Fic: If I Were an Orc

East of the ridge on which they had stopped to rest, the deserted country of Hollin rose and fell on its way toward the Misty Mountains, stony and spotted with wind-blown shrub. The others rested, at any rate. But in a dirt hollow amid the rocks, Boromir, Merry and Pippin were sparring.

Boromir lunged. Steel clinked, struck with only moderate force. Pippin
parried, grinning. “Hah,” Boromir exclaimed, offering his blade
on the converse angle. “Good,” he said.

“Now!” he cried, turning to Merry and making a cropped
downward slash.

The smell of sausages, tended by Sam, wafted on the air.

Boromir turned back to Pippin. With his next blow, his weapon skated
along the short blade and nicked the hobbit’s hand.

“Sorry, sorry!” Boromir exclaimed. But Pippin was already
kicking him savagely in the shin. In another instant both the hobbits were
launching themselves at him, roaring and implacable.

They toppled him, crying, “For the Shire!” Boromir was on his
back with his arms full of two small, scuffling attackers.

Pippin was laughing, and shouting, “He’s got my arm, he’s got my
arm!”

Further up the ridge, there was an abrupt break in the talking of the
others. When Boromir looked up, Gandalf, Legolas and Gimli were staring at
a dark smudge in the blue of the sky over by the horizon.

“Tis nothing,” Gimli rumbled. “Just a wisp of
cloud.”

Boromir got up, brushing dust from his flank. Beside him, Aragorn had
put aside his pipe, and stood, too. “It is moving fast, and against
the wind,” Boromir said.

Legolas’s keen eyes widened. He exclaimed, “Crebain, from
Dunland!”

The tableau of the others broke. “Hide!” Aragorn cried.

It was only after Boromir began to hustle them beneath the sparse cover
of the scrub that Merry and Pippin looked properly at the shadow in the
sky. It could indeed have been a small, dark bank of cloud, but for the
speed and focus with which it plowed forward.

They shrank beneath the brambles as the shadow resolved itself into a
great flock of dark birds and swept overhead, beating the air and
shrieking.

And then the birds were gone, and it was the moment before everyone was
going to get up, the moment before they were all going to start saying
things. And Boromir said something to Pippin, whom he held quiet and still
against him. He said softly, jovially, “If I were an orc, I would
have eaten your head right off by now.” He ran his hand over Pippin’s
curly head.

Merry, who had been lying against Boromir’s hip, replied without a
trace of humour, “It is a good thing you are not an orc, then.”

The bushes rustled as the others began to stir.

 

They bedded down that night in a lightly grassed depression in the lee
of a low escarpment. Their camp was cheerless, for the fire that had been
doused would not be relit. They would make no beacon of their whereabouts
for what traversed the skies over Hollin.

Sam’s was the first watch, though an uneasy Aragorn stayed up with him
on the escarpment’s lip to watch the dark sky.

Below in camp, Pippin lay awake long after the others had fallen
asleep, or so it seemed. At first Merry, beside him, had been awake too.
He had seen Pippin lying upon his back, staring up at the sky, and had
whispered, “Tis no good your looking out too, Pippin. That’s the
watch’s job. If there is anything to see, they will see it.” But then
he had subsided back into his bedding. After a time he snored softly.

Pippin watched the stars, bright and many. At last he got out of his
sleeping roll and sat up, resting his head on his knees, eyes averted from
the sky.

He looked over at where Boromir was lying, a number of paces away, at
the edge of camp.

He got up and stepped carefully over Merry. When he reached Boromir, he
saw that the man lay facing away from the others, into the night. Pippin
skirted the end of the sleeping roll and lay down facing Boromir.

Pippin drew his leg back, and delivered a sharp kick to where he
estimated the man’s shins were.

The impact was satisfying; the estimate true. “Eat my head off,
would you?” Pippin hissed.

Boromir showed no sign of being awake.

Pippin kicked the man again.

Still the man lay serene. “I am talking to you!” Pippin
hissed.

“Can not you sleep, little one?” Boromir said at last under
his voice, opening one eye.

Pippin kicked him again, for good measure.

Boromir’s brow creased, and he opened both eyes. “Stop that,”

he whispered good-humouredly.

“Why should I?” Pippin demanded.

“Are you worried about the crows?” Boromir asked. “Would
you like to sleep over here?”

“No!” Pippin said. He drew his foot back to kick again. Quick
as a flash, Boromir caught his ankle.

