Title: Talking Through Cotton 
Author: GV
Pairing: Pippin/Boromir, Aragorn/Legolas (later) 
Rating: NC-17 (for upcoming chapters) 
Summary: Eavesdropping, miscommunication, slash, comedy of errors... When Pip falls for a 
fellow of the ship, the Shakespearean devices come to life! 
Disclaimer: Not mine. Especially when they're very, very bad. I did not create them, 
though I am the one they come running to when Daddy Tolkien says 'No.' 
Warning:  Some hobbit-lovin' in upcoming chapters.  I know some people despise it.  
 
 

Although it was the reputation that warriors never cried, it nowhere specified that said 
warrior was a hobbit.  And it was this loophole that allowed Pippin his lovely little 
excursion in self-pity.  Hobbits, it is said, are a very merry little folk, which they 
were in public, but every race in Middle Earth was allowed a good mope every once in a 
while.  By Elbereth, the Elves certainly did it enough.

A few moments before, the youngest of the fellowship had excused himself from the campfire 
on the grounds of a call from nature, which had the elf pricking up his ears in hopes of 
finding another who heard the same songs of the wood he did, until he was struck with the 
actuality of the matter.  He had blushed fiercely.

Pippin's quest for solitude, however, was not the result of a cup bubbling over with tea, 
but a heavy hobbit heart bubbling over with love.  Or at least some wacky kind of lust and 
affection.  He daren't cry in front of the company, knowing that their concern would 
eventually weed the truth right out of him, and leave everyone equally embarrassed.  How 
would you, as a 3 ½ foot lissome bundle of curls, feel about revealing your love to a 
handsome and honorable male with dexterity and strength to spare?  I daresay you'd find 
you'd be trotting heavily into the woods, yourself.

Seeing as Pippin was lacking greatly in the areas of physical prowess and a deep rooted 
sense of invincibility, he knew he mustn't stray far from the camp site, which left him to 
wrap his arm about the thick, patient trunk the nearest tree, and walk himself around it, 
much like a bored child would repeatedly sling himself around his mother's legs.  Although 
it was about an hour Pippin had been slowly winding himself around the ancient, 
trustworthy bark, it seemed to him as if only a few moments had passed since he started 
musing on the one he loved.  

It was an awkward love, as any interracial love is bound to be, but when as young as 
Peregrin Took, insecurity erects a new battalion daily.  His distracted, edgy and somber 
behavior was becoming more and more noticed by the fellowship as every minute passed, and 
he looked forward, very much, to time in solitude.  They had guessed at his ailment, the 
suggestions ranging from homesickness to some extrasensory perception.  The majority of 
the company, however, knew very well what the unvoiced illness was.  Creatures such as 
Legolas and Gandalf did not pass through century upon century to be ignorant of a boy in 
love when they saw one, and creatures such as hobbits did not pass day upon peaceful day 
to be ignorant of coy, knowing glances passed between ones with much more fruitful gossip 
than they.  The men and the dwarf, however, were left as clueless as the dull stones they 
stepped upon.  Even Strider, with his elven upbringing and knowledge as a ranger, could 
only see the superficiality of the hobbit's pain.  On occasion, the other three hobbits 
pried gently into Pip's mind, recognizing that Pippin's love was a devastating one, and 
that trying to taunt and natter it out of him would only wound their friend more deeply.  
Therefore the company allowed Pippin these moments without question.

"I wonder," Pip mused aloud to the tree that was protecting him, "what it's like with a 
man…"  Realizing the tree might've misunderstood him, young Mr. Took clarified, "I mean of 
the race ay men… I've… Yae ken, known the male gender, but I want tae ken what it's like 
with a Man.  I reckon they'd gie yae a real thorough tumble, eh?"  Pippin grinned in 
embarrassment through his tears, hoping the tree didn't think him too crass.  He'd learned 
that while traveling in the forest, the last thing you needed was a tree thinking you 
uncouth.  Which reminded him of another point, "Aye, now, there tree, dinnae yae go 
tellin' every evergreen an' willow about my indecencies, what with my bein' such a bairn 
an' all.  If it got tae the Shire, I'd have a beatin' waitin' for me when I get hame." He 
sneered at everyone's notion that he was a small child, simply because he hadn't yet 
reached his majority and felt sickened even more to realize it was another flaw to be 
noticed by his beloved.  

It was about the umpteenth time young Took had wound himself around the tree's sturdy 
frame when he heard sounds of rustling in the forest.  Immediately, his woodland senses, 
having heightened from the journey and prolonged exposure to Legolas' elfish-ness, 
determined that it was a biped and over 5 feet.  The footfalls were snapping the twigs 
with far too much force to have been either dwarf or hobbit, too clean to have been 
accompanied by a swish-y wizard cloak and too clumsy to have been the elf.  That left two 
options, and the prospect of either left Pip shivering in his timbers.

"So, here you are, young man," Aragorn revealed himself just as Pippin was hastily rubbing 
away at his tears, "I was looking for a moment with you."  The sad face of the hobbit 
showed clear signs of tears and deep musings.  Being found in this desperate state left 
Pippin a little less than enthusiastic to hide his misery, as well.  If Aragorn sought him 
to learn of his despondence, then despondence he shall have.   

"I didnae stray too far, did I?" asked Pippin, knowing very well that he hadn't, but asked 
anyway to stall the questions he knew were coming.  In the brief moment it took Aragorn to 
shake his head and plaster a paternal smirk on his face, the hobbit was frantically trying 
to determine whether or not he was ready to tell this man his truth.  He trusted the 
ranger king with many things, such as his life as well as the lives of his dearest 
friends, but to reveal to this man who was wearily meandering towards him, the secrets of 
his heart seemed more than a little daunting.  

"Pippin," once Strider was before him, he knelt to hobbit-height in an attempt to appear 
as domesticated and encouraging as possible, "You are not well.  There is something 
troubling your heart and it has the fellowship quite concerned."  Realizing that Pippin 
looked more like a beaten puppy than a frightened child ready to bolt, Aragorn carefully 
took the hobbit's hand in his own and continued, "Do not think you are alone in your 
suffering.  It is a long, hard quest that will take you far from the comfort of your 
home…"

"It is no' the quest…"  Pippin interrupted softly, both grateful for and aggravated by 
Aragorn's assumption that it was the quest that had him so disheartened.  "It is not the 
quest," he stated more firmly when he sensed Aragorn's disbelief.  

"If it is not the quest, then what is it?  What is it that has you refusing the company of 
your playmates and friends?  Pippin, do not withdraw from us; during this journey we must 
gain our strength from one another…"  The man who would be king trailed off when he saw 
the dark, heavy curls thrashing back and forth in denial, "I cannae, Strider…"  The 
broadly accented voice grew faint as Pippin's tears fell again, which brought a large, 
animated gauntlet to his face to brush them away.  

"Why, friend?  Why do you bear this burden alone?  Even Frodo, with the greatest burden of 
us all has not refused himself our comfort.  Pippin," the addressed flinched from hearing 
his name spoken so plaintively, "We need you with us.  Like an elf, you have withered away 
under the weight of your emotions… Please…  Allow yourself this respite and confide in 
me."  Aragorn left the offer laid out between them, patiently waiting for Pippin to chose 
whether or not to accept it.  Long last, after Aragorn had taken both small hobbit hands 
in his own, the youngest of the fellowship squeaked, "I am so ashamed…"  He leaned forward 
and pressed his head against his captain's shoulder, sniveling and shuddering as Aragorn 
calmly stroked his hair.

"Ashamed, friend?"  Pippin snorted loudly in a way he knew would've had Merry wrinkling 
his nose at him and calling him 'piglet.'

"I will tell yae this, and yae must promise tae not ask any mair questions of me after 
I've hud my say.  Do yae promise?"  After Aragorn, albeit regretfully, promised, young 
Took continued, "I've fallen in love.  Nae, nae asking questions, yae promised!  Hush!  
I've fallen in love with someone from the fellowship, and don' bothair askin' who, cause 
yae ken I'm no' goin' tell yae!  An'…  An' I dinnae intend for it tae happen…. An' I feel 
such a fool…  Cause thair's no way he'll love me back an' I'm just… so unworthy tae even 
think of 'im in that way…  But I'll get over it, I promise, Aragorn, I dae!  I'm no' goin' 
tae let the fellowship doon 'cause I'm always off pinin' away, I won't!  It just…  It just 
hurts…"  As Pippin concluded his little speech, Aragorn nodded sagely in a way he imagined 
Gandalf would, but in all sincerity had no idea what to say.  The little hobbit in his 
arms seemed to have settled down and with hesitation, Pippin lifted his eyes to those of 
his leader, "Aye, nou…  You're right.  I dae feel better.  But, yae won't tell anyone, 
will yae?  Not even Gandalf?  I'd be so ashamed if anyone found out, I'd kill myself, I 
would!"

"I promise, Pippin."  And he leaned forward to knock his forehead against little Took's in 
an affectionate gesture before Pippin bolted past him with his typical sprightliness, 
towards the fellowship and the one he loved, leaving a man, burning with curiosity, in his 
wake. 

Aragorn, curled comfortably into his bedroll, forsaking sleep a few moments longer, to 
ponder the day's revelations.  Pippin was in love.  It wasn't too difficult to accept, 
seeing how young the hobbit was, and everyone knows youth lends to wide-eyed infatuations.  
The question burning away at Aragorn's mind however was not the 'why,' of course, but the 
'who.'  The object of Pip's affection really made no difference in the uncrowned king's 
mind, but it was futile to resist it's mystique.  Unintentionally, he began to reason his 
way through the fellowship:

Gandalf?  Of course not.  The wizard held an unattainable interest, but he was so old and 
so wise that he really couldn't be anything but asexual.  Furthermore, how could Pippin 
view him as anything but a father figure?  

Sam?  Perhaps.  Sam was responsible and protective, which were qualities young Took may 
find endearing, but did they compensate for Sam's insecure and introverted behavior?  Try 
as he may, Strider simply couldn't imagine Pippin withstanding Sam's shy decorum.  

Frodo?  Possibly.  He was beyond admirable in his courage and determination, and was 
undeniably the true hero of them all.  It was plain to see that the youngest hobbit 
honored the eldest, but could that be translated into love?  Did it matter to Pippin that 
they were cousins?  He knew incest was a wicked thing amongst the elves but was it amongst 
the hobbit folk?  And if it weren't, than that left Merry as the more suspect of the two.

But, Merry?  True, the two were inseparable, best of friends and seemed to not trust 
anyone or like anyone as much as they did each other.  They were always whispering quietly 
to each other, sharing secrets and telling tales they deemed unfit to tell the rest of the 
fellowship.  But, romantic love?  Strider doubted it.  He had the same relationship with 
Legolas, closer than brothers, yet not as close as lovers.  He could never be sexually 
attracted to Legolas, never, despite the elf's undeniable charms.

Legolas, perhaps?  There, indeed was a likely prospect.  The elf had beauty and skill that 
surpassed all of his kindred, and that was a feat worth recognition.  He was kind to the 
hobbits, yet distant enough to maintain his air of mystery.  And of course, he was 
sinfully handsome.  Aragorn decided then to keep a close eye on Pippin whenever he was 
near the golden creature.

Gimli?  Very doubtful.  Pippin never seemed to seek his company, for what seemed to be 
fear of him.  Although the hobbit knew the dwarf would never hurt him, Gimli, as did 
dwarfs in general, radiated a powerful, war-like energy that would surely be disquieting 
to one as peaceful as a hobbit.

Boromir?  Was he even worth considering?  No one as disrespectful, demeaning and heavy 
hearted could catch the eye of such a spitfire youngster.

It was too soon, Aragorn decided, to cast his lot.  Of course, the easy money was on 
Legolas, but hadn't the hobbits already thrown him a few mind-bending surprises?  The 
possibilities seemed endless.

'Who knows?' Aragorn considered beguilingly, 'It may even be me.'

***

There was something terribly amiss with the ranger king, it was decided.  Ever since he'd 
returned from his Pippin Investigation, he seemed preoccupied, distant and bloody well 
amused by everything.  For example, when Merry was crouched, struggling to conquer his 
bedroll, Sam, who seemed to have packed the entirety of Bag End on his shoulders, did an 
about-face, subsequently smacking his frying pan with elven dexterity directly into 
Merry's tuckus.  Merry, instead of doing the typical hobbit-roll forward, grabbed his 
backside and immediately sat, thwarting any further attacks on his rear.  Aragorn, who had 
been stoically trying to rub the sleep from his eyes and failing miserably, prefaced his 
burst of hysterical laughter with an off-putting snort that would have been more fitting 
of a disgruntled musk ox.  

Needless to say, everyone stopped.  Gimli, who had already been chuckling already from the 
hobbits' antics, lost whatever dwarven reserve he had, and began to guffaw with manly, 
dwarven tones in a way that would've shaken the foundations of any dwarven cave.  Gandalf 
and the hobbits, with the exception of Pippin, who were never a people to forsake a good 
chortle, erupted with giggles, leaving Boromir to smirk at them as one would smirk at 
masturbating monkeys and the Elf to give an open view of his mortally offended 
sensitivities.  

"My cheeks hurt,"  Merry complained, trying to rub the smile off his face.

"Which cheeks would those be, Merry?"  Pip piped up, much to the delight of the travelers 
around him.  Aragorn cast a glance at the smallest hobbit, only to find that when their 
eyes met, Pippin turned as red as the apples he coveted.  It would take a while, Aragorn 
knew, for Pip to feel secure around him again, having exposed his heart the way he did the 
other evening.  However, he felt more bonded to Pippin since then, and couldn't help but 
find himself thinking, "I'm going to be a damn good father."

And, with that reassuring thought, he confidently moved forward, to follow the still 
chuckling Gandalf down the road less traveled.  As he did, however, he missed the little 
hobbit who was occupying his thoughts, cast a shy, boyish smile, aimed at the only other 
man of the company.

Gandalf was sitting atop a rock that not only left onlookers baffled as to how a man of 
his age had climbed it, but allowed him to see both possible roads: mountains or Moira.  
He didn't like the prospect of either, and every time he tried to execute his masterful, 
logical thinking abilities, it seemed that his mental accelerator had all but rusted 
stiff.  He would get only so far as, "Mountains or Moira…" before his mind flounced away 
into, "Both start with 'M.'  I always remember having a helluva time trying to write 
'Caradhras' in Elvish.  Goofy elves…  Elrond sure talks a lot…"

"I am sorry to disturb your concentration, Gandalf, but may I sit with you for a moment?"  
Gandalf raised his head and looked at the rangy ranger standing above him, and nodded, 
thanking Valar for his ability to appear to be deeply concentrating when he was certain 
his thoughts were no less fruitless than those of a pining hobbit.    

