Disclaimer: The lovely twosome belong to Tolkien not me, and what I do with them is merely a result of my warped imagination.

AN 1: Not sure when this fic should be set; after the Fellowship of the Ring. Possibly sometime in Rohan, before Helm's Deep. AN 2: THIS IS SLASH.


He lies as still as death. It's unnerving. I'm almost afraid to touch him. But I want to touch him. I have to touch him. I need to.

His eyes are open and it's like he's staring right at me but I know he can't see me. I've learned how to watch for the way his eyes slip out of focus when he drifts into sleep. I'd love to see him in a deep sleep, with his eyes closed. He'd look beautiful then. Like this he looks strange. Still beautiful but a little eerie.

He's lying on his front with his head resting on his arm. He must be hot because he's kicked the covers off himself. Why does he have to be naked? Why does he have to be in the same bed as me? Not that I would mind either if he were *with* me, but like this it just makes things so. so. tempting! Impossible!

He looks amazing in the moonlight. It makes his hair look like silver. And his skin looks like porcelain. He doesn't look real to me. I cannot help but run my eyes over his body in silent worship. The muscles in his shoulders tense as he shifts. The light picks up every vertebra in his spine. Strange scars trace a criss-cross pattern down his back. They look old. I wonder how he got them. I'd never noticed them before. He's still got the covers tangled around his legs but not so much that I can't see the backs of strong thighs. I long to touch him, but I can't! I know I must not! But my hand reaches to rest on his hip before I can stop it.

I feel him tense. I panic for a second that he's going to wake up but he just mumbles softly and turns over on to his side. Now he's lying right up tight against my body. It's a very good job that he's asleep, otherwise he'd feel something hard poking into his side.

I feel so ashamed at myself for letting my body react in such an undisciplined way. At my age! But there is nothing I can do. I can only be thankful that he has not awoken.

His arm slides around my shoulders and he pulls me closer to him. He's muttering something. something in Elvish. How I wish I knew the language! I can feel his breath against my face with every word, and the movement of his lips against mine. I have to hold my breath to stop myself acting on instinct and kissing him. I can feel his mouth on mine. His lips are warm and firm and moist and I want to kiss them! Then he catches my lower lip gently between his teeth and mutters again. In the common tongue.

"Kiss me."

I cannot believe my ears. He actually wants me to kiss him! But then I quickly remind myself that he is dreaming. He knows not who I am. If he did, he would just laugh at me. I am a fool for letting my heart act in such a way. I don't think it has been known for any Dwarf to become soft with emotion over an Elf, but I seem to have no say in the matter. I have fallen in love with him. I never thought it was possible to love someone, and want someone, so much that it physically hurts. I can feel it pulling on my heart more and more day by day. But I cannot stay away from him. Just the sight of his smile and the sound of his voice eases the weight. But when I am away from him it hurts so much. I love him. I must admit it to myself, as I lie alone and awake beside him. I would give anything to kiss him, even if it means taking advantage of him whilst he is dreaming.

I wonder who he is dreaming of. I know it would not be a female, he has already told me that the fairer sex does nothing for him, which is a slight comfort. So who is he dreaming of? Aragorn? One of Elrond's sons? Haldir or one of his brothers? Some elven lover in his homeland of Mirkwood?

"Kiss me," he whispers again, this time with need and hunger in his voice.

I have to swallow to stop my throat drying up at the sound of it. He shifts his body against mine so that his one leg is draped across my hip. I can feel his desire burning into my thigh as his tongue slides insistently across my lips. I open my mouth a little, hardly daring to breathe, and with the softest of whimpers, his tongue enters my mouth. His hand tangles in my hair as he pulls my head closer and kisses me. His kiss is deep and slow, perhaps a little lazy but then again he is sleeping.

