birthday mathom
I don't suppose much needs to be said to introduce this... ;)
Title: Burden, 11/?
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: mpreg, implied non-con, sorta-hermaphrodite Frodo (you'll see what I mean)
Acknowledgment: Many, many thanks to lilybaggins for her ideas, squeeing, and research for this fic. :)
Summary: Pre-Quest, a young hobbit finds himself lost and in some trouble far from home.
A/N: In which Frodo settles into a routine of sleeping and baby-feeding.
Burden, 1/?
Burden, 2/?
Burden, 3/?
Burden, 4/?
Burden, 5/?
Burden, 6/?
Burden, 7/?
Burden, 8/?
Burden, 9/?
Burden, 10/?
He was gently shaken awake what seemed mere moments later. It took several monumental efforts to lift his eyelids even the tiniest bit -what, did Aragorn sew them shut while he was sleeping?- and he caught a blurry glimpse of Aragorn hovering too close to his face, peering intently at him. Frodo allowed his eyes to close again and groaned, turning his head to bury it in the pillow.
"Ah, good. Frodo, I need to check on you again, and the babe needs to be fed," Aragorn informed him, as if that excused him so inconsiderately disrupting Frodo's sleep.
Frodo scowled and didn't move, not that he really could. He ached terribly everywhere, or so he sensed as his body gradually, reluctantly roused. He didn't think he'd want to move. Yes, it would be far more preferable to simply lie still until the pain grew bored and went elsewhere...
"Before I help you sit up, do you need to use the chamber pot?" Aragorn's voice intruded in his thoughts.
Frodo did not really want to answer that, remembering the last time he'd used it and how painful it had been. But his bladder had a different opinion, and he guardedly nodded -his voice wasn't up to use just yet.
Aragorn must have seen his nod, for he bent and retrieved the pot. "I will help you," he stated, and pushed Frodo's coverings away enough to move the hobbit's linens out of the way and position the pot for him.
Frodo didn't have the heart or energy to protest, so he just did what he needed to do. Thankfully, it was a touch easier this time, though it still pulled all the areas that were so sore. Only when Aragorn took the pot away did Frodo reflect on the fact that his clothing had been rearranged while he was unaware -last he remembered, he wore a shirt and no linens; now he wore linens and nothing else. He sighed. He'd have no dignity left by the time this was over. That is, if he still had any now . . .
And Aragorn was talking. Again. "Frodo, I'm going to help you sit up so you can feed the babe and have something to drink. I'll check on your bleeding when you're lying down afterward."
Silence. Blessed silence. But Aragorn was watching him. Oh, yes, that's right, Aragorn expects him to reply. "Fine," Frodo said shortly. He couldn't resist muttering, "Not that my opinion matters."
Aragorn said only, "Tell me if you need me to lift you more slowly," as he he began helping Frodo sit up.
Frodo squeezed his eyes shut, making no sound even as the movement made him feel slightly ill -it would be far more satisfying to throw up in the Man's lap. He gripped the sheet tightly, bringing it with as he was sat up.
When Frodo was mostly sitting, Aragorn sat behind him to help him stay up -Aragorn didn't want to make him move any more than necessary, and sliding him back to rest against the wall was more than necessary. Halbarad brought the babe over, as he'd been directed, and Aragorn took the child and held him in front of Frodo. "You need to let go of the sheet, Frodo," Aragorn coaxed.
Frodo let his fingers relax and the sheet drooped enough for Aragorn to bring the child close enough to nurse. Frodo allowed his hands to be arranged to support the babe. His arms still felt wobbly, so Aragorn had to help him hold the child in place.
Once Frodo was settled, Halbarad brought over the broth they had made for Frodo, and offered it wordlessly to Aragorn. Aragorn in turn offered it to Frodo, who turned his head away. "You must have something, Frodo."
"Why?" Frodo asked wearily.
"You need it," Aragorn stated simply. "And the babe needs you to take it."
Now Frodo was intrigued. "What do you mean?"
"The babe needs you to be able feed him until he's strong enough to be taken to those who will raise him. What little milk we have on hand is not sufficient for his needs."
"Then I will try," Frodo murmured, and took a reluctant sip. If the babe needed it, he would do it, just long enough to get the babe to those who could care for him. He drank the broth slowly, but couldn't quite finish it. His stomach already ached from sitting and what broth he'd taken wasn't helping. He wasn't going to push it.
Aragorn seemed satisfied with this, and took the mug without hesitation, passing it off to Halbarad, who disappeared from Frodo's sight. Then Aragorn was directing him to shift the babe in his arms, turning him 'round to the other side. Once the child was settled, Frodo felt a large hand on his abdomen begin to rub him again.