After Aragorn was seated next to him, the two pillars of strength simply stared out across 
the horizon, both lost in their own thoughts.  With his mind wrapped up in wondering 
whether or not Gimli was actually not ticklish versus whether or not he simply was good at 
containing himself, it took Gandalf a while to notice that the fellow next to him was 
chuckling quietly.

"Well, now, Estel," he said smoothly, sucking on his newly lit pipe, "Would you care to 
enlighten me as to which spell it was that exchanged your personality for Pippin's?"  With 
a goofy grin still adorning his rugged features, Aragorn turned to him with a questioning 
brow.

"Oh, Aragorn," Gandalf decided to elaborate, "You're smiling all the time now, giggling at 
the empty air.  Surely the only way you could possibly become more Pip-ish would be if you 
filled Boromir's horn with tadpoles."  Indeed, Aragorn couldn't help but beam at the idea 
of what would happen if the Gondorian tried to blow upon a horn filled with tadpoles.  It 
was a colorful, if not somewhat slimy image. 

"And as for Pippin," Gandalf turned and glanced at the small man who was sitting away from 
the fire, still as a statue, curly locks obscuring the view of his sad, lonely face, "He 
seems to be attending to all of the brooding and scowling that you seemed to have left 
wanting."  Realizing that, indeed his little friend was in pain, Aragorn sighed in 
frustration, "Who would've thought, Gandalf, that the little one would find the only 
danger in a company such as ours?"  Knowing that Gandalf understood what he meant, he 
didn't feel he had to clarify that he was speaking of the dangers of a broken heart.

"Well," Gandalf chuckled to himself, "I always said that if there's trouble anywhere to be 
found, young Took will be the one to snuff it out.  But, I sincerely doubt that he is in 
danger.  He is a stout lad, and is sturdier than he looks."

"I agree," Strider produced his own pipe and lit it with a flair and a twinkle in his eye, 
"However, I think you underestimate the power of this degree of peril.  Perhaps, if he 
were inflicted with such a burden back in the Shire, it would've been easier for him to 
bear.  But, out here, he walks with his hazard daily."

"Ah, yes.  He didn't happen to confide in you who this… troublemaker is, hm?"  Gandalf 
knew, of course, they shouldn't be mocking Pippin in this way, but the idea of confronting 
a danger that was no greater than the devastating powers of love seemed far too sweet to 
let pass.

"Alas, he did not!  I have speculated, however, and I have placed my bet."

"Have you, indeed?  I have as well.  Care to make a wager?"  The smoke between 
them swirled and melded together as they both eyed the other in consideration.  The Ranger 
knew it was folly to bet against Gandalf, but he was certain it was the elf.  Twisting his 
spine, he sought the campsite beneath them, and found the golden beauty standing beside 
Frodo, in an unconsciously protective posture.  The firelight licked him, lapping at his 
flawless skin and intoxicating eyes, making him far more radiant than any human eye could 
bear.  Without hesitation, Aragorn whirled back, stating firmly, "A satchel of pipe weed 
on the elf."  Gandalf's already atrociously noticeable brows twitched and fluttered at 
such confidence, yet he countered, "Very well, then…  A satchel of pipe weed on Boromir 
the Fashionably Grumpy."  The ranger king's eyes lit up, already feeling not only his 
victory, but what a satchel of pipe weed would feel like coursing through his veins.

Boromir was extremely flustered.  As he sat beneath the rock on which Aragorn and Gandalf 
were chatting, he couldn't help but feel terrified and more than a little wounded.  
Fashionably grumpy, indeed.  However, despite the great jab dealt to his ego, he couldn't 
help but hold his heart as it pounded painfully against his ribcage at the thought of what 
he'd heard. 

Pippin was in danger.  And Gandalf thought he was in danger from Boromir.  The idea gave 
him qualms.  For the first time in a long time, he had to hold his stomach as well as his 
bleeding heart.  Surely he had misunderstood!  Surely they couldn't assume that he, great 
protector of his little friends would ever cause them the slightest pain.  Especially his 
dear, sweet little Took.  

But he'd heard the words; 'found danger in the fellowship,' 'walks by hazard daily,' 
'Boromir the…'  He scoffed at Gandalf's pet name.  What had he done to ever give anyone 
any doubt of his loyalty to and friendship with Pippin?  It was true, he did speak in 
favor of keeping the ring against better judgment, but he would never dream of injuring 
such a sweet, gentle, innocent slice of perfection.

Should he confront them?  Demand to know the reason for this blasphemy and those viscous, 
undeserving words?  No.  That would only make them more suspicious.  If they knew he had 
overheard, surely they would assume all kind gestures on his part would be a player's act 
to mislead them.  No, he must go to the source.  To assure Pippin that above all else, 
Boromir desired to keep him from harm.  Despite his gruff, bristly nature, Boromir was 
convinced he could prove to Pippin that he would sooner die than betray his so freely 
given trust.

Legolas eyed the Gondorian coldly as he staggered back into camp.  His arrival was at an 
awkward hour, most of the fellowship having gone to sleep, leaving only Boromir, and 
Legolas awake.  The elf had his suspicions, especially since the man looked taxed and 
empty.  Immediately, he assumed that Boromir had been warring with his unappeasable lust 
for the ring.  However, instead of stumbling clumsily to his bedroll and snoring away as 
he usually did, the warrior fell to his knees before a lumpy pile of hobbits.  

With all of the feet and curls and adorable little noses, it was difficult for Legolas to 
tell which one it was, exactly, that Boromir had leaned over and kissed upon the forehead.  
It was only when Pippin shifted, Boromir's kiss sparkling in the moonlight that Legolas 
felt himself soften slightly towards the man whom he had only considered a bane to their 
endeavor.  

He watched the fond smile that grew on Boromir's face as he carefully studied the sleeping 
man.  With great surprise, Legolas beheld the man of Gondor tenderly reach to ruffle the 
moonbeam kissed mop of hair that rested atop the freshly kissed brow.  However, it was not 
the demeaning or patronizing gesture it had been when Boromir had ruffled hobbit-heads 
before, but more of a lover's caress meant to ease a troubled spirit.  

Despite the fact that Legolas knew he hadn't made a sound, Boromir's head snapped to 
attention, and the elf found himself pinned by a pair of defensive eyes and threatening 
eyebrows.  With his typical Boromir-sneer properly set in place, the man rose and 
swaggered forward, spitting, "Don't look so smug, Cottontail," Boromir had chosen this 
nickname to belittle Legolas for his bunny-like ears and light feet, "You've become quite 
suspect, yourself."  As Boromir lunged off to his sleeping bag, Legolas was so absorbed 
with his hatred for the name 'Cottontail' that he almost missed the end of Boromir's 
message.  With a confused twist of his lips, Legolas thought, "Why would anyone suspect me 
of fancying hobbits?"


       
Title: Talking Through Cotton (Chapter 2) 
Author: GameShowVictim @ Neonsmokescreen@AOL.com 
Pairing(s): Pippin/Boromir, Aragorn/Legolas (later) 
Rating: NC-17 (for upcoming chapters) 
Summary: Eavesdropping, miscommunication, slash, comedy of errors... When Pip falls for a 
fellow of the ship, the Shakespearean devices come to life! 
Disclaimer: Not mine. Especially when they’re very, very bad. I did not create them, though I am 
the one they come running to when Daddy Tolkien says ‘No.’ 
Warning:  Some hobbit-lovin’ in upcoming chapters.  I know some people despise it.
       
       
       The Ring had become quite perturbed.  It didn’t know why of course, because the Ring 
had no conscious thought, despite it’s being extremely intelligent for a hunk of metal.  All it 
‘knew’ was that it had been desperately waiting for someone to give it some love.  It reached out 
to each member of the fellowship and much to its delight, it found some affection from the big, 
confused man.  Not as much affection as it got from its Papa, though.  
       Oh, how it missed its Papa.  It sensed that its Papa was getting nearer, many thanks to 
the curious little thing that had it around his neck.  If the Ring had had any conscious thought, it 
would’ve mused on the peculiarity of someone wearing a ring around his neck.  Did the hobbit 
realize they would both be so happy if he just wore it on his finger?  It was where it truly, truly 
wanted to be, and it was continually crying out, “Wear me, wear me, wear me!!”  However, it 
seemed the hobbit was very stupid.  For, if it were an intelligent being like his Papa, he would’ve 
not only put the Ring on his finger, but he would’ve given it to the big black riders.  
       The Ring loved the big black riders so very much.  They would speed it away to its Papa, 
he knew it.  Yet, there was some odd resistance in the hobbit.  The Ring had sensed this was the 
way of hobbits ever since it came to be possessed by the ugliest, slimiest hobbit in all of middle 
earth.  Of course, the hobbit was not slimy when he first met the Ring, but as he fell more and 
more in love with it, he seemed to get slimier and slimier.  A Ring, especially a magical one, had 
very little tolerance, however, for slimy beasts, and it soon found itself throwing its gold weight 
into the hands of the nearest non-orc it could find.  Another hobbit.  
       So, the Ring was on its third hobbit, now, and getting rather frustrated.  In the 
beginning, it had realized it was to be spending much time (not on a finger) with nine big 
creatures.  Immediately, it weighed the worth of each one, and it instantaneously yearned for the 
one with the huge, pointy head.  He, the Ring knew, had much power in him, and had the 
potential to love the Ring as much as its Papa did.  So, like a hungry babe, the Ring began to sing 
for him.  And of all the damnable things, the one with the pointy head would just lift his fuzzy 
brow and turn away.  The Ring was very broken hearted.  Its songs of power, fame and a not-so-
pointy head fell on deaf ears.
       Undauntedly turning its attention to the other members, the Ring found itself attracted 
to the elf.  Oh, what glory would it be to be wrapped around and thrust onto that magnificently 
sculpted finger.  They were meant for each other, the Ring figured:  Both golden, both desired by 
many, both powerful, both immortal.  Oh, yes, indeed, the Ring fell in love.  So, to the elf it sang 
the seductive song of an endless wilderness, more trees and fresh fruit than any elf could ever 
want, more rivers to play in, peace between all things great and small and it sang the sweetest of 
having someone to massage and play with his ears at all times.  As the Ring’s melodic tones 
wafted towards the elf, it noticed the elf respond with a less than encouraging gesture.  He jerked, 
twitched and grimaced as if he was hearing the singing of a dwarf as opposed to a beautiful ring.  
For a moment, however, the Ring thought the elf was succumbing to the lure of ear rubs, when 
the scraggly man playfully tugged on one of those magnificent, leaf-shaped ears and ruined any 
hope that the Ring would have an elven love.
       Realizing that it’s choices were now limited to either hobbits, men or a dwarf, the Ring 
began to, albeit despondently, sing to any non-hobbit in its presence.  For a moment or two, it 
seemed as if the scraggly man was interested in his words, yet he was entirely outshone by the 
lust of the big fella.  The Ring was happy, indeed.  At night, it would sing to the big man, and it 
could feel the man gazing wistfully at it in return.  Once, already, the man made a grab for it, and 
the Ring was very rankled by the others who stopped him.  
       For days, or was it weeks? The Ring had serenaded the burgundy steward, only to find 
that as he returned to camp on this particular night, there was no reciprocation of its love.  The 
man’s mind was elsewhere.  So, the Ring sang louder.  The man turned his back.  The Ring sang 
of a more glorious victory, of proving Boromir to be superior to the scraggly upstart.  The man 
pulled his bedroll over his ears.  The Ring began to get upset.  It wanted its Papa.  It was losing 
it’s charm, and it began to yell at the man. Although this earned the Ring a response, it was quite 
enraged to see the man approach it only to turn the sleeping hobbit onto his side, away from 
where Boromir slept.  
	If the Ring had feet, it would’ve kicked them.  If the Ring had a mouth, it would’ve 
yowled curses.  If the Ring had a mind, it would’ve invented even fouler curses.  However, the 
only thing the Ring could do was seek the reason for this betrayal, and see to it that it was swiftly 
returned to its Papa… 



Title: Talking Through Cotton (Chapter 3) 
Author: GameShowVictim @ Neonsmokescreen@AOL.com 
Pairing(s): Pippin/Boromir, Aragorn/Legolas (later) 
Rating: NC-17 (for upcoming chapters) 
Summary: Eavesdropping, miscommunication, slash, comedy of errors... When Pip falls for a 
fellow of the ship, the Shakespearean devices come to life! 
Disclaimer: Not mine. Especially when they’re very, very bad. I did not create them, though I am 
the one they come running to when Daddy Tolkien says ‘No.’ 
Warning:  Some hobbit-lovin’ in upcoming chapters.  I know some people despise it.  

       
       
       Nights never pass more slowly than when one is in turmoil, as was Boromir.  Somehow, 
even in the inky blackness, he could see Pippin’s innocent little face, and he couldn’t tear his eyes 
away.
       ‘You used to gaze at the ring like that,’ some unnamed voice spoke boldly inside him.  
However, instead of either silencing it or feigning he didn’t hear it, Boromir calmly acknowledged 
that the voice was quite right, “I know.”  Even in the vulnerable back of his mind, the Gonorian 
still heard the Ring’s bittersweet song, vying for his attention, but Boromir had gently rolled 
Frodo on his side, keeping the Ring out of his sight.  He had simply turned his back earlier, but 
found that he couldn’t keep his eyes from gazing forlornly at Pippin.
       ‘What have I done?  What have I done?’  His conscious couldn’t stop its own vortex of 
thoughts, ‘What have I done?  I’ve sought comfort in the Ring.  The Ring, that damnable Ring.”  
For the first time on the quest, Boromir felt a tantrum of hatred and anger well in him.  That 
hellish ring.  When the glinting gold caught his eye, it spoke only of what would be, what would 
become of him should he succumb to it.  Never once did he look around and see the things that 
were of great immediate importance.  While he was obsessed with the cryptic knowledge that he 
would lose Gondor to this strange ranger king, it never occurred to him that while he was 
brooding, the man was fighting off more orcs than one man could handle.  While he was 
concentrating on watching the ring sway and beat against Frodo’s frail chest, it never occurred to 
him that Frodo himself was having difficulty breathing and keeping his footing.  And, while he 
was concerned with keeping the walls of his beloved kingdom safe, he didn’t stop to see if the 
hearts of his beloved hobbits were safe.
       Such a sense of urgency bombarded him that he almost levitated.  He yearned to snatch 
Pippin, Merry, Frodo, Sam, Aragorn, and any bloody body else he could fit into his arms and just 
squeeze them until his ribs cracked.  Dammit, he’d even hug the bleeding elf.  Immediately, his 
chest swelled as if his lungs had gained twice their normal breathing capacity, and his blood grew 
whole and strong, thrumming through his veins with the roar of the victorious Gondorians he 
could already envision. And, as he closed his eyes, and simply breathed he realized, ‘The ring has 
no hold over me.”  For the longest time, it seemed, he watched the senseless play of anti-colors 
behind his eyelids, thinking only of ways to assure Pippin that he had the love of the Gondorian 
steward.
       ‘You know,’ Boromir exercised his freshly liberated mind, ‘I know I shall find no rest 
tonight.  Maybe I will hug that elf.’  He raised himself to his elbows, blinking dumbly, waiting for 
his eyes to adjust to find shapes in the night.  And, of course, the elf, silent and stoic as ever stood 
watch, arrow casually notched into his bow, looking to the casual observer like a trick of the 
moonlight.  Boromir shifted again, thinking of how he would squeeze that stony looking thing, 
when the elf snapped his eyes towards him and noticeably oriented himself with his weapon.
       ‘Very well,’ Boromir thought to himself, ‘It seems we’re not going to hug the elf after all.’  
He did, however, toss Legolas a genuine smile before turning onto side, and daydreaming about 
the morrow.
       
