FIC: "Calendar and Pillows"
Well, you did that to me again. My muses went wild.
TITLE: Calendar and Pillows (trifflie)
AUTHOR: Frisky
PAIRING: Frodo/Aragorn (blueberry muffin/chocolate pudding according to this hilarious Lily's entry)
RATING: PG
WARNINGS: Slash. Mpreg. Fluff.
"I need my own calendar," Frodo muttered and shifted in the bed, trying to find the most comfortable position.
That was probably one of the worst things about his condition - he couldn't afford himself the pleasure of sleeping in his favourite posture because he thought it could be dangerous now. Actually he still thought that nothing could be more comfortable than lying on his stomach with face buried in the pillow so he could nose the starched snow-white pillowcase and inhale the pink smell of Aragorn's pink hair-soap. Pink soap. Frodo looked up from the pile of pillows that he was desperately trying to slack so they wouldn't fall away and grinned at the man (and Aragorn grinned back not even knowing the reason of the hobbit's knowing smirk). It had somewhat amused Frodo to see that the King's head had been washed with something of such colour; the King himself had become the rich hue of pink when Frodo had intruded into the royal bathroom only to find a servant lathering up Aragorn's long hair with pink sweet-smelling soap...
"One more calendar? What for?" Aragorn tilted his head a bit and slipped down in the armchair so his tensed back could relax.
"I want to reckon up when it's time," Frodo replied and with an exclamation of dismay kicked off the quilt that impeded him and, moreover, seemed to be alive winding round his legs like a malicious snake. Hanging over the bed's edge he glared at the quilt that lay on the floor like a defeated enemy, then turned around to find the pillow-mountain collapsed, which caused a soft grumble to tear away from his lips. Going to sleep became such a torture lately.
"You know that the time is in January," the man rejoined. "We counted hundred of times."
"Oh!" Frodo gave him a sarcastic look. "Then, if you know everything without calendar, would you be so kind as to inform me how long has it been since I'd got into this..." he pointed at his belly and then stroked it as if apologizing for rude poking, "...condition?"
"About four months," the King replied with certainty and then felt his confidence melting away under Frodo's lour. "Or... four and a half. Almost five. No, wait," he receded at once when his hobbit looked away with a 'pff', "four? Four months sharp, right?"
"Four months, one week and five days," Frodo retorted and disappeared behind the pile of feather pillows. "It's so nice of you to be in the know."
"Wait," Aragorn said uncertainly, "how did you get to know precisely that it's four months one week and five days?"
Frodo's disheveled head appeared above the wall of pillows that the hobbit built around himself. He looked around to make sure if dozens of pillows (he couldn't explain why he felt so tender about soft pillows recently) that he'd slacked in some resemblance of rampart were steady. They were, and he felt really safe now sitting in the middle of his own bed-stronghold and that soothed his smouldering discontent.
"I counted," he said simply. "It was easy: at that time we haven't often spent nights together. King's duties, you know."
"I know," Aragorn replied with a sigh. Frodo had a passion for calculating everything: he enjoyed counting the days left until his birthday, days left until Aragorn's birthday, days left until different holidays... So for Aragorn it was no surprise that Frodo would like to keep track of days left until the baby's birth. "All right, I'll place an order for one more calendar," he yielded, glancing at the previous scroll pinned to the wall. This was supposed to be his calendar, used for the needs of the Kingdom (he'd thought he could mark the days of councils and meetings). Instead the scroll moved to Frodo's chamber somehow and was now full of notes made in the hobbit's hasty handwriting. Notes about the next day's menu, reminders about meeting people, red circles to mark the most important days, notes about the weather and mood, words that Aragorn couldn't even comprehend...
As a matter of fact, Aragorn realized suddenly, Frodo really needed a new calendar. This one had no free space for more notes...
"I want my quilt," the hobbit whined capriciously from the bed: he couldn't reach for his quilt without destroying the rampart that had been built with such trouble. Aragorn laughed and stood up from his armchair to pick up the offending quilt that turned out to be quite necessary for keeping warm while sitting in a pillow-fortress.
