“Did you realize that sound really
carries in a cave?”
Although Merry and Pippin were down
the hall and around the corner and on the far side of the abandoned guard room
into which they had slipped for a little … rest break, Boromir’s remark sounded
as clear as if he stood just outside the door. Pippin tried to pant quietly, as
Merry’s mouth speeded up its wonderful sucking action in his lap. He particularly
appreciated how his cousin had courteously curled his fingers about the base of
his shaft, and was pumping Pippin into his mouth from there. Oh, yes!
Gimli growled a response – again,
quite intelligible, despite the forty feet or so that separated the occupied
pair from the rest of the Fellowship. “That’s a daft question to put to a
Dwarf, Man of Gondor.”
“I wasn’t putting it to you in
particular,” Boromir snapped.
Fingers twined in Merry’s golden
locks, Pippin leaned back and angled his hips, the better to dive into the
writhing bliss of Merry’s tireless tongue. Things were building to a
culmination. He wished the others would take their conversation someplace else,
as it was fairly distracting.
But no. Boromir actually raised
his voice. “My comment was directed more specifically to those members of the
party who aren’t quite so used to living in caves. That is to say, those among
us who ought to be informed that you can hear every little thing!”
Pippin’s release was imminent now.
Frantically he pumped his hips, drawing moist smacking sounds from Merry as his
cousin tried to keep up with his vigorous gyrations. Oh, this was heavenly.
Pippin spread his legs and savored the intensifying sensations.
“Come, Legolas,” Boromir announced.
“Let us make a short patrol, whilst Gandalf determines our course.”
“I would be delighted, friend Boromir,”
came the Elf’s soft reply. “But my father has trained me never to walk out on a
performance, particularly when it approaches its climax.”
Pippin rocked desperately. Merry’s hand,
Merry’s mouth -- it was all so good! Harder, tighter, faster, more – Oh, oh, oh,
oh …
Pippin yipped as orgasm seized
control. For seconds he could do naught but freeze, open-mouthed, back arched, as
he pulsed strongly but helplessly into the relentless vortex of Merry’s moving
mouth. At length, the crest passed. Pippin sagged with relief.
“Thank you, Boromir,” said Legolas
calmly. “I am at leisure to accompany you now.”
#
“I think they’re onto us,” Pippin murmured,
as he and Merry rummaged their packs for food.
“I would say so.” Merry did not
appear particularly disturbed.
“You don’t suppose they … mind, do
you?”
“It wouldn’t give me a moment’s
pause if they did.” Merry retrieved a ration of dried fruit and meat, then held
it aloft, grinning triumphantly. Pippin couldn’t help but smile back. Good old
Merry!
“I’ll tell you what does
bother me, though,” Merry said, leaning down to refasten his pack.
Pippin glanced around, as if he
would see something other than the Fellowship digging into their various packs for
their day meal. “What?”
Merry cocked his head over his
shoulder. “Them.”
Pippin stared. All the Fellowship
was active, moving about, crossing in front of each other as they found places
to sit. “Who?”
“Them.” Merry lowered his
voice to a mere breath. “Frodo and…” He mouthed the last word, to prevent it
from carrying: Strider.
Pippin’s head snapped around. Frodo
was sitting next to Sam, munching silently. He slumped forward, looking
melancholy – but that was Frodo’s usual expression these days. Pippin had
assumed it was the burden of the Quest.
Pippin moved his gaze farther.
Strider had taken a seat next to Boromir, but neither of them spoke. The Ranger
bit into his jerky. His white teeth ripped off a hunk, which he then morosely
chewed, gazing vacantly into the distance.
Pippin leaned close to Merry. “What
am I supposed to see?”
“Just watch them.”
Fiddling with his pack, Pippin cast
repeated glances over his shoulder. Nothing happened. Frodo sat and chewed, and
Strider did the same. They weren’t even facing the same direction. Pippin was
about to say as much to Merry, when he saw it.
Strider, appearing to reach for a
piece of fruit, ducked his head. As he did so, he eyes slid towards Frodo. Eerily,
Frodo seemed to sense the Man’s eyes upon him. A blush touched his fair skin.
He moistened his lips, and looked down hastily.
Pippin seized Merry’s arm. “Merry!”
“I see it, Pip.” Merry kept his
voice low. “They’ve been like that since Rivendell.”
Pippin’s heart pattered with
excitement. “They must be sweet on each other. Although…”
“Yes?”
Pippin frowned. “I always thought
Strider would like someone a little … tougher. Someone more … tall.”
“Frodo’s nearly three-foot-seven,”
said Merry reasonably. “And he’s awfully bossy at times. That could count as
tough. But whatever is going on between them, it’s up to us, to help
them.”
Delight poured through Pippin. However
hopeless the Quest might be, Pippin resolved that it needn’t be an entirely
unrewarding experience for his second-favorite cousin -- not if he and Merry
had anything to say about it.
Pippin wondered how he could have
been so blind. Now that Merry had called his attention to it, the attraction between
his older cousin and the Ranger was obvious. When Frodo moved from one end of
the chamber to another, Strider followed his progress under half-closed lids.
When Strider retrussed his pack, Frodo held still, as if following the Ranger’s
actions with his ears. And when the Man hefted his pack and approached Frodo,
asking him quietly if he was ready to resume their march, Frodo’s eyes locked
upon the Ranger’s as he softly answered, “Yes, Aragorn.”
To Pippin’s ears, Frodo seemed to be
answering an entirely different question. By the way the Man lingered, gazing
into the hobbit’s eyes, perhaps he had heard the unspoken offer as well...
Pippin began to feel very …
enthusiastic about this project. He would have to get something going between
those two soon, or Merry would become one exhausted hobbit, trying to make up
for Pippin’s unsatisfied urge for completion in that area.
#
Their next halt took place at a
complicated intersection of guardrooms, storage chambers, and connecting
tunnels. Perfect. During the previous march, the duo had devised their
strategy. Now, it remained only for Pippin and Merry to put it into practice –
and set these two love-starved birds on a proper course of action.
Despite their ongoing whispered
communications during the day, Pippin uncharacteristically got into an argument
with Merry at the start of the break. It was foolish and absurd (as most
arguments are), sparked by (of all things) a discussion of where they were
going to sit.
“Not by Frodo and Sam,” Merry
declared in a harsh undertone, as the pair drew off their packs slightly apart
from the others. “Dear Frodo hasn’t been looking at all well lately, and I want
him to rest – not have to put up with your nonstop prattle.”
“But I want a pipe,” Pippin
complained.
Merry waved at the Men, unpacking a
few steps behind them. “Sit next to Strider. He won’t mind your pipe.”
Strider paused upon catching his
name, though he didn’t look up.
Pippin continued to plead his case. “But
I thought I’d cheer up Frodo.”
Merry grunted. “It will take more
than your pipe to cheer up Frodo, my lad.”
“What do you mean?” Pippin lowered
his voice. “Has Sam finally decided that he and Frodo ..?”
Merry chuckled dryly. “Don’t be an imbecile,
Pip. That’s not where Frodo’s eyes are set.” Merry cut his eyes towards
Strider, who was quietly settling his pack next to Boromir. Merry leaned closer
to the stone wall, as if desiring secrecy. Despite his lowered voice, Pippin
heard his words clearly, as they bounced off the wall. “Best save your pipe for
Strider. It seems that’s the only thing he’s willing to put his lips around, more’s
the pity.”
“Merry!”
Unruffled, Merry shrugged. “First
rule of a broken heart, Pip: don’t dwell on it, and move on.” He sighed. “Poor
Frodo.”
Their crucial communication
delivered, Merry continued fussing with his pack, but Pippin hadn’t that much
self command. He caught his lower lip in his teeth as Strider straightened, then
walked firmly in the opposite direction. Pippin followed the Man with his eyes
as he bent close to Gandalf, murmuring a phrase out of which Pippin caught only
the word, “Watch.” Gandalf nodded. Strider walked to the end of the corridor, then
vanished down the tunnel to the left.
Pippin returned his gaze to Merry,
only then discovering that his cousin also had been tracking the human’s exit.
Merry looked perplexed.
Pippin made his voice soft enough
that, with luck, no one really could hear him this time. “Did we
frighten him off?”
Merry munched his lip. “I can’t
tell. He’s bloody difficult to read.”
Pippin glanced to where Frodo and
Sam had spread their packs upon a shared blanket. They were quite close to
Gandalf, and had almost certainly heard nothing of the previous conversation,
what with the other members of the Fellowship moving about and chatting softly.
Merry tipped his head towards
Gandalf, and plucked Pippin’s sleeve. The pair set out across the room, hard by
each other’s shoulders.
“You’re daft!” Pippin whispered, as
they approached Frodo and Sam’s blanket. From the corner of his eye, Pippin saw
Frodo raise his head, but ignored him. Leaning close to Merry, he whispered,
“Strider has only gone on watch, you nit.”
Merry countered quietly, “He’s
upset, I tell you! If only Fr--” Merry looked up, only then seeming to notice
Frodo’s eyes upon him. He flashed a terse smile and immediately dropped his gaze.
He tugged Pippin’s arm, and hurried on.
Pippin staggered after him. “If only
Frodo, what?”
“Not here!” Merry muttered savagely,
and dragged Pippin towards Gandalf. He only released the younger hobbit’s arm
when they were abreast of the wizard.
Gandalf pulled his gaze from the
dark corridor down which he had been gazing. He gave the couple an
absent-minded smile. “Well, my young friends. What mischief are you brewing today?”
“Nothing,” said Pippin, too quickly.
He flinched. If he fluffed it now, the game would be up.
Fortunately Merry carried on with
relative composure. “We wondered where Strider went.”
Gandalf’s eyes came slightly more
present, although part of his mind still seemed far away. “This area used to
hold many stores for the city. Aragorn has gone to see if anything of use might
remain.”
“Is it … dangerous?” Pippin couldn’t
help asking.
“No one has caught a whiff or sound
of trouble, my good hobbits. We should be safe enough at present.”
Pippin thanked him, then followed
Merry back to their packs. He felt dizzy from his boldness. He longed to watch for
Frodo’s reaction to their remarks, but didn’t dare. He forced himself to appear
interested in watching Merry adjust the contents of his pack. Pippin fiddled
with his blanket, fighting the urge to turn around and see what Frodo was up to.
At length Merry breathed, “He’s
going.”
As Pippin started to turn, Merry grabbed
his arm. Controlling himself, Pippin slid his gaze over one shoulder.
Frodo walked slowly towards Gandalf,
his cloak fluttering gently. He spoke a few words to the wizard, then walked past
him. He vanished down the turning to the left.
Pippin wanted to pound Merry’s arm
in his excitement, but had to content himself with jiggling in place. Merry
flashed him a grin. His tipped head towards the tunnel, as if to say, Come
on!
Pippin sprang to his feet, but Merry
hauled him back by the collar. Reminded that he must move slowly, Pippin shortened
his steps – when he longed to race down the corridor and find where Frodo had
got to – with any luck, the same place that Strider had.
As the pair passed Sam, Merry said
casually, “Would Frodo like some company, Sam?”
Sam paused, then continued folding
Frodo’s shirt into a pillow. He placed it on the spread blanket. “I thought the
two of you would be happier keeping each other company.”
“Only if it wouldn’t disturb Frodo,”
said Merry quickly.
“I can’t see how it would disturb
him any more than it would the rest of us,” Sam muttered.
“Hear, hear,” said Boromir, from a
good ten feet away.
Merry pursed his lips. “Come along,
Pip. I’m sure we’ll find Frodo close at hand.”
“Not too close, I trust,”
said Boromir.
Gimli barked – or perhaps that was a
laugh.
Merry made a sour face, then walked
smartly towards the tunnel, Pippin sharp at his heels. Gandalf, hunched on his
great rock, never budged. Merry reached the left-hand turning, then peered down
the corridor. It curved gently to the left, preventing them from seeing very
far. Merry shot Pippin a glance, then stepped into the hall.
The sound of their footsteps whispered
back to them from the walls. Behind them, the murmurs of the Fellowship reached
their ears, too sharp for the distance. Pippin stepped as lightly as he could,
but still detected the hush of soles padding along the floor. As the light from
Gandalf’s staff faded, Merry took Pippin’s wrist. He placed his hand on the
wall, following the curve around the bend.
Pippin nearly cried out. Ahead of
them was another light! It bloomed faintly in the darkness – doubtless someone’s
candle, as yet far away.
Or so Pippin imagined, until the
wall on their left abruptly ended, and he and Merry nearly walked straight
across the open doorway of the room from which the light actually came. The
entrance to the chamber was a tunnel, set at a sharp angle to the main hall –
this is what had made its location so deceiving. Merry snatched back his foot
and shrank against the wall, pulling Pippin with him. Pippin huddled in the
doorway behind Merry, his heart knocking against his ribs. At the reassuring
silence, he dared to look up.
Six steps ahead of him, the tunnel
opened into a room. Frodo stood two steps beyond the entrance, absolutely
still. His back was towards them. The light from a single candle gleamed from
somewhere deeper inside. By its light, they could see the person who had undoubtedly
placed it there: Strider. He was gazing at their cousin with such helpless
need, that Pippin nearly cried out in sympathy. The Ranger’s breast rose and
fell. Slowly his hands lifted, and his mouth opened in a silent plea.
With two quick steps, Frodo launched
himself at the Ranger. The Man caught him up in an ardent embrace, crushing the
hobbit to his chest whilst Frodo wrapped his legs about the Man’s waist. Their
mouths met in a ravenous kiss. Strider turned to brace Frodo against the wall, pinning
him there with his body, while his hands roamed freely over his arms and face
and hair, squeezing and caressing, as if they couldn’t get enough of him. His
hips rocked – futilely for Strider, for Frodo’s legs clasped him above the
belt. Yet the rocking repeatedly pressed the Ranger’s belly into Frodo’s spraddled
hips, rhythmically squeezing and stimulating the hobbit’s most vulnerable area between
the Man’s pulsing body and the wall. Frodo kissed the Ranger wildly in response.
Pippin gaped, open-mouthed, at Merry
– who looked equally astounded. Who would have guessed? How much passion had
these two been hiding, that a mere suggestion of his and Merry’s could have
brought them so quickly to … this?
Frodo rolled his head, as the Man
covered his throat with kisses. Frodo’s hands were busy in Strider’s hair --
stroking, clawing, pushing it behind his ears. Frodo’s hips flexed, as did the
Man’s – yet for all their motion, they were eerily silent. Breaths were taken
in short, shallow pants. Each footstep was carefully placed. Even their hands
moved quietly; for all their touching, they squeezed one other rather than
brushed, minimizing the rustle of their clothing. It seemed oddly controlled,
for a couple who had just loosed the floodgates of pent-up passion.
Straining against the Man in this
peculiar silence, Frodo tugged something from the Ranger’s tunic. Pippin leaned
farther, trying to see ... Oh. It was one of Strider’s kerchiefs. As Frodo smiled
slyly, the Man returned his look with fierce longing. Frodo twirled the
handkerchief into a roll. Strider bent towards him, open-mouthed, as if to
claim a kiss – and Frodo tucked the rolled kerchief neatly between his teeth.
Strider closed his jaws and his eyes, as the hobbit deftly knotted the gag
behind his head.
It began to dawn on Pippin that this
might not be precisely a first-time event that they were witnessing here. It looked
more like a well-oiled machine getting – well, getting extremely well oiled,
from what Pippin could see. He noticed that, whilst Frodo had been tying the
knot behind Strider’s head, Strider’s hands were busy releasing the lacings of
his trousers. They finished at nearly the identical time. Strider leaned back far
enough for Frodo to slide to the floor. This he did, his face already tipped
towards the Man’s trouser front, which Strider was holding open in invitation.
Frodo’s mouth yawned wide, and sank down smoothly and deeply upon him.
Ooh. Pippin felt that, all the way
down to his toes. Strider’s head dropped back, eyes shut tight; white teeth clamped
furiously on the roll of cloth. He twitched as Frodo moved upon him, but
otherwise held still. The hobbit’s eyes were closed, his expression dreamy. His
lips were tight about the Man’s engorged length, his cheeks drawn in with the
force of his suction. Frodo brought both his hands to the Man’s lap. Moving
aside more of the material, he gripped and pulled at the huge cock, even as he
contentedly suckled the head.
Oh, this was good. Well, bad of
Pippin to be watching, but so extremely good to see. Pippin’s hand dove to his
crotch, where he rubbed himself eagerly through his clothes. Oh, oh, oh. He
could come just by watching Frodo’s mouth, those gorgeous lips working wonders
while those dark lashes rested, so peacefully, on perfect, flawless skin. Frodo
lifted away, so that Pippin could see his tongue. It twirled lazily about the
tip, dipped tantalizingly into the slit – before Frodo drew the head in again
with a voracious pull. Pippin bit back a moan, and speeded up his hand.
Pippin started at a touch on his wrist.
Merry’s eyes were huge and dark, focused on Pippin’s lap. Pippin saw that Merry,
too, had been forced to take matters … in hand. Companionably, they exchanged
grips. Oh, this was even better, with Merry stroking him. Perhaps he would do
that thing, that pinch-twist thing, at the tip. Oh, he did. Pippin gasped at
the lovely tweak, and squeezed Merry firmly in response. Blearily, Pippin returned
his gaze to the room.
Nice. Frodo had at some point
reached his hand behind the Ranger’s bits. His mouth still worked the tip, while
one hand stroked his length, but the other hand had dived lower. Strider stood
wide-legged, to encourage this pleasurable invasion. His hips rocked ceaselessly,
at once urgent and restrained, allowing the hobbit to dictate his pleasure. His
head was thrown back, his hands resting lightly upon Frodo’s glossy curls; his
body arched as if it was held up only by Frodo’s mouth and hands, sucking and grasping
his most sensitive parts.
Suddenly Frodo moved everything at
once – the hand below, the hand above, that cunning mouth – and Strider froze.
His teeth flashed in the candlelight, breath puffing against cloth -- then he spasmed,
hard. Frodo swallowed, and swallowed – his hand driving the Ranger’s release as
the Man tilted back, wholly lost to pleasure.
Oh, oh, oh. Pippin, perched on the
brink himself, nearly squawked when Merry suddenly removed his hand. Before
Pippin could protest, Merry slipped it under his breeches to grasp Pippin
directly. Pippin bucked against this most timely intrusion. Merry’s hand worked
double-time upon his fevered skin. Oh, yes, there it was. That was good, like
that, don’t stop –
Pippin’s release burst hot and
potent into Merry’s palm. He threw back his head for a cry – only to find Merry’s
other hand clamped over his mouth, thrusting a cloth – his scarf! – between
Pippin’s lips. Pippin breathed gratefully into the muffling material, thrusting
urgently into the lovely, slippery palm. Live and learn, he father always said
– though Pippin doubted that this was exactly what he meant by that.
Moments later, Pippin spiraled down.
He opened his eyes, to find Merry watching him with a mixture of delight and
lust. Pippin was relieved that Merry seemed not much put out at having his own
orgasm delayed. Breathing hard, Pippin directed his eyes towards the room.
Strider stood panting, eyes still
closed, wide-legged as before. Frodo gave him another of those crafty looks, then
slowly lifted off him, lips tight. Strider tensed, his jaws clenching. It was
amazing how well the cloth stifled noise. Pippin always hissed whenever Merry
did that to him. But -- that was why they used the gag, wasn’t it? Clever,
clever Frodo.
Merry removed the scarf from
Pippin’s lips, and pulled out his hand. Using their own kerchiefs, Pippin and Merry
cleaned their necessary parts. In the room, Frodo removed his hands from the
Ranger’s groin, and set himself to doing up the lacings. Languorously, the
Ranger let him, using the time to undo the knot in his gag. He plucked it
loose, then smiled fondly. He seemed a different person, this grim-faced yet gentle
Man. His tenderness towards Frodo warmed
Pippin’s heart. When Frodo finished fastening him, he got down on one knee for
a kiss. Their tongues twined together lazily, whilst Strider fumbled with
Frodo’s trouser buttons. Frodo’s own hands were busy, unhooking his bracers
front and rear. Unfastened, Frodo’s breeches fell right down. Frodo ignored
that, continuing to kiss the Ranger. His hips rocked as the Man loosened the
drawstring on his smallclothes, cruelly teasing Frodo’s erection with errant
fingers in the process.
Frodo moved more frantically. The
Man smiled, then drew down the underlinens. They snagged on Frodo’s cock. Strider
clasped him, cloth and all, and pumped him playfully. Frodo writhed with
arousal, eyes closed. Strider lightly kissed the hobbit’s eyelids, then brought
the rolled kerchief to Frodo’s lips. Feeling its touch, Frodo obediently opened
his mouth. The Ranger slipped in the gag. Frodo shivered as the Ranger tied it
in place, before drawing down his clothes. Frodo stood naked from the waist
down, his cock swollen and dark, his hips swaying with eagerness and need.
Pippin smiled. Now, that looked good enough to eat.
Apparently the Ranger thought so, too.
Without warning, Strider seized Frodo beneath the thighs, pushing the hobbit right
against the wall, so Frodo’s hips were head height to the kneeling Man. Frodo’s legs were splayed wide, propped against the
wall by the Ranger’s strong hands. That gave Pippin about the prettiest view
anyone could have had – well, except for Strider. Frodo squirmed in the Man’s
grip, biting his gag. Oh, what a lovely wiggle his bits made – like a fat worm
enticing a fish.
Apparently the lure worked on Rangers,
too. The Man dove forward. Frodo slammed himself against the wall, panting
frantically, whilst his hands clutched the head that bobbed eagerly below him.
The Man hadn’t gone for his cock,
but his stones. From what Pippin could see, Strider’s wide mouth engulfed the entire
sac. The Man’s jaw and cheeks worked, his tongue obviously making a thorough exploration.
Frodo’s cock jutted stiffly next to the Man’s face. The Man’s cheek rubbed it
as he licked, but it was otherwise ignored. Frodo rocked desperately against both
face and tongue, spread out like a butterfly that was begging to be pinned.
Pippin felt a touch at his neck. He
had almost forgotten Merry, kneeling at his side. Now he saw that Merry was
lifting Pippin’s scarf – and tucking the end into his own mouth. Merry looked
at him mischievously over his self-made gag. His hand drifted towards Pippin’s,
and then guided him down to his lap. Pippin burrowed under Merry’s clothes,
quite happy to reciprocate for his earlier pleasure. In fact, he was so
enjoying the proceedings, he might need a bit of help in that direction himself
again. Massaging Merry, he eagerly looked back at Frodo and Strider.
Now Frodo’s entire cock was
exposed; the Ranger’s head had moved lower. He seemed to be lapping … behind
the bits. Frodo jerked desperately. Pippin wondered exactly how far back the
Ranger had gone, and what that must feel like. Judging from Frodo’s expression,
it felt pretty near fantastic. Pippin flushed with excitement and sped up his
hand, to Merry’s muffled delight.
Frodo bobbed against the tongue,
until at last he could take no more. With his poor cock just hanging there, he
did the only logical thing – seized it himself. He began pumping furiously.
Immediately the Ranger was aware of him.
He released his grip so abruptly, Frodo’s eyes snapped open in surprise as he slid
to the floor. The instant his feet touched, Strider grabbed Frodo’s cloak,
sweeping it upwards to snag Frodo’s arms, then twisting it to trap them in its
folds. Strider caught the hobbit by the wrists and knees, and swept him off his
feet. In a blink, Frodo lay helpless on the floor, the top of his head facing
the door, with his shrouded arms pinned overhead by one of Strider’s huge hands.
As Frodo struggled, the Man gave him an odd, lopsided smile. Releasing the
hobbit’s ankles, he reached slowly into his vest pocket. Smirking evilly, he
pulled out … olives.
Pippin stared. The Man held about half
a dozen of the hard, smooth-skinned olives that formed part of their marching
rations. Even stranger was Frodo’s reaction. He went absolutely still, his eyes
like saucers. Holding Frodo’s gaze, Strider deliberately popped the olives into
his mouth. Slowly he leaned over. Frodo shut his eyes, spread his legs – and
the Man took him in.
Cock, and olives. The olives would
be smooth, and wet from Strider’s spit. They would tumble around all anyhow
with the action of tongue and lips, striking every imaginable surface with unexpected
bursts of pleasure. But the Ranger wasn’t finished yet. His left hand kept
Frodo’s wrists pinned. But his right hand drifted down, between the hobbit’s
legs, and below. Pippin couldn’t see; the Ranger’s body blocked his view. But
suddenly Frodo gasped, the sound muffled by the gag. His legs sprang farther apart,
and his knees bent up. Slowly he began to rock, his hips keeping time to the
deliberate plunge of the Ranger’s hand.
The evidence of such multiple
stimuli, mixed with the swirly motion of tongue and fruit, constituted the best
possible blow job that Pippin could imagine. He had only to look at Frodo to
see that this was true. Frodo puffed heavily into the gag, his head lolling as
he surrendered to the sensational assault. Strider bobbed continually with his
very full mouth; every once in a while Pippin could hear a muffled squeak as he
sucked in a bit of air, along with all the other very powerful sucking and
licking that he must be doing inside. Pippin stiffened to hardness again, whilst
Merry was positively desperate, lunging against Pippin’s grip in a soundless appeal
for more more more more
Frodo pleaded silently, too. His
hips rocked more frantically; he seemed to be driving in two directions at once
– up, into the Man’s mouth, and back, against his fingers. Strider, sensing his
urgency, speeded up both mouth and hand – until Frodo was thrashing against the
dual pull, his legs twitching in the air from almost unbearable bliss.
Oh, there it came. Frodo went suddenly
still. Whilst Strider continued to plunge head and hand frenetically, Frodo tipped
back his head, screwed up his face – and Merry spurted, hot and hard into Pippin’s
fist. Pippin seized himself with his free hand – how could he not? With Frodo convulsing
under Strider’s skillful touch, his head lolling mindlessly, whilst Merry drove
hot fluid against his palm, slippery as olives in the oversized mouth of a
cruel and cunning Ranger. Oh, oh, oh. The things he was learning today. His
father would be proud.
In a moment, Merry relaxed, and let
Pippin’s scarf fall from his lips. Inside the room, Strider pulled leisurely off
the frantically twitching hobbit. He leaned to one side, and discreetly
deposited his mouthful of (by now) very tart fruit on the floor. Frodo lay
panting beneath him, legs wide but loose, his white belly rising and falling.
Strider leaned over him, and kissed his closed eyes.
Merry reached for Pippin’s hand. Looking
shaken, he nodded down the corridor. Moving as silently as hobbits could, they
backed away. They stopped only when they reached the mouth of the tunnel, so they
could put themselves back in order.
Pippin wiped his hand thoughtfully.
“I’m … beyond speech.”
“So were they. We could learn from
that.” Merry tucked himself away.
“I never suspected a thing!”
“I think that’s the point of keeping
things quiet, Pip. Silence as a virtue, and all that.”
Pippin nodded. All cleaned up, they
rounded the corner – to find Boromir glowering at them, three paces off. “Who’s
keeping things quiet?” he demanded.
“We are,” said Pippin instantly. “At
least, until we get out of this cave.”
Boromir pursed his lips, then strode
past them. He walked down the tunnel briskly, as if on patrol.
Pippin dragged Merry farther from
the entrance. “What if he sees ..?” He jerked his thumb up the hall.
Merry shrugged philosophically. “Look
at it this way, Pip. If he does come across them, we will most certainly hear.”
.3 mariole~ 2 2 03 Pphorn A 2 2
7% 2 =
^ 2 23 Needs Lust: Rated R33 Name: Ghyste
Title: Needs Must Lust
Challenge: First Line Challenge
Word Count: 3,086 (excluding headers)
Rating: R
Pairing: F/M/P, S/F implied
Other pairings: None
Warnings: Bad Jokes, Implausible Plot, OOC Behaviour, Slash, Mild Hobbit Bondage.
Summary: Frodo has a craving; Merry & Pippin do what they think they must.
Notes: A little-known feature of the latter days of the Nümenorean civilisation was the belief that mushrooms could prolong life. Thus it was that in the days of Tar-Telemmaitë it was decreed that mushrooms were food for royalty and that no commoner could ever touch them. The citizens of Gondor maintained this tradition and accordingly the end of the line of descendents of Anarion also marked the end of Mushroom cultivation in the Southern Kingdom.
Not a single merchant in Minas Tirith seemed to have any idea what he was talking about no matter how hard Pippin tried to explain. "Mushrooms... they're shaped like this," he said as he traced mushroom-shaped patterns in the air with his hands. "You've got to have some, this is an emergency." But not even for Ernil I Pheriannath could a shopkeeper conjure something out of nothing and Pippin was forced to return to the hobbits' temporary home empty-handed.
As he walked through the door, Merry leapt up expectantly: "So? Did you find any?" he asked.
"No," replied Pippin, "not a sniff of them anywhere in the city. Apparently they haven't grown or collected any since the death of Eärnur."
"But that's nearly a thousand years," protested Merry, "how could they survive without mushrooms for a thousand years?"
"More to the point, how is Frodo going to survive the next few hours without mushrooms? I don't know what we're going to do." He collapsed into a chair at Merry's side, "Fine time for Sam to go away."
"I know," said Merry, "but Sam really wanted to take up the invitation to go with Faramir and see repair work to the farmlands. How was he to know that Frodo would choose this moment to get one of his cravings on him? Besides, even if Sam does have a nose like a truffle hound, it's not going to do any good if there's none to be had."
"Oh, I'm not blaming Sam," said Pippin, "it's just that we could really do with him here at the moment. You told me about the havoc that Frodo's cravings could wreak on Brandy Hall and he was only a lad then. Just imagine what could happen now!"
"I shudder to think," said Merry, "the extent of the devastation has probably grown along with him. What's more, Frodo's been through a lot lately and it's probably lowered his resistance. Given that this city's been through a lot too, I doubt it could stand one of Frodo's rampages just now."
"But what are we going to do about it?" said Pippin. "We can hardly keep him locked in his room alone for the duration, someone's bound to notice. At least if Sam were here he could take his mind off of things and the exercise might even make it run its course more quickly."
"He's never going to last until Sam gets back," said the ever practical Merry, "so we'll just have to distract him ourselves. Question is: what do we do?"