       Pippin didn’t notice that the scab he’d been picking at on the back of his hand had begun 
to bleed.  Nor did he notice the murkiness of the sky above him.  Nor did he notice that no one 
was looking at him with anything akin to hatred.  All Pippin noticed was that he had made an 
utter ass of himself in front of the man he wanted to impress the most.  And, in order to impress 
him, he had offered, earlier in the day, to take half of the food Sam had packed on his own back…
       Everyone knew Sam carried too much.  However, all hobbits were like that.  Every hobbit 
had, at least once, been pulled over by Aragorn or Legolas and told to empty their pockets of all 
of the interesting rocks and sticks and leaves they had found.  Instead of objects of natural 
beauty, however, Sam just happened to have decided to take half of Elrond’s kitchen with him.  
And, of course, upon seeing the far too adorable and wondering eyes, the chefs simply couldn’t 
spoil him enough.  
       So, Pippin had walked, his own wares on his back and the foodstuffs of the company in 
his arms.  He had been so impressed with himself, not only receiving a warm grin from his 
Boromir, but from seeing the straightening of the humped back from Sam.  At first, Pippin 
thought Sam foolish, sacrificing and torturing himself just to see Frodo smile, but now he knew 
he would toil all day with nothing to eat (slight exaggeration only, I assure you) to hear Boromir 
laugh, just once.  
       The extra load had been no burden for the little man.  In fact, Pippin felt, that if he didn’t 
have the excess to weigh him down, he may have just floated off into the heavens.  He had 
remained fast in Legolas’ shadow, no doubt infuriating the aloof creature who had his heels trod 
upon far too much for his liking.  Sometimes, the hobbit’s joy had overtaken  him, and he would 
boyishly sprint ahead of the elf, sometimes neglecting to suppress a rambunctious squeal.  Once 
the short burst of unexpected energy had spent itself, however, Pippin would wait, rosy cheek-ed 
and still grinning madly, for the fellowship to catch up.  He knew he looked rather childish, but 
Pippin was delighted with being alive today, knowing that Boromir was alive too, and that later 
when they’d camp, he could sit by him again.  
       And it was daydreaming about this close proximity around a fire that lead him to the 
unfortunate situation he was in, presently, for they had come to a bridge which crossed a small, 
harmless brook.  Still steadfastly maintaining his place behind Legolas, Pippin was 
unintimidated by the gurgling waters as he had watched the elf effortlessly cross the bridge.  
Pippin had thought he could be just as eloquent.  However, what he made up for in enthusiasm, 
he lacked in finesse, and as soon as he tumbled, all of Sam’s treats were swept away, along with 
the hobbit.
       It had taken only Legolas’ swift feet and quick hand to snatch the shivering hobbit from 
the waters, but it would take far more than that to heal Pippin’s pride.  
       “Pip!”  Merry’s voice had pierced the air, as the hobbit and the elf sat on the shore, “Pip, 
you silly hobbit!  You have wasted all that food!  Pippin, how could you be so stupid?”
       “Merry,” Aragorn had crossed the bridge and was next to join the little party, “We still 
have enough to take us several long miles…”
       “But what about second breakfast!  We’ll have no second breakfast, and now not even 
any snacks!”
       “Aye, little master,” one by one the fellowship had crossed to either scorn or tend to the 
soggy hobbit, and Gimli had wanted to do a bit of both, “The extra food was but a luxury, but not 
a necessity when you’re as firm built as a dwarf!  Just remember, though, when your stomach is 
growlin’ at you, you’ve only got yourself to blame!”  That had basically killed that conversation, 
since no one else had anything with which they could dispute or amend Gimli’s statement.  
       Pippin had labored with his breathing as he tried to not cry, knowing that if anyone in 
the fellowship, even Sam, wouldn’t have cried if they had been the one to make such an ass of 
himself.  When the company moved forward, and Pippin steadfastly avoided meeting all the eyes 
that had sought his, the littlest hobbit trudged along in the rear, struggling to keep up.
       And, that was where he was now, trying to take his mind off of his earlier antics by 
picking at a long healed scab, and creatively damning all rivers, brooks, streams and gullies that 
sought to shame him before his beloved.  It registered in his mind that the voices of his 
companions were heavy in the air, but he didn’t prick up his ears until he smashed into a great 
deal of metal armory, muscle and red, braided hair.
       “Oomph!”  Gimli may have been the only thing in Middle Earth that literally said, 
‘oomph’ when he was crashed into by a hobbit, as opposed to a ‘gungh,’ ‘huk-ahh,’ ‘hup,’ or 
‘Dammit, Pippin!’ 
       “Well, now, Master Pip!”  The brash dwarf chortled at the cowering Took, “Did you not 
hear Gandalf say we’re stopping for the night, then?  Or have you still got water in yer ears?”  Of 
course, the dwarf did not intend the statement to be a slight, being unfamiliar with the genteel 
sensitivities of hobbits as he was, but Pip choked and blushed as all of his previous attempts to 
forget the incident were tramped to silt.  
       Struggling again to force his body to respond the way he wished it would, Pippin simply 
dropped his belongings where he stood as the rest of the tribe moved further from the path.  
When his butt hit the dirty ground, and everyone was out of his line of sight, Pippin allowed a 
few tears to fall.  With the strain on his heart, the strain on his feet and his friendships, the young 
hobbit felt like sobbing and yelling and making as much a fuss as possible, and if it weren’t for 
his exposure to the world of hardened rangers, stoic elves, gruff dwarves, and readily sobering 
hobbits, he would’ve done just that.  As it was, however, he simply leaned into his knapsack and 
soaked it.  It wasn’t long, of course, a soft hand fell on his shoulder, making Pippin think there 
must have been a hold up for someone to have waited this long to fetch him.
       “Aye, now, Pip, come here.”  He’d known it would be Merry of course, and he had to 
wonder if Merry came to him of his free will or if Gandalf had instructed him to, seeing as Merry 
was, indeed, his cousin.  Deciding to save that possible heartache for another day, Pippin rolled 
into his best friends arms, and then proceeded to soak his shirt as thoroughly as his knapsack.  
       Merry snuggled and rocked him, before whispering, “I didn’t mean to yell at you, Pippin.  
Especially in front of everybody, it was wrong of me.”  The addressed said nothing, but burrowed 
deeper into his cousin’s chest.
       “You’re a sad one, Pip.  You’re so unhappy.”  It was a statement that Merry just had to 
make, recognizing his favorite hobbit’s deep pain.  He suddenly began to regret very much the 
way he would badger Pippin to tell him who his crush was, and the way he would reprimand him 
in front of that anonymous crush.  Well, anonymous insofar as Pippin hadn’t out and out said his 
name, for all of the hobbits had a pretty good guess as to who held claim to Pippin’s affections.  
And, seeing as they desperately wanted to hear Pippin’s laughter again, the curly haired folk had 
an unvoiced pact that they would make whatever idiots and fools of themselves to give Pip his 
every opportunity to be with the big (not-so-anonymous) crush.  Hobbits are damned fools, 
some of the time.
       “Come now, Pip, it’s very cold.  Come sit by the fire.  I can hold you, still, if you’d like.”  
With a grotesquely snotty snort and wipe of the nose, Pippin grumbled slightly before trying to 
throw his cousin a grin.  It came out in a manner that would’ve had Merry rather frightened if it 
weren’t that he knew Pip meant well.  
       As they marched to their camp, Pippin quietly declined Merry’s offer of snuggling by the 
campfire.  Although the idea of being close to his best friend in the whole world seemed like the 
safest, most reassuring thing Pippin could think of to do, he knew he could never forgive himself 
for appearing to be such a child in front of the Tirithian warrior.  No, he would tough it out, and 
hope the swelling and redness about his eyes and nose would disappear.
       At the camp, both pairs of hobbity eyes were eagerly searching Pip’s face for signs of 
merriment, but they knew by Merry’s brisk head shake that they would find nothing of the sort.  
Even Boromir couldn’t resist casting a few glances in the  little one’s direction, and Aragorn was 
diligently fighting to catch his eye.  
       Pippin began to prepare his bedroll as the fire cackled and Gandalf and Gimli discussed, 
at great length, beard hygiene and management.  Merry, wanting to prove to Pip how sorry he 
was, knelt and immediately began to aid him.  Again, Pip offered him a thankful smile and 
actually succeeded in making it less than scary.  
       “I left my cup oan the road,” Pippin said shyly, before quietly shuffling off in that 
direction.  After he’d disappeared, Merry flung himself at Sam and Frodo, which bred a great deal 
of whispering and plotting.  Gandalf paused in his heated debate over whether one should use 
tomato sauce or apple juice to remove honey from one’s beard (Gandalf’s platform being that if 
you used apple juice and it didn’t work, it certainly tasted better than tomato sauce, to which 
Gimli replied, ‘If that’s your main concern, you may as well apply more honey!’) to smarmily 
raise an eyebrow in Aragorn’s direction.  The ranger king, in return, cast a brief glance to the elf, 
who was skillfully crafting more arrows, then to Gandalf again, with a raised brow of his own.     
       A snap of an errant twig alerted everyone to the return of one of their own.  Pippin began 
walking towards his bedroll, when Gandalf’s wand ‘accidentally’ ran into Pippin’s shin and 
‘accidentally’ pitched him directly into Boromir’s lap.  The victims, who were a mess of limbs and 
steadily flushing cheeks missed entirely the snooty grin passed from Gandalf to Aragorn, as well 
as Aragorn’s amused finger-shaking at the old wizard.  
       Boromir was flustered, with Pippin squirming about in his lap, and looked up for a brief 
moment to catch Merry throw his arms about his own shoulders, and Frodo squeezing the 
stuffing out of Sam in a demonstration of what they wanted Boromir to do.  The Son of Gondor, 
like the good leader he was, did as he was told.  Pippin, in his dismay at having been humiliated 
yet again was positively flabbergasted when he felt his object of affection weave his formidable 
arms around him and pull him into his great chest.
       Now, when things like this happen, as anyone can tell you, one’s response is far from 
one’s own control, as it was, in Pippin’s case.  All thoughts of jumping away and apologizing 
profusely died a swift and painless death, as the young hobbit shuddered uncontrollably and let 
out a soft, ‘Oh…’  His entire body sang and resonated as if he was standing right next to a 
massive, tolling bell and it wasn’t until several moments later, he remembered to breathe.  
       Not caring who saw him make such a crude display, Gandalf turned to Strider and 
prepared to stick his tongue out at him.  Luckily, however, he stopped himself just before 
realizing that the ranger wouldn’t have seen it.  One of his hands was outstretched, gently 
massaging the very pointed tip of the elven ear before him.  Legolas was a pile of goo at Aragorn’s 
feet, and Gandalf momentarily forgot his victory, as he thought to himself, “What, in bloody 
Mordor is he doing to that elf?”


Talking Through Cotton: Chapter 4


Once every year, the Mirkwood elves would visit.  Although Elrond always 
expected and welcomed them, a general posse would arrive on Elrond's doorstep, 
unannounced and demanding food.  They were, of course, a younger crowd, the 
sons of the Mirkwood King and several of their closest mates, each and every one 
as handsome as they were skilled.  
 
Elladan and Elrohir were always impetuous at this time, and although he loved 
his twin sons, they drove Elrond to the brink of madness.  It seems that when the 
Mirkwood elves entered the front door, the Peredhil manners went out the back.  
The new arrivals brought many games and sports with them, and although 
Elrond wholly encouraged this sort of thing, he wholly discouraged it from being 
executed in the house.  

And this was his situation at present.  As he emerged from his study, a leather 
ball smashed into the wall behind him, and would have beheaded him if it 
weren't for his elven reflexes.  The ball bounced innocently and Elrond scooped it 
up just before five sweaty, rosy cheeked youngsters exploded into the room.

"Father!  Gimme the ball!  Pass it, pass it!"  With cool, dangerous eyes, Elrond 
glanced at his son, who was busily trying to keep his other son from ascertaining 
the leather jewel in their father's hands.  He knew he had many options, ranging 
from chucking the ball out the window, leading the young men to their rooms by 
their sensitive ears, or…

"I beg your pardon, Lord Elrond, but may I relieve you of this foot-ball that so 
rudely interrupted your day?"  Immediately, Elrond recognized the youngest son 
of King Thranduil.  He was standing beside him, still radiant after what looked 
like a brutal mud-dousing, and stretched to his full, official height. 

"Why, of course, Legolas," Elrond replied, obligingly, "If only you would do me 
the favor of taking it outside."

"It shall be done, my gracious liege, and I thank you for your hospitality."  With 
that, the sprightly young elf took off out the door and on to the lawn, while 
Elladan yelled, "Father! We were only one goal behind, now we shall lose and 
have to bathe their horses!"

Elrond grinned sickly at his son and reminded him, "Did I not always tell you 
that manners were the key to success?"  Two twin pairs of eyes glowered at him, 
just before they, and the rest of their squad zipped out to stop Legolas from 
scoring again – or to, at least, douse him in some more mud.

The Lord of Rivendell smiled with affection for the youths, and began to make his 
way to his chambers.  He had only taken several steps toward his destination 
when he heard a quiet shuffle in one of the many corridors.  Glancing down the 
hall that was turning redder and redder as the setting sun shone brightly through 
the open walls, Elrond caught a glimpse of his beloved foster son, gazing wistfully 
at the gaming boys below. 

"You may join them, you know.  I'm sure they would welcome you 
wholeheartedly.  I know my sons need someone of your skill to keep them from 
an eternity of washing horses."  Estel's eyes were a deeper blue than usual, due to 
the royal purple he wore, and they carried far more wisdom than anyone of only 
twelve years should have.

The child said nothing, and just glanced at his keeper, granting him a menial 
smile.  Elrond tipped his head and sighed.  He had tried to socialize the young 
heir as he would any other child in his care, but the boy rejected all of his 
attempts.  He preferred his reading and poetry to playing games with the other 
children, and he always sought the company of Elrond himself before any peers.  
Indeed, if he were to ask the boy to name his friends, Elrond was convinced he 
would be given a list of the Elders.

