keelywolfe: (Bad boy!)
Title: My Place Forsaken
By Keelywolfe
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Aragorn (Thorongil) /Denethor

Important Background Information: In the appendixes we are told that about forty years before the events of ‘Fellowship’, Aragorn was in Gondor, serving the Steward there under a false name. They also tell us that the Steward’s son, Denethor, does not like Aragorn, and is jealous of his closeness to his father. After staying in Gondor for many years, Aragorn, known there as Thorongil, goes to battle in Umbar, and afterward refuses to return to Minas Tirith, saying only that he has other things he needs to do before he can come back.

Summary: The day before leaving for Umbar, Aragorn is readying himself for the coming battle, only to discover that not everyone is eager for his safe return.

EDIT: I forgot to say, that without the help of my slashy soulmate, Cara, this story would have never happened. She prodded me and helped me the entire way, and gave me ideas when I got stuck. I owe it to her for finishing this.


WARNINGS: Non-consensual BDSM, Rape, Violence. Lots of all of these things. If that is not your cup of java, then back to Starbucks you should go!

Read more... )
keelywolfe: (Default)
I started writing this story ages ago and it stalled, terribly, and I set it aside, figuring I'd figure out was wrong eventually. Well, I never did, but cara_chapel did, so I actually worked on it for a while.

This is the first bit. It's not finished by a long shot, but hey, there is sex so I thought I'd share.

See, sithdragn, I told you I'd get to it! *G*

Pairing: Legolas/Boromir/Aragorn

Read more... )
keelywolfe: (Default)
Title: Scent of a Dwarf
By Keelywolfe (
Author's webpage:
Rating: R
Archive: Sure.

Summary: Even Elves can get bored from time to time.

Disclaimer: Are you kidding? Not only do I not own them, I think Tolkien is going to come to my house and haunt me for this one.

Author's notes: Written for May! The Merry Month of Masturbation!


Seated comfortably on an outstretched tree limb, Legolas toyed idly with a buckle on his tunic as he settled in for his nighttime watch. Needing little rest in comparison to the others, he gladly stood watch over them as they slept, enjoying the brief solitude it offered.

Leastwise he usually enjoyed it. This night seemed to provide little for him but melancholy. Too cloudy for gazing at the stars and even if he could without waking the others he felt no urge to raise his voice in song.

No, it was not solely the fault of the night, he decided. His restiveness had deeper roots, twined into their quest and feeding off his own growing unrest.

For all that this was a noble and purposeful quest it was also terribly dull, with little to occupy the mind. Legolas was accustomed to a certain amount of travel but always before the purpose had come quickly, whether it was to purge some place of the presence of orcs or to play ambassador for his father. Journeying for weeks on end, with little hope of a conclusion in sight was wearying to him.

A sound came from the direction of the camp and his hand reached for an arrow automatically before Legolas recognized it as a nothing more than a tired murmur from one of the sleepers. It was both irritating and amusing to note that out of the entire group, only Aragorn stirred at the sound and even he did not wake.

He'd often considered that being a Man must be like living with a burlap sack tied over your head, hardly able to see or hear at all. But perhaps that was too harsh a thought. Surely if Legolas had not been standing watch they would have slept lighter and he knew that all of the Company was weary from so much unaccustomed traveling, the Hobbits especially. The subtle arrogance that often seemed so common amongst his people where Men were concerned exasperated him to no end; the very fact that they saw themselves as superior to Men made their opinions suspect.

Legolas was beginning to find them fascinating, and not only the Men, but the Hobbits and the Dwarf as well. Never before had Legolas found himself with companions such as these, and with nothing else to engage his thoughts, he had taken to studying his companions; their habits, their words and their silences, and just lately, more for Legolas' amusement than any true study, their scents. It was a game of sorts he'd invented to entertain himself.

Beneath sweat and the accumulated filth, inevitable on such a long journey but still bothersome to Legolas, each person had a distinctive scent. It interested him because this was something that Elves lacked. All Elves scented alike, even Elrond whose blood was mingled with that of Men. Legolas had not so often spend time in the company of others that he realized it was not the same with all species; that their scent might change by the day or a meal, yet still held an underlying thread that remained constant.

Interestingly, all the hobbits had a certain similarity in their scent, somehow sweet and fresh like new mown hay. Curious that it would be so with Hobbits, because the same could not be so for Men; Boromir was nothing like Aragorn, his odor an almost uncomfortable one, reminiscent of soured milk and several times Legolas had had to distance himself from the Man, as it seemed very strong on occasion and was not affected by bathing.

Or perhaps that was how all other men scented? Aragorn was not purely of the blood of Men, and underneath the layered smells of travel, there was still a note of warmth, of purity, unsullied by the dark paths he knew Aragorn had been forced to tread at times.

Gandolf, on the other hand, scented most unusually, the sharp scent like that one carried in the air in the moment just before lightening struck and to concentrate on it too long made the head swim.