"We do what Sam would do, of course! After all, we are very good at it," replied Pippin, with a lascivious wink, "and it certainly used to distract Frodo back in Buckland."
"Hmmm..." said Merry, "it did used to do the trick nicely, didn't it? But that was pre-Sam; what if Frodo doesn't co-operate?"
"If he doesn't co-operate, we'll just have to tie him down and persuade him," suggested Pippin, with a great deal too much enthusiasm.
"Sam won't like it," warned Merry.
"Sam," said Pippin, "is not here."
Merry pondered upon this undoubted truth for a moment, before saying: "All right, I'm up for it if you are."
Pippin grinned. "You're always up for it, Merry!"
"Not always," corrected Merry, "there was that time a couple of years ago when I saw Lobelia Sackville-Baggins naked. I couldn't get it up for days."
"That particular reminiscence isn't helping me to firm my resolve," complained Pippin as they made their way towards the object of their concern, "also, it was your own fault for playing Peeping Tom in the baths."
Merry shrugged. "I thought it was Pearl."
"And that makes it better, how?" complained Pippin.
Nevertheless, now that their course of action was determined, the cousins put thoughts of all naked relatives but one out of their mind and moved swiftly towards their goal - the room in which they had locked Frodo as soon as he had asked the ominous question. Pausing outside the door, Merry asked: "Do you have anything in particular in mind or are we going to improvise?"
"Perhaps we could spank him," suggested Pippin enthusiastically. "Frodo likes being spanked."
"No, Pip - you like being spanked," Merry corrected.
Pippin shrugged. "All right then, you can spank me while Frodo watches."
Merry raised his eyebrows and grinned meditatively at Pippin. "You've got a taste for an audience? Because if Frodo isn't interested I could always sell tickets...I imagine that would draw a fair crowd."
Pippin struck a dramatic pose. "But would they immortalise it in song? There's the question."
Looking at the little popinjay preen himself, Merry couldn't resist giving him a quick swat to the rear. Pippin looked hopeful at that, but Merry shook his head, saying: "That's all you're getting for now, my lad - we have work to do."
Pippin replied with a wink. "For Frodo," he said.
Girding their respective loins in the figurative sense, Pippin having also had the forethought to provide the means to do it in the literal sense should it become necessary, they entered. The room's occupant was not, as Merry and Pippin had assumed, in an uncontrollable frenzy, but was reading a book by the open window.
Turning deceptively calm eyes to the new arrivals, he said, "Merry, Pippin, you're back already! This book is so fascinating that I had quite lost track of the time." Merry and Pippin exchanged glances; this wasn't quite what they'd expected. Then Frodo sealed his fate by asking the fateful question: "Did you manage to get any?"
"I'm sorry, Frodo," said Pippin, shaking his head sadly as he circled behind the oblivious Frodo, "I've searched high and low, but there aren't any to be found."
"Oh, that's a shame," lamented Frodo, "I really fancied a few for supper."
"I know, I know, but there aren't any," said Merry, soothingly, "maybe when Sam gets back he'll be able to think of something, but until then you're just going to have to be strong. Pippin and I are here to help in any way we can."
"Pardon?" said Frodo, perplexed.
"We're going to help you relax, take your mind off things," said Pippin, "all you have to do is trust us and we'll do the rest."
"I'm sorry, but you're not making any sense at all," said Frodo. "I think I'll just leave you to sort yourselves out while I go and find us something else for supper."
The other two exchanged a startled glance. "What do we do now?" asked Merry, making a quick grab for Frodo's arm as he headed towards the door. "We can't let him go, he's quite obviously delusional."
"It's like I thought," sighed Pippin, not entirely despondently. "There's nothing for it; we'll just have to restrain him."
"What?" yelped Frodo.
"It's for your own good, cousin," murmured Pippin. "You'll thank us for it later."
"Do you have any rope?" asked Merry, who was finding it increasingly difficult to hold onto a Frodo who had been trying to extricate himself from his cousin's grasp ever since hearing the suggestion.
"Best check in Sam's stuff, he's the bondage expert around these parts," suggested Pippin.
"Sam?" said Merry, with surprise.
"Yes," confirmed Pippin as Frodo went an interesting shade of pink, "you don't think he got so good at knots just from tying up the runner beans, do you?"
"My word, you learn something new every day!" said Merry. "I must ask Sam for a few lessons once he gets back."
"Look," said Frodo, in desperate tones, "I'm not quite sure what's going on, and I'm very appreciative of your concern, but I really don't need to be tied up."
"It's bad this time," said Merry. "He's playing with our minds, trying to make us think he's normal so he can escape and run amok. I think we'd better find a gag."
"Yes," agreed Pippin, "it'll stop him using his teeth as well. A bit of nibbling is fine and dandy, but I don't feel sorry enough for Frodo to risk losing anything vital."
"Why would you feel sorry for me?" asked Frodo, his voice climbing in pitch.
"Because you're caught in the trap of a dangerous craving," explained Pippin, slowly and patiently, "and we all know what it does to you when that happens. That's why we need to take your mind off of things."
"So," added Merry, "If you would just let us tie you up, we can start distracting you."
"But I'm not..." began Frodo before stopping abruptly as a thought struck him: "Oh..." he said, and then "Oh!" before suddenly starting to twist wildly in Merry's grasp.
"See, Frodo," said Pippin, moving forward to add his strength to Merry's, "I told you this would happen!"
"Noooooo!" shrieked Frodo, rolling his eyes dramatically, "Must have mushrooms..." and with that the other two had no choice but to tackle him to the bed.
Once Frodo was securely bound and gagged, a task which took more time than it should have done because of all the theatrical writhing and snapping of teeth that he was doing, Merry and Pippin stripped for action. "What are we going to do about Frodo's clothes?" asked Merry. "We really should have got them off before we tied him to the bed."
"We'll just have to cut them off," replied Pippin, "it's a small sacrifice for Frodo to make, given what we're doing for him."
The noises that Frodo made as his breeches were cut off seemed to indicate that he was in full agreement and, once he was satisfyingly naked, demonstrated all too obviously that his mind was being nicely distracted and his body had followed suit.
"Do you want to start at the top or the bottom?" asked Pippin.
"Maybe we should toss for it," suggested Merry.
"What, whoever comes first gets to choose?" asked Pippin. "If you ask me, it seems a bit of a waste of energy in the circumstances."
Merry sighed. "I meant with a coin, ninny. For that you get to start at the bottom."
"That's fine by me," said Pippin, with a grin.
"I always knew you had a foot fetish," retorted Merry.
"It's not his feet that I'm aiming for," replied Pippin roguishly; although that was certainly where he started.
With nips and licks the two cousins moved slowly and painstakingly over the body of the recumbent third. Not an inch of skin was left untasted as two clever mouths and two nimble tongues caressed their way across the banquet that was Frodo's trembling flesh.
"Mmmm..." murmured Merry appreciatively, his teeth worrying at Frodo's left nipple, "I'd forgotten how good Frodo tasted."
"Yes," agreed Pippin, taking a pause from laving the soft tissue of Frodo's inner thigh, "ripe and ready for the fucking."
"Don't you mean plucking?" queried Merry.
"Each to his own," mumbled Pippin, resuming his journey upwards to the accompaniment of appreciative sounds from behind Frodo's gag.
Jealous of the reaction, Merry redoubled his efforts and moved downwards onto the gentle swelling of Frodo's still diminished belly. Their two paths met at the junction of Frodo's thighs and they spared a moment from their task for each other, tongues tangling in a familiar dance until an indignant noise from Frodo reminded them of exactly why they were there. Still caressing each other they dipped their heads to the desperately straining flesh below and moved in unison to produce a sensation designed to send even the most mushroom-obsessed of hobbits right out of his mind.
It seemed, however, that Frodo was not the only one present who was becoming desperate as Pippin soon moaned, "Oil... now."
Merry briefly disentangled himself to root around in the pocket of his discarded breeches and find the requisite item, then his oiled fingers added to the sweet torture that they were inflicting upon their more than willing victim. But Pippin was now in no mood for finesse and complained bitterly that Merry was in the way.
Merry however was intent upon his ministrations, saying only: "Give a hobbit some room to work, will you?"
"If Frodo would just move a couple of inches to the right..." grumbled Pippin as he tried to position himself to allow Merry the necessary access.
Merry reminded him of the difficulty that would pose in the present situation: "Frodo can't move - we tied him down, remember?"
Pippin pouted. "Well, he could have said."
Merry said, "I'm sure he would have loved to, Frodo being a helpful fellow after all, but there is the small matter of the gag..."
"Excuses, excuses," said Pippin.
Smiling at his cousin's intransigence, Merry untied Frodo's ankles from the bedposts and slid a pillow under his rump before transferring his attention to Pippin. Once Pippin was prepared, Merry moved up the bed to nuzzle at Frodo's neck while Pippin turned his attention towards Frodo, carefully entering and then, once Frodo had relaxed around him, initiating a driving rhythm. He slid his hand down Frodo's belly but the descent was stopped abruptly when Merry slapped Pippin across his wrist, saying sharply: "No, I want this to last."
Concentrating as he was upon his own pleasure, it wasn't long before Pippin shuddered to conclusion, collapsing onto Frodo's chest with a sharp cry of: "Oh, Merry...that was wonderful."
"Mmmm," said Merry, smoothing Pippin's hair back from his sweat slickened brow and grinning evilly, "but poor Frodo doesn't seem to have achieved quite your level of tranquillity just yet."
Pippin withdrew and sat back to watch as Merry's mouth and hands played Frodo's body like a fine instrument, approaching but never touching the place that Frodo so obviously needed it most. Merry made sure that Frodo was on the verge of losing what remained of his craving-addled wits before finally preparing himself and then settling down upon Frodo and starting an unhurried rhythm.
"I don't know how you can drag it out like that," said Pippin in admiration, "I certainly couldn't!"
"Patience is a virtue," said Merry, punctuating each word with a languid movement, "seldom found in Tooks and never found in Peregrine."
Frodo was now writhing desperately against his remaining bonds and whimpering behind the gag. "Couldn't we untie him now?" pleaded Pippin. "I really don't think he's in any state to cause trouble."
Pausing his motion for a moment, Merry agreed. "Unfasten him from the headboard but retie his hands once you've done it, I don't want him lunging for my throat at a crucial moment."
"No," said Pippin, "the odd bit of pain certainly has its charms, but I should imagine that you'd like to stay conscious this time."
Pippin encountered no resistance from the panting hobbit as he released Frodo's hands and laid them upon his stomach before crawling up onto the pillows, lifting Frodo and settling him between his legs. He retied Frodo's hands and asked: "What about the gag?"
"Take it off," said Merry, "I want to hear him."
Pippin undid the gag and drew it away, releasing a stream of incoherent moans and pleas from Frodo's lips.
"What do you want, Frodo?" asked Merry. "Tell me."
Frodo gasped, "Please, oh please."
"Not good enough," said the implacable Merry, raising himself up on his knees so that he barely held Frodo within himself. "What do you want? Mushrooms?"
"Nooo..." whimpered Frodo, struggling to raise his hips against Pippin's grasp.
"What, then?" continued Merry, mercilessly maintaining their respective positions, "what is it that you need?"
"You, you, oh please, Merry... finish it, finish it please."
Finally responding to Frodo's desperation, Merry slammed himself down, taking as much of Frodo as he could contain within himself with a triumphant cry. Grasping Frodo's bound and sweating hands, he picked up the pace and drove both of them to the release that they so desperately craved.
***
The morning light and a newly returned Sam found the three of them still tightly entwined. As he entered, Frodo opened his eyes, smiled sleepily and murmured, "Sam, you're back! Did you have an interesting time?"
"That I did," said Sam, returning the smile, "and t'would appear that you did too!"
Pippin raised his head at that, saying quickly: "Now Sam, don't get upset. We were just trying to take Frodo's mind off mushrooms. He had a real craving for them and we couldn't find a single one in the city."
"You wouldn't at that," said Sam, "but that'll change soon, now there's a King in Gondor again. Not but that it wasn't touch and go until we went out to the farms."
"What do you mean?" asked Pippin, his curiosity getting the better of his apprehension.
"According to the old traditions they have to grow mushrooms for the King," explained Sam, "but there weren't a one of them as knew how, it having been so long since they'd had one. Happen it was lucky that I came along."
"Indeed it was, Sam," said Frodo with an admiring grin.
"Aye well, it won't be long now 'till they're gracing Strider's tables, but there won't be any for the likes of us, they being reserved for royalty and all."
"Maybe we can get Aragorn to change the laws," said Pippin hopefully.
"Round here that'll probably take generations," said Merry gloomily, without bothering to crack an eyelid.
A sudden thought hit Pippin. "I must say, you're taking this awfully well, Frodo," he said.
Frodo sighed: "Yes, well, these days even the most tempting of culinary treats seems somehow... unimportant."
Merry's eyes finally popped open at that. "Then last night..." he asked.
Frodo nodded: "I was pretending, yes."
"All of it?" asked Pippin plaintively.
"No," said Frodo, stroking his cousin's curly head, "just the frenzy bit."
"That's hardly fair!" objected Merry.
"Why?" asked Frodo, "didn't you enjoy yourselves?"
"That's not the point!" they chorused in unison.
"If that wasn't the point, then I'm blowed if I know what was, " observed Sam. "After what we've been through we all deserve a bit of pleasure and if you can't find it with each other then I'll not be knowing where you can."
"Then you don't mind?" asked Pippin.
"Just so long as you haven't worn him out too much," replied Sam.
"Not at all," said Frodo, reaching out an arm. "As a matter of fact, there is one thing that I'm craving. Why don't you join us, Sam?"
Sam observed the scene before him and his fingers moved to the buttons of his shirt. "Don't mind if I do," he said.
43 ghyste 2 2 63 Plucking %;@ 2 2
2 >
hz 2 83 For Your Reading Pleasure93 As you know from the proliferation of fabulous hot fics hitting your friends list, the authors participating in the First Line Challenge are now posting their stories. Please be sure to leave the authors your comments on their stories in appreciation for this bounty of fics!
And now, for your reading pleasure, links to the "First Line Challenge" stories posted so far, in the order posted:
List updated and reposted HERE
NOTE: To those attempting to read from work (*raises eyebrows*) and feeling a bit shy about the LJ background graphics, (1) we have made them just a
tiny bit less smutty (if that is possible) and, even more effective, (2) you can edit your personal info and select the option to "View comment pages in your journal style?" That way, when you link to a story in the list above or anyone's links in your friends list, you will see it in your style, without the lovely background of happy hobbits.:3
elanorgardner 2 2 <3 HS Theban Band Merry Frodo @ 2 2
a& 2 ?
9I 2 >3 F/P Smut?3 Name: Daffodil Bolger
Title: Too Pointless To Deserve A Title
Challenge: Hobbit Smut First Line Challenge
Word Count: 5490 (Note: Word counts dashes and hyphens as a word. There are 33 of them here. Yes, I counted! I was that desperate.)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Plot? Are these supposed to have plots? Damn!
Pairing: Frodo/Pippin
Other Pairing/s: None
Warning/s: Interhobbit slash
* * *
A/N – Some things you don’t care about but it makes me feel better to say…
This is a heavily abridged version. I started out two weeks ago with almost 7,000 words (because I just can’t seem to shut up already) and have spent the last two weeks trying to trim it down with the help of and . One of them advised me to lose some of the humor and the other threatened to kill me if I did so what we have here is the best compromise I could manage. informed me that a 10% leeway would be granted to whiners and since I am loaded with antihistamines (because I’m an idiot and got into some poison ivy) and if I have to look at this fic. one more time, I’m going to delete it out of sheer frustration, I seem to fill that bill rather nicely. So, here we are…
* * *
“Hit it with something!”
Frodo stops, clenches his jaw, turns to Pippin. “And just what,” he says through clenched teeth, “do you propose I hit it with? I’m not exactly dressed for battle, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
Pippin barely conceals a snort. He’s noticed. It would have been a little difficult not to. Frodo’s manner of dress – or rather, undress - is certainly appropriate for what they had nearly been in the middle of only a moment ago but… now?
“Well, it isn’t as if we’re not knee-deep in books, for pity’s sake,” Pippin reminds him as he pulls a knitted throw about his head, looks warily about the room. “Throw one at it!”
“Are you mad? Some of these are rare and beyond price. I won’t risk a split spine or--”
“Look out!”
Frodo ducks as the shrieking missile careens past his head. Oh, wait – that wasn’t the missile shrieking, it was Pippin. Frodo looks up to see Pippin – or what he assumes to be Pippin but what could very well be an indeterminate blur of yarn and bare bottom – dive behind the chair with a yip.
“Peregrin Took,” he snorts, “you sound just like a lass.”
“Oh, bugger off, Frodo!” Pippin retorts. “They go right for the hair, you know. And you, standing about, bare as birth. It’ll go for the goolies, mark me.”
Frodo frowns, spares a glance downward, frowns some more then slants his gaze back to travel the ceiling. Nothing. Just to be safe, however, he angles to the hearth, takes up the poker. Hair he is willing to risk but the goolies? Erm… no.
“You don’t think you’re going to hit it with that, do you?” Pippin wants to know. “It’s too narrow and they’re too fast. It’ll change course before you’ve even finished your swing.”
“Yes, Pippin, I have seen a bat before, thank you.”
“I’m only saying--”
“Pippin, if you want to talk to me, you’ll have to come out from under that blanket. I refuse to carry on a conversation with a heap of knitted wool.”
“I think not,” Pippin says. “You might be willing to risk bald patches but you’re not especially--”
“Shh!” Pippin stills and they both eye the ceiling. “There,” Frodo says, directing a guarded look to the top of the doorjamb. “Is it sleeping?”
Pippin follows Frodo’s gaze, examines the little creature perched over the door. “I wouldn’t trust it, Frodo. They’re awfully sneaky. And they can give you the foaming madness, if they bite you.”
“Thank you for that most confidence-inspiring bit of information.” Frodo takes a deep breath, sets his jaw. “Well, we’ll just have to make certain that it doesn’t bite us, won’t we?” He takes a step toward the door.
“What are you going to do?” Pippin asks.
“I’m going to bash it, of course,” Frodo replies patiently.
“Oh.” Pippin frowns, looks from Frodo to the bat and back to Frodo again. “Must you?”
Frodo blinks slowly. “Let me make sure I’m understanding you – I risk being bitten and contracting the foaming madness and you’re worried about the bat?”
“Oh, don’t take on so, cousin,” Pippin returns with a scowl. “It’s only that you’re much bigger than it. Hardly seems fair.”
Frodo’s hand clenches on the poker. “Pippin,” he grates. “If you think, for one moment--”
Pippin pre-empts the tirade with a kiss, lets a hand creep out from beneath the throw, runs it up Frodo’s flank before pulling back. He directs a smoky gaze through his lashes.
“You were saying?”
Frodo stares, licks his lips. “Pippin,” he breathes, winding an arm around Pippin’s waist.
Pippin holds back a smirk. “Mmm?” Silk twines through his tone as Frodo’s fingers twitch against his ribs.
Frodo looks deep into his eyes, takes a shaky breath. “That look would work a lot better if it weren’t coming from beneath three pounds of wool,” he says.
Pippin’s seductive look turns to a glare and Frodo snickers as he is shoved away. “Nobody likes a smart arse, Frodo,” Pippin tells him.
Frodo’s eyes flick down and up again. “I think,” he says with a lift of an eyebrow, “your little fellow there might beg to differ.”
Pippin scowls. “My ‘little fellow’ is in perfect agreement with me, I assure you, so why don’t we let’s get on with it here so we can go back to getting on with it over there and our little fellows can converse about it together and at great length, what say?”
“Pippin, my lovely lad,” Frodo grins, “you’re making more sense every minute.” He returns his attention to the doorjamb, firms his grip around the poker.
“Are you really going to go over there?” Pippin wants to know.
“What else would you have me do, love?” Frodo asks. “We can’t leave it in here, can we now?”
Pippin frowns, shifts from one foot to another then unwinds the throw from around his head, wraps it around Frodo’s waist. He ties it in a knot at his hip, gives it a pat. “Don’t want it damaging the goods,” he shrugs. “I’ve plans for that later. When you’re through, of course.”
Frodo grins. “Of course.” He steps forward then stops, turns to Pippin with a smirk. “Don’t start without me, eh? I’ve plans of my own.”
Pippin only rolls his eyes. Frodo turns, adjusts the poker once more, fastens his eyes to the bat, takes a stealthy step forward. Then another. He is perhaps a pace and a half away when the creature stirs. Its head rotates, wings twitching. It emits a high-pitched squeak and leaps from its perch. Frodo swings the poker up, sweeps it around his head while Pippin squawks, covers his head with his arms. Both spin, following the bat’s progress as it careens around the room, swoops over their heads and shoots out the same open window it had entered through.
Frodo and Pippin stand, silent and blinking. Frodo lowers the poker, eyeing the window. When nothing more sinister than a warm breeze comes through it, he straightens, frowns.
“Hmph.”
Pippin snickers at him. “You look disappointed, Frodo,” he smirks. “Counting on impressing me with your skill in battling winged rodents?”
“Spoken very bravely for one who was cringing behind furniture only a moment ago,” Frodo retorts.
“I was not cringing. I was wisely avoiding contact with a creature known to have very sharp teeth and an affinity for stealing one’s hair. Unlike some people who only had to stand naked before it to frighten it away.”
“I’m not naked,” Frodo sniffs.
“Yes, thanks to my brave sacrifice.”
“Now, kindly explain to me how you got to be the hero in this and I only get to be frightening.”
“I would rather that you explain to me why you’re still standing all the way over there when my little fellow and I are over here. For, you see, I am naked – very much so and completely free of bats.”
Frodo grins, lets the poker drop to the floor with a clang then sweeps over to Pippin, wraps his arms around him and presses in. Pippin hums approval, pushes back.
“We can just pick up where we left off, shall we?” Frodo murmurs against his mouth.
“You should probably remind me where that was, exactly,” Pippin answers, already panting. “I never can remember from one moment to the next.”
“I might decide to be insulted by that later,” Frodo breathes and Pippin slithers against him. “But right now...” and he runs a hand down Pippin’s chest.
“Mmm,” Pippin responds, dipping his mouth to Frodo’s shoulder, shifting to scrape his teeth along his throat. “I’ve always told Merry that you really do have an actual brain in your head.”
A small frown contends for purchase on Frodo’s otherwise blank, pleasure-washed features. “Merry thinks I have no brain?”
“Merry thinks you’re a very attractive, very flexible bundle of walking sex,” Pippin informs Frodo’s left nipple before darting his tongue against it and smiling at the resultant quiet moan.
“And… um…” Frodo wheezes, his hand tangling into Pippin’s hair, pressing his mouth more firmly. “What do you think?”
“I think,” Pippin says, low and throaty, “that you are a very attractive…” and he leans up, catches Frodo’s bottom lip between his teeth, “…very flexible…” runs his tongue along Frodo’s jaw, “…bundle of walking sex…” nips at Frodo’s throat, “…with a brain…” runs his hand down Frodo’s back, “…who talks entirely too much.” And with that, he dips his hand below the barrier of the throw, yanks Frodo flush against him and sinks into his mouth.
Frodo grips Pippin’s skull more firmly, dives deeper. He slides his hand down Pippin’s side, wriggles it between them then slips his fingers into the warm crevice between groin and thigh.
Pippin grunts appreciation, lifts his leg and twines it around Frodo’s hip, asking for more. Frodo happily gives it to him, hand shifting inward to cup then grip. Pippin pulls his mouth away, head falling back, body arching. Frodo watches his mouth open on a low moan, feels Pippin’s heel digging into the back of his thigh and begins a slow rhythm, pulling and squeezing, gliding and grasping. All the while, he watches Pippin’s face as mounting pleasure washes over it. A parting of the lips, a flutter of lashes, a flash of a smile quickly overtaken by a sharp gasp and a crease of the brow and Frodo is captive to it all.
Captive as he can be with the annoying obstruction of the throw, that is. Wanting to rid himself of the bothersome thing and right now, he stills his hand, brings Pippin up to face him. Frodo watches as disappointment fades into confusion into understanding into amusement – all of it in the blink of an eye then, as if Frodo had spoken aloud, Pippin is tugging at the blanket knotted at Frodo’s hip. Nimble fingers loosen folds of fabric then pull away, let it fall to the floor.
“I know we’d at least gotten to this part,” Pippin says and his hand creeps down Frodo’s chest, passes feather-light over his ribs then sweeps down to catch hold. The touch is blistering, knowing and sensation slams crystal-sharp through Frodo. The world fades to a grey haze and all he feels are the hands upon him and the sweat-slick body against him and Frodo wonders just exactly where his knees have gotten off to.
Hands latching onto his arms, a quick turn, a shove and Frodo is face-down on the bed, heat draped over his back, warm breath at his nape and hot pressure grinding at his backside. He grips the sheets in his fists, gasps into rumpled linen and begins running a mental inventory of his room, wondering where he’d last seen that bottle of oil.
“Had we gotten to this part yet?” Pippin pants into his ear and warm tingles run down Frodo’s spine.
Frodo turns his head, mouth blindly seeking the source of the heat at his ear and he finds it, sinks into it and pushes his hips up then back down to press himself into the mattress. And that really isn’t the least bit satisfying, all cool linen and not a single writhing Took beneath him, so he contorts his limbs, cants his hips and rolls. Pippin squawks as he is tossed to his back but turns his protest to a grunt of approval as Frodo lays himself over him, pushes hard with his hips and closes his eyes with a deep, satisfied groan.
Slow and rolling and agonizingly good and when Frodo opens his eyes again, Pippin is smiling, a glint of challenge playing around the corners of his mouth. He thrusts upward and his smile grows broader with the catch in Frodo’s breath.
The gauntlet has been thrown, as far as Frodo is concerned, so he gives his own thrust then puts his mouth to that place he knows always gets results, just behind and below Pippin’s ear. He is not disappointed; Pippin gives a harsh murmur then slides his hands down Frodo’s back, wraps his legs around Frodo’s hips and pushes. Ah, and this angle always does work best, doesn’t it and Frodo thrusts down, hard and forceful. Pippin pushes back, eyes wide, locked on Frodo’s and Frodo is once again made aware of the challenge in Pippin’s smile.
“The game is on, then?” he asks, hips rolling, keeping their rhythm, skin gliding against sweat-slick heat.
Pippin raises an eyebrow, smile widening into a grin. “Isn’t it always, love?”
Frodo smirks, pushes some more then begins to rock, hard and fast and is beyond satisfied to see Pippin’s eyes roll back and his head drop heavily to the mattress with a moan. Frodo lays his mouth to Pippin’s, plunges in and Pippin more than welcomes him, hands clenching at his shoulders, heat and sweat straining into him, twisting beneath him.
Frodo thinks that Pippin has most likely already forgotten the challenge – he has the attention span of a gnat, after all - and Frodo could win this right now, just push a little harder, rock a little faster and the game is over and Frodo left with the gloating rights. Moans, shudders and ‘Yes!’ and ‘Right there, faster!’ and Frodo could move a little faster, grind a little harder and send them both right over the edge in seconds. But Frodo rather likes the standing rules of engagement, wants a little more than this. The rhythm he has built is having its effect on him as well and it’s taking every ounce of concentration and restraint he has to keep himself from becoming lost in it.
Pippin is panting heavily now, hands clenching at Frodo’s thighs, drawing him in, hips thrusting in cadence. No slow and sinuous play for this Took, oh, no and just the sight of that face lax with pleasure and the sounds coming harsh and fast from his throat are enough to send Frodo plummeting over the edge if he’s not vigilant.
Frodo rests all of his weight on Pippin’s chest, unwinds Pippin’s legs from their grip around him. Pippin fights him, tries to reclaim his grip, thrashes beneath him. Frodo lays his mouth to Pippin’s, thinks to still him but Pippin bites down on his bottom lip. Frodo yelps, pulls back, half expecting to leave his lip behind.
“You bloody wanker!” Pippin growls. “I’m this close, Frodo, this close!”
Frodo puts his fingers to his lip, draws them back to check for blood and, when there isn’t any, chuckles. “I know,” is all he says before he raises himself to his knees, dips his head to tease at a nipple.
Pippin twists, squirms “Frodo, please, I’m begging you!” He yanks at Frodo’s hair, tries again to get a hold with his legs.
“Yes, I see that,” Frodo croons. “And I must say that I do love the sound of it. But you have proffered a challenge, my lovely Took, and I intend to see it through.”
“Bugger the challenge!” Pippin gasps. “I didn’t mean it, Frodo, please,” and he yanks harder at the hair in his fists.
Frodo smiles through the sharp pain at his skull, says, “You say that now, love, but you’d cry foul later, had I not stopped to give you a chance,” and he chuckles some more before he takes a firm hold of Pippin’s legs, pushes them to the mattress. He drops a wink then moves his mouth to hover between Pippin’s legs.
Pippin stills, waits and Frodo can feel him trembling, trying to will Frodo’s mouth down and around. Frodo smiles some more, breathes hot and moist over velvet heat, lips hovering but not yet touching. Pippin gives a little whine and his thighs flex slightly, not daring to push up for fear of losing the promise of wet heat when Frodo decides to have mercy and take him in. And that is Frodo’s intention, truly it is but he just can’t resist enjoying the heady power of his control over this lissome body, even if it is destined to be extremely temporary. So, he continues to hover, darting out a teasing tongue every few seconds, just for the pleasure of watching the twitch and jump that follows.
He slides one hand up Pippin’s thigh then Pippin’s foot is slithering between Frodo’s legs, thick fur rubbing against him, slow friction sparking fierce reaction and tingling heat through his limbs. He makes the mistake of allowing a small moan and that’s all the opening Pippin needs: he pushes up and suddenly Frodo no longer wants to tease. He opens wide and takes Pippin in.
