DVD Meme: Beautifully Dangerous

[browngirl]

For claudia603, with huggles.

Story stats: slash, interspecies, NC-17, concerns Frodo in Minas Tirith

Beautifully Dangerous


I wrote this because claudia603's story here got me thinking. You know the concept of the 'remix'? This story is pretty much a remix of that one.

Title: Beautifully Dangerous
Categories: slash, interspecies, crackfic, darkfic
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Frodo/Ingemir (OMC), Duilin/Ingemir implied.
Summary: "Kiss me. I shall not break."
Warning: Interspecies, angst, irresponsibly casual sex, post-war grieving.
Disclaimer: I am borrowing Professor Tolkien's wonderful world and characters for no other gain than the joy of playing in Middle-Earth for a little while.

Yay headers. I suppose I could put my 'not all OCs are Mary/Gary Sues" rant here, but I think I'll let Ingemir speak for himself. Do you like his name? It took me a solid half hour of research to compose it. As far as I can tell it does work as an actual Gondorian name.

"Kiss me," said the Ringbearer, and in truth I hardly needed urging. He was like the best of man and woman mingled, firm of body like a man with a woman's beardlessness and soft skin, and a beautiful face all his own; he was the size of a child, but the force of his will, the deep piercing gaze of his eyes, were like no child's have ever been. He gripped my shoulders with tiny determined hands, so hard I could count nine fingers' presses, and tilted his fine pale face up to mine, and I kissed him with all the want in me, and no small measure of my grief. Small and compact in my arms as I pressed him to myself, the halfling was nothing like my lost lord Duilin, a tall and fair bowman from the Blackroot Vale, and yet in their blue eyes and their strength they were so alike that I almost felt the small mouth under mine broaden, almost felt the scrape of red-gold stubble from a smooth cleft chin.

OK. One of the common slurs slung at interspecies stories is that they're pedophilic, because of the size difference. Being a short woman who's dated tall men, I could take personal umbrage at this line of thought, but I won't. Instead I'll point out that often people writing interspecies don't play up the size difference. I did so here for specific reasons--- Ingemir is missing Duilin, and simultaneously noticing his similarities with Frodo and struck by their differences. Frodo is exotic to him.

Then I remembered myself, Guard of the Citadel that I was, and whose form it was I clutched in my all-too-broad hands, and I sat back on my heels with a gasp. Who was I, to squeeze and press the Ringbearer as if he were a man of my height and brawn? What was I, to lay hands at all upon such a valiant and honored guest of the City, a friend of our new King? I shook my head and pried my fingers from his linen-covered back.

I love Tolkien's language. I can't imitate it; who can? But I can emulate it. I loved writing "Ack! He's famous and small and important and small, and I'm just a big beefy ordinary guard! Ack!" in such elaborated terms.

For a moment he stared at me, soft lips parted in surprise, skin seemingly paler beside the flush in his cheeks. Then he smiled, and shook his head gently, bringing his hands up either side of my face, stepping close to me as I clutched my hands at my sides. "Ingemir," he said softly, like a man gentling a horse or a virgin, and I recalled what the halfling Peregrin had told me when we stood watch together, that he and I were of an age and that Frodo the Ringbearer was well our senior. His skin might be tender and his eyes large, but they were not young, their gaze sliding beneath my skin like a thousand fine blades. "Ingemir," he repeated, his brows drawing down just a little, those eyes glittering with a blue fire that sparked along my veins. "Guard of the Citadel, friend of my kinsman Peregrin. Kiss me. I shall not break."

Frodo isn't a child. D'ye hear me, o diminishers of hobbits and disparagers of interspecies? Well, no, of course not, they're not reading this. But I.... when I get frustrated I try to turn it into art instead of rants. I was frustrated, when I wrote this, with the infantilization of hobbits. Hence this grown-up, in-charge Frodo.

"But, sir---" He cut off my protests by kissing me himself, fingers clutching my beard just this side of pain, lips pressing my bottom lip between them. He parted his mouth further, and little sharp teeth dented my lip, hot and sweetly hurting, and I felt myself shiver, felt myself growl, felt my hands rise up to slip up his sides and curve round the firm flesh of his upper arms. Wavering, I fought myself, wishing to feel his body warmly pressed to mine, not wanting to risk harm to someone so much smaller than I. He decided it for me as his fingers crept up over my ears, finding the spots that sent lightening crackling through me to stiffen my member and shred my will; he pulled his mouth away to rub his soft cheek against mine, slow strokes as he whispered, "Ingemir, be passionate with me. That is what I desire."

