Wild Apples
Pippin's adventures in Fangorn get a little out of hand.
Author: Peachy
Rating: R
This story was written for the hobbit_smut
Livejournal Community 'First Line' Challenge.
"I need you RIGHT NOW!"
"Why?" Merry peered around from the other side of the tree, his voice
puzzled. "You said you'd done it thousands of times by yourself. Practised
since you were knee-high to a cricket, you said."
Pippin scowled. The thing in his hand, though long and hard, would not
co-operate. It was, in fact, as cold as a snowball. Pippin felt like snapping
it.
Merry finished making their impromptu beds and walked over to the pile of leaves
and twigs.
"Ah, I see," he said. "You haven't piled them up correctly.
Honestly Pip, I've seen faunts make better fires than that. What's the
matter?"
Pippin straightened up. "I'll have you know I make excellent
campfires!"
Merry looked doubtfully at the pile.
"I do," Pippin muttered. "It's just that this stuff is as wet as
a trout in a rainy pond."
Merry grinned at him. Dirty, tired and bruised after their adventure with the
Orcs, he still exuded Brandybuck charm.
"Stand aside then, I'll fix it. We'll need this before it gets any
darker."
But Pippin dropped the unco-operative stick into the pile, and set his chin.
"No, there's no need to. Go and sit around the other side of the tree and
have a sleep. I promise, by the time you wake up, I'll not only have this fire
going, I'll have something to cook in it as well!"
Merry smiled. "I look forward to it."
He brushed past a low bough as he went, and it bounced
backwards, smacking his rear.
Merry disappeared behind the tree, and Pippin looked down again at his handful
of wood. He had to show his cousin he wasn't completely useless in this Forest.
Nothing to do but make good his boast.
All he needed was the necessary friction. Pippin set to work again, rubbing the
twigs dexterously, but all he did was make his arms ache. He heard Merry humming
on the other side of the tree.
Wretched Brandybuck. (Rub, rub, rub). Just because he was so good at everything
(rub rub rub) he didn't have to (rub) be superior about it (rub), oh, great
hairy Warg bollocks, couldn't this wood just light?
Thump!
Pippin flinched. Something had fallen - small branch, its
leaves still yellow-green. He stared up into the dark tangle of branches, but
saw nothing. Shrugging, he picked it up and started to snap it into bits.
He'd show Merry. One didn't need matches or flint and tinder to start a fire.
Just good old-fashioned.. just one wisp of smoke..
Thump!
Another stick fell, just in front of him. A good thick
branch, actually. This time Pippin stood up and stared hard into the tree.
Nothing, even to his sharp eyes, spoke of why.
The branches curled around the trunk as a thick fur cape surrounded a
gentlehobbit. It had a round, roly-poly trunk, and its leaves were soft against
his fingers as kid leather. Pippin took a closer look.
An apple tree. Not in season, but still an apple tree. Perhaps a hybrid. Pippin
smiled at it and patted the trunk. Why, it was almost homely to see such a thing
in the middle of the Wild.
A breeze must have found a passage through the dense forest, because he heard
rustling above his head.
Twigs swept down on the end of a bough, and gently tangled in his hair. Pippin
half-laughed, his flash of uncharacteristically bad humour disappearing. He
extricated his curls, trying not the break any twigs. The yellow-grey leaves
tickled his neck.
He heard a soft croon, not the sly, bewitching song of Old Man Willow, but a
warm remembered song of Shire days. The smell of sweetly fermenting fruit filled
his nose.
Plop.
Stickiness dripped on his shoulder. Pippin tugged his shirt forward. Sap, it
looked like. He reached for a leaf to wipe it off, and felt another soft brush
at his nape. Comforting, and yet.. well, distracting was the word. It made his
skin prickle pleasurably, as if someone had licked his earlobe.
Drip.
More, this time down his neck, and on his breeches. Oh dear. He unbuttoned his
clothes and half-climbed out of them, trying to scrub at the stained fabric.
More teasing touches, soft leaves slipping through his half-opened shirt. They
dusted over his nipples, making him tingle. Another graced his mouth, flicking
at it before it ran further up to caress his ear.
What was he meant to be doing? Oh yes.. fire. Sticks. He knelt back on the
ground, knees trembling somewhat.
Another cool mass of leaf and stem slid down his lower belly. Pippin smiled and
sighed. It was a long time since he'd been touched like that. The tree creaked
above him, making supple play over his body as he knelt still, eyes half-shut,
breathing.
Well, one part of him wasn't keeping still. It wanted some of this strange
attention too. Pippin almost lifted a hand to encourage it, but his palm ended
up on the trunk of the tree, keeping himself upright, feeling the thrum of life
beneath the bark.
The leafy fingers tentatively explored his navel, his hips. A tiny cool nuzzle
on his tender parts. Pippin gasped. Surely this wasn't going to -
"OH!"
Couldn't think couldn't breathe oh glory...
Stiff fingers, padded with moss, stroking him to hardness. Running up and down
his sensitised flesh, finding wetness at the tip. He heard a little creaking
sound of delight.
"Please," Pippin moaned. "Please more please more.." Wild
flickering fire sped in his veins, and sweat broke out in the small of his back,
his chest, the crook of his knees.
Twigs drew over his skin, leaving unbroken scores of pink. The grip as fast as
roots into earth, on him, soft as spring blossom. Pippin's head tilted back, and
his hips started to move.
Oh yes, oh now, he was rocking, sweating, pleading. He gripped the bark under
his fingers, feeling it crumble as the leaves whipped back over his chest. His
eyes squeezed shut. Gathering.. speeding... hearing a strange, distant hum of
joy..
He felt the tightness within him burst as a bitten apple spilled juice. A hoarse
cry and he arched, tears in his eyes from the force of it. Colours danced in
front of his eyelids.
A soft rustling, then the leaves were gone, the branches held up high and regal.
Pippin managed to clean the bits of him that needed it, savouring the sweet ache
of sated flesh. As he buttoned himself back up, he heard Merry snore. Then two
soft thuds.
He looked around. His little fire was burning chirpily. Two wild apples lay
beside it.
Somewhere above him he heard a pleased sound, like little squeaks of laughter.
*
"I don't believe it." Merry gathered his cousin into his arms, while
triumphant horns and trumpets played outside the window in Minas Tirith.
"Only you could have a bit of slap and tickle with a tree."
"Well, you may be right," Pippin murmured his hair. "Anyway, I'm
not telling Frodo. Imagine what he'd say. Or Sam. Might scare him off gardening
for life."
"Or explain why he likes it so much," Merry joked, pulling Pippin
close under the bedsheet. "Where were we?"
Twenty minutes later, Pippin was growling with satisfaction, his head sore from
being slammed against the wooden bedstead. Merry, naked and flushed from his own
release, made a peculiar noise even though his mouth was occupied. After a
minute he slid up over Pippin's chest to rest his head on his shoulder.
"Pip.."
"Yes?"
"I don't know how to tell you this.. but you taste like cider."