ext_29511 (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
pecos.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fellowshippers2006-05-12 03:17 pm
pecos.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2006-05-12 03:17 pm
A little diversion offered
Sometimes stories come to you with odd prompts, like a smell. That's how this one showed up. I hope that it amuses and entertains, at least a little bit...a Hobbit-sized bit.
*re-edited - my apologies for the typos the first time this was printed. I have no excuse, except that I am a graduate of the American Public School system*
TITLE: What the Hobbit Espied
AUTHOR: Pecos
WEBSITE: http://www.chimerafic.com
RATING: PG13 – inter-species gay sex
WHAT IS IT?: A little FPS
WHO’S IN IT: Members of The Fellowship
FEEDBACK: Remember the golden rule, (please!)
NOTE: Lack of beta reading is not due to
inconsideration for my fair readers, but rather
a constraint of time and place
NOTE 2: Takes place on the trail from Rivendell
DISCLAIMER: I don’t make the toys, I’m only
playing with them. No money made, nor
disrespect intended. This is FICTION
What the Hobbit Espied
Shifting and sighing, Merriadoc Brandybuck rolled over and dug around under his bedroll, trying to locate the rock that had been poking into his hip. There didn’t seem to be anything there. Maybe he’d brushed against something hard on the trail and given himself a color mark. That was likely enough. No matter what the path they took or how easily the looming Men seemed to pass there were always rocks and branches that seemed to snare the halflings. Grunting unhappily, he turned onto his other side and tried to get comfortable again. Pippin was snoring softly at his back. His cousin could sleep through a Dragon attack.
A sharp scent touched Merry’s nose, bringing him back from the brink of slumber. He cracked an eye and studied their camp while trying to identify the vaguely familiar odor. He finally narrowed his attention to the smoldering coals of the fire on the far side of the clearing. Legolas had been over there fletching arrows when everyone had gone down for the night. He had damaged a couple while hunting game and was making extras for Boromir’s quiver. There was a small metal cup filled with special glue that the Elf mixed up from a combination of ingredients composed of stinky plants and offal so thoroughly disgusting that Merry had refused any elaboration.
Of course, Pippin had inquired at length, and kept trying to describe the process to his cousin, always starting his recitation with the word ‘brains!’ This had gone on until Merry had been forced to punch Pippin in the shoulder.
Anyway, Legolas was no longer crouched there, nimble fingers combing feathers and trimming wooden shafts with the tiny knife he carried in his quiver for such delicate operations. The fire had burned down to mere embers, and the pot of glue had obviously cooked dry. That was the disturbing smell that had roused Merry. The young Hobbit sat up, curious about what could draw the Elf away from his post. Pippin shifted and muttered what sounded like ‘brains!’ before thrashing for a moment, then returning to his soft snoring.
Merry counted the mounds of sleepers around the small glen, visible in the light of the partial moon and the brilliant stars. Frodo was near the fire, Sam at his feet, blond head resting on a pack. Boromir must be that enormous shape near the oak, a faint glitter of starlight reflecting on the blade of his enormous sword where it rested at hand. Gandalf was in the dead center of their camp, lying on his back, looking up at the stars. It was hard to tell if he was sleeping or studying the sky. He seemed to find many things of interest up there, day and night. Merry looked over his shoulder to where Aragorn had bedded down. His blankets appeared empty.
Well, there was just no accounting for what the Big Ones did. They could be out patrolling the countryside, or maybe hunting something that moved only in the dark. Merry rummaged around once more, trying to find that invisible stone, but before he could tuck himself back into his blanket his bladder announced that it need attention. ‘Be still, you,’ he mentally instructed the bloated organ. It announced that he was required to empty it, no negotiation allowed.
There was nothing for it. He wasn’t going to be able to wait until morning. The salted meat had made him drink too much water after dinner, and now he was going to have to take care of the residue. He slid out of his covers carefully, not worried about waking Pippin, but trying to save whatever heat he’d produced for his return. Studying the ground more closely than usual, he placed each foot with caution as he snuck out of camp. There was a Hobbit-sized trail through the gorse bushes, and it led him toward a stand of young willows.
The night was cool but not cold, the stars glittering like jewels, and the silence interrupted only by soft noises. He didn’t want anyone to hear the splash of his heated piss, shy despite the fact that even these few weeks into their journey they all knew far more about one another than should be proper. Merry let his feet carry him farther and farther. He finally found a spot near a stand of bigger trees, and unleashed his stream with a soft moan of pleasure. When the last few drops had been shaken free he started to tuck himself away, but he heard another moan, carried on the breeze. Merry froze, fear coursing quickly up his spine.
