TITLE: A Middle-earth Mary Sue Tragedy 6/?

AUTHOR: Lily Baggins

RATING: R (Some profanity . . . sexual suggestion.)

Disclaimers. The usual. I make no money off of this and do not own these characters, much to my chagrin. They belong to Tolkien Enterprises and New Line Productions, and I only give them interesting---and usually unpleasant---ways to spend their time

Summary: I was coerced into this. The author makes a disgraceful Mary Sue.

Note: There may be some slashy overtones in some of this, as it's from my point of view as a writer of slash. However---there will be NO actual slash or sex between any of the characters (including, sniff sniff, myself).

**There may be descriptions of bodily functions in certain chapters---please don't read if it squicks you.

*****

Hobbit clothing is a curious thing, but hobbit underwear even curiouser.

They were what I guess you would call "drawers,"---of a fine, very soft material, with a button drop-front just like all the hobbits' breeches. I couldn't resist smelling them---yes, I am quite strange---and found they smelled like Frodo---a clean scent, a bit like fresh water, if a trifle musty from being stuffed in his pack so long.

They *were* slightly dingy, though, probably because of repeated washings in the snows of Caradhras or what-have-you. And they were damned small, too---just looking at them made me feel like a huge bloated beast. With gigantic buttocks that frighten others.

If only I had some Clorox with me, I could turn them nice and creamy-white, thereby endearing Frodo to me forever, just like in a 1950s laundry detergent commercial. I had a gut feeling clean drawers were important to him---don't ask me why. I wondered, briefly, how clean his underwear had been when he was taken to Rivendell, and if Elrond raised his eyebrows at its state.

Of course, Elrond was used to Aragorn's---forgive me---"less than well groomed" look. Now that ranger had to be wearing some interesting undergarments. Did I really want to see them? I think not, if the rest of his clothing was anything to go by. No, scratch that---if he was wearing them when I got to see them, I'd gladly take a gander at them. Oh, so gladly . . .

Ah, well . . . time to return Frodo's underwear to its rightful place. If I could have fit into the drawers, I probably would have stolen them so desperate was I for some clean, non-sweat-soaked undergarments. Frodo would be fine going commando---oh, WOULD he!---when his current pair wore out. Or when Aragorn ripped them off the very sexy hobbit in a mad frenzy of . . . ooops, I won't even go there---my wild imagination was taking over again.

Stuffing the drawers back in the pack (after taking one last sniff of them to soak up the hobbity essence of Frodo's tush, among other things) and resisting the overwhelming urge to keep them as a souvenir, I began my search for the braces. What the hell did Frodo stash in this thing, anyway? No wonder Bag End looked so untidy in the movie---dadgum hobbit holes didn't mean comfort---they meant "messy," according to New Line Cinema.

And no wonder---Frodo was a regular pack-rat. Lessee . . . a pipe, no, I don't care to smoke, even if Frodo's saliva *had* touched the end of it; an apple that had seen better days; various foodstuffs, almost all of which we were eating some reasonable facsimile thereof every day; a comb---I had yet to see him use that---it was probably for his feet; a small jar of ointment of some sort . . . A SMALL JAR OF OINTMENT OF SOME SORT?

For many long moments my nefarious, wicked, slash-writing little frontal lobe thought of the different possibilities. Why, if I were writing a story, this situation could be no better. No better at all. What *was* the ointment? Looking about to make sure all were sleeping---except for our brave ranger---I slowly eased up the jar's lid and sniffed. A definite peppermint aroma assaulted me. What could it be? Gingerly I turned it over, squinting to read a tiny handwritten label on the bottom: Hobbiton Apothecary Lip Ointment.

So . . . Frodo was concerned about keeping his lips supple. And what lips they were, too . . .ah, he was just a few feet away, sleeping soundly, his mouth slightly open. I could hear him breathing---he sounded quite stuffed up---and then he sighed softly, shifting as if he were trying his best to find a comfortable position on the hard stone floor and failing miserably. That's when I noticed Aragorn turning to look at him, concerned.

*Pick the hobbit up,* I mentally sent. For goodness' sakes, who would be able to resist scooping him up into their lap and resting him against their boso---er, chest? Not me. Nope. He was still wrapped in blankets, his head covered, just a few stray curls spilling out. *Pick him up, Aragorn. Do it, do it, do it . . . you know you WANT TO.*

But no, that dubiously attentive ranger turned back around, his eyes once again looking far off into the shadows. And then he sniffed, wrinkling his nose up slightly---and I knew he'd smelled the darned peppermint lip balm I'd opened. Hastily I popped the lid back on, trying to be silent, and put it back in the pack. But not before sticking my finger in and rubbing just a *tad* on my own mouth. Mmm. Very tasty.

Now, I had to do my proposed business quickly. Very quickly. Sorting through the pack, I finally found what I was seeking---Frodo's extra braces. These were a nice, serviceable brown pair---nothing fancy, for which I was grateful. I already felt a bit . . . sacrilegious, for want of a better term, using the ADORABLE ONE'S clothing for my own questionable personal purposes.

Grabbing the braces, I skulked off---doing Gollum proud, I must say---into a far corner of Moria where I could still benefit from the light of Gandalf's staff, but no one could see me. Unless Aragorn or Legolas heard me---that elf NEVER slept---and then I would be in trouble. Big, fat, bloated beast trouble.

Now, the braces. How best to do this? And was this *really* necessary?

Yes, I decided, it was. I was in imminent danger every moment of losing the wadding of cloth in my shorts---the only thing sitting between me and *total* humiliation.

Well, double crud again. I was out of fresh absorbent cloth now---I would have to resort to my socks. And if I was still in Moria when I'd finished with those, I'd be reduced to stealing pieces of blanket---or Frodo's last pair of drawers. They hadn't looked absorbent, though.

Dropping the soiled cloth down a chasm---I hope to God it fell on an Orc head---I yanked my sneaker off and pulled at my sock---it did not look pleasant and smelled worse, but it was all I had.

Putting the shoe back on, I placed the sock properly and then, pulling my underwear up, put the braces on over them so that the X of them fit just between my legs, holding everything nicely in place. Then I pulled the back straps up over my rear and the front straps over my hips and tied them together in knots. They were nearly the perfect size, and I must admit, as I pulled my shorts back up, that I felt my face turning red as I pictured poor Frodo wondering what had happened to his extra pair of braces.

But it was working---I felt free and confident---a real 1950s woman. I was quite proud of my Middle-earth hobbit-donated sanitary belt. I only hoped the braces stayed put. And didn't I mention earlier that I found nothing amusing in this? That I got *no* vicarious thrill out of tying Frodo's clothing around my pelvis? Well, I lied.

I skulked---actually, crawled---back to my blanket as quietly as a Smeagol on a log. And then nearly gasped and gave myself away as my eyeballs jumped out of their sockets. OH MY GOD.

Sometime while I as gone, Aragorn had apparently given in to what must have been an all-consuming urge to snuggle the Ring-bearer. Frodo lay curled up in his lap, fast asleep, his face pressed against the ranger's middle and one arm about the man. Could my arteries take this? I doubted it. And of course Aragorn had blankets AND both his arms wrapped about the hobbit. It was a tender "I Am Protective Estel of the House of Elrond" moment guaranteed to bring tears to the Witch-king of Angmar's red eyes.

I tried to make myself unnoticeable as I squinted through my glasses and stared HARD at the two of them. Hmmmm. No hanky panky going on that I could tell---Aragorn's fingers all seemed to be in proper, above-the-waist areas.

See, our ranger really did have integrity after all.

To be continued