Boromir rolled to his back and sat up. “You have come to taunt me
into eating your head off, then?” he said. His face by starlight bore
a smile. He released the hobbit’s ankle.

“Maybe,” Pippin said, his voice neutral. He gave his ankle a
shake.

Boromir extracted himself from his bedding. “Well, let us go a
little further away, so your dying screams do not disturb the
others.”

Pippin looked at him. Then he got up and followed where the man led.

They had made their way almost to the edge of the depression when
Boromir poked Pippin in the ribs. After a fraction of second to allow the
hobbit to rush to defend himself, he delivered another poke to the other,
now undefended, side. “Ooh,” Pippin gasped. Without further ado,
Boromir wrestled Pippin to the ground and began to poke him all over in
earnest.

“Why should I just eat your head, when I can have all of
you?” Boromir whispered. “But I shall have to tenderise you
first!”

“Oh no, no,” Pippin gasped, wriggling.

Pippin flailed, giggled and struggled with increasing desperation as
Boromir’s fingers tormented him. He made a sound that was the opening of
his throat ready for a great big squeal. Boromir clasped a large hand over
his mouth.

“Hush!” Boromir whispered crossly, then proceeded to make
things much, much worse. He immobilised Pippin’s lower body by clamping it
between his thighs. Then he rolled to his side, taking the hobbit with
him.

He took his hand off Pippin’s mouth for a moment, then wrapped his
whole arm around the hobbit’s head and replaced the hand. Pippin’s
“Oi!” was muffled.

Now with his free hand Boromir pushed Pippin’s tunic up and pulled at
his undershirt until it came untucked. He began to run the tips of his
fingers all over Pippin’s bare back, fast and light as a spider.

Helplessly, Pippin’s spine kinked and convulsed. He grabbed at the
elbow of the tormenting arm, but was not strong enough to push it away.
His breath sucked and heaved at the hand over his mouth.

This went on. At length Pippin’s spine stiffened into a rigid arch of
distress, and he ceased to struggle, though his breath still sucked at
Boromir’s hand.

Some appalling amount of time later, Boromir gentled his touch to a
long, light stroke, and released Pippin’s mouth.

“Oh, it’s unbearable,” Pippin cried, only the faintest note
of a giggle left in his voice. He threw his arms around Boromir’s neck and
buried his face. “Unbearable.”

Boromir’s fingers trailed evenly up Pippin’s back. The hobbit
shuddered. “No, you mustn’t,” Pippin whispered. “You
mustn’t. Please stop!”

“Shh,” Boromir said. “You are in a state.” He
rolled over onto his back, taking Pippin with him. He flattened his palms
and skated them slowly along Pippin’s back.

“Is that better?” he whispered.

“I feel like worms are crawling inside my skin,” Pippin
sighed. He twitched.

Boromir pressed his palms firmly into Pippin’s flesh, and moved them
very slowly, making the skin ripple.

“And now?” he said.

“Mmm,” Pippin replied.

Boromir’s hands made a number of achingly slow passes.

His voice muffled in Boromir’s neck, the hobbit said, “Give us a
kiss, then.”

Boromir’s hands stopped on Pippin’s back.

Boromir said, his voice gravelly, “All right.”

Boromir rolled Pippin over and pressed his lips softly against the
hobbit’s. Pippin stared up at him.

Boromir kissed Pippin again, rather more thoroughly this time, with an
open mouth. Pippin’s fingers tangled in Boromir’s hair.

“You do have a big tongue,” Pippin said at last, exhaling.

Boromir kissed a line from Pippin’s earlobe, down his neck. “Do
you like it?” he asked.

“Worms!” Pippin squeaked, but he was well pinned down and his
squirming was quite ineffective. Boromir, having reached his collarbone,
began to kiss back up his neck, right up the centre of his wind pipe.
Pippin said breathily, “I fancy I do, yes.”

They looked at each other. Slowly, they compared their tongues again.

Boromir said, “I have not tickled you here yet.” He slipped
his hands up inside Pippin’s shirt at the front.

“Oh no, no more tickling please!” said Pippin. But he helped
Boromir with the unbuttoning of his upper layers, and sat up so Boromir
could drop it all off his shoulders.

Boromir took a great interest in the balls of Pippin’s bare shoulders,
cupping and stroking them. It seemed he would determine whether he could
get his hand all the way around Pippin’s upper arm with its round little
bicep. Then he pushed Pippin back down, and this time it seemed they were
having something of an argument with their tongues, or perhaps a wrestling
match.

