It's a game, a game we play with each other in place of doing what we both know cannot be done. I love playing the game, because it's so very sweet. Not the hearts-and-flowers kind of sweet, that's cloying. But the sweetness of impending orgasm, the almost-there, almost-there, almost-there kind of throbbing that sits low in the belly, ripe and ready, waiting to see how far it will go.

It's rare to find someone who likes to play the game as much as I do. I was shocked when it turned out that out of the three, it wasn't Aragorn, nor even Boromir, but Legolas who was able to keep up with me. Aragorn wasn't interested in the least, and Boromir was so far out of my league when the flirting began to get hot and heavy that he actually began to stammer. I turned to the Elf, eyebrow raised in challenge, and he met my sally with one of his own.

I suppose it's naïve of me to be surprised-he's got thousands of years of experience, after all. But his face is so pure, his demeanor so unaffected, that one doesn't expect the rather evil twinkle in his eyes, or the slow catlike curl of his lips when he's contemplating your reaction to his next move.

For my part, I play the game with words instead of actions. Sometimes I'm ribald ("You can nock my arrows any day" I might say, which usually gets the Dwarf and the Hobbits laughing) and sometimes I'm subtle, letting the words spin out like a skein of fine silk. But no matter what the tone, for me, it's always the words.

Each time we play the game, it's a little different. He always keeps me guessing: will he actually kiss me this time, or pull back just an inch away, leaving me breathless, with stars in my eyes? That finger he's running up my arm, will he bring it down to brush my nipple? He did once- just the once-and time stopped. For a moment, there was nothing in the universe but that questing fingertip and the tight sensations it created.

I turn around now and he's there, that smirk on his lips once more, ready to play the game. He watches me, wondering if I'm ready for the next inning. I match his smirk with one of my own, knowing it catches his gaze and spurs him to thoughts of other things I could be doing with my mouth. My eyes are lazy, heavy-lidded, and I know he's thinking if that's how I look after coming but before falling asleep.

Wonderment. Everything we do with this game is about wonderment, about mysteries and the unknown and things that will never be shared. I'll never know the hot touch of his palms running down my belly and thighs, the feel of him inside me the first time he slides inside my body, the expression on his lovely, misleadingly innocent-appearing face as he reaches climax. He'll never know the taste of my skin, or learn what the curls between my legs feel like, or if I really am as good at fellatio as I'm always hinting.

Why can't we be together, you ask? Oh, it's simple, really. I'm not only human, but from another world. Another world, I might add, that needs me desperately, and to which I'm trying just as desperately to return. Just my rotten luck to get sent here, and get caught up (as usual) in the BS this place is enduring.

There's no point in starting something, in losing my heart, when I'll just have to leave again. Besides, a taste of what-could-have-been is always much sweeter than a taste of what-cannot-continue. Painful, yes, but infinitely, eternally sweet.

Then Legolas smiles at me, those enchanting lips curving upwards, mimicking the shape of that damned bow of his. This could have been love, whatever this game is between us, and he recognizes the futility of whatever we may feel as fully as I do. Doesn't make him stop playing, however-no, day after day, closer and closer we come to sending me home, and still he smiles at me, so very, very sweet.