Pippin looses a groan that’s a mixture of relief and intense arousal. Frodo couldn’t agree more. Frodo takes Pippin deep, sliding firm and wet around him. He pours all of his concentration into his task, sliding and swirling his tongue, bobbing his head and pulling and stroking with hands nimble and knowing. Pippin’s response is more than arousing, what with that limber body twisting and pushing and those cries coming silver-sharp from his mouth. Frodo takes up a rhythm, builds it quick and fierce, hands in constant motion, mouth moving down and up and deep and fast. Pippin’s hips thrust mightily, the foot that offered such promise to Frodo’s own need only a moment ago now digging into the mattress, toes curling, lending leverage to the hips that are reaching, striving, bucking and flailing.
Frodo thinks he really should draw this out more, make it last, but Pippin is clawing at his shoulders, thrusting deep and hard and Frodo thinks he might just end up with a black eye if he pulls back now. Pippin likes things fast and intense and there’s really no point in torturing the wanton creature that has seen fit to grace his sheets, is there? No, no, not at all, so Frodo speeds his tempo, takes Pippin deeper, presses his fingers harder. And yes, ah, there it is: Pippin shouts his name and Frodo nearly loses his control, hips rocking into empty air, a rumbling groan loosing itself from his chest.
Pippin’s fingers twine hard and sharp into Frodo’s hair and he pulls with both hands as he strains up, screams, “Ah! Frodo!” and his hips buck and “Frodo, yes!” He arches up, legs kicking out, body constricting into a spasm of blinding release. They are both held, motionless except for Frodo’s mouth, which continues to work and move, taking in liquid fire as Pippin’s hips jerk, his fingers twitching against Frodo’s skull, moans shuddering through him as his body bucks a little more.
Frodo swirls his tongue once more, chuckles at Pippin’s gasp and shiver then releases him. Pippin dissolves into the mattress, breath coming short and shallow, body still twitching, limbs limp and boneless. Pippin’s release was almost enough to send Frodo into his own but he closes his eyes tight, wills his heart to slow, his blood to cool. He moves up, lays his head on Pippin’s heaving chest. Pippin winds his fingers through Frodo’s hair, gently this time.
“Bloody damn, Frodo,” Pippin wheezes. “That was… that was…” He pauses, takes in a shaky breath. “I don’t know what it was but good doesn’t begin to cover it.”
Frodo smiles, smoothes his hand up Pippin’s arm. “I’m glad, Pip,” he says. “Because, now that I’ve officially won, I expect full recompense.”
“Won?” Pippin tugs a little at Frodo’s hair. “What do you mean, won?” he furthers as Frodo climbs to his hands and knees, hovers over him. “I told you I didn’t mean it. I wasn’t playing.”
“Ah, but rules of the game, love,” Frodo reminds him. “Once challenged, the game is on. You ought to know,” this as Frodo dips for a quick kiss, “you invented the rules.”
“Mmm,” Pippin hums as Frodo pulls away. “But I never got my chance.”
Frodo shrugs. “I can’t help that you’re a horny little Took who’s too greedy to share his lovely mouth.” Frodo dips again to nuzzle at Pippin’s throat.
“Greedy, eh?” Pippin intones then Frodo’s knees are swept out from under him and his limbs flail as he is tossed, flipped then--
A resounding ‘thud’ as bone hits polished wood and, “Bugger all, Pippin! What the bloody blazes is wrong with you?”
Frodo glares up to see Pippin peering down over the edge of the bed. Pippin’s mouth hangs agape for a quick moment before snapping shut, lips pressing into a thin line to conceal what Frodo is certain are snickers.
“Are you all right?” Pippin chokes.
“Oh, yes, quite well,” Frodo retorts, trying to untangle his feet from the sheet they’ve become trapped in. “It’s a ritual of mine to go flying out of my bed after having just provided my partner with the blowjob of his life.”
“Oh, now, I never said--” But Pippin sees Frodo’s glare blacken and decides that particular argument is unwise at the moment. “I’m really very sorry, Frodo,” he corrects.
Frodo sits up, wincing as he flexes abused elbows. “What did you think you were doing, for pity’s sake?” he wants to know. “If you have that much of a problem with taking the bottom bunk, you might have just told me.”
“Frodo, honestly, I only meant to flip--”
“It isn’t as if you’ve ever complained about it before,” Frodo rants on. “You rather seem to enjoy it, if I’m any judge.”
Pippin climbs off the bed, reaches out to help Frodo disentangle his feet. Frodo bats his hands away.
“Off with you,” he grouses. “I know when my attentions are not wel--”
And Pippin shuts him up with a deep and searing kiss, twines his arms around Frodo’s neck, climbs into his lap. Frodo suspects he just may be a little too susceptible to the charms of these kisses. He isn’t about to argue, however. Anyone with a lap full of writhing Took would be foolish to waste time on speaking when there are so many other useful things one’s mouth could be doing.
Oh, and this is nice and Pippin grinding atop him is even nicer and he thinks he might still have cause to be miffed, what with his elbows and backside still singing and likely to be bruised by morning. But the arousal that had fled upon his meeting with the floor seems to be rising for an encore, so he runs his hands along Pippin’s thighs and around, pulls him in sharp and tight.
Pippin pulls back, pants, “I only wanted better access,” and Frodo decides that forgiveness is indeed a wonderful virtue. He plasters his mouth to Pippin’s and he blesses the resilience of youth, for Pippin is hardening again. Frodo feels Pippin growing more rigid with each thrust and he thinks that maybe the floor is quite a pleasant place to be after all. He pushes up, rocks into Pippin and groans at every shift and glide.
“Where is that oil?” Pippin breathes and it takes Frodo a minute to comprehend that there has been a question and he is expected to answer it.
“Um…” he says and plunges back into Pippin’s mouth, grasps his hips with vice-like fingers.
Pippin pulls back again, takes Frodo’s head between his hands and stills all movement. Frodo growls, pulls at Pippin’s hips, strains up to his mouth. Pippin grips harder.
“Oil, Frodo. Where?”
Frodo blinks, opens his mouth, closes it, blinks some more. “Drawer?”
Pippin rolls his eyes, gives Frodo’s head a little shake. “Are you asking me or telling me?”
Frodo looks at him dazedly, frowns. “Drawer,” he says. “No! No, washstand,” he corrects then gives a bit of a whine when Pippin scrambles off him, leaving his damp skin cold and the outside world starts seeping in and oh, bother but his backside is going to be sore in the morning.
Frodo winces, starts to pull himself up but then Pippin is back and pushing him back down. Frodo registers the bottle in Pippin’s hand and can’t help the leer that leaps to his face.
“No more high places,” Pippin says sternly. “That bed is too bloody big for one hobbit and much too high to go flying off of in the middle of playtime.”
“I like my bed,” Frodo protests vaguely as Pippin pushes the bottle into his hands. “And I’ve never gone flying off it before, just so we’re--”
“Oh, bugger all, Frodo, have I mentioned that you talk too much?” Pippin wriggles into his former position across Frodo’s thighs and Frodo finds that he has forgotten what he has been talking too much about. “Do you plan on using that some time soon?” Pippin asks with a pointed glance to the bottle in Frodo’s hand.
Frodo follows Pippin’s gaze, raises his eyebrows and why, yes, he does indeed intend to put it to use. He flashes a crooked smile then flips the stopper and coats his fingers. He would spend a little time on teasing and whatnot but he’s already been on the receiving end of Pippin’s impatience and would like to get through the rest of the evening without any broken bones, if at all possible. Besides which, he has been rather patient thus far and there is a limit, after all and he’s been too close to that limit for far too long, in his own humble opinion. So, he spreads the oil evenly over his hand then reaches around and begins the business of making Pippin ready.
Pippin is slightly more relaxed this go-round, seeing as how he’s already had the benefit of release. But saying that Pippin is slightly more relaxed than his normal self is like saying that a badger has slightly sharper teeth than a polecat – because honestly, when one or the other is in the process of chewing your foot from your leg, who can be bothered with the comparison? Frodo’s fairly certain that he’s not in danger of having any extremities actually chewed off but, noting Pippin’s enthusiasm and sharp demands for Another, Frodo, hurry! he can’t help but wonder what sort of mischief is in store for his most treasured extremity.
Pippin suddenly stops his writhing and yanks Frodo’s hands away, saying, “Enough, Frodo. Now,” and he clambers from his perch atop Frodo, gets to his hands and knees. When Frodo just stares at him for a moment, eyes raking the sleek, sweated form, all bare and willing and shivering with impatience, Pippin rolls his eyes, grits his teeth. “I said, now!”
Frodo gives a start, a little grin and then he is climbing to his knees, running slick, oil-coated hands up the length of the smooth back and around slender hips. Pippin makes a noise that Frodo would swear is a purr but before he can gather enough wits to tease about it, Pippin is straightening up and pulling away.
“Oh, for pity’s sake, Frodo, do you think you can concentrate long enough to tup me properly, or am I going to have to do it myself?”
While Frodo is pondering the mental picture that goes with that question, Pippin reaches for the oil, pours some into his palm and closes his fist around Frodo. Frodo grinds his teeth, clamps his eyes shut and that sharp sensation is back again, only this time it’s centered on the slick fist that’s gripping him and the light that’s exploding behind his eyes. Some sort of sound comes from his mouth that, if Frodo were just a little less vain, he would have categorized as a whine but since he’s not, he’ll write it off as a moan and dare anyone to gainsay him.
Oh, there’s some lovely squeezing and kneading and pumping going on down there and Frodo reaches out, clenches his hands to Pippin’s arms. The heat coming from Pippin’s skin makes Frodo feel as if he’s holding a firecracker in his hands and if he doesn’t pull himself together and soon, he’ll be imitating one of those firecrackers within the next few seconds. Summoning every ounce of will he has, Frodo moves his grip to Pippin’s wrists and clamps down hard.
“Stop, Pip, stopstopstop!”
Pippin does but not without a low chuckle and Frodo really couldn’t care less at this point because he feels like he’s been hard for days now and if he doesn’t plunge himself into something hot and tight and very quickly, his head is likely to pop right off his shoulders. He takes hold of Pippin’s hips, turns him roughly and bends him over and then he is sinking in and oh! blessed heat, blessed Pip, blessed world and everything in it and he drops his head back and howls with the intensity.
Pippin is making some pleasant noises of his own and if Frodo had the presence of mind to actually be paying attention, he might translate those noises into their proper meaning of, Move, Frodo, now, now, now! But Frodo hasn’t been coherent for a while and is enjoying himself far too much to start now, so he’s a little surprised when Pippin shoves back with a low growl and then begins to rock.
Frodo dimly thinks that Pippin really does seem to have the ability to tup himself and that might be funny later but right now it’s just maddeningly arousing. Frodo digs his fingers into Pippin’s hips, thrusts forward and now it’s Pippin’s turn to howl; his arms give out beneath him and he sinks to his elbows. And that’s fortuitous because it affords a whole new angle and Frodo plunges deeper still. Pippin shoves right back and now Frodo has no idea who’s doing the actual tupping but it hardly matters – all that matters is hot and tight and he thrusts himself forward and groans deep and loud when Pippin screams his name again.
He is thrusting in a mad frenzy and he is vaguely aware that his throat is beginning to hurt and so assumes that he’s been letting loose some screams of his own. But he adds that to the inventory of bruised elbows, backside and now knees and thinks it’s more than an even trade, when all is said and done. All he really cares about is this body he’s pounding into and the heat exploding inside him and pretty soon it’s all going to spill over.
He drapes himself over Pippin’s back, reaches in between his legs and closes his oily hands around hard heat. Pippin yowls, arches his back then bucks furiously when Frodo begins to pump and slide. Frodo’s hips are moving with a mind of their own and he’s helpless to do anything but let them and it’s coming, he can tell - all of the blood is draining from his head and his limbs have turned to molten steel and he’s teetering, dancing that edge. His vision dims to a haze of red and oh, here it comes, so he moves his hand faster, closes his fingers more firmly and then Pippin is screeching release and Frodo is right behind him.
They are one entity; Frodo’s arm is a band of steel around Pippin’s chest and he bows his back, rears up and brings Pippin with him. Pippin falls back against him and Frodo can feel every muscle and tendon, tight and wound to a tensile pinpoint in that lovely body and Frodo finally casts himself over that edge, hips bucking, limbs tightening in countless spasms of ecstasy. He lets loose a throat-tearing shout, thrusts forward one more time and is held, suspended and motionless for infinite seconds then collapses forward, spent and sated.
They lay there for long moments, dazed and panting until Pippin decides that Frodo is heavier than he looks and pulls himself up to his elbows, rolls Frodo off of him. Frodo goes over like a loose bag of bones with nary a complaint except for a low ‘oomph’ and a mutter or two about more bruises.
“Was it good, love?” Pippin wants to know.
Frodo chuckles, nods. “Mmm,” is all he can manage.
“Me too,” Pippin agrees and then he is draping himself over Frodo’s chest in a languid puddle.
Frodo manages to lift his arms, circle them around Pippin. He lifts his head to place a kiss in Pippin’s hair before letting it fall back to the floor with a dull ‘thunk.’
“Ouch,” he mumbles. “Add one more to the tally.”
“Tally?” Pippin asks.
“Of injuries,” Frodo responds. “I risk life and limb having sex with you, Peregrin Took. You aren’t exactly easy on a body.”
Pippin snickers. “Yes, but if I someday manage to kill you, you’ll go happy.”
Frodo chuckles again, tightens his arms around Pippin. Pippin burrows into him.
Frodo can’t seem to pull together the will to respond with anything more than another “Mmm,” and a slow stroke of fingers across Pippin’s shoulders. He feels himself spiraling down, falling into a comfortable, sated doze.
Frodo dimly registers a small squeak somewhere above him, a distant flapping. Pippin twitches.
“You didn’t close those shutters, did you?” Pippin mutters.
Oh, bugger.
* * *
END@3 daffodil_bolger 2 2 2 P@ 2 2
P! 2 @
T ! 2 B3 StoryC3 Name: Trilliah
Title: Speaking Plainly
Challenge: Hobbit Smut First Line Challenge
Word Count: 4,092
Rating: NC-17
Pairing/s: Frodo/Sam
Summary: Lobelia brings certain matters to Frodo's attention.
What a way to wake up, Frodo thought blearily, roused sharply from slumber by the shrill sound of Lobelia's voice coming from the garden.
"Frodo! Frodo Baggins, you come out here this instant!"
Frodo groaned softly and rolled over, bringing the pillow with him and pressing it over his head. Maybe he could just lie still, and pretend he'd never heard her. Maybe she'd go away.
A sharp rap sounded at his window, and he blessed Elbereth that he'd thought to draw the curtains the night before.
"Frodo, you insolent creature, I know you're in there!"
No you don't, you foul old witch, Frodo thought grumpily. For all you know I've been smothered by my own bedclothes. Go away.
"Excuse me, Mistress Lobelia, is there something I can help you with?"
Frodo groaned again--Sam.
"Yes, you can!" Lobelia fairly shrieked, and Frodo could just picture her waving her umbrella at Sam's nose. "You can go in there and tell that master of yours to get his hide out here before I break in his window and drag him out myself!"
"Begging your pardon, mistress," Sam's voice again, coming as close to defiant as Sam ever came. "I'll do no such thing, and neither will you. You've no right to go disturbing my master. He will take visitors as he pleases, and it's not for you nor I to tell him to do otherwise, not in his own home."
There was a breath of a pause, and Frodo winced, knowing Lobelia was mustering her rage in all its glory. "You DARE speak to me that way, you...you gardener!" she roared. "I should have you beaten within an inch of your worthless life, you miserable little wretch! You honestly think your master will let you away with this? Treating his very kin with such disrespect!"
"Begging your pardon, mistress," Sam's voice again, still stern, though this time it held an ounce of uncertainty. "I meant no disrespect, it's just as, well--Mr. Frodo's had a rough time of it, what with Master Bilbo leaving just this last month, and he's had to take on a lot, you understand."
"Don't you make excuses!" Lobelia hissed. "Not for him, nor for yourself! I *will* speak to him, and I will speak to him NOW--and believe me when I tell you I'll make certain you receive proper discipline for your impertinence!"
Frodo decided reluctantly that enough was enough. It was one thing to listen to Lobelia yelling at him from behind the pane of glass (though he had no doubt she'd make good on her threat to smash it in), but he wasn't about to hide under the covers and let her abuse Sam. He kicked away his blankets and stumbled out of bed, reaching the window in two strides and flicking the curtains aside before unhinging the latch and pushing it open.
"Good morning, Lobelia, Sam," he said mildly, leaning on the windowsill and blinking in the morning sunlight at the spectacle before him. Sam was standing nervously, holding his cap in front of him like a shield, and Lobelia was indeed brandishing that wretched old umbrella. "Is there something I can help you with?"
She huffed, lowering the weapon--Frodo saw Sam's shoulders slump a little bit in relief--and stuck her nose in the air. "Indeed, you can, Mr. Baggins," she sniffed. "You can invite me in for tea, so we can have a nice chat. And you can tell this--servant," she indicated Sam with a nod of her head, "that he is to show the proper respect for his superiors! You wouldn't believe how rude he was to me!"
Frodo raised an eyebrow. "I'm sure I wouldn't," he said, giving Sam a wry half-smile, but quickly shifting his expression to one of solemn concern before Lobelia could catch on and take more insult. "I'll be certain to speak with him on the matter. In the meantime, Sam, if you'd be so good as to direct Mistress Lobelia to the parlor and fix her a tray of tea, I'll see to making myself presentable and meet her there."
Sam nodded swiftly. "Yes, sir."
Lobelia still looked unsatisfied, but after a brief moment of hesitation settled for following Sam around the corner to the front of the smial. Frodo pulled the window shut, turning back to his chambers and passing a weary hand over his face. This was not the sort of thing he needed right now; he absently considered telling Sam to slip some sassafras root into his tea to make it a little more potent. Or perhaps a shot of brandy.
He set to digging through his wardrobe for something formal enough to stall any of Lobelia's complaints that he wasn't dressing up to station. He could hear her clanking through the parlor and hoped Sam would know enough to keep an eye on the silver while she was there. He smiled a little--Sam had only taken up his father's position full time last week, but the lad had a lot of potential. Frodo would simply have to teach him it was best to simply...lie low where Lobelia was concerned.
More like hide he thought wryly. Or at the very least arm yourself.
He selected his blue waistcoat and trousers and pulled them on hurriedly, pausing only briefly at the full length mirror to brush a hand through his wayward curls. He knew he shouldn't bother trying to look too tidy--Lobelia wouldn't be satisfied if she didn't have enough to properly complain about, and she would only return all the sooner if she didn't get her fill of griping done now. He gave his reflection a nod, then turned and headed to the parlor.
* * *
"So, Frodo," Lobelia said, sipping at her third cup of tea. Frodo raised his eyebrows, waiting, sending a furtive glance at the clock. Two hours had dragged by, and Lobelia was clearly in no hurry to leave. Already she'd scolded him about letting his hair get too long--"Not proper for a gentlehobbit, it isn't, even one such as yourself"--and the state of his study--"Books everywhere! Why, it's enough to make one think you're as loony as that cousin of yours!"--and Frodo had rather hoped she would be running out of material by now. But from the self-satisfied look on her face, she was just getting started.
"That gardener boy of yours--Gamgee, is that his name?"
Frodo nodded, frowning a little. This, he'd not expected; he thought she'd had her fill of yelling about Sam. "Yes, Sam Gamgee," he said slowly.
She clucked her tongue. "Awfully young, isn't he, to be taking up such a large position?"
Frodo shrugged. "He's young, sure, but Sam knows his business. Hamfast taught him well, and there was no better gardener in the shire than the old Gaffer when he was in his prime. I've no doubts Sam will perform his duties just as admirably, once he finds his footing."
"Um-hmm," she sniffed, taking a sip at her tea. "His duties--and just what would those duties entail, if I might ask?"
"Well, Sam helps me about the smial, when I need it, and he does all the gardening, of course--Hamfast's hands just can't handle it anymore. His joints have gone too stiff."
"Ah, shame, shame," Lobelia said, her voice taking on a falsely sweet note. "And young Sam is the very best for the job, you decided?"
"Well, it only makes sense," Frodo said, feeling unbalanced. She was definitely driving at something, but Frodo hadn't the slightest idea what, and it was decidedly unnerving him; he was beginning to sincerely wish he HAD made Sam slip some brandy into his tea. "He's been training under his father for some time now, and no one knows the gardens at Bag End better than they do." He frowned again. "Lobelia, would you care to tell me exactly what it is about Sam that displeases you?"
She shrugged airily, clearly enjoying her little game. "Oh, it's not a matter of displeasure, Frodo--not for me, at any rate." She glanced at him slyly, and said, "I suppose what's important is that the lad pleases you."
Frodo felt the blood drain from his face, then come rushing back in a furious blush. He stood abruptly and glared. "Mistress Lobelia," he said, his voice icy. "If you have something to say about myself and my hired help, I would kindly ask you to speak plainly."
She stood and glared back at him haughtily. "Oh, come off it, Frodo!" she said. "It's plain as day. A lad his age? Strong, young--too innocent to know any better? Why not take him in? I'm sure he's just the right lad for the whims of the next Mad Baggins."
Frodo clenched his fists at his side. "Mistress," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "I would kindly ask you to leave, and leave now, if you are going to slander my name or Sam's by falsely accusing us of improper conduct."
She laughed. "Oh, honestly, Frodo!" she said contemptuously. "I've seen the way you stare at him. You truly think all of the shire doesn't know you're tupping the lad? Did you promise him a raise or simply tell him you'd fire him if he didn't--" she paused, then quoted, "'perform his duties'?"
"Lobelia. I must ask you to leave. Now." Frodo's voice was trembling with anger.
She crossed her arms. "I'm simply saying--"
"No," Frodo interrupted, holding up a hand. "I know perfectly well what you're saying, and I will not hear it said again. Sam is a good, respectable lad, and a hard worker, and if you honestly think I would take advantage of my position in such a fashion you are sorely mistaken." He bent and picked up her umbrella, then offered it to her. "Allow me to see you to the door."
She snatched the article from his hands. "There will be no need," she replied, then twirled and stormed from the parlor. A moment later he heard the front door slam shut.
He sighed and pressed a hand to his aching brow, flopping wearily back down into his chair.
"Definitely should have had that brandy," he muttered.
He'd not been careful. He'd hired Sam, without realizing how it might look--particularly with his history of living with Bilbo, the most mysterious and reclusive bachelor in the Shire. He knew there'd been talk, back when Bilbo had first taken on Hamfast as his gardener, and suddenly he wished he'd asked his cousin how he'd managed to silence it.
Of course, it would have been easier for Bilbo, because as far as Frodo knew there hadn't been a grain of truth in that situation. But now...
"I've seen the way you stare at him."
Frodo shook his head and groaned, leaning forward and dropping his face into his hands. He'd been an idiot, and selfish, and now Sam would suffer for it.
"Mister Frodo?"
Frodo's head snapped up at the hesitant sound of Sam's voice from the parlor doorway. The young gardener stood with one hand on the door frame, and concern was etched clearly on his face.
"Sam," Frodo said. "Come in."
Sam did so, treading carefully until he stood before his master, looking awkward. "Sir, I...I wanted to apologize for earlier," he said. "I meant her no disrespect, sir, honestly I didn't! It was just as...she was threatening..."
Frodo smiled and reached out to take Sam's hand in his. "Oh, Sam, don't worry about that," he said quickly. "You've done nothing wrong."
Sam's shoulders slumped with relief, and his smile was brilliant. "I thought maybe you was going to send me away," he said. "Mistress Lobelia said something about it when she was leaving, and I thought you'd said it to her."
Frodo winced, recalling her accusations, and realized he was still holding Sam's hand. He dropped it abruptly and looked down.
"Well...actually, Sam, I do need to speak with you."
Sam's smile vanished in an instant, and the worry returned. "Yes, sir?"
Frodo looked up at him, and gave him what he hoped passed for a smile. "Sit down," he said gently.
Sam did so, taking the seat Lobelia had occupied, and folded his hands nervously across his lap. He was tense, sitting on the very edge of the chair, and Frodo's smile was genuine this time. "Relax, Sam," he said. "You're not in trouble."
Sam smiled back, hesitant, but didn't seem any calmer. "What is it, sir?"
Frodo swallowed, wondering where to begin.
"Sam," he said finally, "there's something you deserve to know about. It's something Lobelia brought to my attention this morning."
Sam waited, quietly, his eyes trained intently on Frodo's, and Frodo had to look away from them before he could speak again.
"And I'll understand--once you hear about it--if you think it best to...find another position, elsewhere." He said the last in a rush, then glanced up to check Sam's face. The younger hobbit looked perplexed.
"Why would I do that, sir?" he asked.
Frodo shrugged. "You may decide it necessary," he fumbled for an explanation. "Sometimes...certain steps must be taken to...to assure that one does not lose a level of respect in the eyes of society."
Sam looked completely befuddled now, and Frodo sighed.
"Sam," he said. "There are...rumors...being spread about you and me."
Sam's face cleared suddenly. "Oh!" he said. "Is that what this is about, sir?"
Frodo was stunned. "You...know about them?" he sputtered.
Sam shrugged. "Oh, I've heard a thing or two, aye," he said. "But I never let it trouble me none. Folk'll always talk. I simply tell them the way of things, and if they don't want to believe it, then it's their own choice." He shrugged.
Frodo stared at him, quite at a loss for words. "Then it...doesn't bother you?"
"Begging your pardon, sir, and with all due respect, but I hardly see why it should. Myself, bedding with the likes of you?" he laughed. "I'm actually rather honored."
"Ho...honored?" Frodo asked weakly.
Sam shrugged. "Well, sir, you're the master of Bag End," he said. "A Baggins, even; no finer blood in the shire. And if you don't mind my saying, no finer looking hobbit in the shire, either." He waved a hand vaguely. "I can't say as I'm offended they think you'd be interested in tumbling someone like me."
Frodo gathered enough wits for a weak retort. "And just why wouldn't I be interested in...someone like you?"
Sam raised an eyebrow. "Me, sir?" he said. "Well, I'm a Gamgee--working class, like. Hardly proper Baggins material." His face was serious, but Frodo saw the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth and the mischievous sparkle in his eyes.
"Is that so?" Frodo returned, feeling the Brandybuck in him rise at the hint of the challenge. He leaned forward and took one of Sam's hands into his own. "These are certainly nice enough," he said, as though inspecting an item for purchase. "Very...strong." He traced the lines of Sam's palms with his fingertips, half of him not believing he was actually doing this, the other half thrilling at Sam's answering shiver.
"But dirty, sir," Sam answered, after swallowing. "Look at my fingernails. It's a disgrace for you to be touching them."
"Hmmm," Frodo hummed, inspecting the offending digits. "Then maybe I should...do something about that dirt." He leaned forward and drew one of Sam's hands up to his mouth, for a moment simply breathing on the fingertips.
"Sir," Sam whispered.
"Mmmm."
Sam's finger tasted better than Frodo would have thought, salty and sweet and bitter all at once, rough on his tongue. He closed his eyes and drew it deeper into his mouth, suckling as a calf on its mother's teat. He heard Sam shift in his chair, and the gasp that escaped his throat, and glanced up.
Sam was grinning, though his breathing was unusually fast for someone who had been doing nothing but sitting in a parlor chair for the last few minutes. Frodo withdrew his mouth and smiled back, fluttering his eyes down for a moment in a combination of bashfulness and the desire to feast on the sight of Sam's body. Though his eyes rested there for only a moment, he thought he noticed the front of Sam's breeches looking a little tighter than they had earlier.
Frodo looked back up, and ran his hands up Sam's forearms. "And these," he said, "are certainly lovely. I imagine any Baggins would be lucky to have a chance to be wrapped in arms as fine as these."
"Would you, now?" Sam murmured, tugging at Frodo's sleeves until the older hobbit left his own chair and crawled up into Sam's lap. Frodo felt suddenly a little shy at his boldness, and settled himself carefully back atop Sam's thighs, but Sam was having none of it. He wrapped his arms around Frodo's waist and before the older hobbit could react he found himself crushed to a broad and heaving chest, Sam's face buried at the crook of his neck. Frodo stiffened for only an instant before relaxing into the embrace, cradling Sam's head to him and hooking his legs through the open back of the chair so they dangled in the air. He could feel pressed to his thigh evidence of Sam's approval.
"Oh, sir, you do realize what this means, don't you?" Sam whispered after a moment, and all the teasing was gone from his voice, replaced with husky desire.
Frodo leaned back enough to look into Sam's face. "What's that, Sam?" he asked, unable to stop his hips from falling into a gentle pulsing rhythm against Sam's belly.
Sam swallowed audibly, then said, "It...it means we've gone and...and proven...oh, sir, that feels..."
Frodo grinned and leaned forward, pressing closer but slowing the motion a little to let Sam catch his wits. "What've we proven, Sam?"
"We've...gone and proven Mistress Lobelia right," he finished after a moment, opening his eyes to grin crookedly into Frodo's.
Frodo smiled slowly, then shook his head. "No," he said. "We haven't."
Sam raised his eyebrows. "We haven't?"
Frodo shook his head again. "She accused me of making this a part of your duties," he replied. "She figured I'd chosen to take you on because you...suited my tastes, as it were."
"You mean I don't?" Sam made a face of mock-hurt, and Frodo cuffed him lightly.
"You suit my tastes fine," he said. "But Sam..." he leaned back, and his eyes were suddenly a little uncertain. "You do know I would never force you into anything you didn't want to do, right?"
Sam answered by leaning up and pressing his lips firmly to Frodo's for the first time. Frodo sighed and melted into the kiss, letting his hips begin their rocking once more.
They kept this up for some time, kissing and rocking together--Sam's arousal pressed just beneath Frodo's, and Frodo ground himself onto it, relishing the hot flashes of lust that swelled through his groin.
Then Sam did something of which Frodo approved highly. He slid his hips forward in the chair a little and spread his legs, and Frodo settled instantly between them. Frodo discovered that, while sitting atop Sam's want had felt lovely, sitting with his own pressed firmly against it was simply beyond comparison. He let his head tilt back, and a soft "Oh," escaped his parted lips.
Sam apparently wasn't satisfied; he reached around to cup Frodo's backside in his large hands and pulled him forward, his hips somewhat clumsily resuming the rocking motion of before.