Yet for all the unusualness of the others, it was Gimli's scent that intrigued him the most. He'd noticed it when they first met, something earthy, as rich and heavy as the mountains he surely came from, and yet, also oddly familiar to him, in a way he could not place.

On nights such as these, it picked irritably at the back of his mind, and he worried at it like he might a ragged fingernail. He had lived many long years, it was true, but his memory was a clear as the air in early dawn. That he could not recognize this one thing was quite aggrieving.

The forest around him was alive with the sounds of nighttime, and even far in the distance there was no indication of a threat. With boredom looming ever closer, Legolas finally gave into his whim to consider the matter again.

Shifting his feet silently on the rough bark to settle himself more comfortably, Legolas closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, holding his breathe a moment before releasing it, relaxing as he sifted through all the humors of the night air to focus on that one scent.

Pipe smoke, sweat, yes, but something else as well, something he knew, warm and thick, rich as the cloth his mother's ladies wove during the winter months and almost as tangible, as if he could wrap himself in the comfortable heaviness of Gimli's essence, bury his face into the coarse hair of Gimli's beard, feel it chafe enticingly against his own bare cheeks, against his chest and perhaps lower, perhaps against the aching flesh between his legs, rough and yet not so, rubbing until Legolas was giddy with the delight of it, until the ache would rise up and consume him, heating him as he shuddered his way through need into joy...

Legolas blinked, the half-dream fading away and he was disturbed to find that dawn had come while he'd drowsed, tinting the dark clouds gray.

More disturbing was the uncomfortable state of his trousers and the fact that his hand seemed to have wandered inside them without his permission.

Pulling his hand free, he shifted somewhat awkwardly into a better position before he fell from the tree and made the situation that much worse. His hand was wet with damning evidence and he wiped it on a rag he kept for cleaning arrowheads, and he was silently grateful that the length of his tunic would conceal any other stains.

It was better that they weren't traveling with other Elves, he noted wryly, because he would be the one scenting strangely on this day, and he well knew that no Elf would be able to resist a playful comment or two. He doubted he would be able to explain trance-induced masturbation about a dwarf to any of the Elves in his acquaintance, no matter how fascinating it had been...


Legolas focused on Gimli's blankets, frowning thoughtfully as he studied the sleeping dwarf. How very interesting, that he scented like a memory of lovemaking, or perhaps not because Legolas could not truly recall such a memory at any time in his long life. A memory wishing to be made, then?

He considered that for some time, until the others began to stir, moving into wakefulness to resume their uncertain journey.

Laughed softly at his own dilemma, Legolas leapt down to join them, ruefully grateful they had slept long enough to give his leggings a chance to dry. Gimli was grumbling under his breath as was his wont at this hour of the day, to low for anyone but Legolas to hear him, and for the first time Legolas decided to actually listen. Perhaps there was something interesting to do on this journey after all.

keelywolfe: (Default)

Dwarves mate for life.

In all the legend and tales I have heard from my people concerning
dwarves, it is this one thing that I can be certain is true. Dwarves
take a mate but once in their lifetime, and never again. Should their
one chosen mate die then they will spend the rest of their lives alone
with only their grief as companion.

Or so my people say.

I find myself wondering, in the odd moments left free to me, few as
they are. I find myself wanting to ask. Not about whether there is
truth in what they say; of that I have little doubt. Dwarves are
hoarders by their very nature, of jewels and gold, of precious and
petty things alike. It seems likely to me that they would hold their
emotions tightly as well, doling them out but once, for good or not.

No, it is about you that I wonder and I find that for all my courage
gained over the years of my life, I am terrified to ask this one thing.

Taking a mate for life. Perhaps the idea is not so daunting to you, to
spend a mere mortal lifetime with only one ever touching you. It is not
something that my people would even consider. It's unnatural, they
would say, to shun what gifts can be created with nothing but the skin
and touch of another. Unnatural.

I'm forced to wonder if you have ever touched, or been touched. Do
dwarves ever lose themselves within the body of another, their minds
knowing nothing but sweat and sensation, two bodies twined together for
no other reason than lust and need? Is their lovemaking only for
reasons of procreation, holding nothing of the word 'love' within it?
Only a rough coupling with little pleasure and no words shared between?

Have you wasted your one opportunity for something such as that?

I find that I am furious at the very thought. Furious enough to push my
way past my doubts and ask the one question to which I fear the answer.

And you told me no.

That you had all but given up hope at finding one to whom you should
belong, and to hear such words from you. Not, one to mate, or even one
to love, but to whom you should belong.

My people view lovemaking as a gift, and so too, it seems, do your
people, if a gift of a different type.

A gift.

Dwarves mate for life, and so shall too, I believe, at least one elf.


Hmm. Well, honestly, I think this kind of sucks. Maybe I'll like it better when I get back from work. We'll see.
keelywolfe: (Default)
Untying Knots
By Keelywolfe


This ficlet is for Pluto, who persuaded me with art, and Cara, who persuaded me with words. (I was going to say 'hands' and 'lips' but this is rated PG.) *G*

This was written at the sweet request of the ladies listed above, and was written for and about the very, very lovely picture found HERE, done, again, by the lovely Pluto.