"Why don't you go downstairs, at least?  It would be easier for you to watch the 
game."

Estel ignored the remark and looked up at him, asking kindly, "How fare you, 
m'lord?"  

"Ah, bless you!  At least one of my children has taken my lessons of conduct 
seriously!" 

"Arwen is very kind and considerate."  Elrond took Estel's hand and lead him out 
of the corridor as the room was turning from purple to darkness.

"Arwen, my young one, cannot help but be congenial.  If I had schooled her in the 
ways of being a swine in the stables, she, well…"

"Would be the most elegant swine in the stable."  The pair of them laughed as 
they descended the front steps, bringing them to the sidelines of the sporting 
elves.  When Estel realized Elrond had intentionally brought him here, he cast 
him a knowing glance, but said nothing.  Elrond gently stroked his hair, and told 
him, "Don't stay up too late, my love.  Mind your fencing lesson in the morning."

"Yes, m'lord."  As Estel sat on the step and Elrond climbed the stairs, neither 
noticed the curious glance cast in the boy's direction by one of the muddiest 
players.

***

And that was how it began.  It was not how it had ended, but it had progressed far 
enough to place them where they were now:  Legolas, sitting at Aragorn's feet, 
seeming to have had the bones sucked right out of him, as Aragorn tenaciously 
fiddled about and flirted with the elven ear.  The man who would be king never 
would've guessed that as he sat on the stone steps of Elrond's palace, he would 
befriend the glimmering beauty who was awash with mud.  He certainly never 
thought he would be massaging his ear whilst on a trek to destroy the most life-
threatening band of gold in Middle Earth.  

Aragorn's mind left that place, however, and traveled back to a far more peaceful 
time, back in Rivendell.  A time before he knew about Elves and their ears…



"I've won again!"  Estel's palm slapped into the great elm tree with resounding 
vigor before he turned to see his best friend of three years slowly meander up 
behind him.

"And since when did our pleasant stroll become a race?"  

"Since the elm tree became the finish line."  Typically, it would be difficult for two 
people of vastly different generations to become friends, but to the newly founded 
duo of Estel and Legolas, the nearly one thousand years between them meant 
nothing.  

"Why, Estel," Legolas purred condescendingly, as he carefully stalked the 
youngster, "It was not long ago that you preferred to sit on the sidelines while 
competitive games were played."

"Well, old man, I would think that someone who has been alive as long as you 
have would be the first to tell me that times change." Estel was deliberately 
stepping backwards, keeping the distance between the elf and him, mainly for 
safety purposes.

"Old man?" Legolas stopped in his tracks, and with a narrowing of his eyes, 
hissed, "I daresay, I am going to have to require an apology for that."

Estel crossed his arms and looked very much like the ruler he would become 
until his voice cracked, "Well, then.  You are just going to have to come and get 
it!"  And, with that, he turned and sprinted off into the forest, not checking once 
to see if the elf pursued him.  Legolas sighed and crossed his arms, glancing off in 
the direction the young man had zipped.  He twisted his lips in consideration, 
knowing that if he did choose to engage in this disgracefully adolescent 
indulgence he could still easily out run the overzealous youth.  That was when he 
took off, disappearing so swiftly, you never think he was there in the first place.

Now, Estel, it is widely known, is not a blockhead.  He knew the elf could 
overtake him with minimal effort, but an unexpected counterattack would 
certainly give Legolas a shock.  His slender frame was easily absorbed into the 
shadow of a great tree, and there he waited for his prey to come into view.  Sure 
enough, a silver-blonde streak silently sped towards him, only to receive a 
discombobulating blow from the nearest tree.  Legolas didn't even have time to 
curse as Estel barreled into him, the intense momentum of the pair hurtling them 
several yards before their forward-force began to die and the downward thrust of 
the hill they'd stumbled across picked up.  At this point, both of them swore most 
profanely. 

To their favor, this particular hill was good to them, wearing only soft grass, and 
lovely flowers, only occasionally snagging and teasing them with an odd rock on 
their way down.  And, although Estel didn't have the quick recovery that Legolas 
had, he liked to think he did, and he lunged at the elf as soon as they got to the 
bottom.  Legolas, clever elf as he was, expected this and easily deflected the 
snarling animal that was headed straight for him. And Estel, clever man as he 
was, expected this, and kicked out, bringing the elf down beside him.  The elf had 
not expected that.  And, while he felt like a fool for not seeing it coming, he 
noticed with great distaste that there was a man on him.

They tousled for a good time, using both fair play and quite unfair play.  If you 
asked him today, Legolas would say that he would never dream of initiating 
biting in a wrestling match, but to tell the truth, it was exactly what he did.  When 
Estel was lying across his face, considering Legolas down for the count, the elf 
took the opportunity to sink his teeth into the sweaty flesh he found there.  And, 
if you asked him today, Aragorn would say that he would never once screech like 
a wee maid if he were bit in a wrestling match, but to tell the truth, it was exactly 
what he did.

Immediately, he rolled away from Legolas, and lifted his shirt to investigate the 
damage.  Sure enough, there was a good sized hickey developing right where the 
elf's teeth had been.  Legolas knew his only chance now was to brace himself for 
the youngster's counterassault, which came in the form of another flying-squirrel 
plundering.  This time, as they rolled about in the dirt, Estel was desperately 
seeking an impeccable place to give the elf a good gnawing.  As soon as he found 
it, he pressed Legolas hard into the earth, rendering him defenseless, and bit 
down firmly.  With his teeth soundly set in the elf's ear, Estel was shocked to 
realize he had, with this gesture, killed the elf.  Estel immediately released him 
and looked down at his closest and most loved companion, whose ever viligent 
eyes were closed and whose body had gone completely slack beneath him.

"Gh…  Legolas?  Legolas?"  The boy grasped his friend's head, seeking to 
understand what exactly had happened to him and how to revive him.  As Estel 
began to work himself into a great fret, Legolas' eyes slowly opened, revealing 
glimpses of only the whites of his eyes. 

"Legolas!  Come back!  Forgive me, come back!"  With a shuddering sigh, Legolas' 
eyes returned to normal, and he moistened his pink lips with his tongue, 
humming, "Mmmmm…"  Estel carefully scrutinized the elf's face, which had still 
not lost its languid expression, and was baffled at the contentment he found 
there.  He was not so young as to not understand what kind of contentment it 
was, and with curiosity controlling him, he reached for the elf's ear again.

Now, as his finger swept around the exquisite ridge of the lovely elven ear, the 
reaction was different; Legolas' soft mouth parted, a painfully lewd whimper 
filling the air.  His eyes rolled back again in pleasure, his eyelids fluttered, and his 
hands sunk deeply into the ground beneath them.  The beautiful blond head 
leaned into Estel's touch, rubbing his ear against Estel the way he liked.

Estel watched on, entranced.  He chewed his lip as he thought, remembering a 
time when Glorfindel was jesting about with Elrond at a dinner party.  The fair elf 
had concluded the conversation by a gentle tug on Elrond's ear before leaving the 
room.  At the time, Estel thought his foster father was going to have a fainting 
spell, for he looked exactly as Legolas was looking now. 

As he thought back on the incident, he neglected to continue his ministrations, 
and Legolas was beginning to return to a suitable state of consciousness.  He saw 
his young friend atop him, a contemplative expression on his fledgling face, and 
Legolas immediately flushed when he realized that Estel had discovered the little 
unspoken elven secret.  

Before Estel could finish his thought on whether or not this would be a good 
technique to always use on elves in battle, the elf beneath him knocked him to 
the side, and proceeded to stuff dead leaves down his shirt.

Although Legolas never spoke of what had happened that day in the dell, young 
Estel never forgot it.  Because while Legolas viewed it as a shameful event that 
was not to be spoken of, Estel considered it a bonding moment, and he would 
forever cherish it as one of his favorite memories – despite getting dead leaves 
stuffed down his shirt.

Perhaps the most peculiar thing about the incident was that it happened again.  
Not only once, but several times since.  While the tribe of Mirkwood elves would 
typically show once a year, the young Prince Legolas showed at least once a 
month to reconnect with his dearest friend.  And one of these times was after 
Elrond told Estel of his heritage.  Needless to say, the young man had been upset.  
He had flung himself in his room, trying not to succumb to the despicable 
sobbing he knew was coming upon him as he curled up on the bed.  He didn't 
know that his father had received Legolas at the front door at that moment and 
bade him see to the well-being of the young heir.     

Quiet and reverent as always, Legolas had entered the young man's room and, 
not needing to ask permission, reclined on the bed next to the newly dubbed 
Aragorn.  When Aragorn sensed his presence, he immediately pulled the elf 
against him and allowed himself to sob.  Legolas, of course, felt completely 
comfortable like this and didn't mind the close contact, until he felt a hand slowly 
making its way towards his ear.  He didn't have the heart to tell the sobbing thing 
in his arms that it would be quite inappropriate for him to start… fondling his ear 
at this point, so when he felt the first touch, he simply allowed Aragorn to have 
his way with him.

And it became their custom:  When Aragorn was upset, his instinct was to, 
instead of curling up in the fetal position and rocking himself, reach for the 
nearest elven ear and fondle away.  Neither Legolas or Aragorn spoke of this to 
one another, although both accepted it as their way of functioning.

Tonight, the thing that had upset Aragorn was the return of the still-miserable 
Pippin to their camp.  When he saw the distress the typically cheerful hobbit was 
in, he berated himself for making a betting game of it.  And, when he saw Gandalf 
facetiously tip the already humiliated hobbit into Boromir's lap, he felt even 
worse.  He only half mockingly shook his finger at the smartly grinning wizard 
before he subconsciously reached for his elf's ear.  As his defense mechanism 
kicked in, Aragorn became more and more engrossed in the way the beautiful elf 
submitted to him with a single touch and although he didn't see it, off in the 
distant world of reality, Aragorn heard somebody with a long, white beard saucily 
blow a raspberry at him.



Talking Through Cotton: Chapter 5


The hobbits were still hugging, the ranger was still rubbing, Boromir was still 
baffled, Gandalf was still grinning, Legolas was still liquid, the dwarf was still 
drowsing, and poor Pippin was still pulsating on the brink of orgasm.  When the 
Gondorian steward felt the small creature in his burgundy arms go entirely limp, 
his mind immediately deducted, "Either I've killed him, or he's fainted with fear."  
He pulled back slightly, in order to get a peek at the young hobbit's face, and he 
felt entirely guilty for what he saw there:  Pippin was flushed, his small body 
trembling, his eyes unfocused and his lips quivering.  To Boromir, he looked far 
beyond terrified.

"Pippin…?  Are you… Pippin, are you well?"  Boromir lightly patted at the 
youngster's face until Pippin's eyes fluttered open and glanced at him.  Much to 
Boromir's dismay, Pip turned even redder than the burgundy of his sleeve, and 
tried to escape his grasp.  Boromir, however, didn't want to let him go.  If he did, 
then Pippin would run and Boromir would not have the chance to apologize and 
explain that he had no intention of crushing him, he simply wanted to give him a 
hug… 

"Pippin, I just…" Boromir said, while unconsciously loosening his arms and 
lifting his brow at the thought of a great warrior explaining he simply wanted to 
hug a hobbit.  Pip gave a good struggle, distressed Boromir would brush against 
something that should be left well un-brushed against, until he managed to free 
himself.  With a thump he landed on his bum in the soft dirt and nervously 
hugged his knees to his chest, willing his blood to flow anywhere but to his face 
or his loins. 

Luckily, the embarrassment acted as a wonderfully effective anti-aphrodisiac and 
he found himself finally in the condition to stand and say, "I think, eh…  I'm goin' 
tae gae tae bathe, nou…  Since there'll be nae… bathin' oan the mountain, likes…"  
And, before bothering to bring anything to aid him in his ablutions, or to hear 
any of the fellowship's protests that there wasn't anywhere to bathe within 
several miles, Pippin scampered off.

Gradually, the lusty, escapist haze began to lift from Aragorn's mind, and it was 
his tactile senses that returned to him first…  There was something wonderfully 
delightful under his hand, soft and homey, and there was a welcome weight 
against his thigh.  His sight helpfully returned and he noticed that the elf, in his 
own lusty daze, had swooned against him and was leagues away.  When Aragorn 
scrutinized him a little more intimately, he noticed that Legolas had, in fact, 
drooled on him a bit.  As Aragorn began to gently tug away the hair that had 
stuck against the elf's full, moist lips, he couldn't help but think, "My friend, I 
may not be able to hear the trees sing or maintain infallible hygiene practices, but 
at least I do not drool in my sleep."   Filled with contentment, he continued to 
stroke the prince's comely locks and velvet cheek, and as he lifted his head, he 
caught sight of a great scurrying about on the part of the hobbits.  He could not 
hear what they were saying, not only because they were whispering, but because 
they were speaking so quickly.  He watched, not noticing his elf coming back to 
consciousness, as Merry bounced about, too excited to notice whether or not he 
was trouncing on Sam's feet.

"Wh--…" Legolas started, when he came back to himself.  He stopped trying to 
speak for a moment and smacked his lips a few times, trying to recall where he 
was, who he was with, the date, the time, his own name…  Obviously, all these 
things lead to one conclusion, being Aragorn had gotten hold of his ear again.  
Looking up, he saw the man himself grinning at him in a most self-satisfied 
manner, still stroking his hair and massaging his scalp.  Legolas parenthetically 
decided that this was not a terrible situation to be in, and he rested his head 
against Aragorn's thigh a second time and allowed himself to be pet.

***

"So, what now?  What now?!"  Frodo was beginning to get a little peeved.  
Typically, he loved Merry's lighthearted nature and reveled in the way he cared 
for his friends, but on this quest it was wearing a bit thin.  Truly, the only thing 
he desired was for all of his closest mates, and even Boromir, Legolas and Gimli, 
to wrap themselves around him and protect him from the crushing fate he knew 
was galloping toward him.  He never let Sam get out of his reach by a centimeter, 
as if his gardener was the most indomitable security blanket in the all of Middle 
Earth.  Frodo wasn't so sure he wasn't.  And right now, young Baggins was upset, 
not only with Merry's constant jabbering, but with his insistence on stealing Sam 
from him.  He didn't even bother to listen to the conversation the two were 
having and as soon as he felt Sam begin to rise, Frodo would instinctively tug him 
back to the earth.  

"Frodo!  Me and Sam, we've got a plan!"  Two startled pools of blue jerked up to 
see Merry, who was flushed with excitement and anticipation.  Immediately, 
Frodo's frustration began to wane, and he asked, "A plan for what?"  Casting a 
glance about himself that was most commonly used for checking if farmer 
Maggot was around, Merry murmured, "To get…  *hngh*," he jerked his shoulder 
to the cove of trees where Pip had disappeared, "a bit of love from *hngh*," he 
tossed his head to where Boromir sat behind them, looking more than a little lost 
and undecided.