He calculated how quickly he could run back to camp and raise the alarm. Why had he come so far out into the bush and woods? Gandalf’s strict instructions and Aragorn’s lectures replayed through his mind in a rush. Even Boromir had warned them about staying close; saying that his sword had a limit to its reach, and that he hoped it would always be enough to protect them. Merry hadn’t brought his own little knife – it was back at his bedroll, tucked out of the way of Pippin’s nightly thrashing.
The sound carried again, and Merry strained to hear it. That didn’t seem like an animal’s cry. He finished tucking Little Merry away safe and took a hesitant step, worried that he could draw attention to himself. There would be somewhere to hide amongst the willows. Then he heard a melodic string of words – had to be Elvish – followed by a grunt, and Merry knew that he had to investigate further. His feet seemed to carry him soundlessly down the faint game trail, and he approached a copse of trees, visible as towering shapes blocking out the light of the stars. He crept forward slowly, heart in his throat, until he could espy the scene unfolding at the base of a particularly majestic oak.
Legolas was there, somehow glowing faintly in the dark, his back against the bole of the huge tree. His arms enfolded the trunk behind him, and one leg was wrapped around the sturdy wood, the other planted firmly on a root. Merry strained to make out the shape before the Elf, and realized that it was Aragorn only when the Man spoke again, his voice a faint tumble of lyrical words. There was a shifting, and Aragorn’s motion became obvious. He was kneeling amongst the roots and fallen leaves.
“Enough of your coarse flattery, Dunedin,” Legolas said suddenly, his voice dark and unusually heavy. “You may find a superior use for that clever tongue.”
That was when Merry realized that Legolas’ tunic was missing, and his undershirt of finest silver linen was hiked up around his waist, a thin strip of pale skin shining with a light of its own. Likewise, his leggings were pushed down over slender hips, and his proud cock arched upwards, a glittering spear of impressive need. Merry’s own mouth went dry as he saw Aragorn swallow the offered abundance. Legolas’ head thrashed for a moment against the trunk of the tree.
“Melethron,” the Elf muttered, releasing one hand to cup the Ranger’s head. His voice turned gruff again. “When you are King upon the throne of Men I will bend to you, uthaes nîn. But until then, you warrant only such appeasement as I will grant. A Prince of Mirkwood does not often condone such attention from a commoner, simple Man of the North. Do your best with that bold tongue…yes…suck harder. Mayhaps I will deign to spill my essence in your filthy mouth.” Aragorn groaned aloud, his head moving visibly in an effort to please his demanding lover.
Merry was holding his breath, astonished beyond words. His own cock swelled in his pants, aroused despite his own inclinations and the fear that still lingered in his blood.
Aragorn must have done something clever, because Legolas smiled gloriously. “Le anon veleth nín, Estel.” He stroked the Man’s hair and then gripped his head to thrust deeply into his mouth, cooing. An unsung song seemed to rise on the air. “When you are King…it will be my honor to accept you, Melethron. I will gladly take your sword to my sheath. But for now, I will only let you fuck me with your mouth. Transport me, draw my seed with that busy tongue.”
Why, they were every bit as randy as Hobbits! But somehow this coupling was so much…bigger…so much more impressive. Legolas flexed his hips, and the tunic showed more of his slender waist to the night sky. Merry moaned softly, shocked beyond words.
“And when we are completed, Melethron,” Legolas said, lifting his head, “…when you have pleased me fully, perhaps I’ll let you fuck that curious Hobbit who espies this loving. You could take him with your massive cock, so long and hard and needy.”
Merry squealed, despite himself. He spun and ran back up the trail full-tilt, intent on his bedroll and the safety of their camp and Boromir’s sword. He ran all the way back, feet pounding on the ground even faster than the thudding within his chest.
Aragorn drew his lips from Legolas’s turgid Elfhood, chuckling. “That was just mean of you, lover.”
“Saes…he should not be so far from his bed in the dark. This lesson will last a good long time. Now shut up and suck, lowly Man.”
Aragorn laughed. “As you wish, oh mighty Prince of Mirkwood. If you’re really good maybe I’ll let you bend over me tomorrow night, your majesty.”
