Getting Kinda Bossy  
AUTHOR: Kit Fox (rabbitgarden@earthlink.net) 
RATING: NC17 
PAIRING: Legolas/ Aragorn 
WARNING: Massive amounts of sillines and yet be prepared for the 
funky, Chaka Khan-esque kickass get-down scene. Light bondage, but I 
don't think you'll mind. ;)  
 
SUMMARY: Ever think about that moment at the council of Elrond 
where Aragorn got a little rough with our Elf muffin? Ever care to see the 
muffin get even?  
 
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is mostly movie cannon, I suppose I never 
really thought about it. Sexual frustrations/revenge/ass kicking, you name 
it, just don't question it. Basically, I was listening to a lot of Janet Jackson 
when I wrote this. Still, a comedy (with any luck) so I have not betrayed 
my Wannabe Dante/Wierd Al urges. Hope you like it.  
 
DISTRIBUTION: Yes, but you must kneel before me and pay homage to 
the mystical benweasel! Just kidding, an email asking me about it is all I 
need.  
 
FEEDBACK: Who's the smooth private dick that's a sex machine to all the 
chicks? Feedback! (Shut yo mouth)  
 
DISCLAIMER: Poor, wonderful Mister Tolkien, who must watch little 
monsters like myself drag his innocent characters through such torture. 
These people are his, not mine, otherwise I'd be enjoying my piles of cash 
instead of being penniless and sad.  
 
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Firstly, I'd like to thank Lenny Kravitz, Janet 
Jackson, TLC, and Nikka Costa who provided me with the right kind of 
music (you'll see what I mean) and who, along with a few others, taught 
me that the thought of sex can, in fact, be fun. Here's to them.  
 
As always, for Lily. 
Getting Kinda Bossy  
{Kit Fox} 
 
It all starts at Elrond’s pad during another one of Daddy’s missions to get 
me out of his hair–––he wants me to go to some very important, wicked-
cool council meeting. Elrond was a little bit dubious about my showing 
up–––he’d been pissed ever since our little tangle a few centuries ago 
when he “forgot” to invite me to his birthday party. As revenge, I found 
his favorite, very expensive Versache pumps that no one is supposed to 
know about (but everybody does) and paid the gardener to mow the lawn 
in them. Elrond got all huffy. 
 
Still, it cannot be denied that I’m very skilled and wise and observant and 
modest (plus he and Daddy know each other) so I get to go to Elrond’s 
special meeting, yay for me. 
 
It was a great trip over (even though I ran into a couple of punked-up Elf 
kids who were obviously gay) and I now perch with my delicate and 
gorgeous grace in one of Elrond’s big, tacky chairs, listening to all the 
fuss. 
 
The Ring is presented by a strange little man and as I sit, staring at 
Aragorn (my favorite saucy Ranger) I realize that someone else is staring 
at the Ring–––a proud and ruggedly handsome (goatee, oo la la) Gondor 
warrior. He makes it clear to the council that he wants to use the Ring, 
thinking it will do good. I jolt as a familiar, rough voice speaks. 
 
“You cannot wield it. No one can.” 
 
I smile in unmasked adoration at the blazing blue eyes of Aragorn, the 
wind catching his hair in a devastatingly handsome curtain. I shiver. 
 
“And what would a Ranger know of such things?” Boromir, the man of 
Gondor scoffs. 
 
I leap from my chair, glaring at the Man. 
 
“He is no mere Ranger,” I growl in the most powerful voice I can manage. 
“He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. You owe him your allegiance.” 
 
Boromir sneers, making some evidence-that-he-totally-got-shot-down 
comment that I barely hear, as I am watching Aragorn whose eyes are on 
mine, carrying an untraceable expression. 
 
“Sit down, Legolas,” he says in Elvish. 
 
Oh no he just didn’t. I think, but sit down anyway, trying not to sulk. Is it 
my imagination, or is he getting kinda bossy with me? 
 
I brush it off and swim for a moment in daydreams of Aragorn in the 
altogether and am brought rudely back to reality by a typically snotty 
Dwarf quip. 
 
“I’ll die before I see the Ring in the hands of an Elf!” a belligerent little 
Dwarf yells, looking directly at me, as if I am the cause of this misery. 
 
