The Reward

Title: The Reward
Pairing: Aragorn/Pippin

Author: Murron

Rating: *NC-17*

Disclaimer: The characters and setting used in this story belong to the Tolkien estate, not to me.

Summary: Aragorn and Pippin get aquainted at the Prancing Pony in Bree.

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As silence descended on the small room at the inn of the Prancing Pony, four hobbits drifted off into uneasy sleep under the careful watch of a man. To them, he was known only as Strider,
Ranger of the wilds and ally to Gan the the Grey. The four would have been surprised that this man of the forest was actually Aragorn, son of Arathorn, heir to the throne of Gondor. Sitting in a heavy wooden chair next to the small windows of the room, he watched over his small charges, Frodo, Merry, Pippin and Sam, who were nestled together in the one bed of the room. He watched with a calm patienc the the glow of firelight, which cast odd shadows in the deep corners of the room.

He continued his firelight vigil until the moon had risen well overhead in the misty sky. The inn had grown eerily quiet. No more noise came from the tavern below, as the regular patrons had long since returned to warm houses and faithful wives. The only sounds were the wind whispering around the sharp corners of the old building, a haunting but somehow radiant tune, and the sleeping sounds of his tiny wards.

The quiet snores of the hobbits began to lull Aragorn into a doze, and his head began to nod towards his chest. He caught himself just as he was drifting off into sleep, and jerked his head up, shaking it to clear his mind. He decided to take a walk to wake himself up, and to scout out the area around the inn.

He stood up carefully, joints creaking and popping from sitting too long in the same position. He strapped the belt that held his sword, among other things, around his waist and tied his cloak around his broad shoulders. His soft leather boots made no sound as he slipped across the room to the heavy wooden door. It creaked painfully as he eased it open, but the hobbits stirred not an bit in their slumber. He shut it quietly from the outside.

He strode quickly down the short, dark hallway, which ended in a stairwell. Down the stairs, which were split in half by a small landing, to the empty tavern he went, long cape trailing behind him, floating on the air.

He hesitated at the bottom of the stairs, his ears catching a small sound. He squinted into the murkiness of the room and, as his eyes adjusted to the weak moonlight which entered through a dirty glass window, he caught sight of the source of the noise. A stout man, a Prancing Pony regular most likely, lay passed out on the hard wooden floor, propped against the edge of the bar, an empty stein still clasped in his pudgy fingers.

Aragorn smiled to himself as he slid out the door into the muddy yard of the inn.

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A time later, as the fire in the small room of the inn had begun to burn low and smoulder, one of the Hobbits stirred and awoke. Pippin, sandwiched warmly between Sam and Merry, stared at the rafters of the roof with sleep-blurred eyes in confusion for a moment, wondering just exactly where he was. The events of the past days came back to him, and he sighed through his nose. His hobbit stomach rumbled.

He lay still on his back, trying to force himself back to sleep, but his thoughts kept returning to food, and after a few moments (which seemed like an eternity to him) he decided to ask Strider for something to eat.

He began to slither out of the bed, not wanting to wake the others. After much careful wriggling and breathless concentration, his feet touched the cold floor. His gaze fell upon the empty chair by the windows of the room. No Strider.

Pippin stood at the foot of the bed, indecisive. He heard no sounds, nothing but the wind playing around the old building. His small figure was dwarfed by the furniture of the man-sized room.

He shivered. The fire was barely burning, and he stood dressed only in his breeches and light, flowy-white shirt, suspenders hooked up around his small shoulders.

The quiet and seeming peace of the night gave him the confidence he needed. Pippin decided to go out and find himself something to calm the insistent tugging of his stomach, Strider or no Strider.

He rummaged through the pile of hobbit gear in one corner of the room. He came up with his soft maroon-coloured cape, which he pulled with a flourish around his shoulders, drawing it close to his body for warmth. He knotted his beloved grey scarf loosely around his neck, and he set out on his hunger driven mission.

The door creaked heavily as he opened it, and his eyes darted to the bed for a moment. No movement was apparent to his eyes. He let out a relieved sigh and quietly latched it closed behind him.

The hall was dark, lit only by one twindwindow’s worth of moonlight. He had gone a few steps, when he started at a small noise. Something small and furry scurried over his foot, and he jumped and bit back a yelp. He watched as a tiny mouse scampered into a crack in the wall, and let out a quiet amused titter.

“Be brave, Pip” he chastised himself, “ there are much worse foes out there for you”.

He made haste down the rest of the hall, and came to the stairwell. He slipped down them, sticking close to the wall as he did so, his fingertips brushing the rough-hewn boards.

The tavern was dark, and the empty room looked huge and cavernous to his small hobbit eyes. He cautiously made his way across the wooden floor, looking around him warily, hands extended in front of him to warn of unseen objects in the darkness, into which only a little nightlight filtered.