Frodo shifted uneasily; the motion was making his insides roil in a most unpleasant fashion, and he could almost hear the broth in his stomach sloshing. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the babe suckling, anything to keep his mind away from the nausea that was quickly building. At length, he whimpered, "Please stop."
To his credit, Aragorn did cease immediately. "What did you say?"
"I said, 'Please stop.' That... rubbing, or whatever you call it. It- it's making me feel ill." Frodo said faintly, still battling the urge to vomit.
"I see," Aragorn said slowly. "Shall we see if it's better when you're lying down? I must do it sometime, or your womb still may not constrict properly."
"Just not now," Frodo begged, then shivered.
Aragorn's free hand (his other was underneath Frodo's arms, helping him support the nursing babe) snaked down and grasped the edge of the blanket, pulling it up over Frodo's exposed skin and tucking it behind his shoulders so it draped over Frodo and the child for warmth. After securing the blanket, Aragorn's hand passed in front of Frodo's face, nonchalantly brushing the hobbit's forehead on its way by.
"Now what?" Frodo asked warily, suspicious of what the man might be checking for this time.
"You are a bit feverish. It is not uncommon, so do not worry."
Frodo humphed. Aragorn seemed to always be telling him not to worry, which made him that much more likely to be suspicious that he really should be worried. Except that he didn't particularly care . . . which was the only reason he really didn't worry.
The babe grew restless and began to gurgle unhappily, so Aragorn helped Frodo hand him to Halbarad, who circled the room with the babe against his shoulder and patted him, murmuring soothingly all the while. When Aragorn slid out from behind Frodo and gently lowered him back onto the mattress, Frodo was utterly relieved to be lying down again, despite knowing that Aragorn wasn't finished with him yet. He lay limply, eyes closed, as Aragorn moved his coverings so something or other could be peered at. Frodo slipped into a half-doze but was startled back to wakefulness by Aragorn's hand on his abdomen.
"Does this still make you feel ill?" Aragorn asked as he massaged Frodo's belly.
Frodo half-shrugged. "Not as much," he said drowsily, turning his head on the pillow until he felt cool fabric against his skin. He saw Halbarad crouching in front of the fireplace, the babe on the floor as its nappy was changed. A sudden thought came to Frodo, and cold fingers of dread clutched his heart. "Aragorn," he whispered. "Is... is he... like me?" he asked, motioning vaguely.
"Is he like you how?" Aragorn asked, not understanding.
"Down there." Frodo couldn't bring himself to actually say it. "Is he like me? I... I haven't seen him... there..."
Comprehension dawned on Aragorn as Frodo grew agitated, his breaths short and quick in his anxiety. "No, Frodo," Aragorn answered, moving so he could rub Frodo's arm reassuringly without disturbing the belly massage. "He is not like you; he has only the typical male parts." Something made him continue, "Something like this can not happen to him."
Frodo closed his eyes and stifled a sob, then nodded. "Good," he said fervently, all of the nervous energy draining from him with that one word.
"Frodo?"
He struggled to lift his eyelids once more. "Yes?"
"Were you going to name the child?"
"No." The word was almost a sigh. "No, I want them to name him."
"All right." Aragorn patted Frodo's shoulder before rising from his seat on the bed. "They will be honoured, I am certain."
"I wouldn't know what to choose," Frodo said simply, allowing his eyes to drift closed.
As before, it seemed scant minutes before he was woken to attend to his needs and the babe's. He was forced to be awake and alert for as long as it took to feed the babe, get something into him, and lie back down -he did not actually need to be awake while Aragorn checked the bleeding, for which he was grateful. Then he could sleep until the babe again cried to be fed.
It was not overly terrible, he supposed, as long as one did not mind getting one's sleep in bits and snatches rather than one big chunk. At some point in his life it may have even been agreeable, since it meant he could remain in bed virtually all day, but he felt increasingly miserable and wished he could simply sleep without interruption.
Each time he was forced to wake, he seemed to feel that much more achy and tired, and he could tell the fever he wasn't supposed to worry about was getting worse. His sleep began to be troubled by disturbing dreams, and when he woke, he had to fight the clinging wisps of delirium that danced and sang at the edges of his consciousness, promising blissful rest and peaceful ignorance of the outside world. He longed to give in to those promises, but he could not, not while he was needed for the babe's care.
But even that was not entirely right. With time, Frodo had the impression that the feedings were shorter and the babe was fussier than before, but he was uncertain whether he saw aright. It might just be the fever affecting his mind.