The Elves spring to their feet shouting “Oh hell no you didn’t!” and 
“Throwdown, let’s go, bitch!” I stand as well, my arms spread to hold 
back the yelling tide. I am a silent, glaring menace, my eyes fixed on the 
insolent Dwarf who smirks at the flood of yells and insults that erupts 
from behind my shielding arms. 
 
“Nice muu–muu, pretty boy,” Gimli snickers softly. 
 
“It’s a royal cloak,” I snarl through clenched teeth. “And at least I don’t 
have a beard that would be better served as a toilet brush.” 
 
“Well my blind, deaf grandmother has better senses than you!” 
 
“Guess that’s why she didn’t see me when I DID HER LAST NIGHT!” 
 
Both the Dwarves and the Elves lunge forward and Aragorn wrestles his 
way in, laying a hand on my chest and one on Gimli’s, who he is looking 
at. I’m way prettier than Gimli, I think sullenly. He should be paying more 
attention to me. 
 
“Hey ladies,” Aragorn growls. “Cool it.” 
 
“Skinny!” Gimli shouts over Aragorn’s shoulder. 
 
“Ugly!” I shoot back. 
 
Aragorn turns his flashing eyes to me. “I would think that you, Legolas, 
would be more mature about this.” 
 
I shudder pleasantly on the inside, but I let my growl be noticed. There he 
goes again. 
 
So the strange little man who brought forth the Ring decides to take it to 
Mordor and cast it into the Cracks of Doom, which sounds quite 
diabolical, so naturally I decide to tag along. Of course, it doesn't hurt that 
Aragorn will also be going which he proclaims in a stunning show of 
manliness that leaves me weak. So I will travel on an exciting quest with 
my dictatorial yet sensible and devastatingly handsome boyfriend–––I am 
not going to stay here and try on Arwen’s dresses again. 
 
The mission begins and I’m extra-glad that Gandalf is coming along as 
he’ll be the one in charge and Isildur’s Wench won’t be so bossy. At least, 
this is what I assume... 
 
However, throughout the journey, it’s “See what’s ahead, Legolas,” or 
“Find us a cave, Legolas,” or “Quit staring at my ass, Legolas.” He picks 
on me especially which both frustrates me and is a sense of pride, as I 
know he does it because he fancies me. Still, it’s Aragorn that calls all the 
shots, who decides when we go to bed together and what we do when we 
do... what’s more, he seems to get all huffy about Caradrhas and the whole 
walking-on-snow thing. Wading shoulders-deep in snow with a frigid 
hobbit under each arm, Aragorn glares at me. I give him my most winning 
smile, which seems only to increase his misery. 
 
“You guys look really cold,” I observe. “You should come up here, it’s 
great!” 
 
“Hit him with your staff, Gandalf,” Aragorn pleads. 
 
“What’s the matter with you, Happy?” I ask him, trying to be cheerful. 
“Oh, now don’t be so grumpy, look, we can use Boromir’s shield as a 
toboggan, it’ll be fun!” 
 
I hear a muffled exclamation of approval from Pippin whose face is buried 
in the warmth of Boromir’s chest, but he is the only one who seems 
pleased. 
 
“I’ll hit him with my staff,” Gandalf says, swinging at my legs, though I 
leap into the air, dodging the blow. 
 
I deem this a very good time to dart ahead of them and see how the paths 
look. 
 
“It’s looking pretty burly up there,” I report when I come back. 
 
“We’ll have to turn around,” Gandalf says. 
 
I roll my eyes, predicting Aragorn’s response, and even mouth the words 
along with him. 
 
“Legolas, see if you can find a path back.” 
 
“Sure,” I mutter. “Because I’m your bitch and everything.” 
 
“Beg pardon?” 
 
“I said... I’ll be right back.” 
 
 
 
The sun is setting and we’re out of the snow. We chill out in this comfy 
spread of trees while Sam cooks dinner and Aragorn scouts the terrain 
(what we in the business call “casing the joint”) as usual. This time, I 
follow him, meaning to have words about our relationship. 
 
He turns to see me and smirks. 
 
“Go back to camp, Legolas,” he says. “This is a one-man job.” 
 