Frodo shook his head, his dark, lovely curls catching in the moonlight in a way 
that would have set a plague of envy on the elves.  Only Merry, Frodo knew, 
would concerned about the welfare of his best friend's heart during such trying 
times as these.  

"We hobbits are simple folk, indeed," Frodo thought, "avoiding giant problems 
such as lusting after powerful rings by caring more for the powerful bonds of 
friendship."

"And all we have to do," Frodo heard Merry explaining as soon as he returned to 
the conversation, "Is get Boromir to follow him!"

"How're you plannin' on gettin' him to do that, if you don't mind my speakin' 
plain?" Sam was never a pushover, despite the fact that he was quite beneath 
Merry in the hobbit caste system.  This question, which was incredibly 
appropriate, left Merry at a bit of a loss.  He glanced around their camp, taking in 
the dozing dwarf, the elf cuddling up on Aragorn, Gandalf pretending he wasn't 
assiduously listening in on their conversation and Boromir sitting still with a face 
that expressed his heartache.

In a moment of inspiration, Merry answered this question by boldly marching to 
where Boromir sat, and giving him a hearty kick in the thigh before barking, 
"Follow that hobbit!"  At this rather rude display which had Gandalf turning a 
lovely purple hue as he tried to bottle up his laughter, and Aragorn ready to 
reprimand, Boromir lifted his eyes as if he'd just received a bit of advice from an 
angel.  And before Gimli could say, "The hell was that!?!" Boromir took off along 
the trail made by Pippin.  

Merry, needless to say, was quite proud, having spurned a seasoned warrior into 
action with one fell swoop of his mighty hobbit tootsie, but as he turned to gloat 
at the ranger king, he got a less than enthusiastic response, "Merry, was that 
entirely necessary?"

Young Merry, whose bubble had been brutally burst by this frigid inquiry, 
summoned all his strength to keep himself from snipping, "Aragorn is it *entirely 
necessary* to make love to that elf in front of everyone?"  Fortunately, however, 
he channeled his anger in a healthier direction and replied, "Well, someone had 
to follow him!  He'd get lost, otherwise, you know Pip!"

Aragorn, whose hand had never once left the Elf Prince, who, by the way, had 
dropped off and begun to drool again, narrowed his eyes at the little man and 
began to wonder if he and Gandalf were in cahoots.  There was no way, he 
decided, he was going to lose this bet because of Gandalf's infamous trickery, and 
he raised an eyebrow to ask, "But why *Boromir*?"

This left Merry a bit flustered, since he knew that his matchmaking would go 
unappreciated by someone so dedicated to the quest, and he lied, "Well, Boromir 
and Pip are good friends, you know?  Almost as close as me and Pip, I thought, 
well…  Seeing as they're such good mates and all, Boromir would be able to help 
him with… whatever's…  troubling…  him."

If Legolas had been awake, he would've protested at the way Aragorn was 
tangling his pristine locks, but the elf was asleep and the man was too engrossed 
in trying to figure the situation out, "Do you know what's troubling Pippin?"

Merry, like the guilty creature he was, switched around to get an encouraging nod 
from Sam before switching back and telling Aragorn, "Aye…"  That was when 
Merry began to pretend they had nothing more to say to each other, and he 
walked back to go hide behind Sam and Frodo as if it were the most natural thing 
in the world.

***

Pippin kicked a rock, stubbed his toe, damned the rock, then proceeded to kick 
another one.  He was so terribly busy contemplating his several crippling 
humiliations of the day, he simply couldn't bring himself to consider why 
Boromir had even put his arms about him in the first place.  He remembered 
foremost, the spill into the water, then crying in front of everyone, then forgetting 
his cup, then, nightmare of all nightmares, tumbling into the lap of the man he 
loved.  

After he'd trudged in the woods far enough, he found a tree that looked friendly 
to him, and, as he viewed the giant trees as Frodo viewed Sam, he cuddled 
against its great, wise roots and watered it with his tears.  He was so exhausted.  
His forehead ached, his nose was stuffy, his stomach was overworked from all the 
convulsing, and his heart was tired of breaking.  Eventually, he cried no more, 
knowing that he was dehydrated, and leaned into the rough, ancient bark as if it 
could absorb all of the hurt out of his small body.

Although Pippin didn't fall asleep, he became so sleepy, he didn't bother to keep 
an update on his surroundings, and he nearly leapt to the highest tree branch 
when he felt a large hand engulf his shoulder.

"Pippin!  Pippin!  It's Boromir, Pippin!"  This was not how the Gondorian wanted 
to be greeted.  He already knew that Pippin was terrified of him, but to actually 
see the little hobbit leap away from him in fear opened up new wounds in his 
heart.  As soon as Pippin settled down, our hobbit hero flushed madly, ready to 
count this as simply another embarrassment in a day that was already swamped 
with them.  He tried to hide his face, hoping the old tree would open a hole to the 
earth that he could crawl in and hide.

"Pippin." The hobbit cringed, not ready for more shame to be heaped on him. 
"Pippin, I came to apologize…"  A red little face peered up at the large man from 
underneath a huddling shoulder, both pink eyes wide with curiosity.  Boromir 
attempted to smile, not wishing to frighten the little one more than he already 
had, "Pippin, just now…  I never…  I never meant that…"  He began to shift and 
rock on both feet, feeling very foolish and unprepared, "What I'm trying to say is, 
I know what haunts you…  I heard Aragorn speaking of it…"  There was silence.  
All of the tears that had seemingly dried up in young Took's eyes were 
resurrected as the worst humiliation of them all struck him like a battering ram.   
Boromir watched as that adorable little face crumpled in despair, and the hobbit 
couldn't keep a keening sob from escaping.

As if he had no say in the matter, Boromir scooped up the tiny treasure and held 
him fast against his chest, his weather-beaten hand stroking the soft curls. "Oh, 
Pippin, I'm so sorry.  I never meant for this…  I tried to show you how I felt, Pip, 
how I care for you, and…  And still, you did not understand…" Boromir shifted 
his favorite in his arms, and tried to get the whimpering hobbit to look at him, "I 
would never betray you, little one, surely you must know that…  I would never 
hurt you, not for all the powerful rings in the world…  I know not what it was that 
gave you the impression that I did not love you, but I would I could undo it…"  
Pippin was still trembling in his arms, but in order to hear Boromir's words, 
Pippin had stopped sobbing and couldn't help but notice the lips that were 
rubbing against  his hair.  That incredibly pleasant, yet disconcerting feeling 
began to pool in him, scorching through his bones, and leaving him in a rather 
unbefitting state, yet again. 

"Boromir…"  Pippin pushed on his chest and, Boromir, wanting to appear as 
unthreatening as possible, let him lean back.  The little face that he loved so 
much was so red and swollen, he couldn't resist sliding his thumbs across the 
soft cheeks to rid it of its tears.  Pippin blinked at him several times, and replayed 
the warrior's words through his mind again and again… 

Gathering the small remnants of his pride that were as scattered as the leaves 
beneath them, the small hobbit scarcely more than muttered, "You love me?"  It 
took a moment for the words and their meaning to fully come to light in 
Boromir's mind, but when they did, he had to chuckle in relief and pull the 
hobbit under his chin.  Oh, what an innocent, sweet thing he held to him.

"Yes and a thousand times yes, little one."  And, much to his consternation, when 
he heard the words he had wanted to hear ever since meeting the stunning Lord 
of Men, Pippin inexplicably began to cry again.  It was a release of many things, 
of all the exhaustion, the tension, the embarrassment, the heartache, the 
confusion, the pain, the joy, the excitement, the hope…  He was breathing as if he 
had just ran from the Shire to Mordor, and back again, and he threw his arms 
about his beloved's strong neck.

Boromir, himself felt overwhelmed by this darling creature's response.  With his 
arms wrapped snugly around the small man, he was careful to not crush him in 
his emotional tumult.  He did not know how Pippin's fear of him had been so 
great as to cause a reaction such as this.  Both guilt and relief flooded him as he 
thought back on all of the agony he had unwittingly caused to the one he loved 
most and how wonderful it felt to have this whole ordeal cleared between them.  

Still, however, Boromir was confused as to why Pippin ever thought him a threat.  
He was confused that Pippin had never confronted him about it.  He was 
confused that Gandalf had placed a bet on him.  He was terribly confused as to 
why Aragorn thought Pip to be afraid of Legolas.  But, the most confusing thing 
of all was when he felt a soft, wet pair of lips tentatively kiss his chin, before 
Pippin gently pressed them into his unforeseeing mouth…  


Title: Talking Through Cotton (6/?)
Author: GameShowVictim @ Neonsmokescreen@AOL.com 

And so, it was all out war between them. Both sides more stalwart and stubborn than the 
other, both driven mad, waiting for their opponent’s will to break. The Dwarf, however, 
was convinced he could stay awake longer than the hobbits and he would not allow his 
pride to suffer one bit by appearing to be more exhausted than the inexperienced 
rapscallions. 
 
On the other side of the battlefield, Merry was sitting, his back straight as an elf’s, arms 
crossed and proving to be a formidable opponent. To his right sat Sam, considerably less 
straight, but awake nevertheless and quite committed to their victory. Frodo, however, 
was showing less team spirit than the other two, as he slumped against Sam’s shoulder. 
He was not asleep, despite the fact that one of his eyes was closed and the other was only 
open because the lid had dragged along Sam’s sleeve as he slumped further to the 
ground. 
 
It was still early yet, but the day had been an exhausting one for all, and if Aragorn had 
not been entirely captivated by the way Legolas would stir if he blew on his ear, he 
would have told them all to give up their childish game and go to sleep. But, 
unfortunately, with every irritated shrug the elf would grant him, Aragorn only wanted 
to blow on him again, like a child who knew he was going to get scratched if he kept 
pulling the cat’s tail, but did it anyway. 
 
With his pipe lodged firmly between his lips, Gandalf watched the battle with great 
amusement. He knew that the hobbits greatly disapproved of the way they were babied 
and coddled, and in all certainty, this little ploy of theirs was an attempt at seeming just 
as invincible as their fellow travelers. 
 
There was a bold, gruff grunt, and Gimli stoutly rose to his feet and bellowed with great 
vibrato, “I shall secure the perimeter of our camp. I am not weary.” It was only until the 
dwarf had disappeared that Gandalf laughed uninhibitedly, knowing full well that this 
meant he would be taking first watch. 
 
It was only after the sound of a wet smack that Boromir collected his wits enough to 
realize he had just been smooched by his favorite hobbit. As soon as his eyes uncrossed, 
he focused on the little one, who was gazing at him with red-rimmed, moony eyes and 
compulsively sniffing and hiccuping from his earlier sobbing. Boromir worked his fuzzy 
jaw and tried to make sense of the situation, for all he knew so far was that was not a 
brotherly kiss, and the way Pippin was unconsciously wiggling in his lap was not a 
brotherly wiggle. Despite the fact that he had no idea what a brotherly wiggle could 
possibly be, he knew that something was happening between them that was beyond his 
control. 
 
“Pippin…” Boromir didn’t know what to say, and had even less of an idea on what to 
think. The hobbit was grinning, now, delighted to hear his darling say his name, and 
before the man could have another little lingual stumble, Pippin diligently set about 
peppering every inch of Boromir’s poorly maintained facial hair with his wet little 
kisses. Again, the man didn’t move under this new assault, and even when Pippin 
excitedly pressed kiss after kiss into his mouth he didn’t respond. 
 
Pippin sensed his resistance, and with great care, he seated himself again into the 
Gondorian’s lap. He was almost in a panic, trying to remember if he had violated any 
social taboo in the world of men. Ever since they had been traveling, he noticed Strider 
had a proclivity of stroking Legolas’ ear. Was this a standard gesture of seduction or a 
formality of courtship? Was Boromir offended that Pippin hadn’t rubbed his ear? 
 
Internally, Pippin shrugged and decided he certainly wouldn’t mind a little ear rubbing 
if that was all it took to get Boromir to submit to his hobbit- ish wiles – It certainly did 
wonders for Strider. So, with faith in his new tactic, Pippin reached beneath Boromir’s 
long, copper hair until he found his destination, and there he began to fondle like a 
maestro. 
 
Boromir could not help but chuckle as he thought to himself, “He’s been spying on 
Aragorn and his elf.” As his chuckle rocked Pippin against his chest, the hobbit looked 
up, assuming Boromir was enchanted by his ministrations and began to place tiny pecks 
all across the man’s mouth. He was getting frustrated to notice his kisses had not taken. 
Immediately, his mind began to file through all of the times he’d see the ranger and his 
elf together, seeking any other memory of wooing between them… 
 
That was when he felt the large, warm hands leave his back and gently capture his head, 
forcing Pippin to gaze straight into Boromir’s sparkling eyes. The man had grown 
frustrated by Pippin’s unfulfilling chicken-pecks and had decided to take matters into 
his own hands. Watching in wonderment as Boromir leaned into him, pulling him 
forward in an obvious prelude to a kiss, Pippin began to tremble with an overwhelming 
surge of arousal. His eyes were fluttering, terrified of missing one second of the 
Gondorian’s descent towards him, but his mind sputtering to hold up under all of the 
sensations. 
 
When Boromir’s lips reached his, Pippin’s senses seemed to have found some sort of 
balance, for suddenly, all five of them seemed in blinding, perfect condition. His eyes 
caught the glimmer of the newborn stars as they reached down and caressed his 
beloved’s rusty mane. He could scent the road and the woods on Boromir’s skin as his 
delicate nose pressed against his cheek. His ears twitched, inclining forward so they 
could catch the wonderful lub-dub, lub dub of the heart that beat so proudly against him, 
and to better hear the sighs and gasps as their kiss gradually deepened. Boromir rocked 
and rubbed his mouth into Pippin’s, persuading it to open, and delicately pressed inside. 
And then, miracle of all miracles, Pippin could taste. Foremost there was the pipe weed 
that he had seen Boromir smoking a while before, and how he had envied that smoke as 
he watched it billow in and out of Boromir’s body. There was the salt of the dried meat 
they’d snacked on, and the mineral of the water they drank. 
 
But more glorious than the rest, Pippin could feel. He felt the large, powerful hands that 
sank deeply into his curls, the tips of the fingers lusciously caressing his scalp. He felt 
the stubble of a man who hadn’t seen a razor in a healthy while, and the heat of his 
flushing cheeks. He felt the rawness of weather-battered lips, which he pushed past to 
explore the exciting, and impressively large mouth beyond. He felt his own lips being 
licked and sucked and even nibbled upon, and the flex of the mighty shoulders beneath 
his hands. He felt each fold of cloth and each buckle and strap that ran across the man’s 
heated chest and the twigs, sticks and leaves against the shins that strained to keep him 
there. 
 