Boromir began to squeeze Pippin’s nipple quite hard. A squeak of
protest was muffled by their joined mouths. The squeak died away, and
Pippin’s back began to arch.

Boromir shifted down and applied his bearded mouth to the other nipple.

“Oh,” Pippin cried out. In an instant Boromir had reached up
and slapped his hand over the hobbit’s mouth. Pippin began trying to
dislodge it, his two little hands tugging at either side of Boromir’s
single large one.

At last Pippin got the hand loose, but he merely guided it back to the
neglected nipple.

“You must be quiet,” Boromir whispered, lifting his mouth and
grinning for a moment, before dropping it again.

Pippin began bucking up against the heavy body over him, his breathing
high and loud.

“Please,” Pippin squeaked at last.

Boromir chuckled. He gave Pippin’s nipple another lick. “What is
it, little one?”

“Don’t be awful,” Pippin breathed, pressing his hips upwards.
“You know very well, unless you wore armour to bed.”

“Oh,” Boromir said, “do you mean?”

He cupped his hand over the bulge in the front of Pippin’s breeches.
Deliberately, he squeezed. Pippin looked up at him, wide-eyed.

“Let us get these little breeches off, eh?” Boromir said at
last, breaking the stare.

“Just because you are abnormally large,” Pippin said with
something of a tremor, “does not mean I am little, you know.”

“Is that so?” said Boromir, who had begun to work on the line
of buttons closing the hobbit’s breeches.

“Yes,” said Pippin softly. He lifted his hips and Boromir
slid his breeches down in an inefficient sort of way that involved
trailing his fingers over Pippin’s behind. Pippin bit his lip.

Boromir lifted Pippin’s ankle and kissed the back of the hobbit’s bare
knee. He said, “You will have to be careful, little Pippin, or I will
show you just how abnormally large I am.”

“Oh,” Pippin said.

Boromir took hold of what he found springing up jauntily between
Pippin’s legs. His calloused hand dwarfed its small, swollen contents. As
he began to stroke, Pippin’s knees eased open, and then again, further.

“I venture you have done this before, little Pippin,” Boromir
said warmly.

Pippin smiled. “I told you. I am not little,” he said, his
voice low. He turned his head aside for a moment, sighed, and arched up
into a stroke. “I venture you have, too,” he said.

“That is not any of your business,” Boromir replied.

“I imagine there is much of you that you would like to make my
business,” Pippin said.

“You may be right,” Boromir replied, and his grip on Pippin
tightened.

The hobbit’s mouth opened. Boromir bent forward to kiss it.

Pippin’s fingers scrabbled at Boromir’s tunic. When he could get his
lips free, he said, “Help.”

“Ah,” Boromir said. He sat up and removed the offending
tunic, and then the shirt underneath. He leaned back over the hobbit and
began to kiss his neck.

“You are furry as a bear,” Pippin said, his fingers trailing
on Boromir’s chest.

Boromir growled softly, his mouth vibrating against the hobbit’s
throat. Pippin found the skin of Boromir’s long and hairless side and
stroked.

His fingers found the tautened front of Boromir’s leathers, and the man
fell to stillness. Then Boromir was up and off Pippin, fumbling to get his
boots and leathers off.

Boromir crouched over Pippin again, and Pippin was following Boromir’s
bare side all the way down, and finding his prize. Two small, quick and
curious hands were all over Boromir’s thick length. “Ooh!”
Pippin said.

After a moment of this, Boromir sighed, “Ah, little hobbit.”

Pippin lifted his head and began to rub his forehead in the furrow down
the centre of Boromir’s chest. He wrapped his hand tight around Boromir,
and found his longest finger barely overlapped with his thumb.

Pippin whimpered. He moved the ring of his fingers up and down.

At last the hobbit whispered, his breath against Boromir’s chest,
“Do you think it would fit?”

Boromir tore Pippin’s hands away and dropped his hips onto the
hobbit’s, sealing them together. “Do not speak so with your hands on
me!” he exclaimed.

“Ooh,” Pippin protested. He bucked lazily against the man’s
weight atop him. Still he rubbed his forehead on Boromir. He gave
Boromir’s ribs a little lick.

At last the man said hoarsely, “Would you like to find out?”

“I think so,” Pippin whispered.

“By Elbereth,” Boromir said, and closed his eyes. He rocked
his hips gently into Pippin’s.

