One Brave Hobbit (part 2)
Okay...here's part two. My apologies in advance because it's taking longer than I surmised to get the story well and truly started...and I'm afraid the c part of the h/c in the fic is yet to be had. Please don't let that scare you off. Comfort is coming, I promise. And hopefully it'll be worth waiting for. Frodo's Sam WILL be there for him...as well as sundry other characters... :)
Title: One Brave Hobbit
Author: Anastasia (padawan_ana@yahoo.com)
Homepage: www.slashcity.org/anafic
Live Journal: http://www.livejournal.com/users/ana_stasia/
Pairing: F/A
Rating: PG-13 for most of it, though I’d take the first two parts up to an R for a small part of the content
Status: Incomplete
Category: Angst, h/c, MPREG
Summary: All it takes is one brave Hobbit
Warnings: MPREG, non-con in one small bit early on, though not explicit
Archive: My own site. All others please ask.
Story Notes: This story takes place pre-Fellowship, while the Hobbits are still back in the Shire.
Author Note: Thanks to Caly and Sheltie for reading this through.
One Brave Hobbit (part 2)
The Men took turns driving their raw flesh into Frodo, shouting their pleasure into the darkness. Time after time, they used him, spent themselves, and howled in drunken glee at the ease of the night’s entertainment.
Frodo screamed until his throat was raw and continued to scream until his lungs burned and his chest felt ready to explode. He was living a nightmare, worse than any of Bilbo’s tales of monsters and trolls and dragons.
~*~
When Frodo woke again, it was still dark but the Men were gone. In a panic, he sat up, moaning as a lightning bolt of pain shot through his backside and up to his heart, making it thud against his ribcage. He fell onto his side, panting, his thoughts going in a thousand directions at once.
He hurt so badly he could barely breathe. From what he could see through the eye that was not swollen closed, his clothing was in shreds. How was he going to get back to Bag End? *Could* he get back to Bag End? He could hardly sit up; how was he going to walk?
Slowly, painfully, Frodo rolled to his stomach and pulled himself up on the trunk of the tree behind him. When he got to his knees, he shuddered, feeling something wet and sticky run from inside him down the backs of his thighs. Stomach churning at the thought of what it could be, Frodo retched, emptying his last meal onto the dewy grass.
After a short rest to regain the small bit of strength he had left, Frodo pulled himself to his knees again. Then, inch by inch, step by step at the times when he could manage to stand and walk, Frodo made his way back through the trees, through the cold black of the night.
Hours seemed to pass as Frodo staggered along and struggled to keep moving. He needed to make it back to the house before the sun came up and the Shire awoke. He was already the object of ridicule for many in Hobbiton; to be seen in his current state would be too shameful to bear.
Falling, scraping his hands and knees on the ground, Frodo bit his lip to keep from crying out. He was hot beyond measure; his eyes were burning. What little he had left of his clothing was sweat-drenched and uncomfortable. Clenching his teeth, he fought down the shivers that threatened to tear him to pieces.
As the first light of dawn began to streak across the sky, Frodo crawled the final distance between the trees and Bag End. Thankfully, there was no one about; Sam was apparently sleeping in until sunrise.
Barely able to stand up enough to work the door handle, Frodo managed to do so only with gargantuan effort. Letting out a loud grunt of pain, he threw himself over the threshold, only weakly managing to push the door shut behind him before he collapsed in a sobbing heap on the cool wood of the floor.
~*~
When it seemed there were no tears left, Frodo dragged himself to his feet and stumbled into the bathroom. Lurching drunkenly, he managed to discard his clothing with only a few strangled gasps and shouts that biting his tongue could not stifle.
Undressed, Frodo stood by the wash basin, closing his good eye so that he would not have to stare into the mirror. He did not think he would ever be able to look at himself the same way again. As he reached for the cloth beside the bowl, Frodo caught sight of the bathtub. It was full of water.
Frodo’s brow furrowed. Sam must have drawn him a bath, anticipating he would take one before going to bed the night before. The thought of submerging himself in the cold water made Frodo shiver, but he needed to wash up; he needed to feel clean again. And if Sam came to work and discovered he’d not used the tub, he would be suspicious.
Gingerly, Frodo leaned against the tub, wondering how he was going to manage to get in. Every part of him ached so badly he wanted nothing more than to go to bed and sleep for a fortnight. Swallowing hard, Frodo climbed into the tub, unable to stop the cry that burst from his lips as his raw and bruised backside hit the frigid water.
With Bilbo’s special rose-scented soap, Frodo scrubbed his skin until it was a bright cherry red. Teeth chattering, stomach threatening to bring up anything still left in it, he dunked beneath the icy water over and over, still feeling dirty no matter how many times he lathered and rinsed.
Exhausted beyond measure, Frodo could not seem to make himself leave the tub. He was numb to his very bones, but he was too tired to think of moving. Drifting in and out of a light doze, he startled awake several times, imagining he felt large, sweaty hands running down his sides, over his stomach, between his…
“Mr. Frodo? Are you in there?”