He was almost to the bar when a jolt passed through his body as his foot came into contact with something warm and…alive. He recoiled a step back and stood rigid.

For a moment nothing happened, and his eyes adjusted to give him a view of a husky form in front of him. The light did not give him a good enough sight to tell who that form was, however.

Pippin’s curiosity got the better of him. He slipped his hands out and brushed them against the bulk in front of him.

“Excuse me…” he whispered, tapping his small fingers against the sleeping form of a man, which jerked away from his exploratory nudging.

There was a crash as the man threw the metal beer stein that had been clutched in his hand. It collided with the wall and left a dent in the old, greasy, soot stained wood. Pippin saw his face, filthy and ugly, for a second, as the man grabbed him around the throat with one gigantic (to Pippin anyway…) hand.

Pippin was lifted straight into the air, his tiny form dangling at the end of the man’s arm. With one flex, he was smashed into the bar, the hard lip catching him in the small of his back. The man held him there, the hard wood digging painfully into his backbone. Pippin clenched his eyes shut and struggled to draw in a breath. The man’s fingers squeezed hard around his neck and he found that no air would come.

“Stupid little mite”, the man said, his breath close to Pippin’s terrified face. He slurred his words more than a little, his temper the result of one too many pints that night. “ I should slit your throat, you little bugger, wakin’ me up before morning.”

Pippin, his head pounding and screaming for air, began to panic. He flailed his arms and legs wildly, trying to escape the grasp of his captor. His fingertips brushed a bottle balanced on the bar, and after lolling precariously on it’s edge for a moment, it fell, taking two more with it. They shattered on the floor, a symphony of crackling glass.

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Outside the door of the inn, Aragorn sat on a low bench, staring at the fog rising from the muddy dirt of the yard. The hood of his cape hid most of his face as he perched, hunched over. His mind wandered, taking him to the far reaches of Middle Earth.

A thud from inside the Prancing Pony pulled him out of his reverie, and he cocked his head to the side, body rigid. For a second he heard nothing, then a voice muted by the walls, and the tinker of glass breaking.

He stood and drew his sword out of it’s sheath, and opened the door with a flourish, spilling moonlight into the dusty tavern. He caught sight of the tiny hobbit in the man’s grasp immediately.

“Put him down.” The man was caught off guard by Aragorn’s voice, gravelly and thick. It had a commanding air to it. The man dropped Pippin as if he was a hot poker, and stared at Aragorn, trying to gauge his next move. The hobbit fell to the floor in a heap on all fours, dragging in coughing and sputtering.

The man began to slink away, his figure bowed, trying to leave unnoticed. With one smooth motion Aragorn strode forward and the tip of his sword found the tender hollow at the base of his neck, drawing a drop of blood. The man whimpered.

“Terrorizing a hobbit under my watch is a grave mistake, my friend.” Aragorn slid his sword under the man’s chin, lifting his head and forcing him to look into his eyes. “Leave, now, and if I see you again while I am in Bree you shall become acquainted with more than the tip of my weapon.” He withdrew his blade and sheathed it. The man scrambled out the door.

Aragorn turned to Pippin, who squatted still on his hands and knees, his breath more even now.

“Pippin, will you live?” he asked, and as soon as the words had left his mouth, Pippin was on his feet. He rushed over to the man as fast as if nine Nazguls were on his heels, and ran full-body into Aragorn’s legs, his fingers clutching, clamoring for something to grasp. He found the edge of the man’s cloak, and grasped it tightly in his fingers.

“Oh Strider, I am so sorry. Please don’t be angry, I was so frightened. I am so sorry…” Pippin stared upwards, and orbic tears began to fall from his eyes as he babbled.

Aragorn did what seemed natural to him. He bent down and lifted Pippin up, his hands wrapping almost the whole way around the Hobbit’s small waist. He settled the small form on his hip, like a child, and Pippin rested his forehead against his chest, short arms wrapped tightly as far as they would go around the man’s chest. His tiny body hitched with sobs. The two stood like this for a while, the man not knowing what to do to pacify tiny Pippin.

Slowly, the hobbit regained his composure, and when his tears had abated, Aragorn carried him a few steps and sat him on the edge of a table, his legs dangling less than halfway to the floor. Pippin scrubbed at his eyes, his tiny face mottled red from his tears. Aragorn watched him, not knowing what to say.

It was Pippin who broke the silence. “I am so sorry, Strider” he said for the third time “I only meant to get something to eat, maybe some bread or a nice apple. And I was thinking that another pint would be nice. I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.”

Aragorn raised an eyebrow. “Is that all you hobbits think of? Food and ale? We have larger problems than that ahead of us.”