"Ah," Frodo gasped, and endeavored to assist Sam with this wonderful new idea of his. He had more leverage when he leaned forward, his hands on Sam's shoulders; he found he could drag his entire torso up and down Sam's, maximizing the contact and the pressure.
Sam's eyes fluttered and closed, and a deep groan issued from his throat.
Frodo, much as he was enjoying the current pastime, quickly decided it could be made better still. His hand drifted down to rest atop his trouser lacings, fluttering teasingly over the length of his arousal. He moaned at the feel of his own fingers; oh, he wanted Sam to feel this good, too.
He pushed his hand down between their legs and cupped his palm over the heated bulge in Sam's trousers, rubbing firmly and forcing his eyes open to watch Sam's face.
Sam's mouth was hanging open, his brows drawn and his eyes closed. No sound issued from his mouth save the occasional shuddering gasps, so forceful they were nearly whimpers. Frodo made a choked sound and tore at their trouser lacings, unable to bear the confinement any longer, wanting desperately to feel Sam without layers of fabric between them.
Sam opened his eyes and watched dazedly as Frodo freed first Sam, then himself. Their heated flesh, flushed and already gleaming at the tips with the first heady drops of passion, finally pressed together completely. Frodo kept his eyes on Sam's and reached down, wrapping his hand around them both in a tight grip and thrusting himself slowly and seductively into it. Sam's head fell back and his eyes rolled white; a soft whisper of "Oh..." escaped his lips. His legs fell open even further, and his hips worked with Frodo's, thrusting steadily and evenly.
Frodo rode the motion gracefully, his back arching and his hand squeezing and caressing with ever-increasing speed. He threw his head back as the sensations gathering tight and wonderful in the base of his spine. "Oh, Sam, so close..." he breathed.
Sam's almost-whimpers had turned to grunts that sounded with each rhythmic thrust. "Uh," he replied. "Me...uh...too...uh...Fr--nnngh. Oh. Oh."
Frodo felt his hand join in, and they worked together, pulling and straining up, up...harder, just a little more, harder--
--until Sam's hips finally snapped up and he cried out, and Frodo's fingers were coated with spurts of liquid heat.
The sight, the feel, the sound and smell of it--all of it sent Frodo careening violently towards his own dramatic finish.
"Ggnnnuuuh!" a strangled noise escaped his throat, and then he was spilling into Sam's broad, clever hand, his own working faster than ever as his hips pumped a few last desperate times. "Sam!"
"Oh," Sam whispered in response.
Long moments passed before the shudders finally died down, and Frodo slumped forward against Sam's chest, exhausted. Without really meaning to, the exhausted and deliciously sated pair slid from their somewhat precarious perch on the chair down to the thick parlor rug, Sam sprawled carelessly half atop his master. Frodo wrapped himself around the gardener, his legs curled around one of Sam's thighs and his arms cradling the curly head to his breast.
"I was planning to invite you to have lunch with me today," he commented after a time. "But I rather liked your idea better."
Sam laughed. "My idea?" he asked, raising his head to look amusedly into Frodo's face. "Begging your pardon, sir, but it was you as started sucking on my fingers."
"Well, sure," Frodo said. "But you were all but asking me to. 'Oh, Mr. Frodo, look how dirty my fingernails are!'"
Sam leaned down and nipped his neck in retaliation. "You'll pay for that one," he commented mildly.
"Glad to," Frodo said, a pleased smile spreading on his face as Sam licked at the spot too soothe it.
"Actually," Sam said after a time, raising his head--Frodo stifled his noise of protest. "If we're to be completely honest, it was Miss Lobelia's idea."
Frodo groaned and threw an arm across his face. "Oh, Sam, you had to bring her up," he groused. "And here I thought I was going to be good for another go. You've quite killed the mood, my dearest."
Sam smiled at him fondly. "Then let me see if I can't revive it again," he said, softly, and set to work at Frodo's shirt buttons.
Frodo relaxed under his ministrations, and thought to himself that as long as it was Sam leaning over him, Sam's hands on him, Sam's mouth driving him senseless, then not even the thought of his horrible relatives could ruin things--and Lobelia could watch through the window for all he cared.
And, he admitted, arching and crying out as Sam's teeth closed over a nipple, she did have a pretty good idea.
* * *
D3 trilliah 2 w 2 F3 Oh Sam ߲@ 2 2
2 A
@ ! 2 H3 Fitted to Love, rated NC-17I3 Um, did I mention that Pippin is very....inspiring?
Name: Ruby Nye
Title: Fitted to Love
Challenge: First Line Challenge
Word Count: 4589
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Frodo/Merry and Boromir/Pippin
Other Pairings: Merry/Pippin; Frodo/Merry/Pippin; Boromir/Merry[/Pippin]; Frodo/Sam
Warnings: interspecies, nonmonogamy, bossy halflings
Summary: Frodo and Merry, and Pippin and Boromir, converse regarding the younger hobbits' relationship with the Man of Gondor.
"Pippin," said Frodo disapprovingly, "I do wish you wouldn't use that kind of language."
Pippin opened his mouth to protest, but it was Merry who replied, "What language, Frodo? Pip was merely speaking like a soldier."
"Which he is not, Meriadoc, and neither are you." Frodo set down his bowl and folded his arms; jaw jutting, Merry matched his stubborn expression, and Pippin rolled his eyes, which meant that he saw Sam notice that Frodo had stopped eating. "Oh, we're in for it now," Pippin muttered to himself as Sam lidded the kettle and came over to check on his master, just in time to hear Merry say, "what of it? Boromir's been teaching us how to handle a sword!"
"Indeed he has," said Frodo, raising an eyebrow. "You and Pippin seem quite taken with Lord Boromir of Gondor." Sam stood over them now, looking disconcertedly from Frodo to Merry; when Sam's gaze turned to him Pippin gave an elaborate shrug for reply and kept eating. The stew was good----Sam had made it, after all----and the dinner entertainment looked ripe indeed, if Pippin could keep himself out of the quarrel.
"Why should we not be fond of Boromir?" Merry retorted. "He's been kind and warm to us, and he seems so..." Merry trailed off, and Pippin put in, "alone, somehow," before remembering, as Frodo's eyes turned to him, that he had intended to stay out of it. Frodo tilted his head skeptically, and Pippin swallowed, thinking in for a farthing, in for the whole, and squared his shoulders. "He's a great and lordly Man, but, well, he so often seems alone, and unlike Aragorn I think he minds it. He's not like us, we have each other, and he's not like Legolas and Gimli, bickering like a gaffer and gammer wed fifty years and loving every moment of it." That made Frodo smile and unfold his arms, and Merry and Sam laugh; Pippin continued, as Sam set Frodo's bowl in his hands, "Boromir misses his City and his people and his brother. He speaks of them to us, a great deal."
Merry nodded. "He does. And besides, when he talks to us, he doesn't, well..."
"Well, what?" Frodo asked, spoon paused in midair; Sam frowned as the spoon and its load went back in the bowl. "He doesn't stare at me so? Yes, Merry, I know. I know the Ring calls to him."
Well, that's unfair, Pippin thought, chest burning. "But that's not his fault! Didn't It enspell his ancestor, that King Isildur?" Frodo opened his mouth to reply, but, finding that Sam had placed his spoon back in his hand, put that into his mouth instead as he nodded. Sam took advantage of the pause to put in, "Mr. Merry, Mr. Pippin, Lord Boromir is indeed a mighty man and a kindly one, but, begging your pardon, I've also seen how he looks at Mr. Frodo, and I don't trust him. King Isildur was a forebear of Aragorn's too, yet he don't look so...well, he don't follow the Ring, and Mr. Frodo, with his eyes that way."
"All the more reason for us to be Boromir's friends," Merry said eagerly. "We can keep his mind from It."
"That you can," Frodo agreed, taking another bite of stew. "And, yes, Pippin, I know what this Ring does. I suppose, well, the best thing for Boromir right now is you two creatures." Pippin smiled, pleased despite himself by Frodo's approval; Frodo licked the spoon, looked at it and sidelong at Sam, and licked it again in a way that made Sam blush pink and Merry and Pippin laugh. "Teaching you how to handle a sword, you said? No wonder you two have shared his bedroll since Hollin."
Pippin had no reply to that, as he'd shoved both hands into his mouth and was laughing so hard he fell against Merry, who was near convulsing, arms wrapped round his stomach; when Pippin had recovered enough to pry open his eyes he found Sam open-mouthed with shock, staring at them. "Mr. Frodo, you don't mean, they can't be, I mean, he's a Man, would it fit?"
"Oh, Sam!" Clutching each other, Merry and Pippin fell over giggling; "Oh, Sam!" was all Frodo managed before he had to hold himself up with one arm as he shook helplessly with laughter. Sam turned red as a beet as he sat down, then threw an arm round Frodo and laughed till the tears sprang to his eyes.
"What in all the Shire, Pippin!" Merry spluttered; Pippin smiled sweetly at him and said, "Ah, but Merry, we're no longer in the Shire," and all Merry could do was sigh. "I know, Pip. But still---"
"What Sam said got me to wondering," Pippin explained, as if it were all plain and easy. "Haven't you ever wondered?"
"Yes, and then I think about how my arse would ache! Lawks, Pip, you won't be able to walk! If you can even convince him."
"Oh, I can convince him." Pippin waggled his eyebrows just so, that mischievous expression that had led Merry into a thousand scrapes and been worth it every time, and kissed Merry warmly. "Keep Frodo and Sam warm for me?" With that Pippin vanished between the grey-boled trees, and Merry sighed, and shook his head, and couldn't keep from smiling at the blood-heating image in his mind.
When he returned to the firelight Frodo sat up, asking, "Merry, where's Pippin?" and Aragorn turned to hear the answer. Merry jerked his head towards the woods; Aragorn saw that gesture, and Boromir's shield and bed-roll lying beside Pippin's pack, and rolled his eyes so that Merry nearly giggled. Frodo followed Merry's glance to the same abandoned gear, and for a moment amusement and concern warred on his face; amusement won, and he vainly tried to stifle his laughter with his hand. Merry shushed Frodo as he knelt beside him, pressing his hand over Frodo's mouth, giggling himself when Frodo pulled him into the bedroll to pull the blanket over his head. "Shush yourself, you daft Brandybuck!" Frodo scolded as Merry thrashed with smothered laughter. "I can't believe you let Pippin go after Boromir!"
"Let him?" Merry answered, still giggling. "Let him? When was the last time we successfully stopped Pippin from doing anything he truly cared to?"
"Or having anyone." Frodo nodded, a hundred memories in his eyes, as he snuggled in with Merry, swathing them both in the bedroll. Across the fire, Gimli and Legolas settled down with much cheerful bickering, while Sam and Aragorn spoke softly. "So have you two been lying with Boromir," Frodo asked, "or did I plant a perilous seed in Pippin's mind?"
"Frodo Baggins, you may be old but I'm in my prime," Merry said, and laughed through his yelp when Frodo punched his shoulder. "How could we not tumble with Boromir? Look at him, he's magnificent! Those eyes, those shoulders!"
"I would have thought he'd have seen you as children," Frodo replied archly, and Merry grinned, squirming closer so his nose brushed dark curls. "Oh, we've convinced him we're grown, well enough," he murmured into Frodo's ear, then licked said ear; Frodo laughed quietly, breathlessly, pushing at Merry's shoulder. "Merry, the whole Company will hear, they need their sleep and their peace."
"They won't hear if you keep quiet," Merry retorted; Frodo's eyes widened, and he opened his mouth, but all he managed was "mmph" when Merry kissed him with rather more tongue than lip.
A soft chuckle over their heads resolved into Sam, kneeling by them, smiling. "Well, Mr. Merry, you have my thanks for making sure Mr. Frodo stays warm while I'm on watch, but please kindly do let him have a spot of sleep." Frodo smiled, reaching up for Sam's hand; Merry laughed brightly and nodded, and Sam warmly brushed a hand over their brows before he left.
"He's right, Merry," said Frodo, "we ought to sleep, we have a long day ahead on the River." Even so, he didn't seem as if he believed his own words, trembling in Merry's arms, so Merry shook his head and kissed him again. "A little tumble will do you good, Frodo. We don't know what tomorrow will bring us anymore. We might as well have some sweetness while we can."
When he heard his own words, Merry's heart ached; the ache grew at the look in Frodo's eyes, gone shadowed even in the firelight. "Who told you that, Merry?" Frodo asked, hand gentle on his cheek; Merry kissed the heel of that hand and whispered, "Pippin did," and the pain in Frodo's eyes echoed his, he knew, as Frodo clenched his other hand in Merry's hair and kissed him fiercely.
Boromir groaned above him, and Pippin would have smiled, but, well, his mouth was rather full, and so were his hands, sliding up and down. One of Boromir's hands lay on Pippin's head, not pressing down, just cradling it in firm warmth as he sat against a tree, watching Pippin stroking and sucking him. Pippin pulled his head up, making a wet popping sound as he pulled his mouth off; as he wiggled his jaw back into joint he looked up, and smiled at the wonder and disbelief in Boromir's eyes. "Like this?" he inquired, punctuating his question with a lick; Boromir groaned again, trembling down to the ends of the fingers in Pippin's hair, and Pippin laid wet smacking kisses to the head of his prick, pumping with his hands all the while. Boromir shook more and more, a growl rumbling in his chest; Pippin tasted sweet salt, judged the moment right, and let go to sit back on his heels. "Well? Will you tup me, then?"
Boromir gasped, and opened his eyes wide, and growled thrillingly. "You, you, wicked mite of a halfling, I---" Pippin laughed, then squealed as Boromir grasped his upper arms and lifted him clear off the ground, and Boromir grinned at Pippin's expression and swung him up over his head. "I should hold you here half the night," Boromir threatened, nuzzling Pippin's belly, brushing Pippin's prick and eggs most tantalizingly with his beard. "Put you through a tithe of the torments you visit upon me."
"Torments?" Pippin retorted, voice hitching, as Boromir wrapped that large hot tongue around him. Oh, Pippin thought at the writhing, enveloping feel of it, and belatedly realized he'd said it, that he was moaning aloud, his head tilted back, stars winking through the branches of the trees above them. The night breeze skittered across Pippin's skin, but he'd tumbled outside on cooler nights than this, and Boromir's hands were so warm around his arms, Boromir's hair around his fingers, Boromir's mouth around his prick...Pippin closed his eyes and brushed Boromir's sides with his foot-fur and was rewarded with a moan he could feel, and moaned in response.
Boromir pushed him higher and away; Pippin gasped at the loss of contact. "Not so loud, little Pippin!" Boromir hissed, and Pippin indignantly struggled to draw breath to defend his stature, but Boromir lowered him to his chest and wrapped those massive arms around him as he kissed him, and there were far more important things to do than talk.
"I wish we might be out of these clothes," Frodo murmured in Merry's ear between licks. "I remember the feel of your skin against mine. I miss it."
Merry sighed and nodded, trembling as Frodo's tongue traced a hot damp script on his ear; his hand wandered down from Frodo's jaw, tracing over the slender neck his lips remembered, pushing the collars of tunic and overtunic down as he sought the hollow between the elegant collarbones---
Frodo froze, his hand clamping round Merry's wrist, his entire body rigid. Gasping with shock, Merry looked up into eyes gone opaque as slate; then the terrible moment passed, but in its wake Frodo closed his eyes, turning his head away, and Merry understood, and could have cursed aloud. "Frodo, I'm---"
"No, Merry, I'm sorry. I, It---" with an effort, Frodo turned his eyes to Merry's again, bringing Merry's hand up to kiss the palm and lay it on his cheek. "Merry. You shouldn't be here."
"But I am, Frodo. I'm here to help you. Let me, please?" Merry looked up into Frodo's distant eyes, watching unknown thoughts flicker behind them, trembling with a sudden fear he could hardly define; then those eyes saw him again, and Frodo smiled at him, and Merry's chest unclenched. "What would I have done without you, Merry?" Frodo asked warmly, and Merry relaxed, melding his body to Frodo's again as he kissed him for reply. Moving his lips over Frodo's just the way he recalled he liked, Merry tangled his legs through Frodo's, brushing his calves with his foot-curls, as he tucked a hand between their bodies. Frodo chuckled into the kiss, stroking a hand down across Merry's shoulder and chest and belly to unbutton him; finishing before Merry was half-done, Frodo wriggled clever fingers in to further wreck Merry's concentration.
"Mmm," Frodo murmured as he drew his mouth back from Merry's, "if we do this together we will make noise. And you're going to pull off my buttons before you manage to undo them." Merry tried to laugh, but when Frodo twisted his hand just so, fire crackled up Merry's spine as he went fully hard, and the giggle came out a gasp. "Why don't I calm you down a bit," Frodo murmured against Merry's throat, nipping gently, "and then you can make sure I get some sleep?" Merry nodded slowly, pulling his cheek along Frodo's as he did so, feeling the warmth of Frodo's skin before he fastened their mouths together again; Frodo brought both his hands to his task, stroking Merry's lip with his tongue, and Merry moaned into the kiss.
Pippin sat in Boromir's lap, Boromir's prick snug against the cleft of his rump; Boromir had his face cupped in one long-fingered hand, fingers stroking over Pippin's ear and through his hair, while the other hand pulled Pip tight against warm muscle overlain with pleasantly coarse hair. Pippin braced a foot on the tree behind them and wriggled against Boromir as he kissed him, chasing the larger tongue with his own until Boromir gasped and laughed and drew back.
"Ah, Pippin." Boromir slid his hand up Pippin's back, cupped his face, held his gaze, and Pippin felt something glowing within him, deeper than want. "You undo me, my lad, you undo me. But why do you want us to do this? I fear hurting you. I fear Merry's wrath." They both smiled at that, and Pippin turned his head to kiss Boromir's palm, kissing a path up his longest finger. "Because I want to know," Pippin murmured against that hand. "Because you're the most lordly kissing-friend I've ever hand, the most majestic, and not just because you're so big." Boromir laughed quietly, gently stroking Pippin's curls. "Because I want to feel you till I can't feel anything else, not this night, not this wind, not my fear." Boromir's hand slid down Pippin's neck to his back again, pulling him close against his chest.. "Because you have the biggest cock I've ever seen, and I want a story to tell over a pint of ale when I get back home again."
Boromir laughed at that last, and pulled Pippin up for another kiss. "A story to tell over ale, indeed?" Boromir asked, eyes twinkling, as Pippin wound his arms round his neck and licked his nose. "Of a mighty beast and how you triumphed with only the strength in this slender frame?"
"Something like that," Pippin agreed, and kissed Boromir again.
Merry came gasping down from his peak with his face buried in Frodo's shoulder, pressed so tightly he could feel the fine hardness of the mithril through Frodo's shirt and weskit, but through all of those he could feel Frodo's warmth, and he smiled as soon as he could.
"Merry, Merry my dear." Frodo's free hand stroked his back. "Returned to me yet?"
"I don't know," Merry replied, turning his face so his lips nestled against the pulse that beat rapidly in Frodo's throat, belying his calm voice. "I seem to be floating." Frodo chuckled, and held him for a long warm moment before he said, "when you float back, might you pull a handkerchief out of my pocket?"
"As much as I would love to rummage your pocket," Merry replied, curling his hand around Frodo's wrist and drawing his hand up, "there are better ways to deal with this." He licked Frodo's palm, tasting bitterness and salt and life, watching Frodo's face as his eyelids drooped and he laughed breathlessly. "Oh, Merry, you'll get it all over us."
Merry shook his head, sucking on two of Frodo's fingers, undoing Frodo's buttons with his other hand as their peril swiftly grew. Frodo sighed with pleasure, but then his eyes snapped open, a wondering look in them. "Did you---no."
"Do we do this to Boromir? Ah, you are curious!" Merry laid a few final licks to Frodo's hand, watching a delightfully unusual blush spreading across Frodo's face, so deep it could be seen even in the dim firelight. "You should see how much there is when he peaks," Merry went on wickedly, and Frodo moaned, "Merry, stop it."
"And you should see Pippin with him." Merry said in a low hot voice, wrapping his hand round Frodo; Frodo shook his head, bracing himself with one hand, muttering, "I do not believe I am hearing this," but he twitched in Merry's hand, and his breath was coming fast. Merry licked his hot cheek, kissed his ear, kept murmuring. "The two of them, Pippin all enthusiasm and freckles, Boromir so tall and broad and furry like a Stoor, it's quite a sight."
"Meriadoc, I have to face him tomorrow," Frodo protested weakly; Merry nipped and stroked and persisted, warm with how roused he'd made Frodo, with naughtiness and triumph. "That pink rosebud mouth of Pippin's," Merry continued, smiling at Frodo's low moan, "remember how he looks with it wrapped around your prick? Think on that mouth around the head of a prick as much bigger as Boromir's is." Voice and body trembling, Frodo whimpered, "Merry, I do wish you wouldn't use that kind of language," and Merry laughed triumphantly and kissed him.
Pippin whimpered, so awash in sensation he could hardly tell pleasure from pain, swirling and crackling all through him. He lay on his back with Boromir curled around him, his head on Boromir's upper arm, one leg draped over Boromir's side and the other bent and braced against Boromir's thigh. Boromir was stroking Pippin's cheek with his thumb, watching his face, waiting as Pippin breathed deeply and clutched at the dry leaves beneath them and felt, just felt, three massive fingers within him. "Pippin," Boromir whispered. "How are you?"
"Agmph," Pippin said, then took a breath, the feel of being so filled jolting through him so that he gasped. Boromir stroked his cheek slowly, and Pippin drew another breath and struggled towards words. "Oh. I." He had to gasp again. "I think I can feel… feel them in back of my throat."
Boromir laughed softly, kissed Pippin's brow; Pippin dragged one of his hands up, over Boromir's shoulder, his corded neck, to tug him down for a kiss on the mouth. With Boromir's mouth muffling his, Pippin inhaled through his nose, and wriggled, and moaned as he impaled himself just a bit more, pain and pleasure chasing each other up his spine. Boromir tried to pull back, but Pippin clutched his rounded ear and hung on, moving his mouth beneath Boromir's to convince him he enjoyed this. After a moment, Boromir returned the kiss, curling his fingers a little, trembling when Pippin cried out with the overwhelming feel of it. "Pippin," Boromir whispered. "Are you sure?"
A bit too far gone to speak, Pippin pried open his eyes, rolling them eloquently, and Boromir smiled; Pippin gently brushed his foot-curls along the underside of Boromir's rigid cock, and grinned when Boromir trembled and closed his eyes, laughed breathlessly and shook his head. "Yes," Pippin managed to reply. "Sure as anything. Come here, come here!" He tugged at Boromir's shoulder, and Boromir opened his eyes wide and laughed and shook his head again. "Oh, no, Pippin. If we do this, you go on top. Merry would never forgive me if I brought his Pippin back flattened like a parchment."
Pippin had to laugh at that, and gripped Boromir's shoulder. Boromir tucked his hand beneath Pippin's back and rolled them over, not withdrawing his fingers, and Pippin gasped, sight blanking, feeling nothing for a moment but that fullness and stretch and, yes, pleasure; he came back to himself cradled against Boromir's chest, a peaked nipple beneath his cheek, and moved his face to mouth it and nip at it till Boromir growled and stroked his back gentle-roughly. "Pippin, you undo me," Boromir murmured, his hand firm on Pippin's waist; Pippin got his nearly-boneless legs beneath him and helped, as much as he could manage anyway all half-melted as he felt, as Boromir pushed him up and back.
"Ready?" Boromir whispered, and Pippin nodded, looking at his hand splayed on Boromir's belly, fingers framing a taut oval navel. Boromir pushed slowly, withdrawing his fingers----
Pippin had just time enough to cram his fist into his mouth to muffle his scream. Even the fingers hadn't readied him fully for the feel of it, white-hot pleasure, pain flickering along the edges. Groaning, Boromir pushed again, and Pippin really could feel him back of his throat, feel him everywhere, so full, past repleteness. The ache grew, and Pippin bit down on his fist, red pulsing behind his eyelids; then it began to fade, and Boromir lifted his other hand, still slick with salve, to stroke him gently, and moved just a little more, and nudged that spot, and the pleasure burnt away the last shreds of pain, flared so brightly through him Pippin was almost sure little wisps of fire danced on the ends of his fingers and toes.
"Pippin." His name in Boromir's voice, so low beyond the pounding of his heart he barely heard it; Pippin moaned in response, leaning back, and sank down another terribly wonderful inch, and their bodies were flush. Boromir held him up with one hand, the fingers of the other curled round him, chest heaving so that his every breath made Pippin moan and gasp. "Pippin?" Boromir repeated, want edged with worry.
"Ah. Yes." Pippin forced his eyelids up, found Boromir's eyes with his own, managed a smile. "Yes." He leaned forward a little, eyes clenching shut again, every motion sending waves of sensation pounding through him; his hands found Boromir's belly, stroked outward to his wrists, and Pippin leaned his weight on those wrists and slid up, dragging himself forward and off with lip-biting slowness, and pushed back down, and cried out as Boromir growled. "Yes," Boromir rumbled, pulling Pippin up again as Pip pushed, and this stroke was faster, and Pippin wailed and bit his fist again, leaning on one hand as he and Boromir matched thrusts. Up and down and up and up and up, and with a wholly unexpected, violent swiftness, Pippin peaked, feeling himself go up like dry tinder, consumed utterly.
When he could hear anything again beyond the roar of his own blood, Pippin felt, then heard, Boromir whimper; with some unmelted scrap of wit, he thought, did I do that? and sucked in a deep breath, feeling his face pressed to Boromir's chest, and smiled. "Oh, mighty Boromir," Pippin murmured, and Boromir shook with laughter and desire as he answered, "No, you are, you are, you undo me entirely. Can you bear more?"
"Yes, yes!" Pippin pushed himself up, winced in pain and pleasure mingled, pushed back. "In me, peak in me, I want you----"
"Ah, Pippin." Both hands on Pippin's waist now, Boromir pulled him up, pushed him down again; Pippin threw his head back as his spine whiplashed, wondered if one could die of sensation alone, thought it would be worth it. "Pippin, Pippin." Boromir's eyes were shut tight, as he chanted Pippin's name like a battle cry, like a song. "Pippin, Pip--ih--ah!" Clutching Pippin's waist, biting his lip, Boromir arched his back and peaked, and Pippin clutched Boromir's wrists and hung on, feeling the pulse of it inside him, shaking him all through.
"Oh." Pippin said in a small wondering voice, and collapsed onto Boromir, riding the waves of his deep breaths. After a moment to catch his own breath, Pippin started stroking Boromir's chest gently as his breathing slowed, till he chuckled and caught Pippin's hands with one of his own. "Ah," Boromir said at length. "Ah, Pippin. And how was?"
"More splendid than fireworks!" But the thought of fireworks brought Gandalf to mind, and all the bliss washing through Pippin just made more room for grief to flood in, so that he had to stifle a sob. "Pippin?" Boromir asked with worry, and he shook his head in reply. "Nothing. I'm fine. I'm better than fine! You're magnificent."
Boromir laughed warmly at that, stroking Pippin's back. "And you, my halfling, are magic. One day, after our task is done, I will bring you and Merry to my City, to be honored by my father and especially to meet my brother. He will love you."
"Is he like you?" Pippin pulled himself up Boromir's chest, pushed a little, came off with a wet sound that made them both laugh, and Boromir tangled a hand in his hair. "Faramir is like me, and is not. He is learned and wise, the scholar of our family; he will delight in meeting halflings out of distant legend, people he has only seen in his books."
"He will like Frodo, then, they can talk about old lore together." Pippin rubbed his cheek against Boromir's chest, feeling the sheen of glowing sweat on them starting to cool.
"They will talk well and deeply indeed, but Faramir will also be fond of you and Merry. I look forward to watching you two bring him laughter, gladden his heart." Boromir pulled Pippin further up and kissed him, stroking his cheek with his fingertips. "But for now, we should dress and go back to the others."
"In a moment, a moment. I feel all melted, I need to congeal." Pippin dramatically went limp over Boromir's chest, and Boromir laughed and kissed the top of his head, and they lay together as the wind gently brushed over them.
Snug with Frodo's arm round his waist, Merry's first reaction to the opening of the bedroll and the cold draft that woke him was to grumble, "Sam!" But a drowsy grunt from behind Frodo was Sam's answer, and the hobbit lain down before Merry was an already soundly sleeping Pippin. As he wrapped his arms round Pippin, who murmured faintly and curled up against his chest, Merry kindled comprehension in his sleep-clogged mind in time to open an eye and look up at Boromir kneeling beside them, hair rather disheveled even in the dim moonlight. "Hullo," Merry whispered, opening both eyes and smiling, but for a moment it seemed that Boromir's eyes glittered strangely, their gaze not on him nor on Pippin but on Frodo; just as Merry's smile was starting to fade, Boromir's gaze rested fondly on him, his answering smile wide and warm. "Goodnight," Boromir replied, and bent to kiss Merry and stroke his hair, before pulling the blankets back in place around the hobbits and stepping away. Warmed by Boromir's kiss and by Pippin in his arms, Merry nestled his face into Pippin's leaf-scented curls and sank back into sleep.J3 rubynye 2 l 2 L3 ruby A 2 2
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T7! 2 N3 DFor Never Was a Story of Less Woe - Hobbit Smut First Line ChallengeO3 qName: Lily Baggins
Title: For Never Was a Story of Less Woe
Challenge: Hobbit Smut First Line Challenge
Word Count: 2403
Rating: NC-17
Pairing/s: Frodo/Aragorn
Warning/s: Slash, Interspecies, Alternate Universe, Unabashed stealing from The Bard.
Summary: Yule time is here. The quest approaches. Wherefore art thou, Frodo?
Then, dreadful trumpet, sound the general doom!
For who is living, if those two are gone?
SCENE: Rivendell. A private place.
***
It had become a tradition at the Yuleday feast that Frodo Baggins would carve the roast fowl, but no one could have foreseen this catastrophe.
Every year in the Shire at Yule time, Frodo hosted a very special party at Bag End, replete with all the food and ale and merriment any hobbit could possibly want. Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took always traveled from their respective homes of Buckland and Tuckborough, bringing scads of ravenous relatives, and for many days before Yule and many days after, Frodo’s great smial would overflow with Tooks and Brandybucks and Gamgees and Cottons and Bolgers and all other manner of hobbit.