~~~~
Continued here
Title: Burden, 11/?
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: mpreg, implied non-con, sorta-hermaphrodite Frodo (you'll see what I mean)
Acknowledgment: Many, many thanks to lilybaggins for her ideas, squeeing, and research for this fic. :)
Summary: Pre-Quest, a young hobbit finds himself lost and in some trouble far from home.
A/N: In which Frodo settles into a routine of sleeping and baby-feeding.
Burden, 1/?
Burden, 2/?
Burden, 3/?
Burden, 4/?
Burden, 5/?
Burden, 6/?
Burden, 7/?
Burden, 8/?
Burden, 9/?
Burden, 10/?
He was gently shaken awake what seemed mere moments later. It took several monumental efforts to lift his eyelids even the tiniest bit -what, did Aragorn sew them shut while he was sleeping?- and he caught a blurry glimpse of Aragorn hovering too close to his face, peering intently at him. Frodo allowed his eyes to close again and groaned, turning his head to bury it in the pillow.
"Ah, good. Frodo, I need to check on you again, and the babe needs to be fed," Aragorn informed him, as if that excused him so inconsiderately disrupting Frodo's sleep.
Frodo scowled and didn't move, not that he really could. He ached terribly everywhere, or so he sensed as his body gradually, reluctantly roused. He didn't think he'd want to move. Yes, it would be far more preferable to simply lie still until the pain grew bored and went elsewhere...
"Before I help you sit up, do you need to use the chamber pot?" Aragorn's voice intruded in his thoughts.
Frodo did not really want to answer that, remembering the last time he'd used it and how painful it had been. But his bladder had a different opinion, and he guardedly nodded -his voice wasn't up to use just yet.
Aragorn must have seen his nod, for he bent and retrieved the pot. "I will help you," he stated, and pushed Frodo's coverings away enough to move the hobbit's linens out of the way and position the pot for him.
Frodo didn't have the heart or energy to protest, so he just did what he needed to do. Thankfully, it was a touch easier this time, though it still pulled all the areas that were so sore. Only when Aragorn took the pot away did Frodo reflect on the fact that his clothing had been rearranged while he was unaware -last he remembered, he wore a shirt and no linens; now he wore linens and nothing else. He sighed. He'd have no dignity left by the time this was over. That is, if he still had any now . . .
And Aragorn was talking. Again. "Frodo, I'm going to help you sit up so you can feed the babe and have something to drink. I'll check on your bleeding when you're lying down afterward."
Silence. Blessed silence. But Aragorn was watching him. Oh, yes, that's right, Aragorn expects him to reply. "Fine," Frodo said shortly. He couldn't resist muttering, "Not that my opinion matters."
Aragorn said only, "Tell me if you need me to lift you more slowly," as he he began helping Frodo sit up.
Frodo squeezed his eyes shut, making no sound even as the movement made him feel slightly ill -it would be far more satisfying to throw up in the Man's lap. He gripped the sheet tightly, bringing it with as he was sat up.
When Frodo was mostly sitting, Aragorn sat behind him to help him stay up -Aragorn didn't want to make him move any more than necessary, and sliding him back to rest against the wall was more than necessary. Halbarad brought the babe over, as he'd been directed, and Aragorn took the child and held him in front of Frodo. "You need to let go of the sheet, Frodo," Aragorn coaxed.
Frodo let his fingers relax and the sheet drooped enough for Aragorn to bring the child close enough to nurse. Frodo allowed his hands to be arranged to support the babe. His arms still felt wobbly, so Aragorn had to help him hold the child in place.
Once Frodo was settled, Halbarad brought over the broth they had made for Frodo, and offered it wordlessly to Aragorn. Aragorn in turn offered it to Frodo, who turned his head away. "You must have something, Frodo."
"Why?" Frodo asked wearily.
"You need it," Aragorn stated simply. "And the babe needs you to take it."
Now Frodo was intrigued. "What do you mean?"
"The babe needs you to be able feed him until he's strong enough to be taken to those who will raise him. What little milk we have on hand is not sufficient for his needs."
"Then I will try," Frodo murmured, and took a reluctant sip. If the babe needed it, he would do it, just long enough to get the babe to those who could care for him. He drank the broth slowly, but couldn't quite finish it. His stomach already ached from sitting and what broth he'd taken wasn't helping. He wasn't going to push it.
Aragorn seemed satisfied with this, and took the mug without hesitation, passing it off to Halbarad, who disappeared from Frodo's sight. Then Aragorn was directing him to shift the babe in his arms, turning him 'round to the other side. Once the child was settled, Frodo felt a large hand on his abdomen begin to rub him again.
