Frodo, as reluctant to as he was, left his friends sitting at the table with their half-empty mugs so that he could look for Gandalf. Knowing the wizard, the hobbit knew that Butterbur might have been instructed to tell no one about Gandalf's arriving, and that Gandalf may be disguised in this dangerous part of the land.
Looking up at a sea of unshaven, gawking faces, the hobbit pulled his thin cloak tighter around his shoulders.
Aragorn seated himself in one of the bar's far corners and scanned the area. He spotted quite easily the smaller table and the three chatting, rosy-cheeked hobbits sitting at it. There should have been four, he realized worriedly. The one whom he was told to especially look out for—the dark-haired, slimmest halfling—was missing.
He knew all-too-well about recent problems and mishaps involving hobbits in Bree, that most who entered the tavern unaware of danger were either kidnapped or beaten by drunkards.
Frodo whispered, "Excuse me," and "Pardon me" when he would receive a cold stare from one of the men he'd accidentally bump into. The inn was thoroughly crowded that night.
The tiny hobbit suddenly felt a heavy hand fall onto his head and grasp a handful of soft hair, pulling painfully. "Ah!" Frodo gasped out involuntarily. He reached up blindly, could not manage to grab the arm that was holding him. The sharp pain in his head caused his eyes to water and his vision to blur, and he couldn't find the power to jerk his head away. "Let go! Let me go!"
Strider, after taking a foamy swallow of his ale, plopped his dripping glass onto the tabletop with sharpened awareness. Had he just heard a child yell? A hobbit? He glanced around, but his keen eyes could not see beyond the many drunken bodies that rambled around the room. He noticed that the other three halflings were still seated, seemingly safely, at their little table. After paying for his drink, he would immediately search the area.
Frodo was dragged roughly by his hair, twisting and whimpering, pleading loudly with his assaulter as he went. He was led, stumbling, into a candlelit room. The tall man who still gripped tufts of his curly hair knelt directly behind Frodo. A thick arm completely encircled the hobbit, pinning his arms to his sides and restraining his bucking chest. Frodo felt a muscular shoulder pressed against the back of his neck.
"No!" Frodo yelped, frightened, his eyes still watering from the pulling of his hair. "Help me, someone, pl-"
The hand in his hair quickly came down and pressed against his lips, effectively muffling him. The hobbit was pinned against the hard chest of a strange man, could do nothing but remain breathing and ball his pale fists at his sides.
A second man stood at the open door, shut it, and shoved a latch into place that was too high for Frodo to reach even if he were freed. "You managed to get that pretty one, eh? Nice work. Do you want to get him outside, or just bang him right here?"
Because the young hobbit had just come of age and had not been exposed to such offensive, slang terms in the Shire, Frodo's brows knitted in confusion when the sentence was finished. With the hobbit still held tightly, this other man knelt in front of him.
A large, rough hand carefully rose and caressed Frodo's smooth forehead underneath dark bangs. The halfling's eyes were glistening with unshed tears, bright with fear and uncertainty. He whimpered once, softly.
"You are a pretty little thing," the man holding him suddenly whispered, leaning so that the frightened hobbit could feel hot breath against his pointed ear. Frodo grunted with defiance and jerked his body, only to be rewarded with even tighter squeezing around his middle.
The man laughed heartlessly and said to his partner, "He's a spirited little one; we pro'ly won't be able to get him out o' here. You can stand watch at the door for me after we get him tied up proper."
Aragorn rose from his wooden chair, adjusted his dark hood, and set off to search for the missing halfling. He easily made his way through the bar, pushing aside the large men that blocked his way and keeping his gaze downward, so not to miss a passing hobbit's head.
"You lookin' for a halfling?" some thin, blonde man inquired seriously.
"Yes. No one has-"
"I saw the little fellow go by about half-an-hour ago. He was being dragged by some man who's a little famous around the inn for his... you know, crimes and such."