Again, all mistakes are my own fault, and if anything is wrong to the point it drives you buggy, let me know and I'll fix it.

Set whilst the Fellowship was hanging out in Lothlórien.

Speak, friend, and enter...and enjoy. ^_~


Elves were rumored in fable and legend to be creatures of fanatical cleanliness, whether it be in a jest or woven into the lyrical words of a love ballad, it was, to say the least, made note of.

Even so, both Boromir and Gimli had reacted with disbelief at learning the bathing habits of the Elves, though in deference to their hosts, both had made an effort to wash daily, despite both their grumblings that such matters would sicken them with plague, and that they hadn't an Elf's fortune of avoiding illness.

It was after one of these daily bathes that Legolas found Gimli in one of the many dressing rooms off from the private bathhouse the Company had been provided with. Already dressed, although to the keen eyes of an Elf it was obvious that he hadn't dried himself perhaps as well as he could have as his tunic was clinging slightly to still damp skin.

Gimli was raking a comb through his hair, binding the tangles and knots ever tighter into the heavy length and swearing most creatively as he went. Leaning against the doorframe, Legolas watched him silently, stifling his amusement and he would have sworn by light and leaf that those curses alone could have felled a full-grown Orc in the midst of battle.

"If you are trying to knot your hair into a mass of tangles," Legolas said finally, "then you are doing it nicely. If that is how you always comb your hair then I should think it would be nothing but a mass of knots and snarls, a soft nest just waiting to make a home for a rat."

Gimli stiffened visibly as he whirled to see his unexpected visitor. "Just because Dwarves don't see the need to bathe every time we wipe our arse doesn't meant that..." he began, but a soft laugh from Legolas halted his angry flow of words.

"Must you take insult to any words that pass my lips?" Legolas teased softly. He sighed as the frown remained stubbornly on Gimli's lips. "My pardon, then. I meant no insult."

He waited, patience that came with centuries of living holding him easily, and finally a rueful smile came to Gimli's lips. "And my pardon as well, if I seem to quickly to take offense."

Legolas grinned cheerily. "Here, then, if friends we are made once again, then let me help." He squeezed into the small space between Gimli and the wall, nearly sitting on the small ledge as he bracing himself with a foot against wall.

He felt the dwarf stiffen, and Gimli began to turn towards him, certainly to send a frown his way and so Legolas instead plucked the comb neatly from Gimli's fingers and set to work on the task in front of him. Gimli seemed uncomfortable and tense, and Legolas wondered if he wouldn't push away, blustering and angrier than before, but after a moment he seemed to relax, and accept the gentle touch of a comb held by an Elf's hand in his hair.

And such hair it seemed to Legolas! Not so fine as his own, but neither was it as coarse as some would believe, heavy and thick, like the winter coat worn by a bear, perhaps, and Legolas smiled to himself at his fanciful thoughts. Like a bear was Gimli, yes, burly and strong, his clumsy appearance belied by the truth in the grace Legolas had seen in him, time and again, with his own eyes.

His own people would scoff at the very idea of finding anything like grace within a dwarf, and his amusement dimmed, his thoughts turning inward until Gimli shifted restlessly against him and woke him from his reverie.

Murmuring an apology, Legolas deftly coaxed the tangles from Gimli's unruly locks until his hair hung smooth, still slightly damp against Legolas' fingertips and he hesitated a moment, then quickly twisted a braid into the hair just over Gimli's ear, small and neat, though not as elaborate as his own.

"There! I dare say that you are the prettiest dwarf ever to walk the paths of Lothlórien," he said lightly, and Gimli snorted, walking over to his satchel to fetch a small, polished mirror. He studied his reflection critically before nodding slowly.

"Aye, and the only one as well," Gimli replied finally with a snort. "Ah, but what is this?" He fingered the braid, peering at it warily before he at last let it drop with a shrug. "More elfish charms, I'm sure..." he said gruffly. "Much more time in this fair company and I should be dancing naked beneath the moon ere we depart. Elves seem to be able to charm others into many interesting things."

The Elf only smiled innocently, flicking the small braid with a fingertip and Gimli snorted again, going to seek his breakfast out before it came time for lunch. Legolas watched him go, and sadness touched his smile.

"Ah, but if Elves have such charms," he murmured, "Then tell me how I am to charm you into believing an Elf could love a Dwarf, though the Dwarf be smitten with another."

He wondered what the other elves would make of a love knot tied into the hair of a dwarf, and he shook the thought away, knowing that they would say nothing to Gimli. At least he would be able to look at it, for a short time, and pretend it was worn proudly, and when Gimli looked at him again, Legolas could pretend, just briefly, within the walls of Lothlórien, that it was with love.



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August 2013

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