Heh, heh. That crackling sound I hope you hear at this point in the story is Ingemir's brain going up in flames.

"But---" I clenched my hands into fists in the air behind him, trying to press them back to my sides though they longed to press themselves into the flesh of his back, buttocks, thighs.

"Frodo. Call me Frodo." He licked my cheek below my eye, a long hot wet stripe painted by a tiny flexing tongue. "I saw how you looked at me tonight, how you looked at me two days ago. What is it that holds you back?"

I was thinking here about all those seduced Guards. Ingemir isn't the first, or the last.

"I do not wish to hurt you. You are, you are...." Face burning, I trailed off. Most of my lovers had been taller than I, or as tall, even the women. I had never had one half my size before. But how might I say that to him? It seemed at the least impolite.

He felt my blush and guessed my thought, and laughed, warm puffs of breath over my ear, and then the small tongue curved, supple wet velvet, around the base of my ear, tracing the whorls and shell, making me shudder and moan aloud. My knees gaped wider, seemingly of their own accord, and he snuggled himself between them, tucking those strange furred feet beneath my thighs. "I'm not quite as tall as you, am I? Still, I shall not break." He spoke, and licked my ear, and spoke again. "Everyone touches me as if I'll snap in two, so lightly I can barely feel it. I want to feel, Ingemir. We've both survived a terrible war; do you not want to feel with me?"

And here I was thinking about Frodo's motivations. I've never walked across Mordor, but I've been there, reveling in sensation I thought I'd never feel again.

My mouth had gone dry at the first touch of that hot wet little tongue, and my own tongue seemed to thicken, my breath stuttering as he added teeth to his wondrous torment of my ear, but I forced my voice to croak, "Surely, your companions are---"

"The most maddeningly gentle of all." He snorted, just a little, but enough to almost make me laugh, despite the flutters in my belly and the fire in my blood. "Ingemir." He wrapped his tongue round my name, as he had curled it round my ear, and I could see in my mind that little tongue curling against my prick, and the thought burned all the hotter for the shame I felt at it. Who was I to ask that of him? But who had I been, to have it of my lord Duilin?

Incidentally, Ingemir is a sub. His love for Duilin began as hero-worship. One of the things I did when I created him was wrote a little timeline/history for him. I hope I still have it, because one day I'm going to write him and Beregond and Pippin having a drink at the Five Armies.

Frodo slid his face along mine to look into my eyes again, and to lay a kiss to the end of my nose. "Do you know why I chose you, Ingemir? Besides your fair face and strong arms?"

I couldn't guess. With him so near, tucked up against me, I could barely think. "Because you felt safe with me?" I hazarded.

He grinned at that, showing little white teeth, and shook his head. "No, not at all. Because I do not want to feel safe. Because you're dangerous, as well as beautiful."

Think about it. The boy's twice his size, twice his strength, huge and brawny; the thought of taming all that must make Frodo's mouth water. Oh, and this Frodo is dommy. He's well matched to Ingemir.

His words echoed through me, rippling through my flesh and blood and bone; when my hands heard them they rose up to grasp him, curving round and pressing into his shoulder and thigh, and he grinned all the wider. "Take me, Ingemir." he murmured, sliding his hands beneath my collar, around my neck and over my shoulders, looking up at me through lashes as long as a girl's, with eyes that commanded. "Take me hard and fast, gloriously so. Let me feel you, I want to feel."

Frodo my dude, you are so not practicing truth in advertising. Ingemir is totally the one being taken.

My lips were already agape at his words when he kissed me again, stroking my lips with his tongue, tilting his head as he sucked mine into his mouth. He flattened himself against me, as if trying to climb into my uniform, into my skin, and I could no longer want anything but to have him in with me, to be inside him, as I clutched him to my body and returned the engulfing kiss. When he was sure he had me, he set his nimble fingers to my clasps and his buttons, most likely so I would not tear or pop anything in fevered haste; all the while he pressed himself to me, heart fluttering in time with mine, prick hard against my chest and knees pressed to my belly, till I clutched him so that he came off his feet, and laid him down on my undertunic on the floor.

Is it self aggrandizing to say that I am pleased with the detail I wrote into this story?

Ah, for someone so small, there was so much to him. I could see and feel why gentleness dissatisfied him, that strength that made him crave more; he had scars on his shoulder and his back and beneath my fingers at the nape of his neck, and smaller ones scattered along his arms and legs, paler weals against the pale skin. Against that creamy color the flush of his cheeks and lips fairly glowed; the silky sable of curls at his head and groin and feet drew my fingers and my lips as I stroked him and kissed him, as he wound his hands in my hair and demanded, "more!" and "harder!" . When I finally gave into the urgings of my blood and his words, when I set my teeth and tongue to that sweet musky skin, he cried out "yes!" and pressed his hands to my cheeks, fingers flexing and dragging in my beard.