“I shall have to go back to my gear for a moment,” he said at
last. He got up. He became black against the night’s blue-black, then
indistinguishable from the darkness.

When Boromir’s shape reappeared, he put something down on the grass
next to Pippin.

“Here we are,” Boromir said. He kissed the hobbit wetly.
Pippin stroked Boromir’s beard.

Boromir’s fingers, when they slid between the cheeks of Pippin’s rump,
were slippery.

“Ahah,” Pippin said softly.

The sound froze on his lips, and his eyes opened wide.

“All right?” Boromir asked, sliding his finger home.

“That is one?” Pippin said. “Only one?”

“Is it all right?” Boromir said.

“Yes, yes,” Pippin said. “Oh, it is enormous.”

“But all right?” Boromir said.

“Yes,” Pippin said. He hooked his ankle around Boromir’s
waist.

Boromir did something different with his finger, and Pippin’s eyes
opened wide again.

“Is that the spot?” Boromir said.

“Oh,” Pippin said, “yes.”

Pippin said, “Oh,” and, “Yes,” a number of times
more, his voice high and breathy. With his other hand, Boromir stroked the
hobbit’s thigh. Pippin put his hand on the back of Boromir’s and followed
the course of the stroking hand.

“Shall we try another?” Boromir asked.

“Mmph,” the hobbit replied.

Then Boromir was sliding two fingers inside, and Pippin was saying,
“Oh my. That is as big as…”

“Someone your own size would be?” Boromir finished.

“Yes,” Pippin said, exhaling in a rush.

“That would be more like this,” Boromir said, and began to
slide his fingers in and out of Pippin.

“Aye,” Pippin whimpered.

“How tight you are!” Boromir sighed. He leant forward and
licked Pippin’s nipple. Pippin laced his fingers in Boromir’s hair.

When Boromir began to ease three fingers inside, Pippin squeaked quite
sharply. And then got out, “I did not think… I had so much room in
my body.”

Boromir put his mouth around Pippin’s part-wilted member and sucked.
Pippin soon began to wriggle his toes, to strain his knees apart. He pawed
at Boromir’s shoulder

Then he was slapping at Boromir’s shoulder. “Oh, come
inside,” he cried, “come inside, I cannot wait!”

Boromir’s reply was muffled by the contents of his mouth. But he was
soon up and to his knees, and oiling himself, and crouching over the
hobbit. He hooked his hand under one of Pippin’s knees and pushed it up
towards the hobbit’s chest. Pippin raised the other himself.

“Will you be comfortable enough like that?” Boromir asked.

“Yes, yes,” Pippin replied softly.

Then Boromir was nudging his blunt tip against Pippin. For the longest
time he pushed at the small opening of Pippin’s body without success. His
grunts were echoed by Pippin’s smaller ones. Pippin pressed shut his eyes.
Then he turned his face aside and stared into the dark.

Boromir said hoarsely, “If it is too much, you must tell me to
stop.”

“No,” Pippin said, “almost there. Keep coming.”

The hobbit’s back arched, and his mouth opened. “There,” he
breathed at last.

“Indeed,” Boromir gasped. And then in a deep vibrato,
“Oh.”

A fraction later Pippin’s hands flailed at Boromir’s forearms.

“All right,” Boromir said, “enough for now.” He
stroked Pippin’s cheek. The hobbit’s breath rushed past the heel of his
hand.

“How much is that?” Pippin said softly.

“Perhaps a third,” Boromir said.

“Oh,” Pippin said.

Boromir stroked the hobbit’s flagging erection. Pippin’s breathing was
high and loud.

Boromir said, his voice weak, “Oh please, a little more.” He
was pushing again, and Pippin was pawing frantically at his forearms.

“Ooh!” Pippin cried.

“A little more,” Boromir mumbled.

“Wait!” Pippin whimpered.

They were close to flush with each other, and Boromir was caressing
Pippin’s cheek with trembling fingers. “Shh,” he said,
“shh. Oh, I’m sorry.”

Pippin panted, and did not reply. Once more he had wilted. Boromir
stroked him slowly.

“How is that now?” Boromir whispered after a moment.

“A little better,” Pippin got out softly. He had partly
hardened again. He laid his hand on Boromir’s shoulder and felt it move as
the man stroked him. He said, “My. I can almost feel you in the back
of my throat.”

“Oh,” Boromir said, with a catch in his voice. And then,
“Shall I move?”