“Alright, that’s it,” I say. “This thing of ours?” I gesture back and forth to 
the two of us. “I’m in charge now.” 
 
“Wha–” 
 
“Be quiet!” I growl, my feelings of power and exhilaration growing by the 
moment. “I’m running the show now and I’ll tell you when you can talk.” 
 
Aragorn watches me in wide-eyed wonder and I feel an explosion in the 
center of my chest when I see him smile and realize that he’s looking at 
me with reverence. 
 
“I didn’t know you could be like this,” he says. “You’re so domineering 
and... saucy.” 
 
“And don’t you love it,” I growl. “So get used to it.” 
 
A soft, frustrated moan escapes Aragorn’s smiling lips and he sets me with 
a leveled predatory glare. I can sense the burning, ardent vibes; quavering, 
radiating with sexual energy. My skin tingles as Aragorn’s eyes undress 
me hungrily and he starts forward, that ravenous look increasing. I lay a 
firm hand on his chest and press him slowly back. 
 
“Not until I say,” I smirk. 
 
“Legolas...” 
 
“Nuh uh, babe,” I say. “My turn.” 
 
A heavy, shivering breath comes from him, his lips curved, his clear blue 
eyes never having looked more intense and fiery. Beneath my hand that 
still lays on Aragorn’s chest, I feel the tense quiver of his excitement and 
frustration. I lean forward, tilting my chin up and closing my eyes, inviting 
a kiss. At once, Aragorn obeys and clasps his arms around my waist, 
tugging my body close to his. My breath stops in surprise at his forceful 
kiss and the sudden pressure at my thigh where his excitement urges. 
 
After a moment, I regain my composure and my upper hand, remembering 
that I’m calling the shots. If I stop now, he’ll win. I push him back. 
 
“That’ll do, tiger.” 
 
He fixes me with a look so sad and plaintive that I very nearly cave in and 
give up the whole sushi right there–––those melancholy blue eyes have 
always undone me, which may be the reason why I tagged so placidly 
along. Until now. 
 
I kiss him on the nose and flash a tigerish smile. 
 
“Legolas,” he moans. “You’re killing me.” 
 
“Poor baby,” I grin. “Now... be a good boy,” I run my hands lightly down 
Aragorn’s back to the irresistible curve of his backside, a thrill rising when 
I hear his gasp, “And get us a soft blanket.” 
 
He bites his lip, sucking in a soft whine that I just barely catch and he 
nods. 
 
I smile and pat his shoulder.  
 
“Go.” 
 
At that word, he races off with one backward glance, full of excitement 
and sexual promise. When I’m certain that he’s gone and all I hear are the 
songs and rustlings of the forest, I release a shaky breath, smiling. I glance 
down at my shivering hands, nearly blue in the light of the rising moon. 
 
“That felt good,” I mutter quietly. “I could get used to this...” 
 
Being in charge leaves me with an intense, heady feeling, coming with the 
realization that Aragorn is, in fact, under my power and is positively 
screaming for it. A desirous Ranger could be quite a lot of fun. 
 
My heart hammers furiously as I hear Aragorn’s swift approach. He steps 
through the trees, very nearly causing me to revert back to my old habit of 
squeaking inwardly (abandoning all Elf-like grace in the process) and 
wanting to throw my arms around his neck, shouting, “Shag me, shag me 
now!” However, my coolness prevails and I smile languorously at the dark 
and dishy ranger who raises a sexy eyebrow at me, holding up the blankets 
he’d brought. 
 
“Good job, baby,” I smile. “No one’s going to come by, are they?” 
 
“No sir,” Aragorn flashes a grin in the dark. “Gimli’s on watch now and I 
think he prefers not to know where we are.” 
 
“Fabulous.” 
 
I command Aragorn to lay the blanket down near a fresh young tree, 
getting a kick out of watching him wait on me. I sit down, leaning against 
the tree with one leg folded up. I smirk, watching him as he stands, staring 
at me with voracious eyes. 
 
“Undress,” I say. “Slowly, now.” 
 
His eyes flash with excitement and he keeps them on me as he slips the 
weatherbeaten leather jacket from his broad shoulders. He begins to 
remove his black, fingerless gloves, but I hold up a hand in a motion to 
desist. 
 