At last, with his entire body trembling and his breathing very much impaired, Boromir 
let him slide gracelessly down into his lap again. There was a moment where everything 
was still, except for their panting lungs and the hand Boromir kept loosely tangling in 
Pippin’s hair. 
 
The peace was broken, however, as the hobbit flung himself backwards so he landed flat 
on his back on the forest floor. Then, quite unexpectedly, Pippin began to laugh. Not 
only laugh, but howl into the night, the sound sending the birds fluttering from the trees. 
The little one was turning red by the force of his giggles, clutching his stomach and 
slapping his fuzzy feet against Boromir’s thighs. Boromir couldn’t help but grin at the 
delighted little creature, and he rose onto all fours to canopy the ball of giggles. 
 
“Pippin…” Boromir couldn’t resist chuckling upon getting a magnificent view of his 
hobbit’s radiant smile, “Pippin, why are you laughing?” The addressed pressed his feet 
into Boromir’s tummy, feeling it jump as the warrior snickered and replied, 
“Because…” He had to collect himself and try again, “Because tha’ felt sae GOOD!” 
Boromir’s arms bent at the elbows under the weight of his hearty laughter, and Pippin’s 
arms flung about his neck, keeping him close. 
 
And back at camp, a wizard tapped his nose.


Title: Talking Through Cotton (7/?)
Author: GameShowVictim @ Neonsmokescreen@AOL.com 
      
      
      “Well, this is ridiculous, if you ask me,” Sam said as he rose to his feet, leaving 
Frodo to wetly slosh against the ground behind him.  Merry immediately set about to 
righting him, and having as much success as someone trying to set a handkerchief on its 
end.  Finally, he got the ringbearer to slump against his shoulder so someone who was 
having difficulty seeing through the night may perhaps have been fooled into thinking 
Frodo was awake.
      
      “We’ve been sitting here for hours and Gimli is no where to be seen!”  If Merry 
hadn’t feared that any movement on his part would send Frodo slopping to the ground 
again, he would’ve patted Sam’s back with a, “Atta boy, Sam!”
      
      Pat or no pat, Sam was determined, and he suddenly trudged off after Gimli, arms 
swinging and heavy hobbit feet marching.  
      
      When he was out of sight, Merry turned to the hobbit against him and tried to see 
how far he could get his fingers up Frodo’s nose before he awoke.
      
      ***
      
      With his ribs aching from all of the laughter, Pippin still couldn’t stop, and every 
time Boromir chuckled, Pippin simply had to giggle again.  He felt so good.  Stretching his 
arms out, Pippin caught hold of Boromir’s cotton shirt, and tried to pull the warrior down 
atop him.  His sweetheart complied a little bit, but still refused to put his full weight on the 
hobbit as Pippin wanted.  
      
      They began to kiss again, which was a little difficult with them both chuckling and 
giggling and snickering and downright laughing and whatnot.  As Pippin began to rock his 
head back and forth on the forest floor, leaves and twigs and branches began to collect in 
his dark locks, and at one point, Boromir finally decided it was time to be rid of them.  
However, Pip’s arms were locked so securely about his neck, that when Boromir began to 
lean back to sit on his heels, Pip simply clung to him, which brought him back into his 
warrior’s lap.  
      
      “Pippin,” the Took could feel the vibrations of laughter resonate through 
Boromir’s throat as he kissed it, but he didn’t respond, “Pippin, you look as though a bird 
has made a nest in your hair.”  At this, Pippin finally detached himself and looked up at his 
warrior with star filled, lust darkened eyes.  That was when Pippin’s soft pants could no 
longer find purchase against Boromir’s and the little hobbit, still too dazed to catch 
himself, slid along the man’s thighs until his little bottom plopped down upon the grass.
      
      Boromir instinctively grinned, then regretted it as his well used smiley muscles 
protested his abuse of them.  Pippin, eyes trained solely on his beloved, saw the wince and 
sympathized, and as Boromir leaned over to free the leaves and twigs from Pippin’s hair, 
the hobbit reached up to rub at his cheeks, which only had the warrior chuckling more.  As 
he felt his birds nest getting untangled, Pippin reached out with his feet and slid them up 
Boromir’s shirt to pet the man’s fuzzy chest and stomach.  
      
      “Your feet are cold,” the Gondorian complained, insincerely.  Pip wriggled beneath 
him, his massively fuzzy feet finding his man’s nipples and letting his calluses run across 
them.  Boromir released a woof of air, and Pippin replied smartly, “Yea, my feet are cold.  
An’ come tae think ay it, my hands are, tae.”  It is well known that hobbits, thanks to their 
smaller stature, are more flexible, and Pip utilized this to throw himself forward and let his 
hands clamber up Boromir’s shirt as well.  The little hobbit was well versed in the ways of 
sensitive areas, and dove straight for his own point of weakness – The sides.  
      
      Over Boromir’s laughter, if one was listening carefully, one might have heard the 
little Tooks observation, “Aye, nou the rest ay me is cold…”  And before the Gondorian’s 
laughter quelled at all, Pippin scampered up his shirt, and, as the drawstring at the man’s 
breast opened, poked his curly little head through the neck.  
      
      “Greetings,” Boromir smiled at first, but when he looked down into little Pippin’s 
face, it faded upon seeing the genuineness there.  For a moment, they gazed at each other, 
both unable to fully understand what was happening between them, and before Boromir’s 
mind turned frantically into analyze-mode, he felt cold little hands begin to measure the 
breadth of his shoulders.
      
      Pippin was fascinated by this body before and beneath him.  So similar to his, so 
different, and every bit as glorious as he’d imagined it to be.  As his small, slender fingers 
began to trace the strong, defined collar bone, he heard Boromir sigh, and felt him drop 
his head to rest against Pippin’s.  The man’s arms swept under the hobbit’s bottom to help 
him explore further and to take the weight off of Pip’s legs.  Slowly, as to not miss the 
smallest detail, the Took worked his way down, intimidated by the definition in the 
muscles he found there.  He and Frodo had stood before mirrors before, flexed their 
muscles as ferociously as they could and were very proud of themselves, until they glanced 
out the window and saw Sam effortlessly lift a swaddle of dead weeds the size of both Pip 
and Frodo combined.  But even Sam paled in comparison to the bronze, shivering flesh 
beneath his fingertips, now.
      
      As he trailed down the man’s ribs, he came across a gash that ran from the left of 
his ribcage, down past the man’s trousers.  With his head completely submerged in 
Boromir’s shirt, Pippin began to finger the wound, tracing it down, down, down, until…
      
      “Tis not as valiant a tale as you would think such a scar would warrant.”  Pippin 
looked up through the stretched lacing of the man’s shirt and asked, “Wha’ happened?”  
Boromir smiled and tried to stroke Pip’s locks through his shirt, “Promise you will not tell 
Aragorn?”  The little hobbit nodded, his curls tickling Boromir’s nipples.
      
      “When I was younger, Faramir and I would play at being warriors and swordsmen 
with the branches and sticks we found around our home as our blades.  One day,” 
Boromir grinned at his youthful foolishness, “He and I decided we were good enough 
warriors to use the kitchen knives.”  Pippin smiled at him, and pressed his cheek into 
Boromir’s chest, his fingers curling compulsively against his back.
      
      “Needless to say,” Boromir continued, “We were not the able heroes we thought 
ourselves to be.  It is still the worst scar I have ever worn.  It will never heal.”  Pippin 
looked up through the shirt again, and raised his hand for Boromir’s inspection, “Merry 
burnt me once when we were cookin’.  But tha’s the worst I’ve goa’.”  The man chuckled 
and brought Pip’s hand to his mouth for a kiss, “And I hope it is the worst you will ever 
have to bear.”  Pippin responded with a small but heartfelt smile and he leaned up eagerly 
to receive the buss he saw coming.  He felt strong arms wrap tightly around his bundled 
self, and he couldn’t help but think that this would look like a man tenaciously nuzzling his 
own chest hair if someone were to come upon them.  He started giggling again.
      
      ***
      
      
      “He was A-SLEEP!”  The way Sam said it suggested that to be found asleep was 
more of a betrayal than to find him sharing a pipe with the Nazgul.
      
      “I was NOT!” Gimli replied, with equal passion.  They’d both come marching back 
to the camp only moments after Sam had left, which indicated that the dwarf’s alleged nap 
had taken place only a short distance away.
      
      “Never,” the dwarf said vehemently, leaning proudly against his ax, “Would I sleep 
while it was my duty to patrol the perimeter!  I take great…”
      
      “Well, you WERE!”  Sam looked to Gandalf, as if it was to the wizard he had to 
state his case, “And you were snoring like an upset bear!”  At this, the dwarf fluffed 
himself up like a finch trying to keep warm and blustered, “Well, I at least do not…”
      
      “Gentlemen!”  Gandalf, after taking one look at Aragorn, who was watching 
patiently, still petting his snoozing elf, decided that he would receive no aid from that 
corner, and would have to take care of this little debacle by himself.
      
      “Gentlemen,” he said again, clearly trying to soothe all parties involved, “May I 
suggest we settle this dispute in a chivalrous manner?  Let us do this.  You all shall lie in 
your bedrolls, eyes closed.  I shall stay awake and in the morning, I will tell you who the 
last to surrender to slumber was.  Does this sound fair?”  From the corner of his eye, 
Gandalf could see Aragorn chuckle at his obvious ploy, but he simply thought to himself, 
‘Laugh while you can, young ranger, for you will be deprived of any pipe-weed induced 
giggles shortly.’
      
      A gruff growl, an exasperated sigh and a relieved one, and Frodo’s simply 
collapsing into sleep were the affirmative answers he got.  The dwarf was still grumbling 
as he settled in, but he grumbled so often, no one bothered with trying to understand him 
anymore.  
      
      As soon as all heads were down, Gandalf closed his eyes and counted to three.  
Upon opening them, he noticed there wasn’t one face that looked less than absolutely 
zonked.  
      
      This left only Aragorn and Gandalf present and awake.  The old man sat silently, 
still as ever and sucking away contentedly on his pipe.  The only signs that there was 
actually a being curled up beneath that tree were the occasional flare of his pipe and the 
smoke that ghosted from it.  Indeed, Gandalf must have blended in so well, Aragorn 
must’ve forgotten he was there, entirely.   The wizard was quite certain this was the case 
when he saw the ranger do something that he would certainly never do while he knew 
someone was watching: he carefully leaned over and kissed the sleeping elf on his temple.  
      
      For the longest while, he remained there, kissing that one spot, before moving 
back and gently kissing the tip of the leaf-shaped ear he found there.  At this, the elf 
wriggled slightly, but when Aragorn looked to see if Legolas’ eyes had gained any amount 
of awareness, he found that they hadn’t.  So, abusing the power the sleeping creature had 
entrusted to him, Aragorn tenderly went to planting soft kisses along Legolas’ most 
sensitive area.
      
      ‘I wonder,’ Aragorn thought to himself as he took the soft lobe between his lips, 
‘If I could get a little extra ham for breakfast from telling Pip about this… Ah, no, I 
needn’t worry about that.  Besides, Gandalf will shortly supply me with enough pipe weed 
that I no longer notice my empty stomach.’  
      
      In the shadows, said drug supplier watched scrupulously.  For the first time, he 
could not find himself grinning at the innocuous, if not somewhat sexualized display before 
him.  In the past, when he first realized Aragorn’s affection for the elf, he found it 
charming.  It had been so endearing at the time, watching Aragorn watch the elf, not 
understanding the feelings that swept through him, and Legolas, not understanding why 
everyone giggled when the pair of them strolled by.  Anyone who looked upon the couple, 
including Gimli, knew there was a romantic spark that had the potential to become a 
roaring flame, but that didn’t seem a possibility until now.  And that was dangerous: 
Elessar was to be the first king since Isildur to claim the throne, and it would be demanded 
of him that he produce an heir.  Whether it was with Arwen or not, Gandalf genuinely 
didn’t care, as long as the union created a son, and Legolas could not do that.  
      
      At this rather agitating thought the wizard harumphed.  Aragorn’s eyes snapped to 
the shadow of the tree, where only some glowing embers could be seen, and he 
immediately looked away, unaware that no witness would be required to testify that he 
desired the elf.  
      
      “Perhaps,” the wizard started slowly, trying to not give away his intentions, “It 
would be well for you to take some rest as well…  We will be coming upon the Caradhras 
shortly.”
      
      “But,” despite his previous embarrassment, Aragorn still played about with 
Legolas’ braids, “Pippin and Boromir have yet to return.  Perhaps I should …”
      
      “Rest, now, Estel.  I assure you, they are well.  I’ll keep first watch and you will 
take the second, so to bed with you!”  Aragorn smirked at the use of his childhood name, 
and Gandalf’s stern demeanor, before he set about lying down – Which proved to be quite 
a difficult task with an elf sleeping on his thigh.  
      
      He was loathe to wake him.  It was rare the elf had a healing sleep on this quest 
where he felt that he had to be the eyes and ears of the entire fellowship.  Thinking on the 
pressure his elf must have felt, Aragorn stroked the golden mane on his thigh and began to 
wonder how he could get to sleep with Legolas on him.
      
      He started with trying to slip from the log upon which he was sitting and make it 
as simple as possible, but as soon as he lifted his hips, Legolas began to fall forward.  
Aragorn stopped moving immediately and sat back down, trying to arrange the elf on him 
again.  This was going to be tough…
      
      ***
      
      Pippin was in a pickle.  It seemed that he simply was not large enough to indulge in 
the two gestures he wanted to, kissing Boromir and wiggling against his hips, at the same 
time.  He would drop into Boromir’s lap, and writhe against him in a way he found most 
intoxicating, then he would yearn for his man’s lips again, hop back up, give and receive a 
handful of kisses, then be driven by desire back to the man’s lap for more rubbing.  For 
several minutes he continued, bouncing up and down, indecisive as to which stimulation 
he liked better, until he finally looked up to see that lo and behold, Boromir was half 
laughing at him, again.  In his lap, Pip glared at him, his air of disapproving severity 
shattered by his inability to stop wriggling his hips.
      
      “An’ wha’, may I ask, is sae funny, Good Steward?”  
      
      “You,” Boromir replied, taking a hold of Pippin’s locks again in his obscenely 
large hands, and leaning down to the little one who was still seated firmly against him.  As 
soon as the man’s lips touched his, Pippin’s hips began to flicker back and forth, almost 
creating enough friction to start a flame – Gimli would’ve been proud.
      
