claudia603 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
claudia603) wrote2007-08-19 02:42 pm
claudia603) wrote2007-08-19 02:42 pm
Arranged Marriage 5, rated PG13
HERE we go at last! :-) More crackage for a lovely lazy Sunday!
Title: Arranged Marriage 5
Rating: PG13
Pairing: F/A
Summary: Frodo to be married to Aragorn? What could lead to this!
Warnings: AU, way AU, Frodo doesn’t even have the Ring, Aragorn is a bitter Ranger who dislikes hobbits…at first.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, I make nothing.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Frodo paced, growing ever more nervous by the hour. Three months had passed since Strider had gone to prison in his place. His cousins had left just a week ago, with promises to come back for Midsummer’s Day.
“To meet the husband,” Pippin had snickered, which had earned him a cuff on the ear from Frodo.
“Perhaps we should stay a little longer so we can meet him,” Merry said, looking somewhat fretful.
Frodo shook his head. “I do not want you to be here when he returns. He doesn’t much like hobbits, you see. One will be plenty for him.”
Strider’s cottage had undergone a massive transformation. With a grin, Frodo thought that his cousins had nearly created Bag End in this filthy little cottage in the forest. Instead of the rank smell of mold and garbage, the cottage now smelled clean. Merry and Pippin had painted the front door and gate had been painted green. The windows and floors had been scrubbed. The hobbits had ordered new furniture from several craftsmen, both Big and Little, in Bree and Staddle.
“What about the bed?” Frodo remembered Pippin asking with a mischievous lift of his eyebrows. “The marriage bed should be special indeed.”
“Only you would think about that,” Frodo laughed.
Merry and Pippin ordered what Frodo considered to be an embarrassingly oversized bed. They arranged to have it delivered and placed in the back room that had previously been a place for Strider to store odds and ends.
The hobbits scoured the kitchen and filled the pantry with everything that a hobbit would need to cook. They placed a thick, wool rug in front of the hearth. Frodo could now feel proud to call the cottage home, but he could not help but wonder what Strider would think when he saw it.
And now Frodo’s cousins were gone and he was alone to contemplate his impending meeting with his husband. He wondered if he should be at the prison to greet Strider when he was released. He wrinkled his nose in distaste. No, he doubted Strider would much like that. He wondered if Strider would come immediately home. Frodo’s heart sped at the thought. What if Strider wanted to make love to him again? Frodo had long recovered from the abrasions on his backside from the first time, but oh, the pain was quite fresh in his memory. There had been pain, but there had been that quivering in his stomach when Strider had stroked him that Frodo would not mind experiencing again under less dramatic circumstances.
Strider did not come home that night or the next night. Frodo was shocked to find that he actually felt somewhat disappointed or deflated. He had anticipated the moment for so long that now that it was here? Not that he cared at all for the Ranger, but he wanted to get it over with.
He went to the Prancing Pony, keenly missing his cousins. He looked around, half hoping and half fearing to see Strider sitting in the back corner smoking his pipe. Nob took his order, but he was aloof. Frodo did not dare ask him if he had seen Strider. He was sure that by now all the Bree hobbits had heard about the marriage had had labeled him an outcast forever.
After he ate, he marched to Bree’s prison. He took a long, deep breath before squaring his shoulders and marching inside. There were two lawmen on duty there, but thankfully, neither of them were the lawmen present when Frodo’s backside had been so thoroughly examined the day after his marriage. However, they burst into chuckles when they saw Frodo.
“Now what do you need, now that your man is released?” one of them asked. The second man nearly choked on his laughter.
“Released?” Frodo’s jaw tensed.
“Oh.” The man looked surprised. “Didn’t he return to your cozy nest?”
Frodo flushed, heart hammering. Well, of course all of Bree must know about the purchasing that Frodo’s cousins had done around Bree. And of course Pippin could never keep his big mouth closed and had chattered to anyone at the Pony who would listen to him. “What do you mean by that, sir?”
“He was released a week ago.”
Frodo whirled around and left, his heart sinking with humiliation. At any rate, why should he care whether Strider ever came home or not? Strider was harsh and unpleasant and did not like hobbits. Without him in the cottage, Frodo was free to live and do as he pleased. If he was there, Frodo would feel stifled and awkward, afraid to make a wrong move all the time. And should Strider wish to make love to him again—
Frodo’s lips still tingled in memory of the violent kiss that Strider had given him in the prison.
Frodo returned to the cottage, feeling oddly battered and confused. He did not care that Strider had not come home after being released from prison. No, he did not care if Strider wandered the world and never returned. But he should want to, shouldn’t he, out of gratitude for what Strider had done for him? But no. Strider had only married him to do a friend a favor. Frodo had no real obligation to be nice to him. Now, if he could find out who Strider’s kind friend was, that was who he should be nice to.