“Yes, all right,” Pippin said.

Then Boromir was easing out a little way and rocking back in, and
Pippin was saying, “Ooh,” as if the wind had been knocked out of
him. Boromir was rocking gently along that small distance, and Pippin was
saying, “Mmm.”

“Still hurt?” Boromir whispered.

“Yes, but…” Pippin gasped, “don’t stop.”

Then Boromir was rocking between all the way in and half way out, and
Pippin’s murmur had become continuous.

Boromir was thrusting properly and groaning, “Yes, yes,” and
Pippin was keening and lifting his hips to meet Boromir’s, and their skin
was meeting with a soft slap. Boromir was gasping, “Do you like
that?”

“Mmm!” Pippin was crying. “Mmm!”

Boromir had hold of Pippin’s heavily engorged flesh and was jerking
roughly.

Pippin was crying sharply, “Oh!” He was spurting into the
man’s hand.

Pippin’s body spasmed around Boromir, and the man stiffened and grabbed
a bruising hold of the hobbit’s hips.

“Ah!” Boromir cried out, riding the small body beneath him
hard.

“Oh,” Pippin squeaked, “so much of it!”

Amid irregular breathing, Boromir gave a short chuckle. The jerking of
his hips slowed.

They lay still, arms around each other. Sweat pooled in the small of
Boromir’s back. “You are a great big beast, you are,” Pippin
sighed softly.

Boromir made a lazy attempt at a growl.

At length Boromir eased himself slowly loose, and Pippin stretched his
legs out, giving each a little shake. Boromir rolled over, taking the
hobbit with him, and laid some oddments of clothing over Pippin’s bare
back. He kissed Pippin’s temple.

“Are you all right, do you think?” Boromir asked. He ran the
back of his knuckles around the hobbit’s behind.

“I feel very hot, and sort of melty,” Pippin said. “I
mean, I think so.”

“I hope so,” Boromir said softly. Beneath the draped clothes,
he found grass stuck to the hobbit’s back. He brushed it away.

Now they were still, the night was dreadfully silent around them. It was as Aragorn had remarked earlier: no wholesome thing that lived seemed astir in Hollin.

“I heard a song about men and hobbits,” Pippin said, his face buried in the crook of Boromir’s neck.

“And where did a young hobbit like yourself hear such a song?” Boromir said.

“At the inn at Bree,” Pippin said.

“Where is Bree?”

“Across the Brandywine.”

“That is not any help,” Boromir said.

“Oh. It has another name, but I cannot remember,” said Pippin. And then, his voice quieter, “I am a very long way from home, aren’t I?”

“Never mind,” Boromir said, and stroked the hobbit’s hair. “You have many friends around you.”

“Much good they are,” Pippin said, “torturing me and threatening to eat my head off.”

Boromir said at last, “Was it a very bawdy song, then?”

“Oh yes,” Pippin replied. Boromir smiled against the hobbit’s forehead.

“I do not think we should talk about it,” Boromir said, “or we will never get any sleep.”

“If you think you will be getting any sleep,” Pippin said, “you have another thing coming.”

Nonetheless, they lay quiet.

“Will there be more crows, do you think?” Pippin whispered.

“I know not, little one,” Boromir said.

Boromir glanced about, eyes straining in the dark. Some distance away, the lip of the escarpment blacked an arc out of the stars. The two lumps that were the watch sat still.

4 comments

4 Comments so far

  1. Aria March 15th, 2015 6:40 pm

    What a sweet,lovely story. I was like a mirthful puddle of something living, when I finished reading this fic.Filled with love, tickling and so on, it’s a precious story.I love it so much^3^

  2. Eyebrow of Doom May 18th, 2015 11:10 pm

    Thanks, I’m glad you enjoyed it!

  3. Osheen Nevoy March 1st, 2017 6:45 pm

    I very much enjoyed this. I am a Boromir fan, first and foremost, but every now and then I go through a surge of wanting to read Boromir slash fics, and my favorite pairings for him are with Pippin, or with both Pippin and Merry (though I guess that would be officially a threesome, not a pairing). This was fun, charming and thoroughly entertaining. I wish the lyrics of the naughty song from Bree had been included–I would definitely like to learn them! 🙂

  4. Eyebrow of Doom March 1st, 2017 10:23 pm

    Hi, I’m glad you liked it! I don’t remember what I had in mind for the dirty song but I’m sure it must have been fun. 🙂

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