“Leave those,” I demand with a calm and sultry smile. 
 
He asks no questions and obeys. Those gloves have always been a source 
of much lustful fantasy for me, an unlikely turn-on, maybe, but they’re so 
goddamn foxy. I release a breath and feel it quavering; my whole body, in 
fact, a thrill rising in the center of my chest when the last layer of 
Aragorn’s upper clothing falls away, revealing the toned, perfect skin 
beneath it. The final shirt he lays down with the other layers and his 
swordbelt. 
 
Flashing me a marvelously erotic and lust-filled look, his deft hands move 
down to the waistband of his leggings. 
 
“Stop there,” I order. 
 
He cocks his head to one side. “My prince?” 
 
“That’ll do, Estel,” I nod slowly. “Come here.” 
 
He immediately complies and drops down onto the blanket next to me, 
leaning forward for a kiss. Instead, I set my finger to his lips and push him 
slightly back. When he moves into a thin, milky shaft of moonlight, I view 
his beautiful face in the white light, blue eyes staring out at me from 
deeper, darker shadows, almost like Cheshire entities, existing alone in the 
darkness.  
 
Unable to eradicate this streak of tenderness that thrives within me 
(*sigh*, yet another thing that I need to get under control –– so many 
flaws, so little time), I reach out a trembling hand and press it to Aragorn’s 
face. I move my fingers against the charmingly unshaven expanse and 
through the roguish, mussed hair, barely noticing the eyes that gaze so 
hungrily, so seriously out at me. 
 
“Legolas ...” he breathes. “If I don’t kiss you soon, I’ll die.” 
 
“Hush, my Aragorn,” I smile, my playfulness regaining sway over my 
romantic desperation. 
 
I take both of his hands and guide them to my ankles; he smiles, slipping 
first one boot off, and then the other. Then, giving him no warning, unless 
the spark in my eyes gives me away, I grab his shoulders and roll him 
over. I look down from my position lying on top of him, my hair falling 
over my shoulders and brushing against his skin. I watch as goosebumps 
appear and a wicked curve touches my lips. 
 
I lean ever slowly down –– excruciating deliberation, even for me –– and 
when our lips are almost touching, when he tilts his chin as much as the 
position will allow, I flick out my tounge and lick his lips, relishing the 
sweetness there. Aragorn suddenly lifts his head, hoping to catch me in a 
kiss, but I pull back, grinning at his moan of frustration, his hands 
tightening possessively around my waist. Already, I can feel less than 
softness beneath me. 
 
Lowering myself again, I kiss the tip of his nose, his temple, his closed 
eyelids, and finally his parted lips. My hands explore his chest as I let him 
kiss me however he likes; I feel his gasp when my fingertips brush a 
sensitive pink rosebud. The gasp turns into a guttural moan as I move my 
palms over his nipples in slow, lazy circles. He is immobile, I observe, as I 
plant soft, wet kisses down his jawline to the smooth curve of his neck, 
biting softly at the tender flesh. 
 
The barely audible half-sighs he makes are nearly enough to undo me, but 
I control my emotions and withdraw my hands and lips, sitting back, my 
legs astride his waist. He attempts to sit up, but I lay a hand on his chest 
and push him back. He watches me with impatient, hungry eyes that widen 
as I slip my belt from around my waist. Leaning back down, I lift his arms 
above his head, behind the trunk of the tree and tie them there, holding 
him in place. 
 
“Legolas ...” he breathes, obviously not too uncomfortable. “Oh Elbereth, 
Legolas, what –– what are you ––” 
 
“Shh now, vana,” I soothe, whispering softly into the curve of his ear and, 
inspired by his reaction to this, bite with playful gentleness at the rim. 
“Just relax for me.” 
 
His pink crescent mouth parts and heavy, sweet breath spills from it, 
carrying an intoxicating, throaty half-sigh. My lips shift down the curve of 
his jaw to his neck where my tongue slips over the skin that smells like 
warm leather and tastes magnificent, like he just came back from the sun. I 
draw my fingertips slowly down his chest, straying to the edges that 
almost tickle him, but only increase his fast breathing and the now fully 
grown hardness pressing into my thigh. I suck tenderly with my lips at the 
base of his neck. 
 
