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[personal profile] claudia603

Happy Birthday to the awesome [livejournal.com profile] lilybaggins!!!!



I'm always sorry that you're not around more often, but am always delighted when you check in again. I miss you lots, but here's a story, sort of not completed, but a vignette more like, there is no mpreg, but rather an obsessive (creepy?) Ranger...Hope you enjoy! ;D



I’ve watched him for hours. He is sitting with two other hobbits, laughing, his blue eyes shining with life. His cheeks are flushed, his complexion smooth and pale. How it would feel to touch that skin makes me shake a little, and I shift my legs against the discomfort between my legs. Not that anyone sees. I’m tucked in a back corner, in shadows, and the Breefolk generally shun us. Estel is upstairs getting some much earned sleep. Estel has spoken to this hobbit before. They had a chance encounter by the fireplace. On top of his beauty, he is not unfriendly and suspicious and frightened like most of them. Most hobbits are polite but clearly want to get away as soon as possible. Not this one. Estel has spoken of him, Frodo, as a kind gentlehobbit from the Shire who lives in Bree in a sad but perennial hope that his beloved cousin and guardian, will return from distant travels. He lives with his cousin Pippin and his gardener Sam. And there is a rumor of woe, something about a lover from Gondor, one of the Rangers of Ithilien that had been sent here during the last winter to scout the north. He left with his troop, breaking the sweet hobbit’s heart, although his pain does not show in his eyes now. My heart speeds at the thought that he could love one such as I, a rugged Ranger, one of the Big Folk.

It is just as well that Estel is upstairs for now I can stare without the need to make conversation and keep my attention on anything else.

Frodo laughs again and gives Pippin a playful punch in the arm. I cannot hear what he says, but his voice is a lovely tenor. I imagine he has a good singing voice. For some reason the idea of him singing, his eyes lovingly on me, makes me hard. His hair falls in soft ringlets around his face. How I long to run my hands through them, to pull his face close to mine and press my lips upon his. I would kiss him with rough need until he gasped for breath. His lips would be red and swollen. And then he would look into my eyes with adoration and wanting. My hands shake and I take a long gulp of my ale. Mercifully nobody has looked over at me. Nobody knows. I know when I join Estel upstairs in our shared room, in the first bed I have slept in for weeks, I will slide my hand inside my trousers and the memories of watching Frodo will be fresh. They tend to fade over the weeks away, until sometimes I merely grasp at delicate wisps of memory. But tonight they will be vivid, he will be vivid in my heart and I will almost be able to feel him crushed in my arms, breathing in the scent of his soft curls, rubbing my gnarled fingers over his soft nipples, hearing him gasp with pleasure and writhe against my hardness.

“Sir?”

I startle and look up at the ruddy-faced, stocky hobbit standing uncertainly beside me. “Anything else for your pleasure, sir?”

I draw my eyes from Frodo and throw another coin on the table. “Another ale please.”

But by the time the ale arrives at my table, Frodo and Pippin are leaving, and I feel like the sunshine and warmth is fleeing, leaving me cold and melancholy. There is no reason to remain downstairs once the hobbit leaves. I abandon my half-filled mug on the table and walk outside into the crisp autumn night. Frodo and Pippin have made it a fair amount of space down the road. I follow them with stealthy steps, since as Rangers we can walk nearly without sound, almost so much so as hobbits themselves. I keep to the shadows. The hobbits are somewhat intoxicated on ale, laughing into the crisp night. The night is so dark, the moon hidden by clouds, and I realize I have never seen exactly where Frodo lives. The hobbits continue down some winding streets until they nearly reach the hedge on the northeast side of Bree. Their cottage is rounded, a homey cottage half built into the hill as many of the hobbit houses are. They go into the gate. I hover under the shadow of a huge tree just across the road. I watch as candlelight illuminates the inside. No curtains have yet been drawn across the windows and I have a few glorious moments more to drink him in. Oh if only he would disrobe with the windows still open, but that is not to be. Soon the curtains are all drawn. Frodo pauses and looks out into the night, and for a moment, I fear I have been discovered. But then he sniffs the air with a peaceful yet somehow melancholy smile. He kisses his palm and tilts it upward toward the moon.

My heart contracts. This must have to do with his Gondorian lover, false though he be. There is something about the gesture that speaks of lovers separated by time and distance. I have seen such poignancy in Estel’s eyes sometimes, staring up at the starlight.

The curtains close, thus ending my view of him. My need has grown stronger than ever before. I must have him.
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