d already been married to stupid Faramir four years and had two kids. Go fig.

“Ooo, Winnie, I’m soooooooooooo sorry,” whines Dorcas, her fat little hands pawing at me. Ick. Please, please tell me I was never this gushy. “I had no idea, I swear – “

“I know, I know,” I say, brushing her off. I never noticed how irritating it was to be called “Winnie.” Geez, what a horrible nickname. “And don’t call me ‘Winnie’ anymore, okay?”

“Huh?” Obviously I’ve shorted something ELSE out in that tiny little glob of grey putty she so optimistically calls her brain. No wonder she can’t get anything more than a secretarial position at a small start-up. What’s she run on, double-A’s?

“Don’t call me WINNIE,” I repeat. I know I’m talking louder than I need to but oh hell, does it feel GOOD. I’ve been told to hush, to keep my voice down, to speak softly, to hide behind respectability and anonymity for TOO GODDAM LONG. I have HAD IT.

Fuck Faramir. Fuck him fuck him fuck him. I have had ENOUGH.

Oh, man. I think Legolas is rubbing off on me.

At the moment? . . . I wish!!!


“My name,” I say, looking sternly down into the two upturned, round-eyed, open-mouthed, fish-like faces, “is Éowyn. AY OH WHEN. Repeat after me. Éowyn.”

They don’t say anything. Little shits.


Ow ow ow ow fuck fuck fuck fuck oh fucking A that does NOT feel good. Where the FUCK are my KNICKERS! Out in the FUCKING SADDLEBAG, that’s fucking WHERE!

ow ow ow ow ow ow ow


“Éowyn,” I repeat very slowly. “Ay. Oh. When.”

“Éowyn,” they say automatically. I feel like Mr. Rogers for Pete’s sake. “Can you say Éowyn? Sure you can!”

“Not Winnie,” I emphasize. “Éowyn. I’m so fucking sick of being called ‘Winnie’ that I’ve decided I’m not even going to answer to it. Okay?”

They nod dumbly, flinching a little at my gratuitous use of the F-word. Well! If they’re going to hang around my Elf, they’d better the hell get used to it.


All right, leave it out, not so bad, quit slagging your goolies and just tuck ‘em in – oh bugger. Goddam leather trousers.

Right. Now. Éowyn. And rent-girl. Whoever the fuck she is. Right.

Fuck, this tile is bloody cold. Now, where the bloody hell did I leave my socks?


I hear a zipper. I turn. And there he is. Zipping up his fly. Mr. America.

Well, maybe not. Mr. Valinor? That’s probably a little closer.

Oh, oh, oh, it’s not fair it’s not fair it’s not fair. He’s so damn pretty . . .


Ah, there she is now. I can already feel that fucking shit-eating grin stretching my gob out. My acushla. Mine mine mine.

Oh bugger. I’ve got it so fucking bad I can’t even think straight.


And right on cue, yep, there go Dorcas and Cyndi-with-an-I scoping my Elf. Can’t really blame them – look at him, standing there in his black leather pants, long six-pack stomach, tight pecs, sculpted arms, alabaster skin, bare-chested, pink-nippled, pink-lipped, blue-eyed, platinum-haired glory.

Oh damn, oh damn, oh damn. Why is it that whenever I look at him, I feel as though I’ve dunked my head in a bucket of wet concrete?

Don’t smile at them, dammit. Oh, shit. He’s grinning.


Look at her, my little acushla. Honey-colored curls. Perfect face. Gorgeous arse. Sticky-out nipples. Even her feet are beautiful. Oh, fuck.


Wait a minute. He’s grinning at me. Or more specifically, my boobs. Well, that’s not so bad.


If it weren’t for those two fat-arsed rent girls I’d knob her right here in the hallway, swear to Elbereth I would.

Bugger. They’re drooling.


All right, enough of this.

“Dorcas, Cyndi,” I say, still firmly, still with my don’t-fuck-with-me voice securely fastened, “this is my – um – “

My what, exactly?


Go on. Can’t wait to hear this explanation.


“This is Legolas.”


Blank stares. Well, not so fucking blank at that. Blank with overtones of “I don’t care what your name is I want to shag you” scraped over the top of it, like butter on toast.

Fuck, I bloody hate that.


Damn, now what do I say?


This should prove to be moderately entertaining.


Stop looking at me like that, dammit. You’re not helping. “My – um – an old friend of mine, we, um, ran into each other on Twenty-fourth Street in Pasadena.”