“Damn you ...” he groans. 
 
I laugh against his skin, not slowing, but neither speeding up, relishing the 
impatient noises he makes and the thought that I must be torturing him. 
When I move down past his collarbone with painstaking leisure toward 
more interesting areas, I feel him shift against his restraints, trying to get 
closer and touch more. 
 
“Be still, Elessar,” I snicker malevolently. 
 
“I can’t,” he pants. “Legolas, I can barely breathe, I can barely ... see ...” 
 
Deciding to favor him, I close my lips around a firm nipple, circling it 
with my tongue, then sucking and eliciting an unabashed cry. I softly press 
my teeth into the tense skin and he shifts again, into my lips and hands. 
Holding his waist and pushing it slightly into the ground, I withdraw my 
lips and blow on his skin. He shudders and I brush my lips against him 
once more, before sliding down, my lips level with the entrance to his 
leggings where a very noticeable swelling protrudes. I lay my head on the 
inside of his thigh and speak against a very sensitive part of him. 
 
“You’re awfully tense, even for a Ranger,” I say, smiling as he moans. 
“Well that’s no good, what if something ––” I press forward, exerting 
more pressure where he needs it the most. “––unpleasant should happen?” 
 
“All the servants of darkness could come forth now, my prince,” Aragorn 
growls through clenched teeth. “And if you were still where you are now, 
I would not move.” 
 
“Mmm,” I slide forward. “That makes me very––” I kiss low on his 
stomach. “––very happy to hear, my beautiful one. Tell me what you feel 
like, Estel.” 
 
“Like a set bow string,” he says tersely, straining against the belt. “Please 
touch me now.” 
 
“Oh honey, you’d better relax or you’ll hurt yourself,” I smile. “I’ll do it if 
you beg me.” 
 
He shoots me a very serious and desperate look. 
 
“I would beg no one but you, my heart,” he says. “And if I can’t feel you 
soon, I shall be a man no longer.” 
 
“What will you be?” 
 
“A very tense and unhappy pile of ashes,” he responds. 
 
I chuckle and raise a thoughtful eyebrow, nodding as if this settles it, then 
tuck my fingers beneath the waistband of his leggings. At this, I can feel 
every muscle in his body tense up, bracing himself for my next move and I 
do not disappoint. Slowly, I pull his leggings down, unveiling his tense 
arousal and for a moment, my breath is gone, looking at him. Every inch 
of him is more beautiful than the one before.  
 
I toss the leggings aside, then lean down and press my lips to the inside of 
a feverishly warm thigh. He starts, a soft whimper issuing forth and I grin, 
sliding my lips and tongue further up. His chest heaves, knees drawing up 
more, back arching to meet my deliberate kisses. Finally, my lips meet the 
curve that they’d been seeking and I sit back, trailing my light fingers up 
the length of him. I use only so much of my hand at a time, teasing soft 
gasps and moans from his curved lips and never taking my eyes from his 
face. His eyes are closed, sometimes opening only to look up at the sky 
and trees above, unseeing. 
 
Sensing his need for me to go faster, I take my hand away from him, 
watching his expression carefully. It is almost too much the way that he 
jumps, feeling the sudden pressure of my mouth on him and he shudders 
violently, suppressing a wail that threatens to rise. Meaning to steal his 
breath, I go further, as far as I can, without delay. I am rewarded with his 
helpless, desirous moans and the feeling of his body pitching against mine. 
 
I set my hands low on his waist, guiding him, curling my tongue around 
his arousal. His hands pull futilely at his constraints. Just when I feel that 
he’s nearing the edge –– a tale told plainly by his even more rapid breath 
and the bracing tenseness that starts at the base of his stomach –– I 
withdraw my lips and feel his body go fairly slack as a frustrated sigh 
escapes him. I press a final kiss to the end of his erection. 
 
“N-no ...” he protests weakly. “Legolas, please, you... you’ll kill me ...” 
 
“Hush, love,” I whisper, moving forward to kiss his lips briefly. “Don’t 
worry.” 
 
Following this, I plant my hands on the ground and push myself from 
Aragorn into a kneeling position, then stand. I look down at his wide, 
frightened eyes as he lies immobile and briefly consider leaving him there, 
finally teaching him that lesson that he so richly deserves, but I watch him 
–– so sweet, so vulnerable, so beautiful –– and I can’t leave. 
 
