A/N: this was inspired by the story "No More Masquerades" by author Triskell. It's an amazing story, amazing author, go ahead and check it out! But yeah... don't ask where the fuck I've been. Shit went down. Enjoy!

-YY

Legolas is a shame to his race. He had many obligations as a prince, so of course it would be easier for him to be a shame to his people, but I believe he has gone further. He is a shame and embarrassment to all elves, from Rivendell, to Mirkwood, to the everlasting lands.
Firstly, he puts shame to his race with his mouth.
That mouth could twist with mischievous smirks, flirtatiously curl, and let slip some of the most vile of things. He would tease, lightly at first, and I would begin to think he was playful. But he would always leave me standing, yet sliced to ribbons, angry and craving him. And he, always dancing just out of reach. He taunts, laughs, and only when I lunge and cry out in frustration will he satiate me.
And the way that mouth can work over a man, that would put any good parents to shame. The way he could tease, bring a man close to the edge of pleasure, them shove him roughly under his own control, scraping and biting and gnawing. There is a little bit of Heaven and a little bit of Hell past those perked, rounded lips.
When I had pictures us coupling, he had been pure, whispering little pleas, slipping from the common tongue to Elvish. But that was wrong. He ground himself into me, pulled at me, tugged, clawing at me with those monstrous nails. Some gashes took days to fade. He would growl out the most obscene curses and filth, and always in the common tongue, to make sure I understood.
Secondly, he puts his race to shame with his violence.
He will throw me onto a bed, slam me against walls, cram me into side closets for secret, wild sex. Sometimes what this elf does is appalling. When he is atop me he will almost surely bleed from the way he manhandles my manhood inside himself. He thrusts like mad, careening wildly, pulling my hair, stabbing me with his nails.
But it is not just sex in which I am manhandled. Once, I was reading a book, tucked away in the library, when he slunk in. I did not have time to look up before he had marched over to me and grasped about four hairs from my beard, ripping them out at the root. "Ow!" I screamed, roaring to my feet. "You mad elf! Why would you do that?" He held them up to the light, examining them closely. He then discarded them.
"They would have turned grey," he told me coldly, before turning smartly and marching out. I rubbed my chin. I was not nearly close to graying, but what would an elf know about that? Especially one as insane as this one?
But finally, the third shame he gives to his race is in his tenderness.
It is not often, but he can be sweet. When we are finally in the privacy of a bedroom, with no expectations for days on end save slow, savory love making, it is then I can find him loving. He would run a thin hand through my hair, caressing my beard instead of pulling. Kisses are rained down on all my skin, sensually, everywhere: neck, chest, all down my legs, back, face, and feet. His hands are delicate at these times, and he seems fragile. I have the power to break him, I could crush his limbs, his spine, his neck even just with my bare hands. And we are both rushing toward his ultimate demise: my own death. Despite having given up his immortality he will outlive me by a great amount of time. And that is what truly shames his people: he is no longer an elf, now he has given me the power to break him. Now that I must use that power, without my choice, because within my chest beats a sturdy drwarf's heart, while in his is the beating of a hummingbird's wings, a young flush of love that will take it from him.
And that is a shame I will always carry with me.