Several more weeks passed, and one evening, when rain battered the windows and wind howled between the cracks, Frodo sat curled on one of the comfortable sofas in front of the hearth reading a book. A hard thudding on the door startled Frodo into dropping his book. Who could be knocking this late? Frodo hoped he had bolted the door. Heart pounding, he crept into the kitchen and grabbed a knife. Who knew what sort of vagabonds and ruffians passed through these woods. Even Orcs were known to prowl these lands at times, although Frodo doubted that they would be so courteous as to knock on the door first.
“Who is it?” he demanded in as strong a voice as possible.
“It’s Strider. Now let me in.”
Frodo’s heart lurched and he opened the door. The Ranger, soaked from head to toe, stepped into the entrance, looking irritated at having to wait even a minute to enter his own cottage. He stared around the room, dumbfounded. Water dripped and pooled around his muddy boots.
When he spoke, his voice was harsh. “What have you done to my cottage?”
Frodo should have known that Strider would not be kind.
Frodo swallowed, determined to stand his ground. “I’ve made it fit for people instead of Orcs and cockroaches and rats. Would you like anything to eat? The pantry is well stocked now.”
Strider hung up his cloak. He smelled absolutely foul, and Frodo barely refrained from covering his nose.
“How many of my coins did you spend?” Strider demanded.
“As many as was necessary to make this place fit for hobbits and men.”
Strider grabbed the front of Frodo’s shirt with his muddy hand, twisting the material. “I asked you how much you spent?”
“I do not know,” Frodo said, and hot rage filled his chest. He was no child to be chastised and manhandled with such disrespect. “I did not count exactly. I took what I needed.”
Strider sighed harshly, releasing Frodo roughly. Frodo staggered back and fussed to smooth his shirt that was now stained with mud.
“Those coins,” Strider said, “were my funds saved for this year. You spent them on fancy furniture and frills? I told you where the coins were so that you could buy yourself food for a short time until you found yourself gainful employment here in Bree. Dare I ask whether that has at all happened?”
Frodo took his seat in front of the hearth again, pretending to put all his attention on straightening the wrinkled pages of the book that he had dropped when Strider knocked on the door.
“Has it?” Strider demanded, stomping into the sitting room, tracking mud on the floor.
“No,” Frodo said through gritted teeth. “There is nothing in Bree that I am qualified to do.”
“Qualified?” Strider laughed harshly. “You could mop floors at the Pony. You could help on a farm. There are plenty of jobs that a young, healthy halfling can do.”
“Hobbit,” Frodo corrected, flushing with annoyance.
“Oh, pardon me,” Strider said without meaning it. He took off his boots. “Where’s my cot?”
“It’s gone.” Frodo felt a sickening distaste now for the man who would share the oversized bed with him. More than likely, Strider would chastise him for purchasing such an elaborate bed. Frodo got up and walked toward the back room. “There is a proper sleeping room now.”
Strider brushed past him, and he trembled with wounded pride. Anyone else would have been grateful to come home to a nice place to live. Of course, maybe Lobelia Sackville-Baggins was right when she used to say that the Big Folk were only barely a step up from goblins.
Frodo followed Strider into the bedroom. Strider turned to him with dark, gleaming eyes. “You bought this bed?”
Frodo stammered, “I will get a job and pay it back.”
Strider laughed for the first time, but it was not a pleasant laugh. “Did you buy this bed with the expectation that you and I would share it? It is surely too large for a hobbit, even one as used to a life of luxury as you.”
Frodo lifted his chin and spoke with as much dignity as he could manage. “You may share it with me because it is with your coins that it was bought. There is plenty of room. I can’t say that I’m happy with the idea of sharing it with one so nasty tempered.”
“Nasty tempered? You haven’t seen that yet,” Strider said with a rueful laugh. “Be grateful that you haven’t. I always knew that halflings were foolish creatures, but this takes it all.” He flung back the covers of the bed and crawled under the blankets, still muddy, smelly clothes and all. Frodo stared, mouth open, remembering how long it took him to clean those sheets and have them dry on a day that did not rain. And then he realized that he would have to share that bed with the Ranger who had probably not had a bath in months.
Frodo decided right then that he would not fight fire with fire. Instead he used his calmest voice and said, “Strider, I owe you my life.” He swallowed the bile that rose at his being nice to this horrid Ranger. “Thank you. If what I have done to your cottage causes you displeasure, then I will return it all.” Of course Frodo knew very well that as caddish as Strider was, he would not have Frodo do that.
“That will not be necessary,” Strider said. “But tomorrow you had best try to find employment.”