And Frodo, standing before the largest roast goose or pig---for one wouldn’t do, for so many hobbits---would give a small speech, and thank everyone for coming, and then hungry hobbits would feast and fill up the corners until their eyes nearly popped out. Traditionally, the evening ended with hot buttered rum and a naughty drinking game between Merry and Pippin, and all the very tipsy and sleepy hobbits would bed down for the night wherever they happened to fall. Except, of course, for those few who found favor with one another and stole down to the cellar or hid in the random cupboard or closet for a little nooky.
It was for this reason that Merry and Pippin, along with their faithful friend Samwise Gamgee, now searched frantically for their cousin Frodo among the various rooms and inhabitants of Rivendell.
Elrond, gracious host that he was, didn’t celebrate Yule as hobbits did, but as he was accounted among the very wisest of Middle-earth, the Lord of Imladris had familiarized himself with mortal customs and knew full well that the halflings would suffer a great disappointment if Yule passed unnoticed. Most especially because in a few short days Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin would embark upon a dark and dangerous journey from which they might never return.
So Elrond arranged for a raucous gathering in Bilbo’s chambers, complete with roast geese (one per hobbit), date stuffing, cranberries, glazed yams (approximately four per hobbit), pumpkin pie (one per hobbit---not piece, but pie), and more. Understandably, Sam insisted that his master be the one to carve the poultry, as tradition demanded. And understandably, Pippin’s stomach rumbled miserably, and so he and Merry were most eager to locate Frodo as soon as absolutely possible.
Merry and Pippin checked everywhere---the kitchens, the library, the gardens, the stables, the large dining rooms, the bathing rooms, under the beds, the Hall of Fire . . . and scratched their heads, wondering what indeed had befallen the younger Baggins.
“You know, Pip,” Merry said as both hobbits trudged wearily back inside the Last Homely House and glimpsed Arwen Undomiel gliding down a stairway and disappearing around a corner, “you mayn’t have noticed, but Frodo’s really been spending a lot of time with Strider lately. In fact, he was sitting on the man’s lap last night in the Hall of Fire. Perhaps we ought to check Strider’s room.”
Pippin shrugged, wondering why in Middle-earth Frodo would be in Strider’s room when succulent roast geese waited for him in Bilbo’s. “Well, all right, Mer, it’s worth a try, I suppose.”
Both hobbits took off directly to Aragorn’s chambers, hoping to find their cousin there. Strangely, however, much knocking brought no answer. Curious as always, and because he knew the doors to Rivendell to be extremely soundproof (as he’d attempted to eavesdrop enough now to figure that out) Pippin opened the heavy, ornate door a crack and poked his head in to have a look-see.
And screamed. Loudly.
For Aragorn, son of Arathorn, ranger of the North and heir to the throne of Gondor, lay cold, pale, and unmoving upon the leaf-strewn stone floor of his chambers. And atop his chest, limp fingers brushing a lock of the man’s dark hair, sprawled a motionless Frodo Baggins, the Ring-bearer. Frodo’s face bore a rictus of grief, and it was obvious, from his grayish pallor, that he had willingly joined his lover in death beyond the circles of the world.
***
SCENE: Far from Rivendell. A dense spot in the woods where naked lovers might cavort.
A hobbity giggle and a manly grunt and the crackling of a campfire broke the stillness of the cool night air.
“This,” Frodo said as he finally managed to kick his drawers and velvet breeches off over large furry feet, “may have been the best idea you’ve had since I met you in Bree.” Now completely naked, he arched his body upward, sighing in pleasure as two large callused hands landed upon his hipbones. Beyond the blanket he lay on, Frodo could hear the soft susurration of a waterfall and the occasional hoot of an owl.
Aragorn grinned and bent to bestow a kiss upon Frodo’s creamy belly. “To make love out here under the stars?”
“No.” Frodo scooted down and ran cool fingertips over the bulge straining at Aragorn’s leggings before working at the lacings with eager fingers. “I do enjoy this, but you know what I’m talking about. You and I, together for the rest of our lives, with no responsibilities and no one to answer to. The others think we’re pushing up daisies and yet here we are, engaging in a tumble. Or would be, if you’d help me get these blasted things off.”
Impatiently, Aragorn complied, allowing Frodo to slide the leggings down over lean thighs and toss them to the side, near the fire. A simmering pot hung over said fire, from which savory mushroomy smells emanated, and fresh coney meat roasted slowly on spits stuck into the ground high above the flames.
Frodo’s mouth watered, both at the prospect of supper and because of the firm, taut stomach and erect member staring him in the face. Sighing, he ran his fingers over Aragorn’s tanned chest and used his tongue to lavish extra attention on the dusky nipples buried in soft, curly hair. “It’s a very good thing you know your herb-lore, Aragorn. They simply thought you stopped your own heart out of total despair for our star-crossed love and doomed fate, and that I took poison in my grief. I don’t believe anyone suspected a thing.”
Aragorn groaned as his need grew ever more urgent. “Indeed . . . now you need not fear Bilbo’s reaction to our relationship, and Arwen will never know I planned to leave her for you.” He gently disengaged Frodo’s hands from his own body and attacked the hobbit’s vulnerable neck, now bare of its silver chain, with searching lips. “And you are free of your burden, Frodo. You are free of the Ring.”
“Ah yes, the Ring.” Frodo moaned and arched so Aragorn’s hungry mouth could access him more easily. “It feels glorious to be rid of it. They gave it to Merry, you know. I heard Lord Elrond as I came to inside my coffin.” He shuddered as if with cold, grasping at the man for warmth. “That wasn’t fun, I’ll admit, waking in that lined box, and dressed in a most uncomfortable suit at that. I still don’t know how the elves could think I looked good in that color.”
“Aye. But Gandalf’s idea to suggest our coffins be displayed in one of the great halls for a time worked perfectly. Once he cleared the area, we were able to make our escape in the darkness of night with no one else the wiser.”
“When did you have time to go back for Anduril?”
At this, Aragorn raised an eyebrow, never stopping his sucking and licking and other ministrations upon the pliable and ever-moving flesh and fur and curls and cock beneath him. “I did not. It was lying upon my chest when I woke.”
“Ahhhh. You know, I suppose we could have just run away, without going to all this trouble.”
“And eluded them for a time, perhaps. Until Elrond raised the winds or water, trapping us within the boundaries of Rivendell. And then I have a distinct feeling you would have been sent on the quest wearing a chastity belt to match your mithril coat."
“Very true,” Frodo said as he reached up between his lover’s legs and grasped the silky sac there. A slight rubbing with his thumb in just the right spot produced a strained, breathy noise from Aragorn. “But what if someone opens our coffins and sees that our bodies are gone?”
“Ah . . . they will not. Would you want to look at us?” Rising up a bit, Aragorn languidly spread the hobbit’s thighs, which glowed pale and slick in the firelight. “Truly, Frodo, Gandalf told me he will ensure our coffins cannot be opened. Now . . . no more talk of death. I’ve something to take your worries away, I think.”
“Gandalf,” Frodo uttered, gasping as Aragorn’s moist, warm lips closed about his quivering shaft. “I will miss him, A---Aragorn . . . I just hope he u---oh!--understands. Oh, you’d better stop . . . I can’t bear much more before . . .”
Aragorn pulled his mouth away as Frodo wrapped sturdy legs about Aragorn’s middle and rubbed his heels against the man’s skin. “Frodo, this was Gandalf’s idea, if you recall. He knew Elrond would never allow me to shirk my destiny as king of Gondor. A role I never wanted to accept. And that you might lose your soul and sanity on the way to Mt. Doom. Gandalf understood these things and hoped to see us happy, love.”
“And I am.” Frodo drew the ranger down as their lips met again in a flurry of hunger and want. The delicious scent of manflesh and roasting meat and mushrooms wafted through the air, and from the corner of his eye, Frodo could see sparks flying from the kindling. Aragorn’s rough woolen blanket scratched at his bottom and the ranger’s nearly-as-wooly chest scratched at his top, and Frodo knew he needed nothing and no one else, ever, but Aragorn and this carefree life. “I am happy, Aragorn . . . please . . . I need you now.”
“Yes, yes . . . let me . . . ” Aragorn urgently reached into the pack lying next to them and fumbled around for a moment. “I know I packed it . . .”
Leaning up on his elbows, Frodo stared at the ranger, horrified. “Do not tell me you forgot it! Because we certainly can’t go back and get it! We’re supposed to be dead, remember?”
For a moment both held their breaths, then Aragorn triumphantly held up a small amber jar and began to pry the lid off. Taking a deep, relieved breath, Frodo settled back impatiently upon the blanket, legs still clinging to Aragorn’s waist. The fresh scent of peaches assailed Frodo as Aragorn dipped the salve out, and the hobbit spread his legs wider to allow man-sized slick fingers to slide in and ready his backside.
“Open for me, yes, that’s it.” With Frodo splayed before him, the ranger coated his own swollen manhood and poised himself at Frodo’s entrance, pushing in slowly. “I know all the lands of Middle-earth, Frodo,” Aragorn grunted as he progressed. “We can go somewhere distant, such as the Ered Luin, or perhaps even to Dunland or far Harad. No one will know where we are or who we are.”
“Faster, Aragorn.” Clutching at the man’s sweaty shoulders, Frodo panted and wriggled his bottom against the ground and rubbed his knees and toes along Aragorn’s muscled legs and backside. “Or I shall truly die, I promise you. Please, please. And I don’t know about Harad . . . isn’t it very hot there? I’d prefer to stay in the--the north, ah, if possible.”
With a last little thrust, Aragorn slid all the way inside Frodo’s heat with a blissful sigh and Frodo groaned loudly with the pleasure and pain of the big man filling him up. As one, they began to rock together, teeth clenched and muscles stretching and chests heaving and buttocks tensing.
“I feel,” Frodo gasped, his dark eyebrows quirking together, “a bit-uh-guilty. Here my kinsmen-uh-are about to-uh-go on a dark, doomed-uh-journey, and I’m-uh-making love to you-uh-out in the middle-uh-of the for-uh-est.”
Grimacing, Aragorn fought for breath, concentrating on the rhythm as he stroked the hobbit’s stiff shaft, tipped by a glimmering drop of dew, between them. “Frodo. Do you really want to be on a long, tiresome---”
But the man’s words sped to an abrupt halt as the familiar wave of pulling ecstasy took Frodo and Aragorn both upon its crest, hot seed spilling within and without. As their motion died down, Frodo yawned, suddenly sleepy, and Aragorn embraced his lover and buried his face in Frodo’s curls. A moment later, the ranger resumed his speech.
“---tiresome journey with a cranky wizard; a quarrelling elf and dwarf; a stubborn, ill-tempered human; a halfling servant who dogs your every move; and two of your kin who complain constantly about their aching feet and empty stomachs? And just imagine, all while traversing icy mountains and the sharp rocks of the Emyn Muil.”
“Oh, no, no.” Frodo shook his head adamantly, massaging Aragorn’s smooth, damp shoulders and back. “I carried that lousy piece of gold for seventeen years and endured a nasty wound for it, too. Let someone else have the blasted Ring.”
“And I have fought man and beast and Orc for nearly seventy years to keep these lands safe. I have paid my dues, by the Valar, and I have multiple scars to prove it. I deserve rest and peace and quiet and sex, a lot of it.”
“Aragorn?”
“Yes, love?”
“Except for the fact that I wish I’d grabbed my mithril coat before we left, this was definitely the best thing we’ve ever done, you know.”
“I know. We shall be missed, but the others will find some peace in visiting our graves. I do believe they are planning to lay us side by side, if the marked-off areas we passed on the way out were any indication.”
“How dear of them. Aragorn?”
“Yes?”
“I hope you know how to make more salve.”
***
For never was a story of less woe,
Than this of Aragorn and his Frodo.
EndP3 lilybaggins\ 2 2 2 R@ 2 2
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" 2 R3 *Under a White Tower - First Line ChallengeS3 Name: Dana ()
Title: Under a White Tower
Challenge: First Line Challenge
Word Count: 3,290
Rating: R
Pairing: Merry/Pippin
Other Pairings: If you like, you can read the Frodo and Sam interaction as Frodo/Sam
Warnings: Interhobbit slash, angst
Summary: Some dance to remember, some dance to forget.
Notes: Well, here I am, and here's my fic. I'd like to thank both for the terrific beta (especially since I really don't know if she knows just how much I appreciate it - and believe me, it was needed) and , as well, for title and summary-related issues.
The White Tower of Ecthelion was neither the most impressive structure to be seen in Gondor, nor was it, actually, any longer truly white. In the light of the moon, it glowed softly grey.
Merry sighed.
"You're up past your bedtime, Master Brandybuck," Pippin said in a surprisingly sound imitation of Gandalf's gruff tones, and Merry jerked his head back, eyes wide and mouth agape, as Pippin grinned that cheeky grin of his and walked closer. His cousin sat at the other end of the bench, and Merry rolled his eyes, shutting his mouth and grinning and he reached out and clasped Pippin's wrist.
"You can sit closer if you'd like."
"Well," and Pippin tilted his head to the side, grinning still. "It just so happens that I would."
"Good," Merry grunted, giving a slight tug, and Pippin rose and took two steps, sitting down almost immediately right at Merry's side. "Much better," Merry said, then, and he grinned a proper grin as he kissed Pippin's cheek.
"You couldn't sleep," Pippin said.
"Astute observation, Pip," Merry softly snickered, and Pippin stuck his tongue out, then leaned in close and kissed Merry on the cheek. Merry turned his head, and he was looking right into Pippin's eyes.
"Will you tell me what's wrong?"
"Is being so blunt a part of your charm?"
"It always has been," Pippin chuckled. "So you couldn't have only noticed it now."
"I hadn't," Merry replied.
"But still," Pippin nodded, as if he could read Merry's mind. Maybe he could, Merry mused, and Pippin tilted his head and Merry bowed his gaze. He took hold of Pippin's hand, sighed, and let his thumb rub circles on Pippin's palm.
"We don't really have to talk."
"I know."
"But if you want to…"
"I know."
"Ah, Merry," and Merry felt Pippin's warmth when he leaned in close, lifting his gaze, eyes widening, when he found Pippin closer than just close. "I miss you."
"I miss you too," Merry replied, and Pippin's smile softened. He threaded his hand back in Merry's hair, and Merry closed his eyes, feeling Pippin's fingers curl and tug and hold on, as if he was trying to ground them both, feeling the shape of Pippin's mouth, parted, against his own. He shivered when he felt the brush of Pippin's lips, and he sighed and leaned in, pressing close, and they were silent for a long moment after that. Merry found that he was trying his hardest to taste the Shire in Pippin's kiss; something good, and sweet, and Pippin, too; not these new hobbits that they'd become, but what they should have still been.
Merry was sick of tasting ash.
He drew back, and Pippin did, too, and for a moment there, Merry was left wondering if he was sitting in the company of a stranger; but what a foolish thing to think, and he pushed that thought away. "When did you last kiss me like that?" Merry murmured, frowning softly, and Pippin leaned back, though his hand didn't lose purchase, resting lightly at Merry's ear.
"I can't for the life of me remember."
"Oh," Merry exhaled. "We should…"
"… do something about that, I think."
"Can't go forgetting such an important thing."
"No, no we can't."
"Just you, Pip. I didn't forget."
"True."
Merry nodded, wetting his lips, wet already with Pippin's kiss. Pippin's smile was too knowing, too gentle, and Merry wondered if this was his first time ever really seeing Pippin; maybe it wasn't that he was sitting with a stranger, but this hobbit that sat before him, in moonlight, with scars and almost sad smiles and eyes that were far too wise, certainly wasn't the Pippin that had been left behind. "We should," Merry said again, at a loss for any other words. "We should."
They kissed again, and the moon shifted, sliding slowly through the starry sky. When Merry drew back, and Pippin sighed, Pippin rose to his feet, and he grinned, extending his hand to Merry. Merry took it, and Pippin gave a gentle tug. Merry, curious, grinning as well, stood, and Pippin tilted his head.
"What were you doing, then, when I found you?"
"Just wondering," Merry murmured, absently shaking his head. "Why they call the tower white."
"Well," and Pippin drew Merry closer, stepping back as he did, and Merry's grin grew more and more amused as he followed after. The night air was cool and the scent of far off night blooming flowers seemed to cling to each breath. "It's white enough, wouldn't you say? The Off-Grey Tower of Ecthelion just isn't the same."
Merry laughed, and it came suddenly, bursting, and his shoulders were shaking almost violently as he tried to hold it back. But he couldn't, though, and he leaned into Pippin, muffled the explosion by pressing his face into Pippin's neck. And Pippin's hands were holding him up, one quick movement, sliding around Merry's waist. When Merry stilled, and his breathing calmed (and he blinked back tears that he couldn't explain), Pippin very softly kissed the crown of his head. When Merry drew back, he exhaled, and Pippin tilted his head. The concern in his eyes was a liquid thing and Merry felt it like a blow to the gut.
"Pippin, I – " Merry started, though he wasn't sure what it was that he wanted to say, and Pippin shook his head. Don't worry, he seemed to say, though it wasn't with any words. Too much had changed, too little had stayed the same.
"I'm taller than you," Pippin whispered, absently, and not what Merry had expected at all. Merry drew back, shaking his head, and he laughed again, though it wasn't near as forceful as it had been before; it was startling, laughing again, to notice just how much it had last hurt to laugh.
"You aren't at all."
"I am," Pippin replied, and Merry conceded that maybe Pippin was, but Merry would never admit to it out loud. "Really, Merry," Pippin urged, and it would have been right if Merry had laughed again, right then, though he didn't, and Merry was certain that Pippin understood. "I am."
"If you say so, Pip," Merry admitted with only the slightest hesitation, holding Pippin close, and by the stars, it felt good to have him right there wrapped in Merry's arms. Merry sighed, breathing in Pippin's scent, and he turned his head and gently nosed Pippin's curls.
"What are you looking for, Merry?"
"Just you," Merry murmured.
"I found you, too," Pippin echoed, and Merry kissed him, gently, tasting the soft salt of sweat on his skin. Pippin let his head loll back, and Merry reworked his mental image of Pippin, and it was better than just good to hold him, when there had been a possibility that he never would have held him again. He kissed his way to Pippin's jaw, and Pippin's head tilted back, and Pippin was grinning, almost smirking, and Merry let his head tip as their mouths worked their way back together.
They shifted on their feet, back and forth, and Merry clung to the warmth of Pippin's body. There was too much darkness in his mind, and it was no surprise that he hadn't been able to sleep, and he only wondered now what had woke Pippin, and why he had followed after. But they kissed again, instead, and Pippin laughed as Merry realized that it almost seemed as if they were dancing, albeit slowly, and under the moon and stars.
"Like the high lords and ladies do it," Pippin said, as if he knew what Merry was thinking, again, and they were dancing, they were, shifting carelessly, and it didn't seem to matter who was leading whom. Merry was reminded of the soft light of drifting fireflies, and he felt Pippin's breath buzzing at his ear, and Merry turned his face and sighed, leaning into Pippin. It felt as though the world was rocking, and underneath his feet chaos spread. They were sitting back on the bench before Merry was aware of it, and there was something hard choking him, something that he guessed was regret, and he blinked at the tears that wanted to form. Instead of frowning, he kissed Pippin once more. And they did kiss, so hard that Merry felt that he was disconnected from the rest of the world, and Pippin sat down, drawing back, and Merry followed after.
He turned, the bench chilling his leg, even through cloth, and he cupped Pippin's cheek. "Silence that drifted like the stars, and Pippin turned and kissed Merry's palm, folding Merry's hand between his own. He kissed Merry's wrist then, sucking lightly on delicate skin. Merry closed his eyes and felt his breath rushing, hard, like his blood. It was almost an insubstantial, only a slight pricking of pressure and the strangely soft edge of Pippin's bite, as Pippin's mouth seemed to work at stripping the flesh right from his bone.
"I miss you too," Pippin said after, and he looked up. What had changed, and what had they lost hold of? The moon was veiled for a long moment, and Merry's heart was thumping, heavy and hard and awkward, and he tilted his mouth to Pippin's, kissing, blind in the dark.
He stumbled, kissed Pippin's chin, first, but he found Pippin's mouth and he found that Pippin was warmer than even the chill of the night. "Should you be out of bed?" he gasped. Pippin laughed softly, and when his mouth touched the slope of skin between Merry's neck and shoulder, Merry nearly jerked right off the bench.
But Pippin was holding him down, and Merry hadn't thought that Pippin had such strong hands. He hadn't, though, though maybe that had changed. Pippin tilted his head up, and Merry caught the edge of Pippin's grin. The cool air was beating against suddenly flushed skin. "Or should I take you to mine instead."
Pippin slowly licked his lips. He gave no answer, burying his face back against the soft skin of Merry's neck. Merry tilted his head to the side, groaning. He gently (gently, he reminded himself) gripped Pippin's forearm with one hand, steadying himself with the other, palm against cold stone, fingers spread wide, and he hadn't noticed that the world was tilting until just then. Pippin's mouth was moving, yes, but it was agonizingly slow, and Merry felt his body living like it hadn't in forever, blood rushing beneath skin that was cool like the marble that they sat on. "Pippin," he groaned, eyes closing once more. Darkness, like the veiled sky. Pippin drew back, and his kisses were wet, still, and he then kissed the long curve of Merry's chin.
There was so much to miss. The night was very quiet and Pippin put one finger against his lips. "Shhh," he exhaled, and kissed Merry's jaw, back until he found Merry's mouth, and he latched on hard, kissing Merry with an open passion that Merry found that he had long since forgot.
He felt his bones waking, too, and it wasn't just blood, but his bones were aching, and he couldn't be sure if it was pain or something else instead. Pippin sucked on his tongue, slow and steady like a fire that was building, but like any fire, there was a chance that it would go out of control. It was odd, that Pippin could only touch him there, but it could affect him so. His trousers were too tight, and his palms were damp against the chill.
But Pippin didn't stop, not that Merry thought he would, and not that Merry wanted him to, either, so it was a moot point, in a way. He groaned into Pippin's mouth, and felt that reverberate back through his own. Pippin laughed and his tongue was slow but clever, and his mouth was sweet.
Merry had forgotten just how sweet.
Pippin was warmer when he finally did settle against Merry, sitting over his legs, and Merry felt that heat growing even further. He pulled at Pippin, snapping buttons when he could, and he buried his face against Pippin's neck, and kissed his throat. Pippin shivered, and Merry wondered if he was too cold. He wouldn't stay like that, not with Pippin being so warm.
"So hot," he whispered, and he sucked on soft flesh until Pippin whimpered, and it echoed in the small courtyard. Merry drew back, vision fogging, and he heard the flap of a night bird's wings. The moon was shining brightly and Pippin's eyes did, too.
"I forget you," Merry whispered. He traced a line down Pippin's cheek, and pushed at Pippin's collar. The skin there was smooth, but his finger ran over a scar. "We never have been modest, have we?"
Pippin grinned, but there was something in his eyes that hurt, though Merry couldn't tell. "Not that I remember."
They shed clothing quickly, exploring slowly, and it was half-delight and half-something that Merry guessed was morbid curiosity that fueled them, then, as they stripped each other, almost methodic and completely unhurried. There was a scar on Pippin's chest, a ridge of hard flesh that cut across softer skin. Merry followed the line of it with his forefinger, and Pippin touched the dark scar on his brow. Pippin bent and kissed him there, pushing back hair and spreading his fingers back and through Merry's curls. He was still, and the air was beating, and Merry bent his neck and kissed the salt off Pippin's shoulder. Another scar, there, and Pippin jerked when he touched it.
Sensitive, that one, and Pippin didn't have to say again. Merry touched it, and his mouth seemed reverent, and he didn't realize it at first, but he was pushing Pippin back until Pippin was left there lying on the bench. "I miss you," he said again, and he wanted to forget tall white towers, and scars, and the shadows in his mind, and wanted to only kiss Pippin instead. He did, and he felt that heat again, fighting against the chill that Merry had not noticed return. Pippin's mouth seemed to curl slowly around his own, and he gasped and shuddered. It wasn't only Pippin's mouth that was working on him, but Pippin's hands as well.
Merry broke back, almost choking, his eyes wide. His legs were straining, holding the world up, and not just his own weight, and his hands were planting at the edge of the bench. The air was chill but it was nothing that could withstand Pippin's heat. One hand curled lightly at Merry's neck, and teased free Merry's trousers, and reached for the flesh inside.
Merry's head jerked and his back arched and he moaned with such need that he nearly felt shame. Pippin's lashes were dark against his cheeks, and his skin was too pale, like moonlight, and his mouth was yielding, open and Merry uttered soft, small sounds of delight. Pippin's hand worked him, stroking hard and then incredibly soft, and the muscles in Merry's legs were aching. He bent his legs, his knees touching stone, and he almost felt that it would cut right into him. He would break. Pippin's hand was too much, and his mouth was too inviting.
They kissed, because that was all that was left, and Merry was thrusting slowly into Pippin's fist. This was no burden that he would carry alone. He sank into Pippin's heat, and closed his eyes, and he breathed in, touched and tasted, only Pippin, and when he came, when he knew the heat had returned, because it spilled and wet Pippin's hand and stomach, he felt that he'd collapse.
"Pippin," he gasped, legs buckling. He collapsed against Pippin, because he couldn't help it, and there wasn't anything left to hold him up, and he was shaking, clutching at Pippin, and he wasn't sure he was crying even when he knew that that had to be his own tears sliding down his cheeks, wetting Pippin's chin.
It was awkward feeling, though he wasn't sure if it was the fact that he was crying so freely, or if it was because it was Pippin who was holding him, but Pippin did hold him, and Merry cried until it seemed that all his tears had at last dried. He felt alive, and it felt odd, and he wondered if his heart might just burst. "I love you, you know," Pippin said, and he kissed tears off Merry's cheek. They sat slowly, and they managed to do it without falling, and Merry held tighter to Pippin, and Pippin to Merry. The moon was like a ship adrift in the sea of the sky ahead.
"I want to go home," Merry said, surprising even himself when their silence was disturbed.
"We will," and Pippin kissed his cheek, his chin, and then his lips. Merry blinked, and they kissed longer, harder, and he touched both of Pippin's cheek, a slow caress.
"Do you – "
But he didn't know what he was asking, though Pippin did, and Pippin grinned and Merry slid one hand down Pippin's side. There was a point right there between Pippin's hip and stomach where he found a sticky spot that had dried, and Merry rubbed it with his thumb, looking up and into Pippin's eyes. He smiled, shaking his head, and he couldn't help but softly laugh and sigh.
"If you'd like it, I think that we should go and make use of that bed of yours, Merry," Pippin said, with only half a grin.
"Oh, I would," Merry replied, glad that Pippin knew what he had been wanting to say, and they kissed again. Though Pippin redid the ties of Merry's trousers, and he straightened his own, his own shirt was left hanging open. "I wouldn't want to wake our cousin, though, or poor old Sam."
"I fear more that we would wake Gandalf," Pippin said mournfully, and Merry shook with helpless laughter, and he smiled, he really did smile, and Pippin soon followed after, grinning and laughing as well. After, though, when Pippin was pressed close, and Merry could feel all the changed line of his body pressed against his own, Pippin said right against Merry's ear: "Could you sleep now, do you think?"
"Not right yet," Merry replied, grinning, and he stood, knowing that he could only go forward, and that he wouldn't have to be alone. He grinned, and Pippin followed after, and they went back into the house together, leaving the moon to drift through the lonesome sea of stars, and though they tried their hardest, they couldn't keep all of their laughter to themselves.
"Did you sleep well, Mr Frodo?" Sam asked.
"I did," and Frodo turned and looked at Merry and Pippin, who were fussing over each other's breakfast and most certainly paying attention to nothing more than that, and he shook his head and almost smiled. "I had the most wonderful dream."
"And what was that, sir?" Sam asked, and his hand curled over Frodo's.
Frodo didn't look up, at least not at first, looking at the differences in their hands, instead. "They can still laugh," Frodo said, amazed, looking up at length. His expression was unguarded, and it wasn't that he smiled, but it was close enough for Sam.
No matter how much something might change, he still knew Merry and Pippin, and Frodo still knew that these cousins were his own, beloved and dear. If Sam had been his strength, then these two would be his hope.
Frodo took Sam's hand, and kissed it, and color stained Sam's cheeks. "As they ought to," Sam mumbled, and Frodo, sitting in the light of this new day, grinned.T3 danachan 2 2 V3 courage @ 2 2
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KUDOS to all of the participants so far in the "First Line" Challenge on the fabulous list of fics that you have provided for the community readers and watchers (and, incidentally, each other!) I don't know about you, but I am still reading through the list!!! It is terrific to have such a bounty of excellent stories to enjoy and...lick...and drool on! Ahem.
And those of you still writing and polishing, we are all eagerly awaiting your posts!!!
*hopes everyone is having as much fun as I am*[3
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^ ! 2 _3 *Fic: Topography Lessons, Frodo/Faramir, R`3 ~Name:
Title: Topography Lessons
Challenge: Hobbit Smut First Line Challenge
Word Count: 2,692
Rating: R
Pairing/s: Frodo/Faramir
Other pairing/s: None
Warning/s: AU, interspecies slash, 100% fluff
Summary: In Minas Tirith, Frodo and Faramir are preparing for a journey north.
Notes: Thanks, , for a great beta! Loved all your suggestions even though they made me think :-)
Topography Lessons
“You did what to your quill?”
“Easy, Man of Gondor,” Frodo said in his best stern voice as he climbed onto the bed and knelt by Faramir’s side, pulling back the sheet. “You know it’s time for your lesson.”
The muffled sound might have been an obscure Numenorean oath and it might have been a groan, but the words weren’t important for Faramir had begun to wriggle. Frodo laid one hand on his back and reached for his freshly-sharpened quill with the other, rolling it between his fingers before setting down on the bed within easy reach. “Remember what I told you the last time? It will go ill with you if you wiggle about too much.”
At that, Faramir lifted his head from where it had been buried in his pillow and said, “And it will go ill with you, halfling, if you draw blood.”