I turn and remove a pouch that hangs from my side, taking from it a small 
glass bottle. Glancing back over my shoulder, I snicker softly at his wide, 
urgent eyes. Keeping the phial out of sight, my fingers fly to the fastenings 
on my shirt, making brief work of them and slipping the fabric from my 
shoulders. Aragorn sucks in a breath. 
 
Taking my time, I discard the rest of my clothes, drinking in the 
expressions that play on the Ranger’s face as I do so. Finally, I allow the 
small bottle to be seen, glinting mischievously in the moonlight. At the 
sight of this, Aragorn’s mouth drops open and he stares at me –– all of me 
–– with wonder. I advance with careful, liquid movements, staring him 
down and adoring his whole-body tremor. 
 
Again I place myself on top of him, my excitement urging, and kiss him 
quickly. I’ve leaned forward, bringing our arousals into contact, a feeling 
that makes him groan against me and I feel a warm wave wash over me. 
He tastes me hungrily, leaning forward for a deeper kiss, but I push him 
back and slip from his lap onto the blanket beneath us. 
 
My hands slide down his waist to his thighs which I slowly and carefully 
pry open. Aragorn calls my name through heavy breath as if it is a spell. 
The bottle that I had set on the ground is cool in my hands but the clear 
liquid that smells deliciously of lavender is warm as I spill some of it onto 
my palm. I work it into my hands, then lean back down onto Aragorn, 
slipping a finger inside his body. His back arches and I hear a desperate 
breath catch in his throat. I place my free hand on the back of his neck and 
kiss him softly as I add a second and then a third finger, feeling the 
vibrations of a shudder as his whole body shakes. 
 
I withdraw my fingers and coat my own arousal with the lavender scented 
oil. Placing my hand on his shoulder, the other still holding the back of his 
neck and tangling itself in the dark hair flowing over it, I lean in to 
whisper at Aragorn’s ear. 
 
“All right?” I ask tenderly, kissing his ear, his temple, his high cheekbones 
and trying to stop his shivering, hoping he’s alright. 
 
“Yes ...” he murmurs, nuzzling into me. “Please, Legolas ...” 
 
I slide the tip of my erection into him, my vision blurring as the warmth 
and the tightness crash over me. He cries out, his whole body tensing and I 
find that I can barely breathe through the heart-stopping firmness around 
me. 
 
My lips on his cheekbone suddenly taste salt and I lift my eyes to his own 
where a few tears have slipped down. I set my lips to his ear and speak in 
a soft, rapid voice, switching back and forth from Elvish to the Common 
Tongue. 
 
“Cait-dìn, meleth-nin,” I breathe. “Lie still, my love, relax ...” 
 
His body softens around me and I savor this wash of adrenaline as I slide a 
hand down to his feverish arousal, stroking firmly. I push farther inside, 
finally striking the area that causes him to cry out breathlessly. Fully 
sheathed, I pull out and thrust again, setting a rhythm with both my hips 
and my hand between his legs that gradually quickens with our 
corresponding breath and moans.  
 
He pushes his hips up against mine, and I shout, releasing into him. When 
I am spent, I push a few times more and harden my caresses at Aragorn’s 
need. Only a matter of seconds behind mine, he throws his head back and 
releases an unbidden wail, his body shuddering one last time before 
collapsing entirely. 
 
I fall onto him, no longer able to hold myself up and place my lips at his 
neck, both of us panting softly. 
 
“You can’t be real ...” Aragorn gasps. 
 
I laugh quietly and extract myself from him with care, chuckling again at 
his intake of breath as I do so. I lie next to him and reach up above his 
head to undo the belt holding him to the tree. He lowers his arms, rubbing 
the slight redness at his wrists, then turns his eyes to me and slides an arm 
around my shoulders. I snuggle into the groove in his side, laying my head 
on his chest and reaching out to run my fingers through his hair and over 
his face. He turns his head, pressing his lips to the underside of my wrist 
and he cradles me to him with a comfortable sigh. 
 
“So, sir Ranger,” I say with a touch of wickedness in my smile. “Who do 
you belong to now?” 
 