The ranger's eyes suddenly shown his emotions—rage and concern for the tiny ring-bearer. He thrust out both hands and had each of the blonde's shoulders in a firm grip. "Why did you not stop this?"
The hand on the hobbit's flushed and dampening forehead drew back and began to urgently work at the buttons on Frodo's collar. Frodo's teary eyes were squeezed shut in terror. His tiny nostrils flexed visibly with each quick, shallow breath.
"You're scaring him, I think," the man behind the hobbit chuckled as he jerked Frodo's wrists behind his body and bound them cruelly and tightly. Frodo struggled a bit, whimpered loudly when the poorly made rope chafed his wrists' tender skin.
"We need to get this little shit to stop his complaining; my hand ain't doin' the job. Butterbur or someone'll come in here. Go to that faucet and wet a washrag and we'll gag him."
"Because the last man who tried to stop this brute was stabbed to death, and you'll be, too. Look, I'm sorry," the thin man stammered quickly, and then jerked free from Strider and turned away.
"Tell me!" The ranger's tone was almost pleading. "What room are they in?"
The blonde glanced around himself through greasy bangs, as if suddenly paranoid, and then lowered his voice to say, "He usually does it in that fifth room to the left, in that last corridor to your right. He comes in, checks, and whenever there's a halfling about he rents the same room and takes it... You'd better hurry up if you want your halfling to be in one piece when you find him."
The hobbit lie naked and gagged, with the dripping cloth filling his entire mouth and throat with unwanted wetness and turning his attempted yells into quiet groans. His wrists twisted weakly but frantically between the hard floor and his backside.
A man stood near the door and watched as the other planted his muscular knees onto Frodo's naked ones, painfully pinning the hobbit's legs to the floor. "Get ready, halfling," the man commanded half-heartedly as he hurriedly fumbled with the lacing on his breeches.
Frodo's eyes widened with shock and new fear when he saw his assaulter's hand grasping a red, engorged penis that was three times as big as his own when he would become aroused.
Huge hands found their ways beneath Frodo's trembling form and enveloped his soft buttocks and lower-back, hefting the hobbit's rump off the floor and high into the air. Frodo grunted with each quick movement as he was forced into a makeshift sexual position.
"The last hobbit I raped wasn't half as pretty as you are," the man began, staring mercilessly into Frodo's pained blue eyes. "He looked more like your fat little friend out there."
At this, Frodo's eyes sparked angrily and his slim hips bucked slightly in the man's grip. "He was a great fuck, though, nice and tight, like you'll be for me," he said through clenched teeth as he regained his grip on the hobbit's sweaty behind.
"Hey!" The man at the door cupped an ear, considered, and then whispered, "Someone's coming down the hall; I hear 'im. Just hurry up and get your fucking over with so I can have a turn. I'll get my knife ready and stab whoever tries to interrupt us."
"That other halfling couldn't take me, you know," the one holding Frodo grunted out, now in a new hurry, maneuvering Frodo's rump and placing the tip of his hardness at its virgin opening. "He'd passed out completely after I only humped him once or twice."
He supported Frodo's slight body with one hand, leaned down until his face was inches from the hobbit's, used a large hand to brush Frodo's damp bangs from his forehead. The hobbit felt a rush of intense and unyielding pressure against his anus, and then a stretching pain. Tears spilled from the corners of his shut eyes as his loudening whimpers were muffled.
"I think you can take me, though," the man whispered, panting, into one of Frodo's ears. He carefully guided Frodo's writhing body closer to himself, allowing his penis to slide a full two inches into Frodo's tight heat.
Strider approached the wooden door with caution, now unsure of the trustworthiness of that blonde stranger. He placed a sensitive ear to the wall by the door and concentrated, hoping fervently for Frodo's wellbeing and that, if a man or men were hurting Frodo, there would be few enough so that he would be able to fight them off.