“Ran into each other” – fuck yeah! About two hundred fifty times. Rapidly. Repeatedly. With lots of sweat and saliva involved. Fuck fuck fuck fuck wanna bite you wanna bite you wanna bite you fuck I LOVE it when you blush


Dammit, quit sniggering. I can feel the heat rising to my cheeks and I can’t help it, I look down at my feet. I can feel him come up behind me, pass me, one hand out to them. “Cheers,” he says. They manage to shake his hand without jumping him, which is actually more than I expected. I look up. Dorcas looks puzzled, which is so normal for her I’m surprised I can differentiate it from her other facial expressions. Cyndi-with-an-I still has that “I’m ovulating, please fertilize me” look on her face.

“Old friend?” Dorcas asks. I can hear the rusty, unused gears creaking as they start rotating in that empty space between her ears.

Oh, that was NOT nice.

When did I get so bitchy?

Or rather, when did I resume being so bitchy? I haven’t been a bitch in – let’s see – oh, about seven thousand five hundred years. No wonder I’m (A) out of practice and (B) enjoying it so much. Faramir hated it when I was like this – wanted to see a demure woman, a ladylike woman, a well-bred woman. Fuck that. I WAS born in a barn, or at least a stable, which is close enough to a barn thankyouverymuch, so why the hell do you expect me to act like some goddam princess? Okay, okay, so I was the damn niece of the damn king of the damn backwater-illiterate-redneckville country of Rohan, so the hell what? Oh yeah, and my brother was the king . . . . whoop dee doo. Éomer didn’t even learn how to read until after he married Lothíriel. And he used to pick his teeth at the banquet table with splinters he tore off the arm of his throne. I know; I watched him, for crying out loud!

Titles! Bullshit. To hell with that. Legolas never bothered with them and neither will I. Enough already.


“Old friend,” she says. Snarky, snarky, snarky! Now, THAT’S the Shieldmaiden I knew of auld lang syne.

“Very old friend,” I supply with another grin. I decide to not only stake my fucking claim but show these manky little scrubbers that I am NOT up for grabs. I slide an arm around Éowyn’s waist, pull her up close. Oh bugger, body heat – she melts up into me. Yes yes oh fuck yes, slip that long graceful arm round my waist, dig those fingers into my side – no worries there, I’m yours, acushla, don’t fucking worry about that, I’m yours yours yours yours yours.

Oh hell, oh shit, oh fuck, oh bugger. Deep, I’m in deep, never been so fucking deep.

Little bitches don’t believe her. I can tell.

“Knew her before she was married,” I say, hitching her closer. She tucks her head under my chin. Fuck, she’s bloody smoodging me. Can’t help it, I put my hand on her jacksie and give her a squeeze. She squeaks.

Ha! Love that sound. Fucking love it.


OH shit why the hell did you do that? Now I’m blushing again, dammit! He manages to make me feel like some wet-behind-the-ears virgin.

He met me before I was married? Wait . . . He did, didn’t he? Met me before I even cared that there was a steward in Gondor. And all I could see was Aragorn, rugged, hairy, manly, smelly. Shit, was I blind or what?

Blind, yep. Or stupid. Take your pick. I don’t even remember him that well – only that I was a little afraid of him. Never met one of the Eldar before, and he looked – well – ethereal, untouchable, angelic.

Angelic – hah! Never saw an angel with a dick like that.

Damn. Stop thinking about it. Stop stop stop stop stop.

Fat, mushroom-shaped head . . .

Shit, shit, shit. When will these stupid little twats LEAVE?!

“Yes,” I manage to say, even calmly. “Before I was married. Very old friend. Um.” I look up at him. He’s grinning, damn him. Thinks it’s pretty funny. “And we’ve, um, been catching up.” I cough. Dorcas and Cyndi-with-an-I exchange significant looks. They know. They heard us. Shit, they SAW us.

He snorts.



“Catching up”? More like “making up for lost time”!

Speaking of, I’m so fucking peckish I’m fainting. Time for some prawns and tequila.

And another squeeze. And another squeak.


Yikes! Dammit! There he goes again!


“Time for tea,” I announce, giving the two Post-Adolescent Wonders my best and sexiest smile.

Oh, don’t look at me like that. I know I’m a bloody sexy gobshite. Why not use my powers for good? Make a change, and all that.

“You staying?” I ask, and walk past them into the kitchen.

“For tea?” I hear one of them say. Sounds very confused, poor bitch.

“He means dinner,” says Éowyn.

Damn, forgot about that.


Please say no, please say no, I don’t want to share him with you, I want him all for myself. Go away go away go away go away.


Please, please, please, say no. Say no no no no no. I don’t want to fucking share ANY of these bloody prawns. Say no no no no no!


“We already ate.”

Oh, hallelujah.


Fucking A, that’s a relief. Only a couple kilos and I’m so hungry I could eat them all myself.