Frodo pushed Faramir’s head back against the pillow, threading his fingers through his lover’s hair and stroking his scalp with the tips of his fingers, pressing just so. When Faramir groaned, Frodo smiled and straddled the man’s back. He said softly, “I don’t believe you’ve had reason to complain before. And anyway, you must concentrate tonight for I will be testing you on our previous lessons. After all, we leave in a few days for the north and you must be prepared.” Frodo tapped one finger on Faramir’s back for emphasis, though of course he meant it in an encouraging manner. After a wordless grumble reached him, he added, “Though I expect we’ll find time for a few lessons during the journey.”
A brief laugh, the kind that reliably caused certain portions of Frodo’s anatomy to lift and swell, told Frodo that his pupil was growing more amenable to the night’s activities. And a good thing, too, for it was true that soon they would be leaving Minas Tirith and the lands familiar to Faramir, eager though he was to set out.
As Frodo scooted lower and perched on Faramir’s nicely rounded bottom, he pulled off his nightshirt and tossed it to the foot of the bed. Wouldn’t want it to get soiled, now would he? Plus it wasn’t really very fair of him to be clothed when Faramir was not.
He took a moment to adjust to the cool air on his skin though he knew that the heat from Faramir’s body would soon be more than enough to warm them both. It already was—how warm the backs of his thighs were growing and what a lovely cushion he had to sit on, one that provided just the right amount of support, firm yet yielding. An altogether excellent position from which to survey the landscape rolling out before him, all its hills and valleys and the occasional peak (not to mention freckle) open at once to his gaze.
“Oh, bother,” Frodo said.
“What’s wrong?” Faramir murmured.
“I forgot the oil.”
“That won’t do.” Faramir reached over to the bedside table and handed it back to Frodo. He smiled at Frodo with that lazy tilt at the corners of his mouth, that particular and private curve which had the same reliable effect on Frodo that his laughter did.
For a moment, Frodo thought perhaps the lesson could be postponed. The warm and liquid heaviness between his thighs was pulling at his attention; Faramir’s laughter had started it, but his smile and his naked body saw to its increase. But Frodo was nothing if not a slave to duty so he shook his mind (if not body) free and concentrated on the task at hand.
He uncorked the little earthenware flask and tipped its neck, pouring a thin stream of pale yellow oil down Faramir’s spine. “Ah, that’s got your attention,” he murmured for Faramir shivered as the cool oil fell on his skin, pooling at the small of his back. “Don’t worry, it’ll warm soon.”
To make sure it did, Frodo placed both hands on Faramir’s back. With his fingers splayed, he spread the oil so that soon it formed a warm, slick surface, and then he slid back a little to ensure full coverage of Faramir’s bottom since it wouldn’t do to ignore such an important landmark.
“There,” Frodo said as he surveyed his human manuscript and took a deep breath for he needed to test the aromatic reaction of this new oil upon Faramir’s skin. Perfect. It had no scent of its own and Frodo breathed in the clean smell of beloved flesh. Rather like the finest freshly risen dough with an undertone of something earthier that always reminded him of mushrooms. “Ready for your lesson?”
“Oh, I don’t think you’ve got it all spread evenly. Perhaps a little more?”
“Hmph. You won’t get round me that way. I wasn’t born yesterday.”
But it did work since Frodo rather enjoyed having his hands on Faramir’s skin. Truth to tell, he wasn’t picky about which portion of Faramir’s body, though each part had its own unique attractions, not to mention that breathing in rising dough always made him itch to form it with his hands. So back to work he went, each knead of his fingers eliciting a moan and a twitch of Faramir’s hips. For some reason, every movement of Faramir’s pulled an equal response from Frodo’s hips.
Nevertheless, there was a lesson to be taught and tested, so after a few minutes Frodo stopped again and wiped his hands on the sheet. He held up his right hand and looked at his finger. Though he’d not thought of it before, the truth was that all these lessons, with the needed preparation of the ground of Faramir’s back, was having a beneficial effect on his injury. The scarring wasn’t as bright red as it had been, though Frodo suspected that probably had more to do with the passing of time. But the skin wasn’t pulled so tight any more, and that was a relief to him.
“Do I get my lesson?” Faramir deliberately used the low voice that made Frodo want to abandon the lesson before it had even begun. Drat the man.
“You do indeed. I was woolgathering for a minute.”
“Were you?”
“Mm hmm.” Frodo picked up the quill and touched the point lightly just above the cleft of Faramir’s bottom and drew it up the length of his spine, veering to the right up and over his shoulder blade. He was so delicate and deft in the flick of his wrist that only the barest tip of the pointed end scratched along Faramir’s skin. Even so, the effect was instantaneous and loud.
“You’ll be the death of me, hobbit,” Faramir said in a growly voice as a shudder ran through him from the top of his head to the soles of his bald feet.
“But won’t you enjoy it? Though if you keep wriggling around like that, I shall have to tie you up.”
“You’re still holding a grudge for what I did at Henneth Annun, aren’t you?” Faramir tried to keep the teasing growl in his voice, but Frodo heard the plaintive strain creep in.
“Shall I stop, then?” Frodo held the quill poised above Faramir’s shoulder blades, just low enough that when he blew out a puff of air, the feathers brushed against Faramir’s skin. Oh, my. How quickly the goose flesh appeared, and what sharp angles Faramir’s shoulder blades formed when he pushed up like that. Frodo approved of Faramir pushing up on general principle.
“Not much I can do about it, is there, now that you’ve caught me like a coney.”
Taking that as a “Why, no, Frodo, please don’t stop,” Frodo settled in for the lesson.
“In that case, what did I draw?”
“What, the test comes first? That seems most unworthy of you. I would never spring such a thing upon my men without fair warning.”
“Wouldn’t you? You are a noble creature.” Another tap on Faramir’s back was needed, and Frodo rendered it with brisk efficiency before continuing. “But I’m the teacher here, and you’ve had several lessons already. This material is not new. Answer the question ... if you can.”
A pronounced silence was all the answer Frodo received though he could practically hear Faramir sifting through all the possibilities. Probably rather embarrassing for him, too, considering his proven abilities and experience in Ithilien. Having an essentially merciful nature, Frodo drew the quill straight across Faramir’s back just above his waist, or at least as straight as the sinuous undulations of Faramir’s body would permit.
“Ah, I have that one! The East Road,” Faramir said, turning his head to grin at Frodo. “Have I hit the mark?”
Frodo leaned forward and kissed him. It was just a quick one, such a light brushing thing of lips and tongues that they both gave a little sigh in unison when Frodo pulled back.
But lessons must be seen through to the end, so Frodo positioned his quill for another stroke. “Perhaps these will give you more clues to the first line.” Before setting point to flesh, Frodo slid back again for he needed the complete expanse of Faramir’s bottom to complete his lines accurately. Plus he had another question ready for Faramir and did not wish to be bucked off, especially considering that the last time he’d landed in a disgruntled heap on the floor.
Frodo drew two quick neat strokes, each one angled over the curve of Faramir’s rump, each one beginning at that point where the first line and the East Road met and diverging from there. Faramir tensed. Well, after all Frodo had posed the same question before so he could understand well why the man had to gird himself for the ordeal.
Frodo swished the feathers back and forth between the angle formed by the new lines before insinuating it between the cleft of Faramir’s cheeks.
“For pity’s sake, Frodo! Give me some relief!”
Yes, Frodo had been wise to reposition himself at the tops of Faramir’s thighs. “Very well,” he said, continuing to stroke the landscape and at the same time enjoying the man’s writhing against the sheets. Enjoying it very much indeed. “But what is it?”
“Nnggh ... farthing ... mmmph ...”
“Which one?”
What a nice contrast the quill’s black feathers made against Faramir’s pale bottom.
“SOUTH!”
Frodo raised the quill. “Very good though of course more than a little obvious, especially to one so learned in reading maps as you are.”
How nicely Faramir panted.
“Would you like a reward?” Frodo asked. It was quite a good thing that the Shire’s hills did not heave in such a manner, though he also thought it might be amusing to see the Sackville-Bagginses trying to keep to their feet under such conditions.
“Yes, please.”
Such a polite man. Always happy to oblige him, Frodo scooted forward, just enough to slide the tip of his cock between Faramir’s cheeks and wriggle it back and forth a bit. Just to keep himself warm. Not to mention hard. Deliciously, turgidly, gloriously, demandingly and most definitely increasingly hard. A satisfying groan from Faramir that, judging from a frantic circular grinding against the mattress, seemed to emanate directly from his sadly neglected cock reminded Frodo that this map continued on Faramir’s chest.
But first another question or two, though Frodo set down the quill as these particular questions required the greater intimacy of flesh against flesh. Thumbs were needed, and thumbs were pressed into those two generous dimples just above Faramir’s bottom. Oh, yes, the dough was well-risen indeed in this man.
Pressing harder with his left thumb, circling round and round, Frodo leaned forward, draping himself over the curve of Faramir’s bottom and asking, “And this is?”
“Tuckborough,” Faramir whispered, holding his body stock still.
“And this one?”
“Mmphghfhwhkjdhahhj ... Pincushion?”
“Certainly not. Pin-CUP is much too far to the west. Not to mention that it’s in the South Farthing and your dimple is not. Try again. I shan’t let you up until you get it right.”
As good-natured as Faramir was, even he had a point beyond which his patience was overturned, and which, strangely enough, seemed to be related to the effect of rubbing his cock against the smooth sheets without any relief. Be that as it may, he raised up and twisted round to look Frodo in the eye. “Halfling, I am a patient man. However ...”
There was something about Faramir when he grew irritated that made Frodo’s cock twitch and pulse. Seeing the little smile on Faramir’s face quite convinced Frodo that the man had felt that and enjoyed it, though Frodo doubted that he’d admit it.
He said, “Well, it’s a different sort of landmark. I’d say that’s a stand of trees on the way to the Woody End.”
Faramir raised his eyebrows. “How did I miss that one?”
Hm, time to regain the control. Quick as only a hobbit can be, Frodo dug his fingers into Faramir’s ribs, whose response was rapid and violent. In no time, Faramir had twisted all the way round and Frodo lay prone on top of him, their parted cocks very obviously pleased at the reunion they were now having.
“Mm ...” Frodo murmured, his mouth muffled against Faramir’s chest as he pressed his bottom down and Faramir pressed his up—and wasn’t that just the best thing?. And oh, the hair that grew on the firm ground of Faramir’s chest was soft soft soft against Frodo’s cheek. “I wonder if I shall get lost again in the Old Forest.”
Faramir pulled him up and nibbled his neck. “Do not worry. I shall find you if you do. After all, did I not find you in Ithilien?”
The only sound other than a duet of sighs and moans was the quill slipping off the bed and clattering on the floor, but neither of them heard it. Not many sounds penetrated the Bonfire Glade, where indeed they had found each other.
After such an excellent lesson, they were both so drowsy and limp that neither of them had the energy to pull up the covers. Frodo lay sprawled across Faramir, his head pillowed on his lover’s shoulder and one leg thrown over his hips.
“What’s this?” Faramir murmured.
“I don’t know,” Frodo murmured back.
“I do not believe I recognize this particular landmark. Do open your eyes, my love.”
Frodo made the sacrifice and discovered what Faramir was considering—a milky pool filling Faramir’s navel and spreading round it.
“Is there a pond of some sort in the Old Forest?” Faramir asked, paddling one finger in it.
“No, I don’t think so,” Frodo answered and yawned. Teaching was such exhausting if agreeable work. “Though there is a marsh just south of the Forest.”
“Well, that can’t be it, and really, Frodo, you shouldn’t call your own seed a bog.”
Frodo leaned up for a kiss, the long and lazy kind where mouths and tongues slide against each other and are sloppy and sweet and go on and on. When he lay back down again, he said in a musing sort of tone, “Yes, you’re right about that and I think I have the answer, though it will mean a little more work for you tonight.”
“Why am I not surprised? Tell me.”
“It seems that the Withywindle has somehow become blocked. Perhaps beavers have been building a dam somewhere and Bombadil has not heard of it yet.”
“Bombadil?”
Frodo chuckled. “I’ll tell you about him once we’re on the road. But for now, get to work. This river needs to be put back in its proper course.”
Faramir dipped his finger in the little pool and then stopped. “I do not know the right direction.”
“Of course you don’t. I shall tell you.”
And so he did, though the telling actually involved quite a lot of showing and was the better for it, though the showing led to kissing and the kissing led to rubbing and the rubbing led to ... Before they knew it, the Withywindle was mysteriously dammed up into a pool again.
But they didn’t mind.
a3 baranduin 2 2 c3 omg wtf !11!!!!! w@ 2 2
۰&1" 2 F !
:" 2 e3 A Moonlit Memory (het)f3 Here concludes Ruby Nye's Pippinfest '04. I swear, I could pair him with nearly any character and he'd be up to the task. But then, paired our favorite Took with a, well, go read the story!
This is my last submission to the First Line challenge, and I promise to not be so ridiculously exuberant next time. (Unless folks want me to be.)
Name:
Title: A Moonlit Memory
Challenge: First Line Challenge
Word Count: 2,779
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Pippin/Diamond
Other Pairings: not really
Warnings: het, grass stains
Summary: "I wanted something to remember you by."
Notes: This is a prime example of not writing what you intended to write, and liking what you've written better. I had a long sweet first time scene planned; Diamond had other ideas.
"Pippin," said Frodo disapprovingly, "I do wish you wouldn't use that kind of language."
"What, Frodo, did I say something amiss?" Pippin replied, looking as innocent as he possibly could; beside Frodo, Merry hid his snicker in his mug. "I merely observed that you seem to have mislaid your warming-pan, is all."
Frodo really was trying hard to glare, but the effect was rather spoilt by the laughter shaking his shoulders. "He is hardly a warming pan, Pippin, he is a hobbit, and my dear friend, and he will return if he cares to. And you should be off before your sparkling lass leaves without you." Pippin jumped at that and glanced over his shoulder; Diamond was still talking to Gillyflower and Celandine, but she felt his gaze and tilted her head, just so, and the glance she threw from under her long auburn lashes made Pippin's breeches three sizes too tight. "Yes, well, goodnight," Pippin mumbled rapidly, leaving at almost a run, ignoring Merry's and Frodo's laughter behind him.
When Pippin reached her Diamond tucked her arm through his; it fit just perfectly, and her warmth radiated through her muslin sleeve like light through alabaster, making Pippin's skin prickle. Pippin glanced at her sidelong as they left the parlor, wondering what it was about this lass of the North-Tooks, that for the last year and more whenever the Jewels of Long Cleeve visited Great Smials he didn't see any other lasses. Diamond was fair, but Pippin found many tweenage lasses fair, and tween lads too for that matter; she was warm-looking and well-spoken and lively, and refreshingly unimpressed by rank or position, as befit a daughter of Hildibras Took, First Hobbit of Long Cleeve. And she climbed trees with the best of them, when her mother wasn't around.
Diamond returned his sidelong glance, her large brown eyes bottomless and warm as the two of them slipped into the dim hallway. Maybe it was those eyes, Pippin thought. So often, just when he had a quip ready, he looked into those eyes of Diamond's and forgot what he was going to say; they were tip-tilted and full of sense and secrets, as if Diamond thought more than she said. Pippin wondered what she thought now.
Just as he was about to ask, Diamond whispered, "We shouldn't go in the door; I'm in a little room behind my sisters', and I know Opal at least is in our quarters already. But my room has a window, if you're up for a little climb."
Pippin bowed grandly, and Diamond giggled. "My dear maiden, for a moment in your arms I would climb a mighty tower." Diamond giggled again, waving her hand dismissively, and tugged Pippin out a side door.
When they reached the windows of the North-Tooks' guest suite, Diamond looked up, then looked at Pippin, expecting him to climb up the bank, but he grinned, put both hands on her narrow waist, and lifted her up. His muscles screamed, but her delighted giggle was worth it, even when he staggered a bit and had to catch her under her rump; it was a nice soft warm rump. She giggled differently at that, and wiggled a little in his grasp as she grasped the windowsill.
Then she swore a word Pippin was surprised she knew, and dropped back into his arms, her sweet-scented hair spilling over his face. Diamond wrapped her arms round Pippin's neck, and her weight was warm and soft in his arms, and Pippin was so distracted that he forgot to ask why they weren't up in her room.
Diamond hadn't forgotten. "Emerald's asleep," she whispered, "In a chair by my bed, waiting for me. I can't believe her!" Her dark eyes flashed, and she pressed against him even though he'd put her down on her feet, and he could hardly care about where her sister was sleeping. "Why don't you go wake her up?" Pippin asked without thinking, his hands full of soft lass, soft hair, his head buzzing with her nearness. Diamond laughed, kissed his cheek, kissed his mouth. "That's why she's waiting, Pippin, she's supposed to catch me. Where else might we go?"
"Oh," said Pippin, not really answering. It was much more important to kiss her, taste the wine still on her lips and the sweetness of her tongue. Diamond kissed him back, tangled her tongue with his till he was hot all through and quite hard, then let go and giggled at his squeak of protest. "Well, then. How do we get to your room from here?"
"The shortest way's around the south slope." Diamond took his arm again, leaning on his shoulder, and they walked and climbed on through the moonlit night. Diamond leaned warmly on Pippin, and he turned his face into her hair whenever he could, torn between the delight of the walk and the desire to reach his room with her before his breeches' buttons gave way.
Around the same time as they reached the curved-in corner where the bank dropped sheer to the path again, a whippoorwill called, and for no particular reason it reminded Pippin of why this destination was no good either. "Blast it, Pervinca's in my room." Diamond stopped short, looked at him. "She met someone, she didn't want Mam or Pearl to catch her, so she asked me if she could borrow it." Diamond put her hands on her hips, narrowed her sparkling eyes. Pippin's breath caught in his throat, and he opened his eyes as wide as they'd go, hoped that look would work as well on a kissing-friend as it did on a sister or cousin.
Apparently, it did; Diamond sighed most attractively, smiled at him, looked around at the dim bend in the path that hid them in shadow. "No haystacks," she said under her breath, then grabbed Pippin by two fistfuls of shirt and braces and dropped herself against the wall, pulling him forward. "Well, then." She kissed him. "What's back of this?"
"'M not sure." Between the kisses and the journey and the heat pounding in his blood, Pippin wasn't quite sure of his own name. "Not anyone's quarters, I think."
"Good. Kiss me?" Diamond tilted her face up, Pippin smiled and obeyed, and she pulled him closer as she sucked on his lip, so he was pinning her to the near-vertical bank. Pippin felt his knees pressing into grass, and realized she was hitching her skirts up. "Here?" he gasped into her hair, pressing his face to her neck. She felt like a wriggling flower. "Here," she panted, and nipped the base of his ear, grabbing his hand and sliding it beneath her petticoats, beneath her naked smooth thigh; the feel of it, tender and hot, sent a pulsing jolt through him. "Hold me?" and she put her weight on his hand, and he pressed her into the bank to hold her, her breasts crushed against his chest, as she wound the other leg round his waist and her skirts settled round their hips.
"But---" Pippin's question paused for his gasp when Diamond pressed her face into his neck, hot wet tongue tracing along the vein. "Are you ready? I don't want you hurt."
Diamond chuckled, breath warm over his throat, even as she trembled, settling one foot against the small of his back. "I've been ready since you looked across the room at me with those green eyes, Pippin. Come here. Hold me up and I'll unbutton."
Pippin had wanted to unlace her, he remembered how sweet her little round breasts were, but her hand was so hot as it pressed between their bodies, and her mouth was so like demanding petals, stroking over and pressing into his, so he held her under both thighs, pressing his hands into her flesh, as she held him round his neck with one arm and unbuttoned him with the other. It took a little while, not least since twice he pushed forward to feel her better and she moaned and her hand slipped along his length, but she got his breeches open and tugged down around his hips, wrapped a hot little hand around his prick, giggled breathlessly when he jumped and moaned, stroked her thumb in a wicked circle to make him moan again.
"Diamond?" She turned her head, their noses bumped, her eyes fluttered open. "Diamond?" All Pippin could say was her name, but he put his question into it.
Diamond smiled with parted lips, tilted her head. "Tup me, Pippin," she growled. Pippin had never heard a lass growl like that before; it sent a wave of heat through him, made his knees weaken and his prick twitch in her hand. She grinned, tilted her head back, he buried his face in her neck as her hands slid up his back and he pressed forward, nudged between her inner petals, pushed.
She was ready, wet and hot, and Pippin pushed hard till their bodies slapped together, till Diamond clenched around him and her fingers tightened in his hair and she whimpered. "Mmrgh?" Pippin managed, and she laughed breathlessly. "No, good, it's good, you're good. Come on, Pippin, come on, sweetheart, come, oh, oh!" Not needing to be told twice, he did, sliding his hands further up her thighs, and she moaned against his throat and clutched his arm and he moaned in response. "Pippin," she breathed, that particular note in her voice, and he nuzzled desperately into her curls, along her cheek; she turned her head, and her quivering mouth met his again, and just in time too, he could already feel another quivering deep within her. He pushed forward, thrust harder, tilted her head back with the kiss, and she clenched around him again, a series of flutters stroking him, her entire body going rigid as she cried out.
Diamond's fire caught and crackled within Pippin, but he didn't want to be done yet, he wanted to feel her peak again. He stilled his hips and pulled his mouth from hers, and she gasped sweetly in his ear; he nuzzled into her curls, licked up along the curve of her ear, sucked the point into his mouth, hitched her up a bit higher. Knees trembling as if they were fastened with wax, Pippin bit his lip to concentrate, got his stronger hand beneath Diamond's lovely round rump, pressed harder against her to hold her up. She gasped, and he was afraid he was crushing her, but she laughed joyfully and licked his ear, then moaned questioningly as he drew his other hand up, across the impossibly soft skin of her thigh, up to cradle her belly. It was a little awkward, but so very worth it when he gently nudged her nub with his thumb and she cried out, her whole body trembling and tightening round him. Pippin chuckled breathlessly, did it again, and Diamond clutched his hair and urgently crushed his mouth to hers, moaning low in her throat. He wiggled his fingers over her navel, got a rhythm going with his thumb, carefully began thrusting again. Diamond's moans shaded higher and higher till she tore her mouth from his with a cry; Pippin's face slid across her cheek into the crook of her neck as she arched her back and tightened all her limbs around him and cried out something that possibly began as his name but slid up into a full-throated wail. Only feeling Diamond trembling all around him, submerged in her heat, hearing nothing but her voice in his ear and their hearts pounding in unison, Pippin let go with a wail of his own and pressed his cheek to hers and peaked.
As ever, it felt marvelous, burning pleasure all through his blood; it also quite melted his knees. "Oh," Diamond gasped, clutching his shoulders, turning her face to kiss his cheek, and Pippin managed just enough presence of mind to slide down so that he knelt with her in his lap, her skirts settling around them. "Oh," Pippin replied, leaning on her, feeling her heart still pounding as hard as his, her chest heaving against his, as they trembled together to a stop.
Pippin felt so delightfully boneless, Diamond warm in his arms, he thought he might never move again; but after a nice long moment of just holding each other as their breathing slowed, she suddenly whimpered and cried, "Oh, Pippin. I'm sorry!" Pippin jumped, and his head snapped up, and she looked at him, strangely distressed. "Sorry?" Pippin asked in befuddlement, putting a hand up to her cheek; at least she wasn't crying, he felt, stroking that cheek to check for tears and then again because it was soft and she smiled a little. "Sorry, Diamond? For what? Not this?" When she'd always been enthusiastic, ever since they'd become kissing-friends? Would he ever understand lasses?
Diamond smiled a little more, the moonlight on her face, and somehow, even though she was younger than he and sitting on his lap, she looked wise and mysterious and far away. "I screamed," she explained, and then she was giggling and pink. Was she flushed from tumbling, or blushing? Pippin couldn't tell, not that it mattered; Diamond was smiling again. Pippin laughed his relief, and kissed her, and said, "I like your screams."
"I hope no one heard us." But she was smiling still.
"I don't care." He kissed her again. "I never knew you were so wild. I like that too."
Now Diamond was blushing, and she hid her face in his shoulder. "I wanted to make sure of tonight," she said to his sleeve. "I wanted something to remember you by."
"Remember me by?" They were still entangled, sticky dampness between them; Pippin shifted a bit, but Diamond held him. "I don't know when I'll be back to Great Smials," she explained, still talking into his shoulder. "We're leaving tomorrow, I heard my father tell my mother. He sounded cross. I think he's quarreled with, with someone here."
"Oh. But what does that have to do with you?" Pippin stroked some bits of grass out of her hair, stroked her soft warm cheek. "You can still come visit. You can be my guest!"
Diamond smiled sadly, shook her head, pressed her face into his touch. "If you knew my Da better you wouldn't think so. Besides, I'm not a lad, to tromp around the Shire as I please." She raised her head to kiss his cheek, and he turned his face to catch her mouth. "And I want to remember you, Pippin of Great Smials. I'm...quite fond of you."
"I'm quite fond of you too, Diamond." The idea of not seeing her again seemed preposterously distant, with her sitting on his thighs, but her deep eyes still looked far too sad, so he kissed her again, and grinned at her when she smiled. "You must come back sometime." He punctuated that with just enough of a wiggle to make her gasp and laugh and kiss his nose. "If I can. Write me a letter or three?" Pippin nodded, and now she shifted a little. "I suppose we should be up. I must be heavy."
Pippin rolled his eyes and kissed her for a long moment, holding her mouth with his, her head with his hand. "You feel nice, Diamond. You feel lovely. Besides, if we stay like this just a bit longer I'll be up for more, if you'd like." Pippin waggled his eyebrows invitingly, tightening his arms around her; Diamond giggled, kissed him, and laid her head on his shoulder.
Some years later, Pippin stood in the large parlor of the North-Tooks' home at Long Cleeve, Hildibras expounding in his ear while the remaining Jewels stared at him. "I had always thought you a layabout, the runt of your family tree," Hildibras said proudly, and Pippin refrained from rolling his eyes, made himself smile as if he were being praised. "I even told your Da to keep you away from my daughters!. But just look at you now, tall and lordly, hero of the Battle of Bywater, savior of the Shire! Isn't Master Peregrin admirable, my girls?"
Pippin felt his face burn. Opal and Ruby nodded speechlessly, looking at Pippin as if they'd never seen him before, and he wanted to say to their silent awe, "I'm still the lad you knew!" But, then, he wasn't.
Diamond, however, looked up at him with deep brown eyes and a slow, warm smile. "Peregrin Took," she said. "I do believe I remember you, Master Pippin, even though you never wrote me."
Pippin gaped, and then blushed, and then laughed. Diamond laughed, too, and tucked her arm into his, and for all of his new height it still fit perfectly as it ever did.g3 rubynye 2 , 2 2 @ 2 2
_" 2 G #
# 2 i3 Good Advicej3 Author: Keye
Title: Good Advice
Challenge: Hobbit Smut First Line Challenge
Word Count: 5500 (limit exceeded with permission)
Rating: R
Pairings: Frodo/Sam, Pippin/Merry implied
Warnings: Slash, Not Terribly Smutty
Summary: Pip has a problem.
Notes: Pre-quest. Shire year 1414.
Thank you to the wonderful pwsbPanthael for a most helpful beta, and to my dear Gypsy for unwavering encouragement.
It had been an utterly boring Solmath, until Pippin arrived from Great Smials – very unexpectedly and behaving very oddly, even for Pip. Frodo brought him in out of the cold and sat him down at the kitchen hearth, and there he sat, saying nothing. Frodo prepared them tea and biscuits, then settled beside him in front of the fire. “Do they know you’re here, Pippin?”
Pippin shivered and shrugged, shook his head and then nodded. “I left a note for Vinca to find. She’ll tell everyone.”
Frodo left him in his coat for the time being but pulled off his mitts and chafed his cold hands. “You didn’t walk all the way… ”
Pippin looked up at him, rosy cheeked and wide eyed. “I rode Wimsey.”
Frodo put a cup of hot tea into his hands. “I hope you took care of her.”
Pippin nodded emphatically.
Frodo nodded. “Good lad.” He supposed it could be worse. If Pal and Auntie Eg were concerned, they would send someone to check. More likely they were glad to let him deal with it, whatever it was. Frodo poured a cup of tea for himself then slipped an arm around his cousin’s shoulders. “Alright then, Pip, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
The lad looked at him, and looked away. “Merry went home.”
Frodo supposed Merry had to do that now and again. “Why didn’t you go with him?”
Pippin pursed his lips and stuck out his pointed chin. “We had a fight.”
“Ah, I see.”
Pip apparently thought otherwise. “You don’t!”
Frodo stared into those flashing green eyes until they were abruptly averted. He sighed. “Then you’d better tell me all about it.”
“I can’t.”
Frodo patiently pressed him. “What did you fight about?”
“I don’t know… “
“Pip… ” Tears welled up in the lad’s eyes. Frodo gently rubbed his arm, and waited for him to come out with it, which he did at last in a breathy rush.
“I don’t know why, he was just angry, and it wasn’t my fault!”
Which really didn’t get them much of anywhere. As a prelude to starting again, Frodo picked up the plate of biscuits and offered it.
Pippin looked at it with big, sad eyes. “I’m not hungry.”
That was a shock. Frodo pressed his palm to the lad’s brow. “Are you ill, Pip?” He hadn’t thought of that, and didn’t like to.
But Pippin shook his head. “Frodo… where’s Sam? I thought he would be here.”
With regret, Frodo said, “Sam’s in Bywater, helping them shovel out the smials along the north lane.” The Shire was in a hard winter and Sam had been away much more than home these past weeks, out working to keep the roads cleared so food and other necessities could be delivered to where they were needed. Sam had spent most of the previous week out Needlehole way, helping shore up a row of grain silos that were in danger of collapse from the heavy snow. He’d only been back from that two days and they’d had little time to even talk, with Sam exhausted and he busy doing his part as he could. “He’ll be back later, Pip.”
Pippin sighed and went on sitting there, shivering, staring into the fire.
Frodo set down his tea and stood. “Come on, Pippin. Let’s get you into some warm, dry clothes. I suppose you didn’t bring anything of your own.”
Pippin just shook his head.