He turns his head to me, eyes sparkling like the shivering stars above and 
spreads his large hand over my back. 
 
“Only you, Legolas.” 
 
I smirk, raising an eyebrow. 
 
“See? You can be taught.” 
 
I nuzzle my face into his neck, and after a few very comfortable moments, 
I feel and hear his breath drop off into a steady cadence, his eyes closed in 
light sleep. 
 
 
He awakens with a charming flutter of his eyelashes, cooling the world 
instantly the moment his eyes open. He notices that I am no longer in his 
arms and sits up, casting frantically about. I release a light cough and he 
sees me perched in the low branches of the tree next to him, one swinging 
leg completing my languorous pose. He smiles up at me as I take a bite of 
a fruit that he cannot see as it is covered by my long, white fingers. 
 
“What is that?” he nods toward the fruit. 
 
I look at it thoughtfully. “It once was a pear.” 
 
“And what is it now?” 
 
I smile and bite deeply into the soft flesh. 
 
“Your heart.” 
 
 
We dress and head quietly back to camp. Walking into the site, we’re 
startled to find the rest of the fellowship sitting around the popping, 
crackling fire, all uncharacteristically silent. As we pass, we notice the 
hobbits holding back giggles, falling on each other’s shoulders, and Gimli 
and Boromir share a private look. Gandalf sits, the sage overseer, sucking 
on his pipe and chuckling as he pokes at the fire. 
 
“Have a good time, did yeh?” Gimli growls, holding back a snicker and 
staring fixedly at the fire. 
 
“Did we?” I smirk at a blushing Aragorn. 
 
“Ah yes,” he says promptly. “Very good time... scouting terrain and all––” 
 
“That’ll do,” I mutter, holding back laughter. 
 
Aragorn shuts up immediately and pretends to search for something in his 
pack. As he passes by, Boromir flicks his wrist as if snapping an invisible 
whip and says, “Whp-pssh!” 
 
The hobbits dissolve into the silent laughter they’d been suppressing, 
squeezing their eyes shut, shoving their fists in their mouths, and doubling 
over onto one another’s laps. Gimli slips Boromir a discreet high five and 
Gandalf shakes his head with a smile. I wink at them all and pass by 
Aragorn on the way to my bedroll. 
 
“Good night, all,” I smile brightly, then, with a pat on Aragorn’s behind, 
“G’night, baby.” 
 
He snaps his head up to look at me, a timid blush tinting his sculpted 
cheeks. Later that night, he moves his bedroll next to mine. 
 
 
Before I even open my eyes, I feel a presence, a body near mine, watching 
me. Shocked, my immediate thought being “danger!”, my eyes fly open 
and are met with crisp, anxious blue, gazing down at me. I squawk in a 
very ungraceful manner and scramble back, pushing my covers ahead of 
me in my rush. 
 
“Oh! I’m sorry.” Aragorn says. “I didn’t mean to wake you, sweetie.” 
 
I stare at him, panting. At first, I consider yelling at him, until I remember 
that I used to do the very same thing –– I’d lose myself, watching him 
sleep, and lean in as far as I dared, wondering if I had the nerve to try and 
steal a kiss.  
 
Still, when he does it . . . it’s fuckin’ irksome. 
 
I love it. 
 
“You’re fine,” I say, patting his knee. 
 
As I look around, I notice the pink and orange tinge lighting the sky, the 
sun like a lump of orange sherbet on the horizon. Aragorn’s head pops into 
view. 
 
“Get you some breakfast?” he asks. 
 
“No thanks, hon,” I say, beginning to get jumpy. 
 
“Nothing? No coffee?” 
 
“We don’t have any coffee.” 
 
“I could get you some.” 
 
“I’m fine, thanks.” 
 
“You sure? Scone? Blueberry muffin?” 
 
“Beat it, bitch boy,” I growl playfully, beginning to get the idea. “Or 
tonight I’ll give you what for and you won’t be able to sit for a week.” 
 
He squeaks and wavers for a moment, looking at me with a nervous edge. 
 
“Can I give you a kiss?” 
 
I sigh, smiling, and tilt my head up for him. He pecks me quickly on the 
lips and scampers off. 
 
This ain’t so bad. 
 
END