On with the hob, out with the knife and the butcher block and the vegetables. And the tequila, don’t bloody forget the tequila. For good measure I pour out a finger into a random bud vase and down it.

Burn burn burn baby burn, oh fuck yeah right into the hole it goes. Ah, alcohol, bung it back and quit your grizzling. Pickled worm. Fuck it, I’m not going anywhere tonight.

Bugger – my Harley! Better bring my things in before we have it off again. Either that or I’ll be wearing her fucking knickers at breakfast.

Cross-dressing Elf; that’d go over well. Bet little fat-arse over there’d get a rise out of it.

Damn. Have to keep our voices down tonight. Bugger. Not even sure if I can. Éowyn sucks the fucking spunk right out of me, how can I bloody well NOT yell?


He’s . . . drinking tequila out of a bud vase? Okay, that’s . . . weird.

Tequila and the Prince of Eryn Lasgalen. Whodathunkit?

I’m not going to be able to stand this – watching him at the stove, chopping and scraping and sucking down José Cuervo, back muscles rippling, silky pale hair swinging gently back and forth between his bare shoulder blades, butt cheeks clenching and relaxing every time he shifts on his feet. And I’m REALLY not going to be able to stand to watch THIS much longer – Dorcas and Cyndi-with-a-fucking-I standing in the kitchen doorway and drooling, for Pete’s sake.

Eyes off, please. MY ass. Not yours. MINE.



Onion, circles, strips. Break apart, check oil, not hissing. Check prawns, thawed and drained. Open crisps bag. Presentation, remember presentation. Basket, bowl, what the fuck can I use?


He’s casting around, looking for something. Damn, there’s that tattoo again. Osservi alle stelle, vela sull'oceano. It’s sliding and shifting against his shoulder when he moves the muscles there. Long graceful script, decorated with scrollwork. Wonder how old it is? Wonder what it says? Wonder why he got it?

There’s so much I don’t know about him. What has he done? Where has he been? How much has he seen the rest of the Chosen? What kinds of things does he do in the course of living out his immortal life? He at least is well-chosen for this – him and Gandalf and Arwen. They’re made to live forever. What the hell am I supposed to do? Just be Faramir’s wife; that’s all I was ever told – but now that’s over.

Now what?


Ah, basket. Bung it in there. Open Mexican salsa. Find a bowl, find a fucking bowl. Cabinet, cabinet, cabinet, there’s tins and plates and glasses and – oh, shot glass. Better than bud vase for tequila. Bowl. Ah.


He’s opening cabinets and rummaging through drawers and settling in. Cooking, of all things! Never knew he knew how to cook. Seems to like it, too.

In go the onions, hissing and spitting. He lifts the big wok with one long white hand and shifts, rolls, flips the pieces of onion. Faramir could cook, or at least he claimed to. I never liked it, and I think that’s why he took it up. I used to think it was so gay, but now I’m not so sure.

Legolas likes to cook. Legolas is not gay. (Boy, do I know THAT.) Therefore, cooking is not gay.

The kitchen is silent except for the hiss of the onion and the thunk and clatter of his knife. I’ve never seen anyone peel shrimp that fast before, it’s like he’s stripping them. Deft white fingers, nimble, sure. Schwick schlip fwip flunk. Schwick schlip fwip flunk. Another one bites the dust.


Peel and bung, peel and bung. Scratchy pointy exoskeletons, slimy squidgy little gray bodies. One prawn, two prawn, four prawn, ten. Smell of frying onion, powdery odor of dried peppers, sharp astringent taste of tequila on my tongue. Peel and bung. Peel and bung.


Dorcas and Cyndi-with-an-I watch him, all eyes. I watch him too, but not just with my eyes. He’s breathing, I can hear the intake and exhale. I think I can even smell the rosemary wafting back when he turns his head, and that curtain of pale gold shimmers around his shoulders. I hear him. He’s humming. What is that? I don’t recognize it.

He starts to sing. Dorcas and Cyndi jump.

“Ich fühl es, ich fühl es, wie dies Götterbild mein Herz mit neuer Egung füllt.”

Oh, German! I know that, wait a minute –

“Dies etwas kann ich zwar nicht nennen, doch fühl’ ich’s hier wie Feuer brennen; soll die Empfindung Liebe sein?”

That’s Mozart, I know that, that’s from, from, from Die Zauberflöte, that was, um, the tenor, the romantic one. Tamino, that’s it.

“Ja, ja, die Liebe ist’s allein, die Liebe, die Liebe ist’s allein!”*

Oooohhhh . . .

I know what that means.

I’m melting.