Frodo laid a hand on his shoulder to get him up but he wrapped his arms around his middle and wouldn’t be budged.
“My stomach hurts.”
Frodo knelt in front of him, maybe not such a good idea on second thought. “Are you going to be sick?” He shook his head again, but didn’t look altogether sure of it. Frodo moved to lay a hand on his knee. “Would you like to lie down, Pip?”
The lad dodged his touch with a shiver. “I want to wait here.”
Wait? For Sam? It pleased Frodo when he could help his young cousins with their problems. But he couldn’t help if Pip wouldn’t tell him what the problem was. He pushed himself to his feet and took down a lamp to light. “I’ll get you something to change into.” The lad just sat there, waiting.
Frodo passed the study on his way down the hall and quickly stopped in. He’d left candles burning and papers scattered over the desktop. He’d been working on a plan for distributing the surplus stored in Bag End’s cellars. He’d meant to go down the hill later and talk to Clematis Bolger about setting up a town meeting. It was important, but it could wait another day. He placed his quill back in its well and snuffed the candles.
The bedroom was cold and dark. Sam had left very early that morning, after getting home late the night before and nearly falling asleep in his supper. He’d slept deeply, limp and heavy in Frodo’s arms, but still managed to be awake when he needed to be, to get back to work. Frodo had been restless and wakeful all night himself. He was still restless inside, lonely and wanting Sam.
At least Pip might take his mind off all that. Frodo picked out clothes for the lad from his own dresser, then went back to the kitchen and laid them there beside him. Pippin looked up at him with a remorseful expression.
“I didn’t mean to be snippy to you, Fro.”
Frodo gave him a willing smile. “It’s alright, Pip. Is your stomach hurting still?”
Pippin heaved a sigh and nodded. “I think it wants food.”
Frodo thought so too. “I’ll fix us something. You get changed.”
Frodo had no intention of watching him do that, but ended up standing with an armload of potatoes in the pantry doorway just staring, as the lad went to great lengths to maneuver a change of clothing without showing even a sliver of bare skin. Pip being modest? It was unheard of. He finished at last and turned with a sheepish look, his hair sticking out in all the wrong places and his shirttails hanging. Frodo couldn’t help smiling. “You’re a sight, Pip.”
Pippin dragged his fingers through his hair. “Is that better?”
Frodo valiantly stifled a need to laugh. “Better.” He put down what he was carrying on the table and turned to see about firing up the cookstove. Pippin came and plopped himself down at the table to watch.
“Frodo… why does Merry have to be so stubborn and pig headed?”
That was quite the question. “Pig headed? You are upset with him, aren’t you?”
Pippin’s mouth dropped open. “I am not! He’s upset with me. And I didn’t do anything… ”
That last declaration faded into uncertainty. Frodo let Pippin think about it while he got a fire going in the stove. When he turned from it at last, the lad was looking hopelessly forlorn. “Pip.” He sat down across from his young cousin at the table. “I think you need to tell me exactly what you both said to each other, then we’ll see what needs to be done to make it right.”
Pippin squirmed, dropping his eyes. “I can’t!” He folded his arms on the table and buried his face, and that was that.
With his patience just a little bit tried, Frodo got up and set about heating a pan and dicing a slab of bacon. The lad would feel better once he was fed.
Pippin raised his head finally. “Fro… when do you think Sam will be back?”
Frodo quietly sighed. “Probably not until after dark, Pip.”
Pippin sighed, not at all quietly, and went back to his vigil.
***
Sam stopped at Number 3 long enough to let his Gaffer know what the news was from Bywater, to say the road was clear but if the wind picked up it would be drifted over again before long. It was only the middle of afternoon but he’d wrenched his shoulder and rather than risk making it worse and being unable to work for days, he’d put down his shovel early. The Gaffer shook his head at the weather and gave him a bottle of liniment for his shoulder. Marigold gave him a basket of fresh baked muffins and told him to get some rest. To make her happy, he said he would.
Rest wasn’t exactly what Sam had in mind though. He climbed the Hill with no other thought in his head than having the evening to spend with Frodo. They were both deserving of a little time for each other. The road was icy in places, and narrowed by snowdrifts on either side. Bag End was near buried, all shut up and cozy. Frodo would be in the study, writing by candlelight, those eyes of his bright and intent as he worked. Or he’d be thoughtfully pondering some weighty matter, slowly brushing his quill feather back and forth over those lips. It was enough to put a smile on Sam’s face, and make him grateful for a sore shoulder.
A smell of bacon frying came to him as he quietly closed the front door and leaned his tools in a corner out of the way. Just in time for tea, and Frodo was cooking. He eased out of his coat and hung it up, his stomach rumbling. His smile widened. He went silently, thinking he might catch Frodo in a hug if his back was turned. And Frodo’s back was turned, his attention set on stirring a sizzling pan on the stove, but he wasn’t alone. Master Pippin was there, sitting at the table looking pitiful. So much for surprising Frodo with a cuddle.
Sam stepped into the kitchen, letting himself be heard. Frodo turned and met his eyes with a warm, welcoming smile and more relief than seemed warranted. Master Pippin looked around and brightened several shades. Sam gave him a pleasant nod. “Master Pippin. Have they got the road from Tuckborough cleared already?”
The lad promptly launched into a report of his trip. “The road was terrible, Sam! Have you ever seen so much snow all at once? And they’ve no place to shovel it to but alongside the way. It was like riding through a tunnel made of cloud with the sky all gray, and Wimsey didn’t like the drifts at all. I had to get down and talk her through them and my toes were freezing.” He stopped for a second to get a breath. “It was hard but we just kept going and we finally got here.”
Sam was sympathetic. “Sounds like it’s a lucky thing you made it, sir. Is Master Merry not with you then?”
The lad went from excitement over his adventure getting there to looking pitiful again, in a blink.
Frodo said, “They had a fight.”
Well, that was nothing new. Master Pippin looked Sam directly in the eye for a moment, a look that said there was a tale to be told, but he made no move to tell it. Sam went to the stove to see what Frodo was cooking, and Frodo gave him a discreetly exasperated look.
“Did you get the north smials dug out?”
Sam tried to sound easy and reassuring. “Nay, they’re still at work on it. I threw my shoulder a bit, so I left off. That last snowfall was a wet, heavy one and it looks like more coming.”
Frodo moved toward him, reaching out, then stopped himself. “How bad is it, Sam?”
Sam was mostly sure Master Pippin knew all about them, but Frodo wasn’t so sure and never liked them being too touchy when his cousins were around, Pippin especially. “Nay, Mister Frodo, just a stitch. But I’d not like it getting worse if a few hours off it might help.” Frodo didn’t look at all reassured. Sam took out the liniment and showed it to him. “The Gaffer gave me something for it.”
Frodo’s brows went up, both of them thinking the same thing at the same time, liniment and bare skin and Frodo’s fingers.
In danger of blushing, Sam half turned away and set his basket on the table. Master Pippin watched them, too interested. Sam pushed the basket of muffins toward him. “My Goldy must have had a sign you were here, sir.”
The lad actually hesitated, then lifted the cloth and took one. “Thank you, Sam.”
Sam smiled and nodded, and turned to get his hands washed at the pump. “I’ll do that for you, Mister Frodo. Bacon and taters, is it? I’ll chop an onion to go in.”
Frodo was quick to protest. “No, Sam. You’re hurt.”
Sam smiled at him gently. “Not so as I can’t cook, sir. You should go and have a quiet talk with your cousin.”
Frodo glanced back at Pippin, who seemed intent on stuffing himself with muffin crumbs. “I think it’s you Pip’s wanting to talk to, Sam.” Pippin raised his head with an expectant look. Frodo laid down the wooden spoon he was using. “I think I will turn this over to you. I need to go and see Clematis Bolger about that meeting.”
Sam couldn’t help being disappointed, and surely showing it. “You’ll stay and have tea first?”
Frodo put on a smile. “I think I’d like to just get it done. It shouldn’t take very long.”
Sam caught his eye and held it. “You dress warm, and tread careful.”
Frodo answered his unspoken regret with understanding. “I will, Sam.” He seemed to want to say more but finally turned away and just went.
Sam listened to the sounds of him in the front hall getting dressed, and the door opening and closing at last, then gave young Master Pippin his attention. “Would you like to help me, sir?” The lad dusted the crumbs from his hands and got up to come around and join him at the board. Sam pumped up water so he could wash his hands and then put him to work chopping onions. Sam finished cutting the taters Frodo had started, saying nothing, letting him come to it on his own.
“Sam… do you think Merry is stubborn and pig headed?”
Sam gave him a sidelong glance. “That’s not a fair thing for you to be asking me, Master Pippin.” Not that he didn’t, or that the lad didn’t know so.
“He is. I’m twenty-three years old and he treats me like a teener. I told him so and he got angry and we had a big fight.”
Sam shook his head. “The two of you fight all the time, sir, that’s a fact.”
Pippin paused in his onion chopping. “But that’s only pretend fighting. And… it wasn’t really a fight this time. It was more like… a kiss.”
Sam took that with surprise, and not. The lad didn’t wait for him to comment.
“He kissed me but he was angry and when I kissed him back he got angrier. Then he went home.”
Sam considered that. “Did you tell this to Mister Frodo, sir?”
Pippin gave him an earnest look. “I couldn’t, Sam. Frodo would tell Merry I told him and then Merry would be even angrier. And Frodo, I can’t talk to Frodo like that.” He dropped his voice down to a whisper. “I get all excited, you know, just thinking about it… about Merry kissing me… and looking at me like that… ”
It didn’t take the lad glancing down at himself for Sam to understand what he was saying. He had his shirttail out like he was using it to hide something. It was like Pippin to come to him with questions he didn’t want to ask Frodo, and Sam supposed it had to come to this eventually. He cleared his throat, not a bit comfortable with it, but what choice did he have? “You know, sir, you can take care of that yourself.”
Pippin gave him a look of pure frustration. “I know that. I don’t want to take care of it myself anymore.”
Sam slowly nodded. He could well remember feeling that way, and never imagining there’d be anything more for him as long as he had to follow his heart. It seemed a strange thing, young Pippin needing to tell him these things, when he was the least likely to be able to do anything about it. “I think you’d be better off talking to Master Merry, sir.”
The lad heaved a big sigh. “I tried to, Sam. That’s when he got angry. He said I’m too young to know and I have to try it with a lass but I don’t want to. I’ve known a long time. I want Merry.”
Master Pippin was sure of himself, no doubt of that. Master Merry on the other hand, was a puzzle. Sam knew for a fact Master Merry enjoyed the lasses. “You should know, sir, it may be Master Merry can’t feel those kinds of things for you.” He regretted having to say it when the lad’s eyes went all shiny with tears.
“But… he kissed me.”
Aye, there was that. Sam took the knife from his hand and finished the onions so he could get them into the pan, and to give himself time to ponder it.
Pippin watched him, clearly pondering things himself. “Does Frodo love you, Sam? Does he love you like you love him?”
Sam ducked his head. “Aye.” Frodo loved him. Frodo let him know it every moment they were together.
Master Pippin nodded, in a way meant to convince himself, Sam was sure. “Merry loves me.”
Sam didn’t doubt that he did.
“He told me so. Then he kissed me and went home.”
Sam knew Pippin wanted to be told what to do by someone he believed experienced in such things. That someone should have been Frodo by rights. But it was him the lad had come to, and he had to respect that. He carefully collected his thoughts on it. “Well, Master Pippin sir, I don’t think you’re too young to know. I was just your age… when I told Mister Frodo how I felt, and he told me he felt the same.” And Frodo had thought he was too young, until he proved he wasn’t. “Master Merry had no right I’m thinking to kiss you if he didn’t mean it. To be fair, that’s not like Master Merry. So I’m minded to think he meant it and won’t be forgetting it soon himself. If you see what I mean.” Pippin seemed hung on his every word. Sam dearly hoped he was getting it right. “I’m guessing you let him go then, when you should have had it out right there.”
A lost and bewildered look came over the lad. “He was angry. He’s never been really angry with me before.”
Sam understood that, better it seemed than Pippin did. “I think it’s likely himself he was angry at, not you.”
The lad’s eyes went wide, and a slow but eager smile followed. “Do you think so, Sam?”
Sam thought about it very seriously, and finally nodded. “Aye.” He scooped up the taters to add to the fry pan. “I think when you see him next you ought to stand up right and make him say to you what he meant.” Pippin smiled a devilish little smile, apparently feeling better. Sam wiped his hands and reached up to open the dish cupboard, and his shoulder gave him a sharp twinge. He dropped his arm, wincing.
Pippin was quick to notice. “Is your shoulder hurting?”
Sam couldn’t well deny it. “Just a little, sir. If you’ll take down a couple of plates for me, I’ll be grateful.”
The lad did that and then gave him a careful hug. “Thank you, Sam.”
Sam laid a hand on his back and gave him a one armed hug in return. “You’re right welcome, sir.” He just hoped very much he hadn’t messed it up.
*******
There was a wind picking up as Frodo left the temporarily boarded up tea shop after speaking with Clematis. A few fresh snowflakes swirled through the air. He’d seen no one out since leaving Bag End, so the muffled thudding of a pony’s step coming up beind him took him unaware. He stepped aside, half turning, and abruptly stopped. “Merry?” The rider reined in and stopped as well. It was indeed Merry, hooded and scarved against the cold. Only his eyes showed, but Frodo could see and feel his anxiety. He slid down from his pony and pushed back his hood.
“Frodo, is Pip here? Is he alright?”
Frodo was glad to reassure him on that score. “Yes, Merry. Sam’s looking after him.”
Merry looked away. “I did a foolish thing, Fro.”
Frodo was glad to hear it actually. If Pip wouldn’t tell him what had happened, Merry surely would. But Merry clenched his jaw and set off for the Hill lane, leading his pony. Frodo had to step lively to keep up with him, raising his voice to be heard above the wind. “What did you do, Merry?” Merry glanced aside at him uneasily, and shook his head. Frodo supposed it might be something they shouldn’t shout about in the streets and didn’t push it until they were inside the stables at the end of Bagshot Row, with no one to hear but the livestock. Pip’s little sorrel mare was put up there in a nice, big corner stall, with hay and grain aplenty and a bucket of fresh water. Merry led his Juniper into the same stall and went about settling her. Frodo leaned on the gate rail. “What did you do, Merry?”
Merry gave him not even a glance, but finished what he was doing and patted his pony’s rump, then came and stood close enough to whisper. “I kissed Pip.” Frodo could almost feel his cousin’s heart thumping, could easily hear the tremble in his voice. “One moment we were talking about lasses and the next my fingers were in his hair and I was kissing him, on the lips.” He finally looked into Frodo’s eyes, gripping the rail and leaning close. “I know it, Fro. I know I shouldn’t have. I’m not like that. Am I?”
Frodo impulsively laid a hand over one of his. “Don’t you know, Merry?” Merry seemed not to. Frodo asked him outright, “Did Pip like you kissing him? Did you like kissing Pip? Did it make your toes curl and your stomach twist?”
Merry scrunched up his face and finally nodded.
Frodo was beginning to see it quite clearly. “Pip said the two of you had a fight.”
Merry shook his head. “We didn’t. It wasn’t Pip’s fault.”
Frodo gave him a serious look, but squeezed his hand affectionately. “You should have told him that.”
Merry sighed. “I know. But… it scared me… so I ran.”
Frodo understood that also, very well. “It can be scary, I know. But if it’s right, Merry… you don’t want to miss it. At the very least, you’re going to have to talk to him about it.”
Merry slowly nodded. “I’m here, Fro. I didn’t get a quarter of the way home. He should have known I’d come back.”
Frodo stepped away and pulled open the stall gate enough for Merry to pass through. “You gave Pip as much of a scare as you gave yourself. But still, I think he’ll be happy to see you.” The two ponies nuzzled, glad to be back together. Merry looked at them and smiled, then took up his baggage and followed along, out of the warm, shadowy dark of the stable into a gray, blustery snowfall. Frodo flipped up his collar and wrapped his coat closer while Merry flung his scarf around his mouth and nose.
Finding Bag End in the maelstrom felt like an accomplishment. Unexpected houseguests or no, Frodo was glad to be home. A scent of cooking wafted from kitchenward, and a soft murmur of voices. Frodo hung up his coat and stamped his feet, brushing the snow out of his hair. Merry was looking anxious but determined. Frodo gave him a comforting pat on the back and steered him down the hall.
Sam and Pippin were washing dishes and both looked around, hearing them come in. Pip’s eyes lit up, there was no mistaking that, then the lad put on a stern face and crossed his arms, tapping his russet furred toes on the tiles.
Merry’s voice wobbled when he finally spoke up. “Hey, Pip. Why did you run off?”
Pippin’s eyes went wide. “It was you who ran off, Merry!”
Merry took a hesitant few steps toward him. “I came back.”
Pippin said nothing but Frodo could see he was ready and willing to be forgiving.
Merry slid an arm over his shoulders. “Let’s go have a talk and you can yell at me.”
Pippin went with him, tossing a pleased smile in Sam’s direction. Frodo listened for a door closing down the hall, and finally looked around to find Sam leaned on the drainboard, smiling.
“I’m thinking they’ll have that sorted now in no time.”
Frodo went to him. “Dear Sam, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left you to deal with Pip on your own.”
Sam reached out to pull him close and hold him. “I think we did alright. Fancy Master Merry showing up like that, in perfect time.”
Frodo hugged him and breathed in the warm scent of him. Merry and Pip could be hours. He leaned back to look into Sam’s velvet brown eyes. “Which shoulder is it?”
Sam smiled at him softly. “The right.”
Frodo slipped fingers into his shirt to slide it off that shoulder and pressed a tender kiss to the smooth, hard muscle. Then he took Sam’s left hand and stepped back smiling. “Bed, Sam.” Sam didn’t offer any protest. Frodo took up a lamp from the table and Sam snatched the liniment bottle.
There was no sound from Pip’s room as they passed by, or from Merry’s next door. If they were having a talk, it was a quiet one. Frodo squeezed Sam’s hand and led on to their bedroom. Sam mumbled something about making a fire. Frodo stopped him. “I’ll keep you warm. Just take off your clothes and lie down.”
Sam gave him a slyly amused look. “You think I should be naked for this?”
Frodo smiled at him and said, “Yes, Sam, and me as well.” He set the lamp on the bedside table and threw back the covers, then quickly stripped, watching Sam as he shed his own clothes and stretched out face down on the bed.
“Like this, sir?”
Frodo shivered. There was a nip in the air but it barely contained the heat he was feeling inside. Sam’s bare skin glowed a soft gold in the lamplight, little goosebumps raised on his lovely, pale rump and the downy fur on the insides of his thighs standing out. Frodo climbed onto the bed and shrouded him, skin to skin, sliding both arms down under and around his chest to hold him tight and breathing a happy sigh. “This will do quite nicely, I think.”
Sam whispered, “Frodo… ” and shifted under him, making everything fit just right. Frodo took shameful advantage of it, thrusting his hips a little and sliding his already quickening arousal against Sam’s insistent grip, a damp of sweat risen there where they pressed together. Heat poured off Sam and enveloped him like a thick down comforter.
Frodo caught a breath, his heart beating faster. He was forgetting himself. He touched a pattern of soft kisses over Sam’s poor shoulder, and then pushed himself up to his knees. Sam protested with a little moan of disappointment. Frodo gently ran both hands over his naked back. “We have to do your shoulder, Sam. Where did you put the bottle?”
Sam sighed very loud and deliberately, then proceeded to roll over, somehow picking him up and catching him close on the way. “My shoulder’s as fine as need be. I’ll take it careful.”
Frodo couldn’t resist for the moment, with their bodies in the most intimate contact. Sam’s legs caressingly twined with his, clever toes playing in the hair on his feet. Sam’s hands restlessly roved between his shoulders and his backside, making him tingle and twitch, and Frodo impulsively buried his fingers in Sam’s hair and breathed warm breath at his ear. Sam writhed under him and moved to take him in a hug, and Frodo felt him flinch. He completed the embrace as if he didn’t care, but Frodo did. “Sam.” He forcibly pushed himself back up to his knees. “We have to do your shoulder, dearest one.”
Sam stared up into his eyes with a heavy lidded, sultry look, and gripped his naked behind with both hands. “You’re teasing, sir.”
Frodo caught a breath. “I’m not, Sam!”
Sam smiled, and with a firm but gentle tug pulled him back into position, then caught his arms to pull him down for a warm, enticing, breath sharing kiss. Arousal flared harder and brighter, snugly pressed between their hot, sweat slicked bellies, until Sam jolted and let go, dropping his right arm with a muffled curse.
Frodo gasped and quickly braced his hands and elbows to take his weight off Sam. “My poor love, you’re hurting and you can’t tell me you aren’t.” Sam tried to, but he wouldn’t have it. He pushed himself up and reached over to get the bottle of liniment. “Maybe this will help, Sam. Is it something new?”
Sam nodded, unclenching his teeth with an effort. “The Gaffer got it from Old Tom, as got it from a peddler passing through.”
Frodo uncorked the bottle and sniffed. It smelled of woodsy herbs, nothing too pungent. He poured a bit out into his palm and found it liquid and oily. He warmed it in his hand and then gently smoothed it over Sam’s injured shoulder. Sam slowly relaxed back into the pillows, looking like he might fall asleep. The caressing hand on Frodo’s thigh stilled. Holding himself braced, Frodo finally laid his oily hand on Sam’s chest and was bending down to touch a kiss to his lips when the door suddenly opened.
“Frodo?”
Frodo jumped and scrambled for cover and Sam was abruptly wide awake, dragging a blanket up over them.
“May I come in, Fro?”
Frodo dragged in a shaky breath as Sam got an arm around his waist and held him there close, stifling a laugh in his hair. It was absurd. But what could he do? “Yes, Pip, for a moment. What have you done with Merry?”
Pippin came bouncing onto the bed like he was oblivious to the state in which he found them. “Merry’s having a nap because he hasn’t slept for weeks from thinking about me. We talked and then we tried kissing again and it was very nice, and now I’m going to make food for him. Is that alright?”
Frodo felt serious reservations about that. Sam peered out from behind him and voiced them. “The fires’ll have to be stoked for cooking. I’ll fix supper in awhile, sir, if you can wait.”
Pippin put on a pout. “But I want to, Sam. I don’t have to cook. I’ll just see what there is in the pantry. Please?”
Frodo broke. “Alright, Pip, but be careful please.”
Pippin threw open his arms and leapt on them both with a big hug. “I have the best cousins ever!”
Frodo smiled and hugged him back, then gently removed him. “Go on, Pip, we’ll see you later.” The lad took himself off and closed the door. Only then did Frodo fully take in what had just happened. His heart was thumping. “I guess we won’t have to sneak around anymore when they’re here.”
Sam quietly chuckled. “Thank the stars for that, sir.”
Startled, Frodo shook his hand and raised it to look at. His fingers felt hot, with a pulsing warmth that spread across his palm. He twisted around in Sam’s embracing arm as Sam put a hand over his chest where Frodo’s had lain minutes before. They looked at each other, and looked at the liniment bottle.
Sam grinned. “Well now, there’s something.” He carefully rolled his shoulder, and breathed a relieved sigh.
“Is it better, Sam?”
“Aye.”
Frodo reached to the table for the bottle, with rather wicked thoughts in his head. “I wonder… ”
Sam reached out and caught him close again, smiling into his eyes. “You wouldn’t have something unnatural in mind, sir, would you?”
Frodo gave him a sweet smile in return. “Would you mind, Sam?”
Sam lovingly cuddled him close. “I’m thinking not.” He snatched the covers back over them. “In case Master Pippin can’t find the mushrooms and needs to come asking.”
Frodo just laughed.
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P $ 2 o3 !For Your Weekend Reading Pleasurep3 The First Line Challenge rolls on, picking up more fabulous stories with every day that passes. Please do click on some links below (they are in the order posted), enjoy, and be sure to comment:
List updated and reposted HEREq3
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qh\$ 2 u3 The King's Galav3 hName: Claudia
Title: The King’s Gala
Challenge: Hobbit Smut First Line Challenge
Word Count: 2,205
Rating: R
Pairing/s: Frodo/Faramir, Frodo/Aragorn
Warning/s: Interspecies slash, silliness, some AU elements.
Summary: Frodo is content to spend his post-quest days in the Citadel with Faramir. Or is he?
Thank you, Shirebound, for the thorough beta!
“Don’t kill me, Frodo!”
Frodo wiped his dusty hands on his breeches. He could not help but laugh at the sheepish grin on Pippin’s face. He had been hard at work dusting the books in Faramir’s room when Pippin had burst in. The maids did a fine job of cleaning, but they did not bother with Faramir’s books; or more likely, Faramir had forbidden anybody but Frodo to touch them.
Pippin now stood in the doorway, wearing his guard finery, helmet and all, but the dignity of his attire did not shield the familiar mischief in his green eyes. He would surely burst if he did not deliver his message.
Frodo motioned for Pippin to enter, then crossed his arms. “It would hardly be proper for a gentlehobbit of the Shire to kill a guard of the Citadel. Now out with it!”
“True.” Pippin nodded gravely. “The King would surely have your head for it, Ringbearer or not, and then Faramir would be forced to take a wife!”
The two hobbits laughed, and Pippin flung his arms around Frodo’s neck. “We’ve not seen hide nor hair of you, cousin, but at least Faramir’s put the color back in your cheeks.”
Frodo laughed again, this time with some embarrassment. “So tell me, Peregrin Took, just why was I meant to kill you?”
Pippin put his hands behind his back, grinning. “Aragorn is throwing a special gala this evening in the great hall.”
Frodo gave him a puzzled look. “There is nothing unusual in that. He’s hosted feasts night after night as of late. Come now, Pippin, why do you look like a cow ready to birth?”
Just then Faramir stepped out of the bathing room, clad in nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. He startled when he saw that Frodo had a guest. “Pardon me,” he said, flushing, stepping quickly back into the bathing room.
Frodo muffled his laughter against the younger hobbit’s shoulder. “A battle-hardened warrior, and still, he’s so easily mortified,” he whispered in glee. “My poor darling! Now out with your message!”
“Strider–the King Elessar–wanted me to make certain you will be there tonight. He’s noted that you’ve missed the last few of his feasts.”
Frodo’s cheeks heated. Faramir had insisted they miss the last few. After all, nobody could be expected to celebrate every single night, and Faramir’s tolerance of large crowds and debauchery was quite low. But that Aragorn had noticed and had been disappointed – his stomach fluttered.
“Poor Aragorn,” Frodo managed faintly. Elrond had recently arrived from Rivendell, bearing tidings that Arwen had chosen to sail to Valinor. Aragorn had borne the news stoically, and had first made certain his Elvish guests were comfortable before locking himself away. For several days he had seen no one except for Gandalf, and when he had finally emerged from seclusion, he began to throw nearly daily extravagant galas that lasted long into the night.
“I know,” Pippin said. “It is a pity that you and he never—”
“Hush,” Frodo said, casting a quick glance back into Faramir’s chamber. Faramir never needed to know that he had been second choice.
“I shall see you tonight, then,” Pippin said, winking.
Frodo went back inside the chamber, closing the door behind him.
“Why the mysterious smile?” Faramir asked. He was now mostly dressed, and he laced up his shirt.
“There shall be an evening affair tonight,” Frodo said. “I am to go.”
“Ah, another gala,” Faramir said, lifting his brows. “King Elessar might be wise to take an occasional night off.”
“When you are king,” Frodo said, bumping into Faramir so that he lost his balance and toppled onto the bed. “You can decide.”
“Oh, ho,” Faramir laughed, gently pulling on Frodo’s wrist until the hobbit was forced to lie on his chest. “I would then decide never to leave my room while such a delectable hobbit gives me company.”
He pulled Frodo into a tight embrace, crushing his lips with a fierce kiss. Frodo slid his arms around Faramir’s neck, feeling the thudding of Faramir’s heart against his own chest. He slid his foot between Faramir’s thighs and gently nuzzled the Man’s groin with his furry toes. Faramir shuddered and broke off his kiss, gasping. With a teasing smile, Frodo wriggled his toes over Faramir’s swelling hardness again. Faramir laughed, his eyes bright with desire, and he slid his hands into Frodo’s breeches over the hobbit’s bare bottom, nibbling on Frodo’s pointy ear. Frodo barely felt his breeches slide down before he caught the familiar scent of vanilla oil and welcomed Faramir’s slippery warmth filling him again and again.
***
The feast began as all others in Merethrond did -- long tables piled with food, carafes filled with dark red wine, people laughing in the giddy way that they had since the fall of Sauron as the wine loosened their tongues and flushed their faces. Frodo and Faramir shared a table with Éowyn and Merry. Merry, who had already had more than enough of Gondor’s most potent wine, entertained Éowyn with escapades of drunken silliness in the Shire. Éowyn laughed gaily, although she cast occasional cool glances toward Faramir. Frodo found it puzzling that Aragorn had placed Faramir and Éowyn at the same table. It was no secret that during the last dark days of the War Éowyn had turned her affections from Aragorn onto Faramir. But dear, faithful Faramir had held hope that Frodo would return to him alive, and he had refused her. Since then, there had not only been awkwardness between the cool lady of Rohan and Faramir, but also thick tension each time Faramir and Éomer encountered one another. Frodo clutched Faramir’s hand under the table and squeezed. Faramir smiled down at him.
“More wine, love?” he asked.
“Yes, please.”
As Faramir replenished Frodo’s wineglass, Frodo caught Aragorn’s smoldering gaze on him. Frodo’s breath caught in his throat and he found that his groin had warmed. Aragorn’s gaze reminded him of just how frightening and yet arousing a wild Ranger in Bree had seemed to a hobbit new to the world of Men.
He remembered all too clearly that day in Lórien, when Aragorn had led him to the foot of Cerin Amroth. The beauty and peace of that Elvish realm had dulled caution, and it had been natural for Aragorn to take Frodo’s hand as they walked. Aragorn had knelt beside him and slid his arm around the hobbit’s waist, as if to view the beauty of the land from Frodo’s vantage. Frodo had impulsively leaned in and captured Aragorn’s mouth with his. As Frodo had gulped and sucked at Aragorn’s lips, leaning into the Man’s unyielding chest, he had felt that if he could just have Aragorn’s heart for his own, that he could conquer all of Mordor on his own.