Pippin stared up at the man’s face, large eyes glowing, and his face crumpled again. A new torrent of tears trailed down his face as he bent his head down towards his chest.

“Oh, small one, I didn’t mean to cause you any more sorrow. You just need to learn some things about the world. Please don’t cry so”. He placed his hands awkwardly on Pippin’s shoulders, not knowing what else to do. Tears dripped off Pippin’s chin into his lap.

Aragorn leaned over further, and placed a comforting kiss upon Pippin’s forehead, and then one upon his lips. The hobbit remained passive for a moment, but then to the man’s surprise, he felt the hobbit’s lips move against his, his tiny mouth suckling the soft fullness of the man’ lower lip. His tears stopped. Aragorn felt a strange longing flowing through him , but he pulled away.
Pippin stared up into his face, grey eyes wide and clear. His gaze was steady and unnerving to Aragorn, so free was it of any inhibitions.

Aragorn’s body tensed. He coughed awkwardly. “Uhhh…are you hurt in any way, small one?” he said, trying to rid himself of his growing temptation.

“Well, my neck hurts a wee bit, and my back is a bit sore, but I think I shall live.” His eyes did not leave the man’s.

Aragorn swallowed hard. “Well, I best check you over then”. He hesitated for a moment, then slowly undid the loose knot of Pippin’s scarf, slipping it off to reveal a clear handprint around the hobbit’s slender neck. He brushed it with his fingertips, barely touching Pippin’s tender skin.

“This mark will leave you in a few days. Shall I look at your back as well?”

“Yes.” In an instant, Pippin had untied the strings of his cloak, and it pooled around his body on the table. He slipped the loops of his suspenders down, and begun to unbutton his shirt. He let it slide to the floor. Now clad only from the waist up, he looked at Aragorn expectantly.

Aragorn craned his neck sideways, far enough to see the beginnings of a nasty bruise in the small of Pippin’s back. The red weal ran from one side to the other, spanning Pippin’s otherwise baby-soft skin.

Aragorn grimaced. “This will hurt in the morning, dearly, but it will fade soon enough.” He stretched one hand out, and placed it over the ugly wound, his palm covering it entirely. Goose pimples rose on the hobbit’s skin around his hand.

Pippin arched his back, letting loose a giggle. “Your hands are so cold, Strider.”

A wry smile surfaces on the man’s lips as he drew his hand away. He felt a longing in himself to touch that smooth body again, but he pushed it away. “Yes, I suppose they are.” he murmured lamely, rubbing them together.

Pippin’s hands darted out, and caught the man’s between them. “I shall warm them for you then” he said, and his searching fingers forced the man’s hands to outstretch. Pippin placed the splayed palms on his stomach.

Aragorn was taken aback for a moment. “You certainly are forward about what you want, Master Peregrin,” he stared at his hands resting upon the hobbit’s soft belly, unmoving.

A grin broke Pippin’s face, tears gon gone. “Yes.” Pippin leaned, reclining back on his elbows, and looked up into Aragorn’s face with a sparkle in his eyes.

Aragorn chuckled and let his eyes drop from the hobbit’s face. He moved his fingers a bit, and Pippin squirmed underneath them, their roughness abrasive against his tender skin.

The man slid his flat palms upwards, feeling the washboard of Pippin’s chest, covered by a layer of flesh but prominent none the less. He could feel the young hobbit’s heart, like a caged butterfly behind his ribs. His fingers found the silky locks on Pippin’s head, and tangled his fingers iem. em.

Pippin’s head lolled back and the tip of Aragorn’s tongue found the supple skin of his neck, deliciously cool against the raw handprint.

Pippin gasped as the man’s mouth found the sensitive nub of his nipple, feeling it clench upwards and tighten. A low groan escaped his tiny mouth as Aragorn swirled his tongue around it and began to gnaw gently at the hardened flesh. The stubble of the man’s beard tickled his skin harshly and Pippin writhed, his hips pushing forward involuntarily, shinghing for some relief.

Aragorn pulled back a hair. “Ahh, so that is what you want”, he said, staring amusedly into Pippin’s face. He trailed a finger down the Hobbit’s body, past his ribs, over the warm stomach, to come to a stop at the prominent bulge in Pippin’s trousers. He wriggled his fingers over the hardness, and Pippin gasped, his tongue flicking over the smooth enamel of his upper teeth.

This was all the prompting that Aragorn needed. He placed strong hands under Pippin’s arms and pulled him to standing on the table, bringing the Hobbit’s eyes level with his own. He unbuttoned the trousers which still clad Pippin from waist down, and let them fall in a heap around his ankles, revealing his tiny cock, standing straight out from his body, it’s tip already glistening.

Pippin swayed a bit as the cool air hit him, and Aragorn placed strong hands around his hips as Pippin steadied himself with his hands on the man’s shors. rs.