Frodo went to sleep that night with the ungrateful wish that Strider’s prison time could have been three dozen years instead of three months.
Go on to next part
Title: Arranged Marriage 5
Rating: PG13
Pairing: F/A
Summary: Frodo to be married to Aragorn? What could lead to this!
Warnings: AU, way AU, Frodo doesn’t even have the Ring, Aragorn is a bitter Ranger who dislikes hobbits…at first.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, I make nothing.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Frodo paced, growing ever more nervous by the hour. Three months had passed since Strider had gone to prison in his place. His cousins had left just a week ago, with promises to come back for Midsummer’s Day.
“To meet the husband,” Pippin had snickered, which had earned him a cuff on the ear from Frodo.
“Perhaps we should stay a little longer so we can meet him,” Merry said, looking somewhat fretful.
Frodo shook his head. “I do not want you to be here when he returns. He doesn’t much like hobbits, you see. One will be plenty for him.”
Strider’s cottage had undergone a massive transformation. With a grin, Frodo thought that his cousins had nearly created Bag End in this filthy little cottage in the forest. Instead of the rank smell of mold and garbage, the cottage now smelled clean. Merry and Pippin had painted the front door and gate had been painted green. The windows and floors had been scrubbed. The hobbits had ordered new furniture from several craftsmen, both Big and Little, in Bree and Staddle.
“What about the bed?” Frodo remembered Pippin asking with a mischievous lift of his eyebrows. “The marriage bed should be special indeed.”
“Only you would think about that,” Frodo laughed.
Merry and Pippin ordered what Frodo considered to be an embarrassingly oversized bed. They arranged to have it delivered and placed in the back room that had previously been a place for Strider to store odds and ends.
The hobbits scoured the kitchen and filled the pantry with everything that a hobbit would need to cook. They placed a thick, wool rug in front of the hearth. Frodo could now feel proud to call the cottage home, but he could not help but wonder what Strider would think when he saw it.
And now Frodo’s cousins were gone and he was alone to contemplate his impending meeting with his husband. He wondered if he should be at the prison to greet Strider when he was released. He wrinkled his nose in distaste. No, he doubted Strider would much like that. He wondered if Strider would come immediately home. Frodo’s heart sped at the thought. What if Strider wanted to make love to him again? Frodo had long recovered from the abrasions on his backside from the first time, but oh, the pain was quite fresh in his memory. There had been pain, but there had been that quivering in his stomach when Strider had stroked him that Frodo would not mind experiencing again under less dramatic circumstances.
Strider did not come home that night or the next night. Frodo was shocked to find that he actually felt somewhat disappointed or deflated. He had anticipated the moment for so long that now that it was here? Not that he cared at all for the Ranger, but he wanted to get it over with.
He went to the Prancing Pony, keenly missing his cousins. He looked around, half hoping and half fearing to see Strider sitting in the back corner smoking his pipe. Nob took his order, but he was aloof. Frodo did not dare ask him if he had seen Strider. He was sure that by now all the Bree hobbits had heard about the marriage had had labeled him an outcast forever.
After he ate, he marched to Bree’s prison. He took a long, deep breath before squaring his shoulders and marching inside. There were two lawmen on duty there, but thankfully, neither of them were the lawmen present when Frodo’s backside had been so thoroughly examined the day after his marriage. However, they burst into chuckles when they saw Frodo.
“Now what do you need, now that your man is released?” one of them asked. The second man nearly choked on his laughter.
“Released?” Frodo’s jaw tensed.
“Oh.” The man looked surprised. “Didn’t he return to your cozy nest?”
Frodo flushed, heart hammering. Well, of course all of Bree must know about the purchasing that Frodo’s cousins had done around Bree. And of course Pippin could never keep his big mouth closed and had chattered to anyone at the Pony who would listen to him. “What do you mean by that, sir?”
“He was released a week ago.”
Frodo whirled around and left, his heart sinking with humiliation. At any rate, why should he care whether Strider ever came home or not? Strider was harsh and unpleasant and did not like hobbits. Without him in the cottage, Frodo was free to live and do as he pleased. If he was there, Frodo would feel stifled and awkward, afraid to make a wrong move all the time. And should Strider wish to make love to him again—
Frodo’s lips still tingled in memory of the violent kiss that Strider had given him in the prison.
Frodo returned to the cottage, feeling oddly battered and confused. He did not care that Strider had not come home after being released from prison. No, he did not care if Strider wandered the world and never returned. But he should want to, shouldn’t he, out of gratitude for what Strider had done for him? But no. Strider had only married him to do a friend a favor. Frodo had no real obligation to be nice to him. Now, if he could find out who Strider’s kind friend was, that was who he should be nice to.