Frodo yelped at the voice on the other side of the bathroom door. In a panic, he braced himself on the side of the tub, hurrying to get out before Sam waltzed in and found him.
The door pushed open a crack. “Sir? Are you okay?” The answering splash and shout nearly had Sam running into the room, regardless of the state of his master.
Frodo coughed and groaned as he slipped and fell back into the water. The way he was going, he’d have Sam in the room in no time, never mind modesty and self-preservation.
“I’m fine, Sam,” Frodo managed as he gritted his teeth and half-climbed, half-fell out of the tub and onto the bath mat.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, Mr. Frodo, but ya don’t sound fine,” Sam said, a hint of uncertainty in his voice. “And yer usually not one for a mornin’ bath…”
“Really, Sam,” Frodo said as he wrapped a large, fluffy towel around himself. “I’m okay. Please don’t worry so.”
There was a pause as Sam seemed to consider Frodo’s truthfulness. “All right then, sir. I’ll go fix us somethin’ for second breakfast; I’m assumin’ you’ve already had firsts.”
Frodo was glad that the bathroom door stood between them, so that Sam would not see the pink blush creeping up his neck and face as his lies were accepted for the truth. As he heard Sam’s footsteps moving away from the door, Frodo sagged against the wall in relief.
He could not tell Sam he hadn’t eaten anything since the night before, and he found he had no appetite whatsoever for whatever Sam was preparing. He knew he wouldn’t be able to keep it down, what with his insides jumping and twisting about as they were; perhaps he could try to eat something a bit later in the day.
Unable to care anymore about whether he was wet or dry, Frodo let the bath towel drop to the floor. Shrugging into his robe, he tried to ignore the bursts of pain shooting through his lower regions. He wanted only to get into his bedroom and into bed as quickly as he possibly could. He needed to rest; he could feel his legs beginning to wobble, about to give out, and he couldn’t very well risk Sam finding him unconscious on the bathroom floor.
When he finally made it to his bed, Frodo curled up between the soft cotton sheets and feather comforter, robe and all. Head sunk deep into the downy feather pillow, he gave a shaky sigh.
What a mess he had made of things! Going out so close to nightfall, foolishly falling asleep, allowing himself to be sullied by those two ruffians… It was shameful and he knew he would never live it down, even if no one ever knew about it but himself. And he fully intended for no one to know about it.
Carefully, Frodo pulled his knees up, shifting positions. Every move he made caused his injuries to sting and he could not seem to get comfortable. He was beginning to grow hot again, and thought it odd; just minutes ago he had been shivering, unable to warm up after the chill of the bath water.
With only another moment’s thought regarding the strange feelings he was having and what Sam would think when he came and found Frodo abed, Frodo fell into an uneasy sleep filled with disturbing dreams and nightmares.
~*~
Title: One Brave Hobbit
Author: Anastasia (padawan_ana@yahoo.com)
Homepage: www.slashcity.org/anafic
Live Journal: http://www.livejournal.com/users/ana_stasia/
Pairing: F/A
Rating: PG-13 for most of it, though I’d take the first two parts up to an R for a small part of the content
Status: Incomplete
Category: Angst, h/c, MPREG
Summary: All it takes is one brave Hobbit
Warnings: MPREG, non-con in one small bit early on, though not explicit
Archive: My own site. All others please ask.
Story Notes: This story takes place pre-Fellowship, while the Hobbits are still back in the Shire.
Author Note: Thanks to Caly and Sheltie for reading this through.
One Brave Hobbit (part 2)
The Men took turns driving their raw flesh into Frodo, shouting their pleasure into the darkness. Time after time, they used him, spent themselves, and howled in drunken glee at the ease of the night’s entertainment.
Frodo screamed until his throat was raw and continued to scream until his lungs burned and his chest felt ready to explode. He was living a nightmare, worse than any of Bilbo’s tales of monsters and trolls and dragons.
~*~
When Frodo woke again, it was still dark but the Men were gone. In a panic, he sat up, moaning as a lightning bolt of pain shot through his backside and up to his heart, making it thud against his ribcage. He fell onto his side, panting, his thoughts going in a thousand directions at once.
He hurt so badly he could barely breathe. From what he could see through the eye that was not swollen closed, his clothing was in shreds. How was he going to get back to Bag End? *Could* he get back to Bag End? He could hardly sit up; how was he going to walk?
Slowly, painfully, Frodo rolled to his stomach and pulled himself up on the trunk of the tree behind him. When he got to his knees, he shuddered, feeling something wet and sticky run from inside him down the backs of his thighs. Stomach churning at the thought of what it could be, Frodo retched, emptying his last meal onto the dewy grass.
After a short rest to regain the small bit of strength he had left, Frodo pulled himself to his knees again. Then, inch by inch, step by step at the times when he could manage to stand and walk, Frodo made his way back through the trees, through the cold black of the night.
Hours seemed to pass as Frodo staggered along and struggled to keep moving. He needed to make it back to the house before the sun came up and the Shire awoke. He was already the object of ridicule for many in Hobbiton; to be seen in his current state would be too shameful to bear.