“You should be so lucky, filthy Ranger,” Legolas purred, stroking his lover, eyes glittering with admiration and adoration.
*re-edited - my apologies for the typos the first time this was printed. I have no excuse, except that I am a graduate of the American Public School system*
TITLE: What the Hobbit Espied
AUTHOR: Pecos
WEBSITE: http://www.chimerafic.com
RATING: PG13 – inter-species gay sex
WHAT IS IT?: A little FPS
WHO’S IN IT: Members of The Fellowship
FEEDBACK: Remember the golden rule, (please!)
NOTE: Lack of beta reading is not due to
inconsideration for my fair readers, but rather
a constraint of time and place
NOTE 2: Takes place on the trail from Rivendell
DISCLAIMER: I don’t make the toys, I’m only
playing with them. No money made, nor
disrespect intended. This is FICTION
What the Hobbit Espied
Shifting and sighing, Merriadoc Brandybuck rolled over and dug around under his bedroll, trying to locate the rock that had been poking into his hip. There didn’t seem to be anything there. Maybe he’d brushed against something hard on the trail and given himself a color mark. That was likely enough. No matter what the path they took or how easily the looming Men seemed to pass there were always rocks and branches that seemed to snare the halflings. Grunting unhappily, he turned onto his other side and tried to get comfortable again. Pippin was snoring softly at his back. His cousin could sleep through a Dragon attack.
A sharp scent touched Merry’s nose, bringing him back from the brink of slumber. He cracked an eye and studied their camp while trying to identify the vaguely familiar odor. He finally narrowed his attention to the smoldering coals of the fire on the far side of the clearing. Legolas had been over there fletching arrows when everyone had gone down for the night. He had damaged a couple while hunting game and was making extras for Boromir’s quiver. There was a small metal cup filled with special glue that the Elf mixed up from a combination of ingredients composed of stinky plants and offal so thoroughly disgusting that Merry had refused any elaboration.
Of course, Pippin had inquired at length, and kept trying to describe the process to his cousin, always starting his recitation with the word ‘brains!’ This had gone on until Merry had been forced to punch Pippin in the shoulder.
Anyway, Legolas was no longer crouched there, nimble fingers combing feathers and trimming wooden shafts with the tiny knife he carried in his quiver for such delicate operations. The fire had burned down to mere embers, and the pot of glue had obviously cooked dry. That was the disturbing smell that had roused Merry. The young Hobbit sat up, curious about what could draw the Elf away from his post. Pippin shifted and muttered what sounded like ‘brains!’ before thrashing for a moment, then returning to his soft snoring.
Merry counted the mounds of sleepers around the small glen, visible in the light of the partial moon and the brilliant stars. Frodo was near the fire, Sam at his feet, blond head resting on a pack. Boromir must be that enormous shape near the oak, a faint glitter of starlight reflecting on the blade of his enormous sword where it rested at hand. Gandalf was in the dead center of their camp, lying on his back, looking up at the stars. It was hard to tell if he was sleeping or studying the sky. He seemed to find many things of interest up there, day and night. Merry looked over his shoulder to where Aragorn had bedded down. His blankets appeared empty.
Well, there was just no accounting for what the Big Ones did. They could be out patrolling the countryside, or maybe hunting something that moved only in the dark. Merry rummaged around once more, trying to find that invisible stone, but before he could tuck himself back into his blanket his bladder announced that it need attention. ‘Be still, you,’ he mentally instructed the bloated organ. It announced that he was required to empty it, no negotiation allowed.
There was nothing for it. He wasn’t going to be able to wait until morning. The salted meat had made him drink too much water after dinner, and now he was going to have to take care of the residue. He slid out of his covers carefully, not worried about waking Pippin, but trying to save whatever heat he’d produced for his return. Studying the ground more closely than usual, he placed each foot with caution as he snuck out of camp. There was a Hobbit-sized trail through the gorse bushes, and it led him toward a stand of young willows.
The night was cool but not cold, the stars glittering like jewels, and the silence interrupted only by soft noises. He didn’t want anyone to hear the splash of his heated piss, shy despite the fact that even these few weeks into their journey they all knew far more about one another than should be proper. Merry let his feet carry him farther and farther. He finally found a spot near a stand of bigger trees, and unleashed his stream with a soft moan of pleasure. When the last few drops had been shaken free he started to tuck himself away, but he heard another moan, carried on the breeze. Merry froze, fear coursing quickly up his spine.