      As for the man himself, Boromir was warmly surprised and amused that the hobbit 
had demonstrated such a hunger for him, nearly as passionate as his hunger for apples.  He 
began to wonder how the little one could switch so easily from utter fear and suspicion, to 
adoration and desire.  Both were very passionate emotions, Boromir understood, and one 
could easily be misinterpreted for the other…
      
      Before Boromir, could finish his thought, however, he felt the startling sensation of 
air slipping into his breeches.  He looked away from Pippin’s kisses to see, indeed, the 
hobbit’s small, agile hands had wormed their way past his lacing and were greedily seeking 
the flesh inside. 
      
      Pippin jolted when he felt large sinewy hands grasp him around his wrists and pull 
his hands away from their intended target.  
      
      “Little one,” Boromir’s breath was fast and his voice noticeably strained, “What 
are you doing?”  The addressed gave him a curious look, not tinged without a bit of pity, 
and said, “Yuv never…  Yuv been with a man, huv yae no’?”   
      
      “Well, I… It was very…  I…  Grh, that is not the point, little one!”  Pippin 
wondered at what the problem may be with the man, since his body was certainly 
responding to him, as anyone else inside his shirt could tell you.
      
      “Boromir,”  Pippin’s tone of voice was so grave, the warrior released his hands, “I 
really want… thes.”  Two small, furry hands cupped the man’s equally furry face as Pippin 
tried to quell his arousal enough to speak without squeaking, “I huv wanted thes for a 
long time…  I know what yae’re thinkin’ an’ I huv been with ay man before…”  At this, 
Boromir began to stand, forgetting there was a hobbit in his shirt, and snarled, “I am going 
to kill that scoundrel—“
      
      “Aye, nou, set doon!!  It wasnae Strider!  Doon, lad, seet doon!”  As soon as he 
heard this, the warrior flushed a pretty pink and abruptly sat down as he was told.  
      
      “Forgive me, I—“
      
      “Phhhhbbtttt!!  Yae though’ I’d been with Strider!!  Ha!!”  The little hobbit was 
snickering uncontrollably, “Nou THA’S humor!”  His little hands were clinging to 
Boromir’s clavicles as if he would simply fall off due to his laughter.  
      
      “Forgive me, Pip, I tend to be rather… possessive…”  Now, this statement 
sobered Pippin more than did the two hard, iron arms encircling him.  Pippin’s eyes met 
those of the warrior and they gazed at each other a moment, before a wet diamond 
splattered open on the hobbit’s forehead.  Shocked out of his smitten regard, Pippin shook 
his head, looking rather astounded, before looking at the sky to see where the raindrop 
had come from.  Boromir, of course, was enchanted by that bewildered expression for a 
moment, before he, too looked to the heavens. 
      
      There was no doubt, the clouds were darkening, but not with an angry violence, 
more of a melancholy.  The map of the cloudy sea above them looked like the faces of one 
hundred old, dripping and sleepy men, crying over the bags under their eyes.  Before long, 
both of their passion-pinked faces were being kissed and cooled with many tears from 
above, and Boromir, before saying anything gathered his precious bundle and ran, as best 
as he could, under the nearest tree, since lightening didn’t seem to be a threat.   
      
      “Perhaps,” as Boromir looked own his shirt, some of the rainwater flew from his 
lips, and he certainly hoped Pip didn’t think he was spitting on him, “We should return to 
the camp.”  Instead of responding, Pippin lunged forward and pressed his mouth to the 
man’s, clearly voicing his opinion.  The subtle kisses of more gentle weather were gone in 
the wake of the hungry, unforgiving kisses of the present storm.  Despite the smallness of 
Pippin’s mouth, Boromir couldn’t help but plunder it, and despite the vastness of 
Boromir’s, Pip couldn’t help but fill it.  
      
      As the cool rain splashed against their skin, it seemed to sizzle, like an 
unsuspecting egg dropped onto a hellfire cooking pan.  As it trickled down their backs, it 
only heightened their sensitivity to one another, and when Pippin sought to open the 
warrior’s breeches again, Boromir didn’t stop him.
      
      Abruptly, and with an amusingly healthy load of impatience, Pip flopped onto his 
back, slipping out of the shirt and began ripping away at his own breeches.  Boromir’s 
eyes were fogged with lust, and he didn’t realize what Pippin was doing until he felt a 
small hobbit bottom brush against his exposed body.  With much swiftness, Pip had 
grabbed his man’s manhood in one hand and his wrist in the other, where he anxiously 
pressed it against his rear.
      
      “Pip, Pippin are you certain?  Do you know…”
      
      “Aye!” The little hobbit was a demanding one, “Please, luv, I cannae wait any 
mair…  I ken it’ll hurt ay bit, jus’…  aye…” With fingers far more patient than Pip would 
have liked, the warrior rubbed the little one’s hole, knowing it was about to get a workout 
of a lifetime.
      
      The rain began to pound harder, and the drops were getting bigger and wetter, if 
that were possible.  In the wood that surrounded them there were already many grooves in 
the great earth where previous floods had had their way with the land.  Of course the 
Fellowship, always seeking the best places to keep watch, were on high ground, but before 
long, these ravines would be filled again.  And, slowly but surely, the water levels rose, as 
slowly but surely, the man beneath the tree gently prepared his hobbit for their coupling.  
      
      They had reached the point where Pippin could comfortably accept three of 
Boromir’s digits inside his body, which was quite impressive for the size of the man’s 
fingers, and the size of the hobbit.  Pippin was panting heavily against his warrior’s 
shoulder, his breath hissing into the night air in a visible steam.   
      
      “Now, my love?”  As soon as Boromir said it, both he and Pippin wondered 
mutually what he meant by it, but both were content to leave it be for the time being.
      
      “Aye, nou, yeah…”  Both of Boromir’s hands swept around to catch the thin, 
furry thighs as his love positioned himself for penetration, and as he felt the very tip of 
himself press in, Pip cried out.  Immediately, Boromir made to lift him, but the little Took 
stopped him, saying, “Jus..  Yae’ve goat tae gimme a moment…”  The moment was 
forever to the both of them, but soon Pippin started moving again.  As soon as he was 
fully seated in Boromir’s lap, Pippin released a shuddering cry, which was quickly pressed 
beneath the man’s hand.
	
      “Quiet, my sweet,” Boromir whispered patiently in the hobbits ear, “We can’t alert 
Aragorn.  I know it hurts, I…”  As Pippin shifted around him, Boromir’s arousal knocked 
the wind out of him and his sentence was lost.  Pippin, still slightly mewing and wiggling 
about, leaned forward and panted against Boromir’s damp chest. 
	
      “Borh… oh…   Grgn, it hurts…  Boromir…”  Again, the man set about quieting 
him, stroking his locks and caressing his small back and shoulders.  For what seemed an 
eternity, the couple rested there, Pippin moaning softly and Boromir biting his lip to 
distract him from the overbearing pleasure.  Just as a rivulet of blood dripped down the 
man’s chin and into his beard, he felt the small hobbit in his arms shift forward and 
tentatively press a kiss to his breastbone.  Still afraid of damaging Pippin, Boromir merely 
grunted as his lover cautiously leaned back onto Boromir’s leather-clad thighs.  
	
      “I…”  His breathing was still rabid, and his penis was still soft, yet he managed to 
whimper, “I’m ready…  Boromir…  Please…”  Boromir, who was stiff from clenching 
everyone of his muscles as he tried to withhold his tension, gingerly wrapped his arms 
around the youngest of the fellowship, and lifted him ever so slightly.  Pippin, still 
shivering and nervous, threw his arms about Boromir and prepared himself to be filled 
again.  This time, as he accepted all of Boromir’s girth into his body, the searing burn was 
absent and in it’s stead was the echo of something quite pleasurable.  The man above him 
let out such a shuddering sigh of ecstasy, that Pippin was more than enticed to thrust 
against him again.  He placed his small hand on Boromir’s solid bicep and lifted his hips a 
little further than last time, and with weak knees allowed himself to fall again into 
Boromir’s lap.  Unable to deny his great passion, Boromir cried out once, before clamping 
down for the second time on his lip to quiet himself.  Convinced now that Pippin was 
prepared to take the desire of a man, Boromir rolled forward, pinning the hobbit beneath 
him in the soggy grass and kissed him deeply.  Pippin moaned into him, realizing his 
fantasy was nothing close to the unbearable reality of a man filling him between his legs as 
well as between his lips.  It was so safe there, in the arms of Gondor’s steward.  
	
      “If I hurt you,” Boromir panted, gently cradling the small body beneath him, “Little 
one, you’ll stop me?”  
	
      “Yea…  Yea, please…”  When Boromir took control of their coupling, Pippin felt 
himself responding to the dominance of the man, but didn’t experience the extraordinary 
pleasure only one man can give to another until Boromir’s fifth thrust.  As if he’d expected 
it, Boromir swallowed what would’ve been a howl with a kiss to the young hobbit’s lips.  
He stilled himself and waited for Pippin to calm before breaking their embrace, “Are you 
hurt?”
	
      “Oh, please…  Oh, please, dae tha’ again!”  The man of Gondor did as his small 
lover begged of him, and was rewarded with  a singing bite to his shoulder.  And, just as 
Pippin had prophesied to the tree in the woods that one day, Boromir made love to him 
more thoroughly than he had ever done with another.  At one point, the man had to grasp 
a large tree root on the ground before them to ensure he wouldn’t accidentally thrust 
Pippin straight into it due to the slippery ground beneath them.  Pippin began to answer to 
the man’s aggressions with responding thrusts of his own, yet he couldn’t pry his 
whimpering mouth from Boromir’s shoulder, for fear he would scream his lover’s name 
for all to witness.  As soon as Boromir felt himself nearing his completion, he wrestled 
Pippin’s hand from his hair, and tightly entwined their fingers.  Pippin, in turn, began 
sobbing against the man’s shoulder as he reached his pleasure without a hand upon him.  
As Pippin’s already unbelievably tight sheath tightened further, Boromir arched his back 
and fulfilled himself in Pippin’s body.  
	
      It seemed some time before Boromir came back to himself, concentrating only on 
regaining his breath and not crushing his small lover beneath him.  He still had not yet 
opened his eyes when he felt a small but strong arm wrap around his neck and a gasping 
mouth press against his own.  The kiss was hard, but cut short by Boromir who spoke 
softly, “Did I hurt you, m’love?”  
	
      Pippin nuzzled his face briefly and said, “No, but I cannae feel my fingers.”  
Looking to the side, Boromir noticed that the fingers he had laced into his were looking a 
little purple.  He quickly released the hobbit’s hand and apologized.  Pippin simply 
massaged his hand with his other one and giggled quietly.  
	
      “Are you,” Boromir stuttered, trying to phrase his question as to not sound 
neurotic, “Are you happy?”  Pippin, with his legs still wrapped around Boromir’s waist, 
and his hole still filled with Boromir’s member, pressed a series of kisses across the man’s 
face and shoulders, murmuring, “Yuv made me very happy indeed.”  

	***

	Aragorn had only made more of a mess of himself and the elf than they were in, in 
the first place.  Once the rain had started pouring heavily, the ranger began to panic.  He 
wanted to get under his blankets, of course, but not so much as he wanted to get the elf 
out of the rain.  Imagine this picture, if you would please:  A brown, wool blanket 
covering a ridiculously shaped form against a log in the woods.  Beneath this form lay a 
man and an elf – The elf still dozing as his once-golden, now muddy head rested against 
the inside of the man’s thigh, quite unaware of the fact that his knee was trying to make 
it’s way up the man’s nose.  The man, lying shivering in the mud, his breathing impaired 
and far too uncomfortable to sleep, thinking, ‘Well, at least he’s still asleep.’ 
	
      Away from this slightly disturbing looking bundle, sat an ancient wizard, the brim 
of his hat and the shelter of his eyebrows almost keeping him unaware that it was raining 
at all.  He was rather disgruntled.  He had wanted to set the elf to one side, Aragorn to the 
other, sit between them and say, “Keep your hands to yourselves!”  This was not boding 
well.  As much as Gandalf wanted Aragorn’s happiness, he also wanted the ranger king to 
understand his responsibility and what it meant to the entirety of Middle Earth.  ‘This 
longing for the elf,’ Gandalf thought, ‘Must never be realized, for the sake of Gondor and 
its allies.’  This thought in mind, the old wizard stood, and, quite unconcerned for 
whomever he was damaging under the blanket, jabbed his staff into the brown, muddy 
blob.  
	
      Both of the figures stirred, and a pair of gray eyes peered over one edge of the 
blanket, and a pair of blue over the next.  
	
      “Aragorn, your watch awaits you.”  With a splat, Aragorn dropped his head back 
into the mud for a moment, before he rose and soggily raised  himself on to the log.  Quite 
affronted with his brutally being jabbed in the tuckus while he was resting, Legolas 
wrapped himself in the blanket quite snugly, and fell back into slumber at the ranger’s feet.
	
      “How is it possible,” the wizard softly queried to the man on the log, “That every 
bit of you is covered in mud, except your lovely pendant?”  The question was a pointed 
one, but did not offend the man, who looked down at the precious jewel his betrothed had 
given him.  Assured that he had firmly reminded Aragorn to whom he belonged, Gandalf 
turned to his own bedroll to attain his much needed rest.  Unfortunately, he turned just in 
time to miss the ranger absentmindedly reach for the golden elf at his feet.

***

	“Come, little one,”  Boromir whispered after carefully removing himself from the 
incredible warmth of his lover, and began to arrange himself in to some semblance of 
order, “We must clean ourselves before we return.  I doubt either of us would much…”  
The warrior stopped and looked at the small hobbit, still splayed and looking ravaged on 
the wet forest bed.  
	
      “Pip, are you…”
	
      “I cannae close my legs…  It hurts…”  Pippin looked mournfully at Boromir and 
tried to sit up, but winced again, and reclined.  Immediately, Boromir was between his 
legs, inspecting Pippin’s bottom.  Sure enough, after running his finger over the softness 
of the hobbits rear, he found them stained with blood.
	
      “Pippin, I…  I’m so sorry, forgive me, I…”  
	
      “It’s no’ a bother,” Pippin said, grabbing the man’s bloodied hand, and throwing 
him that all too adorable grin of his, “You’re just gonnae huvtae carry me everywheres. 
Starting with th’ nearest bit ay water, if yeh please.”  With a gentle smile, Boromir leaned 
forward, and as delicately as he could, lifted Pippin into his arms.  
	
      It was very peculiar, but somehow, Boromir made it to the little stream, that was 
born of the heavy rain, without breaking eye contact with the hobbit in his arms for the 
briefest second.  After settling Pippin against a tuft of moist grass so he could remove his 
clothing, including the horribly stretched shirt, Boromir returned to Mr. Took, who had 
his little face set in a classic visage of royalty, “Yae may bathe me nou, peon.”  Boromir 
laughed out loud before realizing Aragorn must’ve heard him.  They waited in a tense 
silence, waiting for the troops to come trooping, but nothing happened.
	
      “How is it possible Aragorn didn’t hear that?”  
      