He commanded me, sweet as any lover and sure as any captain. I had told myself, even drunk as I was with the taste and feel of him, that I would not take him, that he might wrap those little long-fingered hands around me, or I would please him and tend myself later, blessing my fates for this one chance with such a beautiful hero; instead, his demands claimed my obedience as if he were twice my size rather than half of it, and when he raised himself from running that tongue along my prick to climb into my lap and wind his arms about my neck, I could not deny him. I told him it would hurt, that all I had was a little salve from a pocket wound-kit, that I was so much larger than he I feared for him, but he dragged that smooth, firm little rump along my length, wedging my prick into a hot pressing cleft, and I wanted so badly to be within him I had to bite my lip till pain throbbed like a heartbeat, beating back the roar of my blood. He watched me bite my lip, and laughed gently at me, and soothed the bruise with soft wet kisses and licks.

You know that smaller=bottom=sub , bigger=top=dom convention? I had fun playing with it.

And then he slicked me with hands that barely met around the girth of my prick, and stretched his arms round my chest, clutching so hard it would have been agony if I weren't so roused; he gasped and whimpered and pressed his forehead to my breastbone as he bore down on me, sinking me into impossible tightness and heat. I shook, my vision dancing with spots, because I couldn't breathe, because if I breathed I would move, and if I moved I'd hurt him. and I would not hurt him.

I had forgotten that he was my elder, and knew better than I what we were about. He writhed in my lap, and he closed soft warm lips around my nipple, and he growled softly and smoulderingly to me, till I forgot myself; I pressed my fingers around his waist and drove into him, as he gripped my shoulders hard enough to mark me and groaned and moved with me so our bodies flew apart only to slap together, harder and harder, raising a heat beyond flame.

Got a little purple here. I use too much heat metaphor when I write about sex, but that's really how it feels to me.

I did not lie down over him and press him into the floor. He tugged at my shoulders and clenched around me and ordered and begged, but I denied him that one thing. I could not have lived with myself otherwise.

Even so, he shivered against me while he peaked, moaning and sobbing, and I wished to pause, to fold my arms about him and be sure he was well. Still trembling and panting, he clamped his knees to my hips and drove harder against me, and all my mind caught fire, and all I felt, all I knew, was his body around me and pressed to mine as I drove into him to a white-hot oblivion of bliss.

My first thought afterwards was that I couldn't think; my next was that I lay trembling on my back on the floor, with him still enclosing me and draped on my heaving chest, his hands gently stroking my skin. My third thought, which should have been first, was for his welfare, as I gasped to stillness. My hand lay sprawled across his back, nearly spanning it, and as my shudders eased I could feel his. "Sir, I mean, Frodo---" he chuckled softly, but said nothing, so after a moment I continued. "I, do, are you, are you well?"

Poor Ingemir. He really does mean well.

"Never better," he said warmly---this small one, reassuring me!---and rested his chin on my chest, as I tried to cover him from the cool air with my hands. "Thank you, Ingemir. That was what I wanted. And what you did, too, from what I can feel." He wriggled slightly as he spoke, jiggling me where I still lay within him; even as my face flushed, I laughed. There was so much to him, indeed. "I did enjoy this, Frodo, but I could not have if I harmed you."

"I know." He kissed my chest, over my pounding heart, and laid his head down again. I thought of rising, of cleaning up and dressing, of all the necessary things to be done; I thought of the dark curls in a silken tumble over my heart, the blue eyes and small hands and masterful voice, and wondered if we would do this again. I thought in slow hazy spirals as my hands lay on his soft, scar-laced back, as he lay draped over me, too light to weigh down my breathing.

I did not realize I slept till I woke to darkness, my tunics draped over me where he had lain much more warmly, the rest of my clothes and kit arranged near to hand. I had not even felt him leave. I sat up, head in my hands, muscles chill-scorched and aching, blue eyes all I could see in my mind, and I knew in that moment I would not have him, be had by him, again.

How my foolish heart ached to know it, how my eyes prickled in the darkness. He had called me dangerous and beautiful, the fair valiant halfling, but it was he who was beautifully dangerous, and he had not left me unscathed.

Once you've had Shire, you'll never find higher. Or something. Seriously, I let Frodo break this poor boy's heart. Maybe one day I'll let Pippin put it back together.