Written at the Fellowslash writing workshop led by Lady Sunrope. We were challenged to write a story in a set time period, to be inspired by a poster drawn at random.

I chose a poster for "The Perfect Score," and spent most of my time staring at blank paper while others wrote longer and better responses to their poster. And I must admit that I was probably more inspired by Hobbithoochie very kindly presenting me with a stack of Karl Urban photos.

NC-17 please, and yes, this intro is longer than the story.

by Laura Mason

Holbytlan -- hobbits -- were strange-looking creatures. From his first glimpse of Merry and Pippin amidst the wreckage of Isengard, Eomer had catalogued all the ways in which they differed from the men of the Mark.

It began with their mops of unruly hair and continued to the bare feet covered in similar curls. Their amazing appetites for food seemed to extend to all of life -- they laughed often, hugged their friends with great affection. And Eomer had seen how great their grief could be, even before he watched Merry mourn at Theoden's funeral.

Their voices were unlike those of grown men, much higher and clearer. He'd heard Merry and Pippin sing at the victory feast after Helm's Deep, and it was quite pleasant. But the idea of those lighthearted voices raised in battle cries seemed very wrong, even now when Eomer had seen how fierce and fell they could be in a fight. Meriadoc's deeds would be sung in the Mark for generations to come, and he'd witnessed Pippin's valor at the gates of the Black Land.

And what Frodo and Sam had accomplished, alone and on foot -- Eomer couldn't imagine any man of his eored accepting such a task, or succeeding at it. Yet the tiny hobbits had done both. Well, they were very different from his people, and not only in physical appearance.

Yet those differences all faded now, as Eomer ran a calloused hand over smooth, pale skin, evoking a soft sigh. Frodo's size and shape seemed perfect when he was laid out on the soft furs that covered the king's bed, and the silkiness of his curls put their finest cloth to shame.

Eomer touched his mouth to Frodo's shoulder and held him still when his body heaved upward, seeking more pleasure and stimulation. He chuckled and Frodo batted at his arm, but the lusty moans didn't stop as Eomer traced a trail across the pale chest, nipping at the dark buds that rose as Frodo's chest heaved with his breathing.

Eomer's hands continued their roaming, scouting ahead of his mouth for the path that would yield sweet gasps of surprise as an inner elbow was tickled, or one of Frodo's ribs was licked. He moved from head to foot, to drop kisses on hobbit toes, and back up again, ignoring only one part of the hobbit. His hobbit, now, for he'd claimed Frodo and did not intend to let him go.

Eomer plundered the rosy mouth, swallowing Frodo's pleading whimpers, then finally moved to engulf his arousal. Frodo's cry of pleasure was sweet music in Eomer's ears.

Yes, hobbits were very different creatures. But with Frodo pinned beneath him, gasping out incoherent ecstasy, Eomer knew every little bit of him was absolutely perfect.



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