Falling, scraping his hands and knees on the ground, Frodo bit his lip to keep from crying out. He was hot beyond measure; his eyes were burning. What little he had left of his clothing was sweat-drenched and uncomfortable. Clenching his teeth, he fought down the shivers that threatened to tear him to pieces.
As the first light of dawn began to streak across the sky, Frodo crawled the final distance between the trees and Bag End. Thankfully, there was no one about; Sam was apparently sleeping in until sunrise.
Barely able to stand up enough to work the door handle, Frodo managed to do so only with gargantuan effort. Letting out a loud grunt of pain, he threw himself over the threshold, only weakly managing to push the door shut behind him before he collapsed in a sobbing heap on the cool wood of the floor.
~*~
When it seemed there were no tears left, Frodo dragged himself to his feet and stumbled into the bathroom. Lurching drunkenly, he managed to discard his clothing with only a few strangled gasps and shouts that biting his tongue could not stifle.
Undressed, Frodo stood by the wash basin, closing his good eye so that he would not have to stare into the mirror. He did not think he would ever be able to look at himself the same way again. As he reached for the cloth beside the bowl, Frodo caught sight of the bathtub. It was full of water.
Frodo’s brow furrowed. Sam must have drawn him a bath, anticipating he would take one before going to bed the night before. The thought of submerging himself in the cold water made Frodo shiver, but he needed to wash up; he needed to feel clean again. And if Sam came to work and discovered he’d not used the tub, he would be suspicious.
Gingerly, Frodo leaned against the tub, wondering how he was going to manage to get in. Every part of him ached so badly he wanted nothing more than to go to bed and sleep for a fortnight. Swallowing hard, Frodo climbed into the tub, unable to stop the cry that burst from his lips as his raw and bruised backside hit the frigid water.
With Bilbo’s special rose-scented soap, Frodo scrubbed his skin until it was a bright cherry red. Teeth chattering, stomach threatening to bring up anything still left in it, he dunked beneath the icy water over and over, still feeling dirty no matter how many times he lathered and rinsed.
Exhausted beyond measure, Frodo could not seem to make himself leave the tub. He was numb to his very bones, but he was too tired to think of moving. Drifting in and out of a light doze, he startled awake several times, imagining he felt large, sweaty hands running down his sides, over his stomach, between his…
“Mr. Frodo? Are you in there?”
Frodo yelped at the voice on the other side of the bathroom door. In a panic, he braced himself on the side of the tub, hurrying to get out before Sam waltzed in and found him.
The door pushed open a crack. “Sir? Are you okay?” The answering splash and shout nearly had Sam running into the room, regardless of the state of his master.
Frodo coughed and groaned as he slipped and fell back into the water. The way he was going, he’d have Sam in the room in no time, never mind modesty and self-preservation.
“I’m fine, Sam,” Frodo managed as he gritted his teeth and half-climbed, half-fell out of the tub and onto the bath mat.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, Mr. Frodo, but ya don’t sound fine,” Sam said, a hint of uncertainty in his voice. “And yer usually not one for a mornin’ bath…”
“Really, Sam,” Frodo said as he wrapped a large, fluffy towel around himself. “I’m okay. Please don’t worry so.”
There was a pause as Sam seemed to consider Frodo’s truthfulness. “All right then, sir. I’ll go fix us somethin’ for second breakfast; I’m assumin’ you’ve already had firsts.”
Frodo was glad that the bathroom door stood between them, so that Sam would not see the pink blush creeping up his neck and face as his lies were accepted for the truth. As he heard Sam’s footsteps moving away from the door, Frodo sagged against the wall in relief.
He could not tell Sam he hadn’t eaten anything since the night before, and he found he had no appetite whatsoever for whatever Sam was preparing. He knew he wouldn’t be able to keep it down, what with his insides jumping and twisting about as they were; perhaps he could try to eat something a bit later in the day.
Unable to care anymore about whether he was wet or dry, Frodo let the bath towel drop to the floor. Shrugging into his robe, he tried to ignore the bursts of pain shooting through his lower regions. He wanted only to get into his bedroom and into bed as quickly as he possibly could. He needed to rest; he could feel his legs beginning to wobble, about to give out, and he couldn’t very well risk Sam finding him unconscious on the bathroom floor.
When he finally made it to his bed, Frodo curled up between the soft cotton sheets and feather comforter, robe and all. Head sunk deep into the downy feather pillow, he gave a shaky sigh.
What a mess he had made of things! Going out so close to nightfall, foolishly falling asleep, allowing himself to be sullied by those two ruffians… It was shameful and he knew he would never live it down, even if no one ever knew about it but himself. And he fully intended for no one to know about it.
Carefully, Frodo pulled his knees up, shifting positions. Every move he made caused his injuries to sting and he could not seem to get comfortable. He was beginning to grow hot again, and thought it odd; just minutes ago he had been shivering, unable to warm up after the chill of the bath water.
With only another moment’s thought regarding the strange feelings he was having and what Sam would think when he came and found Frodo abed, Frodo fell into an uneasy sleep filled with disturbing dreams and nightmares.
~*~