For several moments I have not the courage to respond until his hand pulls harder in my hair, forcing me to come closer. I watch his eyes all the time, for any indication that he might be stirring but there's nothing. Assured, I cautiously return his kiss, and in an instant, he pulls me tighter against himself, and jerks against me. He moans as I move my body back against his and I feel his demanding hardness against my leg.

I put my arms around him, sinking one hand into his hair. It feels like strands of silk in my fingers. Days on the road without a proper bath and his hair is still soft. My other hand comes to rest against his shoulder and it isn't long before it moves of it's own accord to brush across his nipple. His muscles are hard beneath my hand. I remember when I first met him I thought he was effeminate, but I can think that no longer. He is strong. Certainly capable of throttling me, and I am sure he would if he were to wake now.

The soft whispers and moans he gives as I tease his nipple with my fingertips are enough to drive me insane. It is almost too much but I have to keep touching him. I have to keep hearing it. After all, this is the only chance I will get.

He turns his head into my neck and I wonder then about his ears. Is there anything special about the points of his ears? Surely they are not there just for pretty decoration. I touch the tip with my hand and he turns his head towards me. As gently as I am able to, I run the tip of my finger down the side of his ear and I feel him shudder. I have to kiss him there.

I check his eyes again but he is still sound asleep.

I suppose he must be able to feel my beard as I kiss him. I hope it does not break whatever spell he is under, or shatter the illusion of his dream lover. Whoever he may be. It is horrible to imagine him with anyone. He should be mine, but I know he never can be and he never will be. He would never love me. Look at him! And look at me.

"Again." he whispers as I remove my mouth from his ear.

He claws at my shoulders and a ragged gasp escapes him as I put my tongue into the point of his ear. He likes that. He grinds against my leg again.

"Touch me."

How can I refuse that plea? Who am I to deny his release? And my own selfish gratification.

I pull back from him a little to allow myself room and slide my hand down his body to grasp his manhood (or 'elfhood'? I cannot help but chuckle as I think that) He's rock hard and I can already feel him dripping with need.

I wish he would touch me back. I need him to. But I will have to make my own release when he is finished.


I think that means 'my love', or something like that. I can hardly bear to touch him then, not knowing that he loves someone, not knowing that he thinks my hand is theirs.

A tear streaks his cheek as two run from my eyes and he thrusts into my hand with a moan of frustration. I cannot deny him. I hope his dreams keep him happy.

He kisses me again as I stroke him. I want to move down and take him in my mouth but I dare not risk it. I would not be able to watch his eyes then. I wonder what he would taste like. Like nectar. Or maybe not. Whatever way, the taste would be bitter for me in the end and it is not worth me imagining what it would be like. I cannot have him. Only for this short moment, while he thinks I am some beautiful Elf; rather than an ugly squat little Dwarf.

I allow myself to drift into my own little trance as I move my hand up and down his swollen flesh. I imagine he is awake, that he returns my feelings, that he is calling my name as he begs me to touch him and kiss him. That he is calling me 'his love'. That he is lying back and keening while I caress every inch of his body before I take him and claim him as mine.

The wetness of sweat soaks his skin, and wetness spills over my hand as he finds his release. And wetness of tears soak my cheeks as I watch him lie back with a small smile on his face. I watch his chest heave in gasps then gradually diminish to a gentle rise and fall. His eyes have fallen shut. He is deeply asleep. He looks so innocent, almost like a child. But I know he is neither.

"I love you," he whispers before he rolls the other way.

If he spoke the words addressed to me, my heart would know the deepest joy, but like this it only feels the cold stab of a blade of sorrow. I wonder of whom he speaks. Though would I really want to know? He speaks in the common tongue, so perhaps it is not an Elf. Maybe Aragorn? Or the dear departed Boromir? Or someone I have never met. Whoever they are, I only hope they could hear his words and feel the joy that I would long to feel.

"I love you," I whisper into the shell of his ear. "I wish you knew."

"I know," he whispers back. "Keep telling me."

And I wish I could. But he is only dreaming. And it is only a dream for me.