      Pippin smiled and tried to giggle quietly, “Eh’s probably still concentrating too 
hard on finding out who I ‘ave me hert set on.”  Boromir gave him a very puzzled glance, 
which Pippin replied to with, “No bother, I’ll tell yae later.”  
      
      Boromir lifted Pippin into his arms, despite the fact that Pippin could probably 
walk about with little difficulty.  The man and the hobbit laughed quietly, as they sunk 
slowly deeper into the water, and after a brief kiss, Pippin mumbled, “Drop me an’ I’ll sic 
Gimli oan yae.”

***	

      The rain had died down considerably, and when they returned to the camp, they 
crept stealthily, but realized that they could’ve come stampeding through the sucking 
marshy slush that was around them and still would’ve gone unnoticed:  Aragorn, their 
leader, had his muddy hands tangled in the previously golden tresses of a slumbering elf, 
his attention utterly consumed by the beautiful creature.  Pippin looked up at Boromir and 
twisted his lips in a grimace of displeasure, whereas Boromir simply shrugged, caressed 
the little one’s cheek and headed off to sleep.  
	
      Pippin crawled into the warmth already created by Merry, who was hogging the 
blankets as usual, and closed his eyes, trying to ignore the throbbing in his backside and 
the fact that an army of orcs could fall upon the camp, brutally slaughter the lot of them, 
and Aragorn’s eyes wouldn’t leave the elf’s face for a moment.  Frustrated, the Took 
snatched a pebble from the ground and chucked it hard in Aragorn’s direction.  Luckily it 
hit him, and the Heir to Gondor sharply rose his eyes to meet Pippin’s.  The little hobbit 
glared at him, jerked his thumb towards the log on which the watchers sat, and flopped 
back down to sleep.
	
      ‘Oh,’ Aragorn thought saucily, ‘You don’t want me impinging on your fantasy 
relationship with the beautiful elf, huh?’  He rose and sauntered casually back to his watch, 
‘Poor little hobbit, doesn’t have a chance.’


Title: Talking Through Cotton (8/?)
Author: GameShowVictim @ Neonsmokescreen@AOL.com 
       
       
          In the morning, things were not as bright and chipper as one 
would hope a long, grueling day would begin.  Topping the list of 
disgruntled travelers was, of course, Legolas.  He awoke in the early 
morning, feeling slightly off.  He felt off, of course, not only for the 
reasons of which only you and I are aware – having his face stuck in 
the mud, being constrained by a large woolen blanket and a large 
human one atop that – but also because he had kept from sleeping once 
so far on this journey; waking was a strange experience for him, alone.
       
          When he attempted to raise his head, he found that the earth, 
which had dried about his hair in the night, was rather reluctant to 
concede it’s prize.  The once pretty thing gave a mighty huff, and 
immediately went about trying to set his limbs to good use, only to 
find them trapped against his side by the wicked thing in which he’d 
been maliciously cocooned.  And, when he tried to roll over to free 
himself, he found there was an overbearing weight on his hip that kept 
him where he was.  Panic began to overtake the elf, who was quite 
unused to being this formidably constrained, and, with the grace and 
nobility of a royal king who had just slipped in dog shit, he howled, 
“Aragorn!  Aragorn!”  
	
          It was to this desperate plea that Gimli started awake from 
where he should’ve been keeping watch.  Looking across the camp 
site, past the other walkers who were blinking to wakefulness, he saw 
a large brown insect writhing on the ground, Aragorn’s upper body 
riding what looked to be the hip.  With a mighty dwarven snort, Gimli 
smacked his lips and chuckled.  This would be held precariously above 
the elf’s head for some time.

          The ranger woke when he realized his far from accommodating 
pillow had begun yowling and bucking.  It took a few moments for the 
sleep depraved man to realize that the bony shard he had been dozing 
on was not so much a pillow as it was his beloved elf’s hip.  As soon 
as his ears began to successfully transmit messages to his brain, the 
ranger king snapped to attention, and rushed to the head of his 
flustered elf.  

          As soon as Legolas saw him, he whined in relief, and cried, 
“Aragorn!  I am trapped in a…  in a…  I am in a…”
          
          You are in a blanket.”  At the sight of the elf’s panic stricken, 
shocked and traumatized blue eyes, Aragorn had great difficulty 
containing his laughter.  It was hilarity and hilariousness made flesh.  
With his lips in a firm line, the ranger could only watch as Legolas 
frantically looked about himself while muttering, “I am…  I am in a 
blanket?”

           “A woolen one!” Merry cried delightedly from over Aragorn’s 
shoulder.  Oh, how the hobbit wished he could wake to an elf terrified 
of blankets every day – It would certainly inspire him to rise in the 
mornings, that’s sure and certain.

          In the blanket, Legolas began to shuffle his hands about, like a 
babe who just realized he had them.  After a great wriggling of his 
shoulders and swiveling of his hips, the elf had loosened the blankets 
enough to allow his limbs to move freely.

          Frodo, who had been sitting at the elf’s head, eyes twinkling as 
he watched the adorable display, said sweetly, “There – That wasn’t so 
bad, was it?”  Aragorn, who’s will was weak when it came to things of 
this nature, lost it.  He leaned over the elf, doubled in his laughter, 
which only worsened when Legolas began moaning about his hair, 
“Aragorn.  Aragorn, I cannot move.  I don’t see what is so humorous 
about my being… Estel!  I would appreciate your consideration in 
this!”
          
          This was when Gimli arrived with his ax.  No one had really 
taken notice of his arrival, since all who had woken were captivated by 
the trauma of the elf; Gandalf, Sam, and Boromir being the only ones 
still out.

           “I’ll help ya, master elf.  Just hold your head still and don’t 
flinch…”  As the dwarf raised his mighty ax, four voices cried out, 
“whoo—ahh---NO!” while Aragorn actively protested by lunging at 
the dwarf and tackling him to the ground.
	
           “You will *not touch* his hair!”  If Gimli weren’t so dazed by 
being crunched into the ground after almost getting a healthy dose of 
revenge on the elf for being… well, an elf, he would’ve laughed 
wholeheartedly at the ranger’s safeguarding of Legolas’ locks.  
	
          As it was, Pippin, Merry and Frodo were huddled around 
Legolas, trying to keep him from hyperventilating.  Pippin was petting 
the elf’s forehead, Merry was soothingly patting the hand that was 
squeezing the lifeblood out of his, and Frodo was huddled on his 
knees, trying to understand what had exactly happened to his elven 
friend.
	
          Aragorn, who had wisely confiscated Gimli’s ax and allowed the 
dwarf to move off to muttering in the woods again, looked back to his 
elf, and came face to face with a big green-eyed monster.  The little 
hobbit, who, Strider was sure, had cried the night through to Boromir 
about his heartbreak for the elf, was stationed directly at Legolas’ 
head, stroking his hair and calming him, all the while looking upside-
down into his elven eyes.  As Frodo would accidentally yank too 
sharply on a strand of the hair he was trying to free, Legolas would 
wince, and Pippin would immediately set about trying to stroke the 
wrinkled brow smooth again.
	
          There was a sound in Aragorn’s head that had no voice and 
spoke no language and whose reason for awakening was known to 
everyone but it’s host, and it’s name was subconscious, “Oh, you will 
not win him that easily, little hobbit.”  With the long gaits that gained 
him the nickname 
‘Strider,’ Aragorn returned to the group of crouching elf-subduers. 
	
           “Step aside, friends.  ‘Twas my negligence that caused this 
discomfort…”
	
           “So this is *your* fault!”
	
           “…  Perhaps you should ready yourselves for the days travel, 
while I remedy this…”  Merry looked relieved to have an excuse to 
pry Legolas’ hand from around his, and Frodo was getting fed up with 
the fruitlessness of his efforts, leaving only Pippin remaining.  The 
little hobbit was absentmindedly stroking the elf’s mane, gazing off at 
something in the distance, the redness of his eyes and the duskiness 
underneath them loudly advertising his fatigue.
	
           “Pippin…?”  The addressed started, shocked out of his revere, 
staring at the form of his sleeping lover, and distractedly landed a kiss 
between the perturbed looking elf’s eyebrows.  As he sleepily 
staggered off to go wake his warrior, Pippin neglected to notice the 
flush coloring the rangers cheeks.
	
           “Is this a sorry attempt at what you men refer to as ‘humor’?”  
Aragorn turned his gaze down to the eyes of the one over which he 
was presently stewing, and he smirked a little at his best friend’s 
peevishness.  
	
           “You are a fussy little elf, are you not?”
	
           “There is nothing fussy about being perturbed because my hair 
has been baked into the soil.”  As he crawled to inspect the damage, 
Aragorn replied, his voice strained for the odd angle at which he 
craned his neck, “I thought you elves always wanted to become one 
with the earth…”  

***

	
          After his scuffle with Aragorn, Gimli had set about readying his 
things, and was, at the moment, discontentedly pacing about, trying to 
find his ladle.  He knew Sam had used it last night, but Sam was 
usually a responsible young hobbit who returned things to where he 
had found them.  He was mumbling and fumbling and stumbling 
about, looking under rocks that obviously hadn’t been moved for 
several millennia, until he made his way over to Sam’s still sleeping 
form.
	
          The charming hobbit looked far too peaceful to disturb.  His 
mouth was slack and the worry lines had all but disappeared from his 
face.  His cheeks had a rosy hue, and his fingers twitched at his breast.
	
           “Soon enough,” Gimli heard the soft voice of Frodo beside him, 
“He will begin to quiver. He always quivers when his dreams shift.”  
With a luster in his eye that had nothing to do with the morning light, 
the dwarf turned to gaze at the little hobbit, who was sparkling next to 
him, 
“You know your handy man well, little master!”  The dwarf was 
granted with a genuine, sweet and ever so refreshing smile from the 
elf-faced hobbit, “Aye, I do.  He has always been the greatest of 
friends to me.  He’s the most precious treasure I have…”  Gimli rested 
his arm around Frodo’s shoulder (for his ax was in Aragorn’s 
dogmatic possession) and held his head high, never having been 
prouder of another man in his life.  
	
           “Ach!  Good day!”  Dwarves, Frodo noticed, tended to say 
peculiar and unrelated things like this at random intervals, but he had 
quite learned to enjoy them.
	
          The dwarf felt refreshed and for once, he looked up into the 
blueness of the sky and was filled with peacefulness.  He fluffed 
himself up again in a way that on the battlefield would be terrifying, 
but here at camp made him simply look gratified, and out of the corner 
of his eye, caught little Master Took gingerly toddling towards the 
sleeping Steward of Gondor.

	
          Boromir was dreaming about the strangest things…  Instead of a 
ring, Frodo was carrying a baby…  Why a baby?  And at one point, he 
was forced to dress up like a woman to get out of an inn, and there 
were little…  What were they?…  Brownies?  What by the valor was a 
brownie…  And there was a witch that looked like a raven, then a goat, 
and… then…  There was an ugly dragon like creature with two heads, 
and then, and then…
	
          And the he felt a little bolder thump into his stomach, and 
suddenly the strange world was left behind, in favor of a much more 
welcome one.  
	
           “Wake up!  Up up!”  Little Pip hollered, almost louder than 
Legolas’ moans of agony. Boromir blinked open his eyes, and tried to 
relieve them of the crust and goo he found there so he could better 
focus on the little hobbit atop him.
	
           “Good morn, little one,” he said groggily, enjoying the barely 
tangible weight of the hobbit riding his chest.  With elf-like swiftness, 
Pip looked around to see if all were still enrapt with the folly of the 
Elf, and when he saw they were, he leaned down to give his warrior a 
quick peck on the mouth.
	
           “Did you sleep well?”  Boromir grinned at his little one, who 
was shyly hiding behind his arms. He’d loved that Pippin gave him a 
little good morning kiss, but he was afraid that if he responded to it, 
they would be discovered far too quickly.
	
           “Aye, did,” the hobbit was still watching him with hawk-like 
intensity, as if waiting for either approval or rejection for his previous 
affection.  Boromir, still leery of the rest of the company, reached out 
for Pip’s little hand, and carefully kissed each knuckle.
	
           “I dreamed of you, last night,” the warrior’s voice was husky, 
and would’ve gone huskier if he had known Pip’s reaction beforehand.  
His eyes shone more brightly than the sun that was sneaking upon 
them, and his small form unconsciously leaned forward as if the 
distance between them was far too much.  For a moment, Boromir was 
convinced he was going to be thoroughly snogged in complete 
disregard for those around them, but both shuddered as a resounding, 
“Yeeeeeee-OW!” followed by a *SMACK* thrummed throughout the 
camp.
	
           “Aragorn!”  The elf was on his feet, face red and angry, “You 
shall pay for this!  Was it your intention to have me scalped!?”  
Aragorn, who was still trying to scrub the painful ‘sting’ out of his 
face from the elf’s unforgiving slap, had no time to respond, before 
Legolas went trodding soundly through the underbrush to find a 
torrent-birthed river in which to bathe.  
	
          While the rest of the Fellowship pretended not to notice, Pippin 
turned back to Boromir, and they shared a shrewd glance, before the 
warrior questioned, “How fare you, m’love?  Have you recovered?”  
The hobbit blushed and lowered his eyes, but whispered, “Aye, it… 
Still hurts…  I’m ay bit sore, but… I’m fine.”  Boromir stroked the 
dark locks away from the keen eyes that were staring at him, before 
sitting up and suggesting, “We should prepare ourselves for the day, 
yes?”

***


          Pippin grudgingly gathered his things, gazing lovingly upon the 
clothes that he had energetically  removed the previous night, before 
stuffing them, too, in his pack.  His slow, uneven tread and the rings 
under his eyes belied the frantic energy he would display later in the 
day after he’d woken a little more fully.  Unfortunately, as he moved, 
he noticed he would have problems walking without a noticeable limp.

          Boromir prepared his pack with a lighter heart and fought a 
losing battle with the urge to gaze at Pippin both in fondness and 
concern for his condition.  It was one of these glances that Pippin 
caught, which found them locked in the paralyzing wonder at the sight 
of the other.  
	
           “How are yae, little master?”  Having Gimli interrupt him while 
he was lost in the memory of how he’d shared the night with his 
beloved painted Pippin’s cheeks a bright red.  He turned his attention 
back to his neatly compiled supplies and murmured something 
unintelligible.  The dwarf gave a brief snort and solidly moved away.  
Still blushing profusely, Pippin peeked out of the corner of his eye and 
caught Boromir peeking at him likewise.  They shared a knowing grin.
	
          Aragorn glanced up from his own packing to find Pippin 
grinning sheepishly and desperately trying to hide a furious blush on 
his already rosy cheeks.  When the youngest hobbit’s eyes rose to meet 
his and turned away far too quickly, Aragorn’s paternal instinct flared. 
With determination, he strode across the leafy earth to sit next to