Several more weeks passed, and one evening, when rain battered the windows and wind howled between the cracks, Frodo sat curled on one of the comfortable sofas in front of the hearth reading a book. A hard thudding on the door startled Frodo into dropping his book. Who could be knocking this late? Frodo hoped he had bolted the door. Heart pounding, he crept into the kitchen and grabbed a knife. Who knew what sort of vagabonds and ruffians passed through these woods. Even Orcs were known to prowl these lands at times, although Frodo doubted that they would be so courteous as to knock on the door first.
“Who is it?” he demanded in as strong a voice as possible.
“It’s Strider. Now let me in.”
Frodo’s heart lurched and he opened the door. The Ranger, soaked from head to toe, stepped into the entrance, looking irritated at having to wait even a minute to enter his own cottage. He stared around the room, dumbfounded. Water dripped and pooled around his muddy boots.
When he spoke, his voice was harsh. “What have you done to my cottage?”
Frodo should have known that Strider would not be kind.
Frodo swallowed, determined to stand his ground. “I’ve made it fit for people instead of Orcs and cockroaches and rats. Would you like anything to eat? The pantry is well stocked now.”
Strider hung up his cloak. He smelled absolutely foul, and Frodo barely refrained from covering his nose.
“How many of my coins did you spend?” Strider demanded.
“As many as was necessary to make this place fit for hobbits and men.”
Strider grabbed the front of Frodo’s shirt with his muddy hand, twisting the material. “I asked you how much you spent?”
“I do not know,” Frodo said, and hot rage filled his chest. He was no child to be chastised and manhandled with such disrespect. “I did not count exactly. I took what I needed.”
Strider sighed harshly, releasing Frodo roughly. Frodo staggered back and fussed to smooth his shirt that was now stained with mud.
“Those coins,” Strider said, “were my funds saved for this year. You spent them on fancy furniture and frills? I told you where the coins were so that you could buy yourself food for a short time until you found yourself gainful employment here in Bree. Dare I ask whether that has at all happened?”
Frodo took his seat in front of the hearth again, pretending to put all his attention on straightening the wrinkled pages of the book that he had dropped when Strider knocked on the door.
“Has it?” Strider demanded, stomping into the sitting room, tracking mud on the floor.
“No,” Frodo said through gritted teeth. “There is nothing in Bree that I am qualified to do.”
“Qualified?” Strider laughed harshly. “You could mop floors at the Pony. You could help on a farm. There are plenty of jobs that a young, healthy halfling can do.”
“Hobbit,” Frodo corrected, flushing with annoyance.
“Oh, pardon me,” Strider said without meaning it. He took off his boots. “Where’s my cot?”
“It’s gone.” Frodo felt a sickening distaste now for the man who would share the oversized bed with him. More than likely, Strider would chastise him for purchasing such an elaborate bed. Frodo got up and walked toward the back room. “There is a proper sleeping room now.”
Strider brushed past him, and he trembled with wounded pride. Anyone else would have been grateful to come home to a nice place to live. Of course, maybe Lobelia Sackville-Baggins was right when she used to say that the Big Folk were only barely a step up from goblins.
Frodo followed Strider into the bedroom. Strider turned to him with dark, gleaming eyes. “You bought this bed?”
Frodo stammered, “I will get a job and pay it back.”
Strider laughed for the first time, but it was not a pleasant laugh. “Did you buy this bed with the expectation that you and I would share it? It is surely too large for a hobbit, even one as used to a life of luxury as you.”
Frodo lifted his chin and spoke with as much dignity as he could manage. “You may share it with me because it is with your coins that it was bought. There is plenty of room. I can’t say that I’m happy with the idea of sharing it with one so nasty tempered.”
“Nasty tempered? You haven’t seen that yet,” Strider said with a rueful laugh. “Be grateful that you haven’t. I always knew that halflings were foolish creatures, but this takes it all.” He flung back the covers of the bed and crawled under the blankets, still muddy, smelly clothes and all. Frodo stared, mouth open, remembering how long it took him to clean those sheets and have them dry on a day that did not rain. And then he realized that he would have to share that bed with the Ranger who had probably not had a bath in months.
Frodo decided right then that he would not fight fire with fire. Instead he used his calmest voice and said, “Strider, I owe you my life.” He swallowed the bile that rose at his being nice to this horrid Ranger. “Thank you. If what I have done to your cottage causes you displeasure, then I will return it all.” Of course Frodo knew very well that as caddish as Strider was, he would not have Frodo do that.
“That will not be necessary,” Strider said. “But tomorrow you had best try to find employment.”
Frodo went to sleep that night with the ungrateful wish that Strider’s prison time could have been three dozen years instead of three months.
Go on to next part