Aragorn took Pippin into his mouth, and he felt the hard flesh swell against his tongue. Suckling gently, he felt Pippin reach his peak. Tiny fingers clamped tightly onto the cloak at his shoulders as he felt Pippin let go of his self control, and a small stream of sweetness entered the man’s mouth.

He kept his hands still on Pippin’s tiny hips as he straightened up to look Pippin in the eyes. He made to kiss the hobbit’s cherubic mouth, but at the last second Pippin turned his head to the side, pressing his smooth, fervent cheek against the man’s rough, stubble-covered one. “My turn” he whispered into Aragorn’s ear, almost inaudibly.

Pippin ran one gentle finger along the man’s furred jawline, and moved to nibble at the tip of his ear. Aragorn stood rigidly, astonished at the silken touch. He began to relax as Pippin placed a row of kisses along his high cheekbone, sweet and sincere.

Pippin giggled as he looked downward, nimble fingers undoing the clasp of Aragorn’s cloak, and letting it fall to the floor. He retrieved his breeches from around his ankles and looped his suspenders up onto his bare shoulders to hold them in place. He crouched at the edge of the table, and hopped to the floor with a tiny thud.

He spread Aragorn’s fallen cloak, smoothing out the bumps and furrows. He gestured “Sit”.

Aragorn, for who the entire experience was beginning to take on a dreamlike quality, undid the belt which held his sword and dagger and many other attachments, and placed it on the table. He sat.

Pippin went straight for the ties of his leather vest, and the buttons of the loose shirt underneath, undoing them in record time and exposing Aragorn’s chest and stomach. He placed a palm flat against the man’s chest and urged him to lay flat on his back on his soft cloak.

So Aragorn lay, staring at the beams of the ceiling, as the hobbit knelt beside him and began track his hands over his exposed torso, flat palms coursing over warm skin, dexterous fingertips mapping every inch of exposed flesh. Pippin’s downy hair tickled his chest as he lay his ear flat against it, listening to his lover’s heartbeat.

The hobbit turned his head and laid a line of kisses down the center of the man’s ribcage, across the flat, smooth plane of his stomach, coming to a stop at his navel. His small tongue flicked out, invading the tight opening, and his long eyelashes brushed the ticklish skin of the man’s belly.

Aragorn tensed and quivered, every muscle in his body singing with pent-up desire. Pippin giggled, one small hand reaching up to tweak a nipple, which sent another jolt through the man’s body.

Suddenly, he felt the Hobbit’s touch drawn away from his body. He cocked his head upwards to find Pippin at his feet, tugging on his boot, sliding them off his feet. The hobbit’s fingers moved to unknot the ties of his leggings, and Aragorn shifted his hips upwards to allow them to be peeled away from his heated skin.

Pippin dropped them and quick as a flash he knelt between the man’s legs. His small hands began kneading the tender skin of Aragorn’s inner thighs, compelling him to open wider. He complied, bending his knees and planting his feet flat a shoulder-width apart.

Pippin soon happened on what he was looking for. The man’s shaft stood straight and ready for him. He grasped it in both hands, and slipped his mouth over thp, ap, a tight squeeze.

Within a moment, he has established a breathless rhythm, up and down, up and down, small fingers wrapped around the thickness of Aragorn’s manhood.

The man felt the last tendrils of his composure being tugged out of his grasp. He brought his hand up to his mouth, clamping his knuckles between his teeth to suppress a roar, hard enough to draw blood, as he slipped off the edge into the brilliant white light of ecstasy.

When he had regained his senses, Aragorn found Pippin pressed full-length against his side, nestled in the crook of one arm, staring up at him in wide-eyed awe. They lay like this for some moments, listening to the wind creaking and the sound of their own heart beats in harmonic alignment.

Finally, Aragorn could prolong the stillness no longer. “I should like to stay here, but we best get back to the room. I should not have left the other three for as long as I have.”

Pippin only nodded. The two rose and dressed. They climbed the stairs hand-in-hand.

As they reached the door of their room, Aragorn hesitated for a moment.

“I have something for you, my tiny lover.” He reached into the folds of his cloak and rummaged in a hidden pocket, coming up with an object, small and round, it’s glassy surface catching a silver fragment of moonlight. He extended it down to Pippin, clasped delicately in his callused fingertips.

A grin split the hobbit’s face as he took it, a sweet red apple smelling lusciously of summer and sunshine.

They slipped into the room, where three other hobbits slept fitfully still, unaware of the adventure of their kinsman and their protector. Pippin moved to crouch by the last dying embers of the fire, drew his cloak around him and began to munch on his precious apple. Aragorn folded himself into the chair by the window and cocked one leg over it’s arm, grinning to himself e ste stared out into the hazy night.


The End