THE END (gosh)
TITLE: Calendar and Pillows (trifflie)
AUTHOR: Frisky
PAIRING: Frodo/Aragorn (blueberry muffin/chocolate pudding according to this hilarious Lily's entry)
RATING: PG
WARNINGS: Slash. Mpreg. Fluff.
"I need my own calendar," Frodo muttered and shifted in the bed, trying to find the most comfortable position.
That was probably one of the worst things about his condition - he couldn't afford himself the pleasure of sleeping in his favourite posture because he thought it could be dangerous now. Actually he still thought that nothing could be more comfortable than lying on his stomach with face buried in the pillow so he could nose the starched snow-white pillowcase and inhale the pink smell of Aragorn's pink hair-soap. Pink soap. Frodo looked up from the pile of pillows that he was desperately trying to slack so they wouldn't fall away and grinned at the man (and Aragorn grinned back not even knowing the reason of the hobbit's knowing smirk). It had somewhat amused Frodo to see that the King's head had been washed with something of such colour; the King himself had become the rich hue of pink when Frodo had intruded into the royal bathroom only to find a servant lathering up Aragorn's long hair with pink sweet-smelling soap...
"One more calendar? What for?" Aragorn tilted his head a bit and slipped down in the armchair so his tensed back could relax.
"I want to reckon up when it's time," Frodo replied and with an exclamation of dismay kicked off the quilt that impeded him and, moreover, seemed to be alive winding round his legs like a malicious snake. Hanging over the bed's edge he glared at the quilt that lay on the floor like a defeated enemy, then turned around to find the pillow-mountain collapsed, which caused a soft grumble to tear away from his lips. Going to sleep became such a torture lately.
"You know that the time is in January," the man rejoined. "We counted hundred of times."
"Oh!" Frodo gave him a sarcastic look. "Then, if you know everything without calendar, would you be so kind as to inform me how long has it been since I'd got into this..." he pointed at his belly and then stroked it as if apologizing for rude poking, "...condition?"
"About four months," the King replied with certainty and then felt his confidence melting away under Frodo's lour. "Or... four and a half. Almost five. No, wait," he receded at once when his hobbit looked away with a 'pff', "four? Four months sharp, right?"
"Four months, one week and five days," Frodo retorted and disappeared behind the pile of feather pillows. "It's so nice of you to be in the know."
"Wait," Aragorn said uncertainly, "how did you get to know precisely that it's four months one week and five days?"
Frodo's disheveled head appeared above the wall of pillows that the hobbit built around himself. He looked around to make sure if dozens of pillows (he couldn't explain why he felt so tender about soft pillows recently) that he'd slacked in some resemblance of rampart were steady. They were, and he felt really safe now sitting in the middle of his own bed-stronghold and that soothed his smouldering discontent.
"I counted," he said simply. "It was easy: at that time we haven't often spent nights together. King's duties, you know."
"I know," Aragorn replied with a sigh. Frodo had a passion for calculating everything: he enjoyed counting the days left until his birthday, days left until Aragorn's birthday, days left until different holidays... So for Aragorn it was no surprise that Frodo would like to keep track of days left until the baby's birth. "All right, I'll place an order for one more calendar," he yielded, glancing at the previous scroll pinned to the wall. This was supposed to be his calendar, used for the needs of the Kingdom (he'd thought he could mark the days of councils and meetings). Instead the scroll moved to Frodo's chamber somehow and was now full of notes made in the hobbit's hasty handwriting. Notes about the next day's menu, reminders about meeting people, red circles to mark the most important days, notes about the weather and mood, words that Aragorn couldn't even comprehend...
As a matter of fact, Aragorn realized suddenly, Frodo really needed a new calendar. This one had no free space for more notes...
"I want my quilt," the hobbit whined capriciously from the bed: he couldn't reach for his quilt without destroying the rampart that had been built with such trouble. Aragorn laughed and stood up from his armchair to pick up the offending quilt that turned out to be quite necessary for keeping warm while sitting in a pillow-fortress.
THE END (gosh)