Mozart, oh Wolfgang Amadeus, how the mighty have fallen. You and fucking Purcell, drinking yourselves to death, what a bleeding waste. Hiss and sizzle, flip the onion. Peel and bung, peel and bung. Another finger of tequila and here’s mud in your eye.

And I can smell you, and I can feel you, standing behind me and watching me. Smell the citrus of your honey hair, feel the heat radiating from that lovely golden body. And I can hear you breathe, and I can hear your heart beat. It skips and races, your breath comes short. You know, don’t you, acushla? You know what I’m singing.

“Ich würde sie voll Entzücken an diesen heißen Busen drücken, und ewig ware sie dann mein.”**

Detholalle, lirimaer. Take me or leave me, but you’ll bloody well know what I think of all this.


He’s too smart, too well-trained, too Elvish to not be aware of what he’s singing, and who’s in the room with him. I know that aria. I know it well. I cried like a baby when I first heard it, sitting in the royal box in La Scala. Oh, how I wished Faramir would sing like that to me. He never sang to me, he never sang at all. Never said pretty things to me either, not after the Fifth Age anyway. After our progeny had grown and reproduced and died and rotted everything went stale. It was never the same. Never.

Listen to him. Listen to that voice. It’s clear, it’s pure, like clean water washing me.

“Ich fühl es, ich fühl es, wie dies Götterbild mein Herz mit neuer Egung füllt . . . “

He turns, one bright blue eye winks at me. He knows what he’s singing. And he’s singing to me. Dorcas and Cyndi are petrified; they’re staring at us, knowing something is happening, but not sure exactly what.

I know – I know. But how do I answer him?

“Dies etwas kann ich zwar nicht nennen, doch fühl’ ich’s hier wie Feuer brennen; soll die Empfindung Liebe sein?”

I can’t remember any of Pamina’s arias – I was a little too late in the opera game for Mozart. But Saint-Saens and I were like that. Crotchety old bastard, he sure liked blondes.

“Mon coeur s’ouvre à ta voix comme s’ouvrent les fleurs aux baisers de l’aurore!”+


My sainted aunt . . .


That got his attention. He turns, knife and shrimp in hand, eyes bright and blue and glittering.

“Mais Ô mon bien-amié, pour mieux sécher mes pleurs, que ta voix parle encore!”++


Can’t ignore that. Oh, bugger. Oh, Manwë, you really did mean it, didn’t you? The remuneration of obedience is the fulfillment of the senses.


I suppose I should be wondering what Dorcas and Cyndi-with-an-I think of all this, but my eyes are full of him, of his face, of the look of dawning comprehension and all the other little emotions I see there – relief, elation, ecstasy.

Down goes the knife. Down goes the shrimp. I’d better sing fast.

“Dis-moi qu’à Dalila tu reviens pour jamais! Redis à ma tendresse les serments d’autrefois, ces serments que j’aimais!”+++


I hear you. I hear you. I’m coming.


“Ah! Réponds à ma tendresse, verse-moi, verse-moi l’ivresse!”++++


I will. I will. I swear to you I will.


And he’s on me, I taste the tequila on his tongue and smell the sweet shrimpy stuff he’s rubbing into my hair and onto my cheeks, but I don’t care. I don’t even care that Dorcas and Cyndi-with-an-I are clearing their throats and looking away and shuffling their feet, embarrassed at our display. I don’t care. He’s mine mine mine.


My acushla. My heartbeat. My reward.

Mine mine mine mine mine.

* “I feel it, I feel it, how this divine face fills my heart with new emotions. I cannot name this yearning, yet I feel it burning like a fire; could this feeling be love? Yes, yes, it is love alone, it is love, it is love alone!”
** ”Enraptured would I press her to this burning breast, and then she would be mine for ever.”
+ “My heart opens to your voice as the flowers open to dawn’s kisses.”
++ “But oh, my beloved, the better to dry my tears, let your voice speak once more.”
+++ “Tell me that you are coming back to Delilah forever! Remind me once again of the promises of bygone days, those promises I loved!”
++++ “Ah! Answer my tenderness, fill me with ecstasy!”

(A/N: The German is from Tamino’s aria in Mozart’s Die Zauberflöte; the French lines Eowyn sings back are Dalila’s aria “Mon coeur s’ouvre” from Saint-Saens’ Samson et Dalila.)

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


No one has commented on this story yet. Be the first to comment!

Comments are hidden to prevent spoilers.
Click header to view comments

Talk to Le Rouret

If you are a HASA member, you must login to submit a comment.

We're sorry. Only HASA members may post comments. If you would like to speak with the author, please use the "Email Author" button in the Reader Toolbox. If you would like to join HASA, click here. Membership is free.

Reader Toolbox   Log in for more tools