He heard what he'd hoped not to hear—a string of muffled cries or whimpers, and someone's long, guttural moan of pleasure. After willing his nerves to calm, he reached for his sword's hilt.
The thickness of the man was stretching Frodo's tiny hole beyond its meant capacity. His tiny, nude chest rose and fell rapidly. He moaned and whimpered, biting down onto the wet cloth.
"There's someone out there," said the standing man, looking away from the show and taking a stride toward the door creaking door, dagger drawn and poised in a hand.
"Relax," the rapist whispered as he gently smoothed more sweaty hair from the hobbit's brow. Frodo's breathing hitched around another muffled grunt when he felt a violent shove, and nearly half of the man's shaft was suddenly throbbing inside his tiny body.
Aragorn burst into the room after only two kicks to the locked door with the heel of a well-planted boot. He quickly overpowered the one standing, twisting his wrist first so that he dropped his dagger, and then sending him into unconsciousness with a powerful punch in his stomach.
Frodo, still pinned beneath the sweating man, mustered all of his remaining strength when he saw the ranger enter the room and began to buck and squirm, twisting his bound wrists with renewed vigor.
Aragorn managed to rip the wretched criminal from Frodo's naked body. The hobbit's backside fell to the wooden floor with a loud "thud," causing Frodo to groan helplessly with pain.
After the assaulter was stabbed and dead, guaranteed to never harm another halfling, Aragorn hurried to Frodo's side. He noted that exhausted fear still haunted the hobbit's blue eyes, but there was relief there also. Strider made quick work of Frodo's gag, hurriedly untying the cloth and then slowly and gently pulling the damp washrag from behind Frodo's red lips.
Frodo struggled to sit up, and the ranger tenderly supported the thin hobbit's shoulders as he coughed and gasped. The man grimaced at Frodo's raw and lightly bleeding wrists, and tossed the rope away before unclasping his cloak and wrapping the sobbing hobbit in its warmth.
"You may call me Strider," the ranger murmured as he sympathetically rubbed Frodo's shoulders through the cloak's material. His comforting seemed to soothe the hobbit's labored breathing, and was surprised when he felt Frodo gratefully lean into his touch. "I was sent by Gandalf to aid you and your friends on your way to Rivendell, Frodo. I am to protect you, the ringbearer."
"Thank you for... coming to find me," Frodo stammered, gulping and letting a few more soft sobs wrack his small frame before continuing. "He didn't... hurt me t... terribly, Strider, thanks to you. I should heal with just some... medicine, and maybe... maybe some hot tea." The ranger secretly smiled at that last comment.
"I see no blood, anyway," Aragorn said. "I saw that he was not... fully inside you. I'm glad that he did not have time to hurt you in such a way, but he should have never gotten the chance to touch you."
After a brief rest, Aragorn supported the limping hobbit and guided him to his own rented room where the company stayed the night, Frodo's mild wounds were tended to, salve was rubbed gently onto his wrists, and his lightheadedness was remedied by herbal tea.
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Taken by Isabelle Ringing
Story notes: Holy crap. I can't believe that I wrote this one, either. And I thought that my other story, Primal Lust, was offensive and terrible. This thing is partly Claudia's Trapped in Bree-inspired, partly her "The Stairwell-inspired," and partly Lily's "Troublemakers-inspired." But this little piece was mostly inspired by Lily Baggins's "Troublemakers," which, if you haven't read it already, you should read. From what I've seen, I guess that she's not very proud of it, but I don't care; it's fun and so... Non-Conny.
This ficlet is just another medium for my ejecting Frodo-in-trouble fantasies... In this story, I attempted to write Frodo, in the beginning, as a little more feisty and believable. Some constructive feedback will let me know how I did, I suppose...
And I'm sorry to bore you readers, but I have just one more comment to make. I was seriously considering making this a two-parter in order to go into Frodo's "healing" with greater detail, but then I decided against it. We're all in it for Frodo's suffering anyway, right, guys? *wink*