He calculated how quickly he could run back to camp and raise the alarm. Why had he come so far out into the bush and woods? Gandalf’s strict instructions and Aragorn’s lectures replayed through his mind in a rush. Even Boromir had warned them about staying close; saying that his sword had a limit to its reach, and that he hoped it would always be enough to protect them. Merry hadn’t brought his own little knife – it was back at his bedroll, tucked out of the way of Pippin’s nightly thrashing.
The sound carried again, and Merry strained to hear it. That didn’t seem like an animal’s cry. He finished tucking Little Merry away safe and took a hesitant step, worried that he could draw attention to himself. There would be somewhere to hide amongst the willows. Then he heard a melodic string of words – had to be Elvish – followed by a grunt, and Merry knew that he had to investigate further. His feet seemed to carry him soundlessly down the faint game trail, and he approached a copse of trees, visible as towering shapes blocking out the light of the stars. He crept forward slowly, heart in his throat, until he could espy the scene unfolding at the base of a particularly majestic oak.
Legolas was there, somehow glowing faintly in the dark, his back against the bole of the huge tree. His arms enfolded the trunk behind him, and one leg was wrapped around the sturdy wood, the other planted firmly on a root. Merry strained to make out the shape before the Elf, and realized that it was Aragorn only when the Man spoke again, his voice a faint tumble of lyrical words. There was a shifting, and Aragorn’s motion became obvious. He was kneeling amongst the roots and fallen leaves.
“Enough of your coarse flattery, Dunedin,” Legolas said suddenly, his voice dark and unusually heavy. “You may find a superior use for that clever tongue.”
That was when Merry realized that Legolas’ tunic was missing, and his undershirt of finest silver linen was hiked up around his waist, a thin strip of pale skin shining with a light of its own. Likewise, his leggings were pushed down over slender hips, and his proud cock arched upwards, a glittering spear of impressive need. Merry’s own mouth went dry as he saw Aragorn swallow the offered abundance. Legolas’ head thrashed for a moment against the trunk of the tree.
“Melethron,” the Elf muttered, releasing one hand to cup the Ranger’s head. His voice turned gruff again. “When you are King upon the throne of Men I will bend to you, uthaes nîn. But until then, you warrant only such appeasement as I will grant. A Prince of Mirkwood does not often condone such attention from a commoner, simple Man of the North. Do your best with that bold tongue…yes…suck harder. Mayhaps I will deign to spill my essence in your filthy mouth.” Aragorn groaned aloud, his head moving visibly in an effort to please his demanding lover.
Merry was holding his breath, astonished beyond words. His own cock swelled in his pants, aroused despite his own inclinations and the fear that still lingered in his blood.
Aragorn must have done something clever, because Legolas smiled gloriously. “Le anon veleth nín, Estel.” He stroked the Man’s hair and then gripped his head to thrust deeply into his mouth, cooing. An unsung song seemed to rise on the air. “When you are King…it will be my honor to accept you, Melethron. I will gladly take your sword to my sheath. But for now, I will only let you fuck me with your mouth. Transport me, draw my seed with that busy tongue.”
Why, they were every bit as randy as Hobbits! But somehow this coupling was so much…bigger…so much more impressive. Legolas flexed his hips, and the tunic showed more of his slender waist to the night sky. Merry moaned softly, shocked beyond words.
“And when we are completed, Melethron,” Legolas said, lifting his head, “…when you have pleased me fully, perhaps I’ll let you fuck that curious Hobbit who espies this loving. You could take him with your massive cock, so long and hard and needy.”
Merry squealed, despite himself. He spun and ran back up the trail full-tilt, intent on his bedroll and the safety of their camp and Boromir’s sword. He ran all the way back, feet pounding on the ground even faster than the thudding within his chest.
Aragorn drew his lips from Legolas’s turgid Elfhood, chuckling. “That was just mean of you, lover.”
“Saes…he should not be so far from his bed in the dark. This lesson will last a good long time. Now shut up and suck, lowly Man.”
Aragorn laughed. “As you wish, oh mighty Prince of Mirkwood. If you’re really good maybe I’ll let you bend over me tomorrow night, your majesty.”
“You should be so lucky, filthy Ranger,” Legolas purred, stroking his lover, eyes glittering with admiration and adoration.
no subject
Thank you for your kind comment!
no subject
Thanks for a wonderful laugh to start the day!
no subject