Frodo shifted uneasily; the motion was making his insides roil in a most unpleasant fashion, and he could almost hear the broth in his stomach sloshing. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the babe suckling, anything to keep his mind away from the nausea that was quickly building. At length, he whimpered, "Please stop."
To his credit, Aragorn did cease immediately. "What did you say?"
"I said, 'Please stop.' That... rubbing, or whatever you call it. It- it's making me feel ill." Frodo said faintly, still battling the urge to vomit.
"I see," Aragorn said slowly. "Shall we see if it's better when you're lying down? I must do it sometime, or your womb still may not constrict properly."
"Just not now," Frodo begged, then shivered.
Aragorn's free hand (his other was underneath Frodo's arms, helping him support the nursing babe) snaked down and grasped the edge of the blanket, pulling it up over Frodo's exposed skin and tucking it behind his shoulders so it draped over Frodo and the child for warmth. After securing the blanket, Aragorn's hand passed in front of Frodo's face, nonchalantly brushing the hobbit's forehead on its way by.
"Now what?" Frodo asked warily, suspicious of what the man might be checking for this time.
"You are a bit feverish. It is not uncommon, so do not worry."
Frodo humphed. Aragorn seemed to always be telling him not to worry, which made him that much more likely to be suspicious that he really should be worried. Except that he didn't particularly care . . . which was the only reason he really didn't worry.
The babe grew restless and began to gurgle unhappily, so Aragorn helped Frodo hand him to Halbarad, who circled the room with the babe against his shoulder and patted him, murmuring soothingly all the while. When Aragorn slid out from behind Frodo and gently lowered him back onto the mattress, Frodo was utterly relieved to be lying down again, despite knowing that Aragorn wasn't finished with him yet. He lay limply, eyes closed, as Aragorn moved his coverings so something or other could be peered at. Frodo slipped into a half-doze but was startled back to wakefulness by Aragorn's hand on his abdomen.
"Does this still make you feel ill?" Aragorn asked as he massaged Frodo's belly.
Frodo half-shrugged. "Not as much," he said drowsily, turning his head on the pillow until he felt cool fabric against his skin. He saw Halbarad crouching in front of the fireplace, the babe on the floor as its nappy was changed. A sudden thought came to Frodo, and cold fingers of dread clutched his heart. "Aragorn," he whispered. "Is... is he... like me?" he asked, motioning vaguely.
"Is he like you how?" Aragorn asked, not understanding.
"Down there." Frodo couldn't bring himself to actually say it. "Is he like me? I... I haven't seen him... there..."
Comprehension dawned on Aragorn as Frodo grew agitated, his breaths short and quick in his anxiety. "No, Frodo," Aragorn answered, moving so he could rub Frodo's arm reassuringly without disturbing the belly massage. "He is not like you; he has only the typical male parts." Something made him continue, "Something like this can not happen to him."
Frodo closed his eyes and stifled a sob, then nodded. "Good," he said fervently, all of the nervous energy draining from him with that one word.
"Frodo?"
He struggled to lift his eyelids once more. "Yes?"
"Were you going to name the child?"
"No." The word was almost a sigh. "No, I want them to name him."
"All right." Aragorn patted Frodo's shoulder before rising from his seat on the bed. "They will be honoured, I am certain."
"I wouldn't know what to choose," Frodo said simply, allowing his eyes to drift closed.
As before, it seemed scant minutes before he was woken to attend to his needs and the babe's. He was forced to be awake and alert for as long as it took to feed the babe, get something into him, and lie back down -he did not actually need to be awake while Aragorn checked the bleeding, for which he was grateful. Then he could sleep until the babe again cried to be fed.
It was not overly terrible, he supposed, as long as one did not mind getting one's sleep in bits and snatches rather than one big chunk. At some point in his life it may have even been agreeable, since it meant he could remain in bed virtually all day, but he felt increasingly miserable and wished he could simply sleep without interruption.
Each time he was forced to wake, he seemed to feel that much more achy and tired, and he could tell the fever he wasn't supposed to worry about was getting worse. His sleep began to be troubled by disturbing dreams, and when he woke, he had to fight the clinging wisps of delirium that danced and sang at the edges of his consciousness, promising blissful rest and peaceful ignorance of the outside world. He longed to give in to those promises, but he could not, not while he was needed for the babe's care.
But even that was not entirely right. With time, Frodo had the impression that the feedings were shorter and the babe was fussier than before, but he was uncertain whether he saw aright. It might just be the fever affecting his mind.
~~~~
Continued here