Still holding Faramir’s hand under the table, Frodo glanced again at Aragorn and found the King still staring in his direction. Frodo gulped several sips of wine before nearly knocking his glass over with his trembling hand.
“Are you well, Frodo?” Faramir asked. “You are flushed.”
But before he could answer, Aragorn rose to his feet. He tapped a silver spoon against his wineglass until everyone in the hall rose to their feet and fell into an attentive silence.
“I see that this evening finds most of you in good health and happiness, and that makes my heart glad.” He paused and again his keen gaze fell on Frodo. Frodo shifted his feet and looked down. Aragorn continued, “I have a rather unusual proposition for the remainder of the night.”
As he spoke, the hall fell into a stunned silence.
***
An hour later, in the King’s chamber, Frodo sat on the edge of the settee, as stiff as can be, hands folded primly in his lap. He tried to keep his breaths steady and failed.
After securing the latch to his door, Aragorn removed the crown from his head, and as he set it on his bureau, he cast a shy smile at Frodo. Frodo smiled back, though his lips trembled. Faramir would be furious – not at Frodo but at his king. Never would he have attended the gala if he had known such mischief to be in store.
Aragorn had introduced an Elvish party game, in which he had randomly sorted his guests into pairs and then commanded they spend the remainder of the evening in a designated room together. Of course Frodo did not believe for a moment that the King’s choices had been random. When Aragorn had announced that he would spend the evening with Frodo, Frodo had heard Faramir’s distressed sigh but he had been unable to meet his eyes.
Aragorn now sat beside Frodo and clasped his hand. His firm grip sent shivers up Frodo’s arms; he had longed for this since Rivendell, but if he allowed it to begin, he would not be able to stop. “Aragorn…”
Aragorn grasped Frodo’s shoulders, kneading his strong fingers into the hobbit’s tense muscles. “I know you are bound to Faramir.”
“This will hurt him.” Frodo took in deep breaths, trying calm his trembling. “Why did you—?”
“Hush,” Aragorn said, continuing to massage Frodo’s shoulders. “I’ll not do anything you do not wish.”
“I am bound to Faramir, but…” Frodo met Aragorn’s eyes. Oh, he should not be saying this, not when it would hurt his Faramir. “I would not be bound to him if I had thought you…if I had known…”
“If you knew I would be free,” Aragorn finished quietly. “Frodo, I give you my word. If you do not wish for this, then we will just give one another company for the night. I have missed you.”
Frodo bit his lip. Before charming Faramir into bed at Henneth Annun, he had spent many nights dreaming of exactly this – Aragorn seeking him out and declaring his desire. Even when he and Faramir made love, Frodo had sometimes pretended it was Aragorn thrusting into him. But Faramir’s heart was pure, and he believed Frodo’s to be pure as well. Frodo could never break his vow to him.
“Let us just talk,” Frodo said.
A carafe of wine rested on the table beside the settee, and next to it, two glasses.
“First things first,” Aragorn said, pouring the glasses full. They tapped their glasses together in toast. “To my Frodo.”
“But I am not yours.”
Aragorn smiled. “Forget not that I can send Faramir far away.”
“But you are too kind to break him in such a way."
“I wonder,” Aragorn said, his smile fading as his finger ran down Frodo’s soft cheek. “I wonder.”
He pulled Frodo into an embrace so that Frodo’s head rested against his chest. Frodo allowed this intimacy as they sipped their wine and talked. For one night, he could imagine what life could be. He dared not lift his head, for if he did, their lips would meet again, and then Frodo’s resolve would crumble.
***
Frodo had taken great care to straighten his clothing, to make sure his hair did not look mussed.
Faramir lay on their bed, his boots still on, and his eyes fixed on the ceiling. He startled when Frodo came in. He sat up, his jaw clenching.
“Did he touch you?”
His expression softened when Frodo cringed. “Do not fear wrath from me. I know you could not refuse the King.”
Frodo could not meet his gaze as he undressed, taking great pains to fold each article of clothing. “We merely shared wine and talked.” He smiled up at Faramir. “I will not tell you a falsehood – it gave me pleasure to talk to him in privacy.”
Faramir smiled. “The Lady Éowyn tried very hard to gain my favor; and I must admit she has the gift of persuasion. I had not had a woman in a long time, and she has an unusual beauty – “ He broke off when he saw how hard Frodo was.
“She does not have hobbit sense,” Frodo broke in, climbing into bed and straddling Faramir. He tugged at the laces to Faramir’s shirt, thrusting his arousal against Faramir’s groin.
Faramir sat upright, clutching Frodo’s hips. “Dare I hope that your heart stirs with jealousy?” He helped Frodo by taking off his shirt and flinging it to the floor.
“Yes…a little.” Frodo tugged at the laces to Faramir’s leggings while allowing the Man to cover his mouth with a deep, searching kiss. Rough hands stroked Frodo’s hips, moving up over his chest and nipples and back down to his arousal. Faramir was rock hard now and Frodo grasped his length.
“Oil!” Frodo demanded. Faramir’s arm encircled the back of Frodo’s neck, pulling him close for a lingering kiss while he reached for the vial on their bedside.
Later, lying secure in his lover’s tight embrace, sticky with their combined seed, Frodo smiled at the ceiling. His body resonated from the pleasure Faramir had given him, but also with the relief that the possibility of losing Faramir to Éowyn had caused such pain in his heart. Finally at peace with the choice he had made, he fell into a contented sleep.
END
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:mFx% 2 y3 Reason to Stayz3 Name: Aina Baggins
Title: Reason to Stay
Challenge: First Line Challenge
Word Count: 4, 990
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Frodo/Sam/Merry
Other Pairings: Frodo, Sam and Merry in all possible combinations ;)
Warnings: Slash, gratuitous hobbitpile
Summary: It is the day after Bilbo's departure and Frodo and Sam find themselves dealing with a troublesome Brandybuck.
Notes: Well, my muse ran away with me, and I found myself at almost 9,000 words before I realised a substantial snippy-snippy was distinctly overdue. So any meaty plot and character bits it might have had have been cast back into the firey chasm from whence they came. Pretty safe to say deem it pwp.
It began the moment Merry pulled the missing teaspoon out of his breeches.
And it didn't stop for almost five whole minutes.
Amidst the furious explosion that poured out of Frodo's mouth, Merry managed to catch the words 'back to Buckland', 'nothing but a'… something or other, then, quite distinctly, 'Brandybucks'…
Now, at this point, Merry had no choice but to interject. "But Frodo, you're a-"
"Oh, shut up, Merry!"
The younger hobbit's mouth closed with a snap. He didn't know what Frodo was carrying on about, really. There was nothing wrong with the spoon -he cast his eyes over it briefly to check- it was warm, only a little sticky, and there was something fuzzy sticking to the handle -lint, probably- but other than that, it was fine.
And what was Sam making that face at him for? It was none of his business that Frodo chose to stand up and disrupt their quiet after dinner companionship in the previously peaceful front parlour of Bag End and rave at him like a wolf with his tail pulled, just because Merry'd had a spoon in his trousers.
"Do you mean to tell me," Frodo gritted out with a snort of anger that could have instilled fear in the heart of a dragon, "you had that spoon the whole time Lobelia was looking for it, and that you kept quiet?"
"I…"
"You mean, you had it all along when she was calling me a thief and a cheat and a 'no good Brandybuck', and you said nothing?"
Merry gulped. He was still seated in his armchair before the fire, so his cousin loomed over him. His fists were twitching at his sides, making the younger hobbit cast an alarmed glance over the tabletop at his side, looking for items he might use to protect himself should Frodo suddenly decide to strike.
...Pipe, half-pint of ale, tinderbox… no… help!
"Frodo, it was just a-"
"Just a what? A joke? A prank? Oh, how perfectly hilarious of you, Merry Brandybuck, to keep your trap shut when she was saying all those horrid things about my parents, about Gandalf! And," his voice hitched, "especially about Bilbo."
Sam, sitting on the lounge chair, gave a small cry and Merry paled. In truth, it had been funny. He'd waited all morning for Lobelia Sackville-Baggins to find the case of silver spoons Bilbo left as a cheerfully spiteful parting gift. Already injured at the hard realisation she'd been cheated out of Bag End once more, and that good-for-nothing Bilbo had left her only a case of spoons, finding one of the set missing was really the last straw for the old bat.
Merry didn't think he'd ever actually seen his cousin cringe before -but Lobelia's biting words, coming hard on the heels of both Bilbo and Gandalf disappearing, possibly forever, was a bit much for Frodo's tender nerves.
He should have spoken up, he knew he should have. A hot wave of guilt swelled in Merry's stomach as he remembered the way he'd just stood there, watching his beloved cousin bear the full brunt of Lobelia's attack. One side of Merry's brain -the side that would rather die than let Frodo down- kicked him in the shins. The other side reasoned that it would take a hobbit of hard skin indeed to brave up to Lobelia Sackville-Baggins.
"Didn't I tell you this morning that I wanted your help today?" Frodo spat, and Merry was disgusted to see Sam nod agreement behind him.
"Er…"
"I wanted her off my property as soon as possible, you knew that."
Merry flinched. 'My property'… Oh Frodo…
"But instead of assisting me, you made sure she blew up in my face and hung about for hours. It took me so long to get her to leave. And her umbrella was full of bits of my belongings! Who knows what valuable item she could have stuffed inside her purse or her blouse-"
"Frodo! Please, I don't want to think about Lobelia's-"
"Oh, I'm so sorry, Merry," Frodo folded his arms and rolled his eyes, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Eru forbid, you would have something as horrible as Lobelia's blouse to think about today."
Merry bit his lip. That one hurt. His grip tightened on the silver spoon still in his fist as his mind tumbled over all the horrible things Frodo was thinking about that day. He dared a glance at Sam and found him gazing sympathetically at the older hobbit -if you could call a look that plainly said 'come hither and let me kiss it all better' sympathy. Frodo didn't seem to notice -as usual. Merry knew how besotted those two were with each other -everyone did, except them, apparently.
He also knew his cousin didn't care a whit for the many valuable things that had been pilfered by sticky hands throughout the course of the day; the one valuable thing that Frodo cared for most had disappeared the previous evening in a puff of smoke and blinding flash of light.
He'd been in bed asleep by the time Merry had tramped up from the Party Field, his blood singing with ale, so they hadn't been able to speak over the night's events. In the morning, Frodo had looked thoroughly exhausted, making Merry suspect he hadn't slept well at all, but the older hobbit had tried to act normally, and refused to talk.
Now Gandalf was gone as well, and Frodo looked to be at the end of his rope. The last thing he needed to be dealing with was a troublesome cousin. Merry's insides writhed with guilt. He'd only taken the spoon for a laugh -he thought it would help to lighten Frodo's sullen mood. He didn't expect things to go so badly, making the whole day worse than ever for his cousin.
He'd only wanted to help.
"Frodo I-"
"Yes, Merry?"
I'm so sorry. I know you wanted my help today, and I'm sorry I couldn't be there when you needed me most. I'd do anything for you, cousin. How can I make it up to you?
"I…" They were just there, the words he wanted to say, but he couldn't… quite…
"…Sorry," he finally managed to mumble, but that was all the apology he could squeeze out of himself.
Frodo looked at him blankly for a moment, then resumed his seat next to Sam. After a brief pause, he turned calmly the Gamgee at his side. "Well Sam, what do you think? Should I forgive him?"
Merry stared. Oh, he knew his cousin too well to suspect he would forgive this so easily. There had to be something more.
Sam glanced over at the troublesome Brandybuck with a look that held enough startling power to abruptly change the atmosphere between all three of them. The electricity behind it made Merry's insides writhe. But not with fear. There was something in those eyes he had only ever seen when… but certainly never from Sam Gamgee… no, he must be mistaken, it was ridiculous to suspect…
"No," Sam breathed, lower than Merry had ever heard him. The younger hobbit's eyes flew wide. Oh, help.
"I think it's about time we taught him a lesson, don't you?" Frodo suggested with the same low pitch in his voice Sam.
Merry tried not to splutter, and to assess the situation calmly, but then he caught the end of Frodo's glance in his direction -a look that shot a kind of heat through his veins that did not come from the fire at his side. -A kind he wasn't sure that was entirely appropriate at this point in time.
Sam's gaze suddenly darted from his master to meet Merry's eyes. "Aye," he breathed, and Merry was sure now -that dark glance was certainly not the kind he'd ever suspected to be receiving from any Gamgee. Was this the same shy and reserved gardener who wouldn't dare step out of 'his place' in front of gentry? "I daresay we can teach him a thing or two."
Frodo suddenly stood, and Merry gripped the armrests of his chair fiercely as his cousin lazily crossed the room to where he sat. Here it comes…
It was not until their knees bumped together that Frodo stopped and put his hands on his hips. "So Sam, what do you propose we do?" he asked the gardener, though his eyes never left Merry's.
"I just don't know sir," Sam replied with a chuckle, and though Merry continued to meet Frodo's intense gaze, he could see, out the corner of his eye, Sam beginning to stand. And oh, whatever horrible prank these two were planning for him, they'd best get it over with quick. Their behaviour was inexplicably and embarrassingly arousing, as much as he hated to admit it. His body was reminding him of other times he'd seen that look in Frodo's eye, but surely he wouldn't…
Frodo's grin widened. "Well, I know exactly what we should do."
Merry could only gasp and stare as Frodo suddenly lifted a knee and quickly moved himself so that he was in the chair with his cousin, straddling his lap and ohyesthat'snotsobad -but right in front of Sam!
The younger hobbit's hands raised compulsively to Frodo's thighs as his warm weight settled onto him, moving so close that Merry's vision was completely filled with his grinning face. Oh, warm, warm, and hot just… there…
He felt a tug as Frodo yanked the teaspoon he hadn't realised he still held onto for dear life out of his hand and Merry mouthed dumbly as his cousin drew the cutlery up to his lips and licked it, a long, slow glide of his tongue that immediately stopped the Brandybuck's lungs from functioning properly.
Then Frodo was leaning towards him, and Merry's vision went black as he closed his eyes. The gentle pressure of his cousin's lips slowly nipping at the corner of his mouth, and Merry found himself aching to open up and give himself fully to a sound invasion of his hot, silky tongue. But the older hobbit shifted back after only that brief tease and Merry opened his eyes to see Sam's strong arm curling about his master's waist. The gardener moved closer, until one knee pressed between Merry's, drawing Frodo back against his chest. Frodo tilted his head up and suddenly, they were kissing.
Merry blinked a few times in what he guessed was surprise. Frodo and Sam shifted comfortably to accommodate each other as their lips parted and the slow kiss deepened. And oh, oh! They were lovers! -That was no first time kiss of two long pining for each other. It was deep and thorough; practised a thousand times over until this gentle exploration of tongues and mouths was a simmering caress, a tender stroke quick to bring swift arousal to one's lover. -And, incidentally, to anyone who may be watching.
Merry shifted his hips in response to the sudden surge of heat to his groin. How hadn't he seen what Frodo and Sam were to each other before? It was so blindingly obvious he almost felt compelled to smack himself in the forehead. Instead, he held his breath, eyes raking over the exposed column of Frodo's throat, which rippled with moving muscles as his tongue worked inside Sam's mouth. The gardener's broad hand was pressed flat against the older hobbit's chest, one finger grazing back and forth where he fondled at a nipple through Frodo's shirt.
Frodo broke off breathlessly and Merry saw Sam grin as his lover gasped, "Bed. Now."
Well, so much for teaching me a lesson. "Goodnight then, you two," the Brandybuck laughed, barely hiding a twinge of regret in his voice as Sam helped Frodo to stand.
"Goodnight?" Frodo grinned at him, and fire flashed behind his eyes, "Oh no, my dear Merry," he reached out a hand, "You're coming with us."
~*~
In all the time he spent thinking about it afterwards -which was, in fact, more often than he cared to admit to either his cousin or himself- Merry would never recall how they managed to make it down the hall.
At one point, when he found himself with his back pressed against the wall and Frodo against his front, hands gripping hips in an all together too appealing way, he decided that they had gone quite far enough, thank-you-very-much and proceeded to plunder Frodo's mouth with his tongue.
He suspected, however, that it was Sam -who seemed to be enjoying pressing himself against the older hobbit's backside- that made an attempt to get them moving again. The tangle of limbs that resulted saw the makings of a very interesting position, in which it was Sam with his back to the wall, Merry sandwiched between he and Frodo, who, by all accounts, seemed to be attempting to squash the two younger hobbits into the same body. Not that Merry was complaining, of course. He would never tire of the errant jerk of Frodo's hips against his own, and was that -Sam's tongue- on his neck? Oh, it was… What was the use in a bed anyway? They'd just have to make it in the morning. Yes, staying right here and riding the waves that rippled through him from Frodo and into Sam was just fine!
Which was why Merry was so astounded when he suddenly found they had somehow made it to the bedroom. Right to the edge of the bed, in fact.
Frodo's mouth had left his, and he was nudging Sam from out behind him so he could sit on the edge of his mattress, dragging Merry between his knees by his beltloops as he went.
"I suppose I should ask you," he panted, his hands rising to begin efficiently unfastening Merry's shirt buttons, "Whether you want to do this before we end up molesting you."
He grinned and Merry felt a charge race up and down his spine. Ask me? You're undressing me!
"Of course I do," he replied huskily. He'd lost track of where Sam went, but never mind…
Frodo's mischievous grin widened. "I thought so," he purred, letting his hand slip down to squeeze the front of his cousin's breeches. Merry gave a cry and jerked compulsively into his hand, making Frodo chuckle.
Suddenly, they were cast into deeper darkness -apparently Sam had blown out the candles. Now the room was only lit by the smouldering embers flickering on the hearth, turning the room into a cavern of firey shadow.
"I know we said we'd teach you a lesson," Frodo went on, lifting his eyes to meet Merry's, "but I'm already tired of teasing. All is more than forgiven. All we want is for you to be here with us."
With no idea how to respond, Merry whimpered, groping for his cousin's arms, and tugging him up to stand. Frodo came willingly, giving a contented hum as he fell into his frantic kisses. Just then, Sam stepped behind him and pressed his face into his neck. Merry, suddenly filled to the brim with the profundity of what these two were offering, arched back into him, letting Sam's warmth cover and caress him.
Hands were tugging the shirt from his shoulders -he didn't know who they belonged to, and didn't care. Very soon, Merry found himself bare to the waist, and his cousin's mouth was leaving his to seek Sam's over his shoulder. The older hobbits kissed and Merry watched in awe, sandwiched in a firey embrace of strong arms and thighs pressing between his legs. Frodo and Sam pulsed on either side of him, and all at once, Merry was overwhelmed with the intensity of seeing them together. It was beautiful.
Frodo and Sam's mouths parted, and Merry gave a small cry, arching to take one for his own -Sam's- and, oh, he kissed differently to Frodo, but was no less wonderful at it. Merry realised that, for some reason, he'd expected Sam to be a passive, gentle kisser. But no, his tongue was hot and demanding against his own, and Merry dissolved into the caress, any reluctance he might have had leaving him in a hurry.
He was for a moment blissfully unaware of whatever Frodo was doing. His attention returned to his cousin fast, however, when Frodo, who slid down to his knees, nipped softly at his lower belly. Merry cried out and broke away from Sam's mouth, lifting his hands to grip the gardener's arms -circled about his waist- for support as Frodo's mouth slid lower, ghosting gentle pressure over the rigid bulge in his breeches.
"Sam," Frodo said suddenly, shifting back until he leant against the edge of the bed, looking up at the two younger hobbits in concern.
"Yessir?" The gardener replied, his voice warm and close to Merry's ear.
"We have a problem," Frodo said in all seriousness, "I believe Meriadoc has another spoon in his trousers."
Merry whimpered.
"Does he now sir?" Sam asked, doing his best to sound appalled, "We can't have that, can we?"
"No indeed," Frodo said firmly, and lifted his hands to begin unfastening his cousin's breeches buttons.
His hands were suspiciously clumsy, bumping and nudging at the hardness beneath them, and Merry bit his lip. He was gripping Sam's arms so tightly he was sure he'd leave bruises. Sam didn't seem to care, however, so neither did Merry, clenching tighter still as Frodo deftly stripped him from the waist down, letting his trousers and small-clothes gather at his feet.
"Oh my. By the looks of this, Sam, Merry's been trying to make off with my best serving spoon!"
"You don't say, sir?" Sam chuckled. Merry let his head slam back against the gardener's chest, screwing his eyes shut tight, waiting…
Breath. Hot breath on sensitive, throbbing arousal and Merry choked on a whimper, jerking compulsively towards that warmth. Frodo chuckled softly and moved his hands up to his hips to steady him. The younger hobbit could only watch desperately as his cousin shifted forward and laid a soft kiss on the rosy tip of his demanding erection. Merry spasmed, arching back against Sam and throwing his face to the ceiling as Frodo moved one hand to curl his fingers about the shaft. Then his lips were parting, sliding, drawing down. In one swift movement, the older hobbit took him deep inside. Merry choked and his knees gave way.
Luckily, Sam was there to catch him, his arms quickly moving to hook under the Brandybuck's armpits. Frodo drew back, laughing and Sam chuckled softly as he hefted a weak and stumbling Merry over towards the bed, onto which he unceremoniously tossed him.
Once the troublesome cousin was out of the way, Frodo stood, smiling, and busied himself in twining his limbs about his gardener. Merry held his breath, watching.
The older hobbits moved slowly, their hands skating over each other to unfasten buttons and buckles in a dance well practised and perfected. There was none of the clumsy fumbling evident of new lovers; every touch was well measured; a tender stroke here or there would bring gasps and heated murmurs into each other's ears.
The Brandybuck lay mesmerised, one hand absently grazing up and down his damp arousal as he watched the hypnotic motions that gradually brought the two contrasting tones of bronze and milky white flesh to view.
When they were finally bare, Frodo and Sam held one another close for a long moment, and Merry was sure they had forgotten he was in the room. It was heart-wrenchingly beautiful, to see them like this; bare as the day they were born, yet so comfortable and complete just being in each other's arms. Merry could almost believe he was looking at one of those stone carvings Bilbo used to talk about from the houses of the elves; so perfect, so still. Only their breathing and Frodo's slight tremble gave away that they had not, in fact, drifted off into legend. He counted himself blessed to be here with them; to share this moment of love and pleasure. It was like he'd stumbled across an enchanted world where the two of them existed in the firelight. Except he'd been invited, he was wanted…
Suddenly, Frodo's arms tightened fiercely about Sam's neck as he let out a muffled cry. Merry sat up, startled to realise that the sound his cousin had made was a… a sob.
"Sam!" Frodo panted, clinging to the hobbit before him like a babe to its mother, "Don't leave me. Never ever, ever leave me."
What? What was going o- oh. Bilbo…
Sam gentled him with his hands, calm as if he had been expecting this sudden outburst. "Hush love. Your Sam's here," he breathed into his curls as the older hobbit buried his face into his neck. "I'll never leave ye. Never. And nor will Mr. Merry, for that matter."
Frodo lifted his head and glanced at his cousin on the mattress as if just remembering he was there. Merry had to bite his lip against the sight of that flushed, raven-haired beauty, his dark lashes wet. "Never," he choked, "I'll never leave you either."
Drawing himself from Sam's arms, Frodo stepped over to the bed, crawling up onto it until he could capture his cousin's mouth with his own.
"And," Sam's voice reached Merry's ears as his tongue moved desperately against Frodo's, "We'll not let you go anywhere without us."
Merry gasped and pulled back. It hadn't even occurred to him that his cousin would try to suddenly vanish without him. But of course he would -it would be just like Frodo to disappear off into the blue without a word, perhaps after Bilbo, or on adventures of his own.
"Don't you leave us, either!" Merry cried, "don't leave us."
"I won't," Frodo swore, lifting his eyes to his lover as the mattress shifted and Sam moved to kneel beside them. The gardener held out his arms, and Frodo dove into a fierce hug. Merry wrapped his himself about Frodo's other side, pressing his chest against his smooth back. The older hobbit hummed softly as Sam kissed him slow and deep. Then they were shifting -Merry didn't know who was leading, but didn't care and followed until his head was nestled in a pillow and they were lying together, Frodo embraced in the middle by, Merry was sure, the two who loved him most in the whole of the Shire.
It was a long time before the gentle rocking between them turned into something more. Frodo let out a breathless cry, and hooked his leg over Sam's hip, dragging himself in closer to his lover's body. Sam responded by sliding his hand down his back and cupping his backside so that when Frodo groped for Merry leg, pulling it up over his own hip, the Brandybuck found his arousal pressed against the back of Sam's hand.
There was a pause, in which Merry and Sam both raised their heads, eyes meeting over the top of Frodo's dark curls. Then Sam slowly turned his hand over.
Merry gasped, jerking compulsively into his hot, callused palm, eyes fluttering half-closed. Sam grunted approval and returned his attention to whatever it was that Frodo was doing.
"Sam," his cousin's voice was distant to Merry's ears as he pushed against the gardener's hand. Oh, the way his curling fingers were brushing his sack was entirely too… nice…
"Sam, I don't want to wait anymore."
"All right love, all right."
And before Merry knew what was happening, Sam was drawing away, rolling towards the edge of the bed, and the Brandybuck grieved the loss of his rough palm until he suddenly found himself tipped onto his back by a lusty-eyed older cousin. Frodo moved over him on all fours, his naked body hovering enticingly. Merry's hands itched with wanting to explore the shadowy expanse of skin that radiated burning heat above him, but something in Frodo's look told him no; told him to wait, so Merry caressed him with his eyes, gaze raking from the dark and hardened nubs on his chest to the arousal hanging heavy and low between his creamy thighs.
The younger hobbit was barely aware of the scrape of the bedside drawer, then the dip of the mattress as Sam crawled back onto it and towards the cousins. Frodo went perfectly still as Sam moved behind him and Merry watched, enthralled as the gardener gave his lover the full attention of his wonderful hands. Frodo's body stiffened, jerking. Whatever it was that Sam was doing with his fingers, it had Frodo quivering, rocking on his knees and fisting the sheets so that every muscle in his arms was defined, straining and trembling.
"Sam, Sam, please…"
The gardener complied quickly, pausing only to push something aside across the mattress -a glass phial- then his hand was curling under Frodo's belly to steady him -and Merry noticed his fingers glistened in the faint firelight- his other hand was in front, guiding as he slowly slid forward.
"Ah! Sa-am"
Merry watched his cousin's face -his expression changing as fast as rippling water as Sam gradually entered him. Breathing was difficult. But looking away -looking away was impossible. They were perfect. Beautiful and living and here. How, how could anyone think to leave? How, when here and now and this… this was all that the heart, the body needed to survive.
A cry escaped Frodo's lips and his arms bent as he dropped his head onto Merry's chest. The small movement was powerful, and it sucked identical groans from both older hobbits. Frodo's curls tickled Merry's neck; his forehead pressed against his sternum as Sam slowly drew back and began to thrust.
Merry was on fire; the harsh moans Frodo gave, coupled with Sam's breathless grunts, the rocking of the mattress, the heat hovering just above him… and still, still there was no pressure, no contact, no friction where he needed it most.
Reaching down, he curled his fingers about himself, moaning and pushing up into his hand. Frodo struggled to prop himself up on his arms again, lifting his head, and his eyes met Merry's, dark and unfocussed with pleasure and lust. Suddenly, Sam gave a particularly hard thrust, and Frodo's eyes rolled closed. "Saa-" he was slipping, his arms collapsing again, "aaa-" one knee pushing forward, the other one back, "aam!" His arousal, damp at the tip, grazed across Merry's inflamed flesh, sending bolts of lightning charging through the younger hobbit's limbs. Merry lifted both hands to ease him, spreading his thighs to accommodate, and there, Frodo's body lowered onto him, hips fitting together, hot and hard and writhing. Merry jerked and arched up into him, clinging and pulsing and already not much more and, and…
Frodo's scream broke right against Merry's ear as hot liquid soaked him. The Brandybuck's thighs clenched on his hips as Sam gave one last hard push that sent him rocketing over the edge, tensing, floating, breaking…
Spent. Merry was barely aware of his limbs melting into the mattress, the warm weight sinking onto him only pushing him deeper into blissful oblivion.
~*~
It felt like hours had passed before he opened his eyes. Frodo had rolled onto his back at his side, and was fast asleep, his features peaceful and content in a nest of tangled curls. Sam was on his other side, leaning over him and gently cleaning his lower belly with a damp cloth.
Slowly, his eyes rose to Merry's and he smiled faintly. The younger hobbit bit his lip as he grinned back, his heart suddenly in his throat. He had always imagined that Sam, by nature, would be a fiercely protective and jealous lover. But here he was, allowing Merry into his bed, and sharing a little piece of his happiness with him. It was the best kind of gift anyone could have offered him.
"Thank you," he suddenly breathed, unsure if Sam would understand why.
The Gamgee lowered his gaze to Frodo's sleeping face briefly before meeting Merry's eyes again and whispering, "No sir. Thank you."
Merry was puzzled. "For what?"
"For bein' as best a friend to Mr. Frodo as you could be. You helped him a lot today. He will realise and thank ye for it sooner or later."
"Oh, anyone could have helped him with the sorting and cleaning. I just happened to be there," Merry waved him off.
"No sir, it was more than that. He knew you had taken that spoon all along. He was so busy planning how to tease ye best for it, that he didn't have time to think over… anything else."
Merry blinked at him. Oh…
"He will have to think about it eventually, of course," Sam went on sadly, caressing his master's face with his eyes, "but I think that today, he needed nothing more than to know there's still some 'ere as love him. And it was always going to take more than me to show it to him."
A hot tingle suddenly built at the back of Merry's eyes. Silently, he vowed never, ever to stop showing his cousin just how much he loved him.
"So thank you, Mr. Merry," Sam said earnestly. "You've helped me give him a reason to stay."
Fighting tears, Merry reached out and touched the gardener's arm. Before he knew he was doing it, he leaned forward and softly kissed his mouth. "He's always had a reason," he choked softly, "and that reason is you. He is very lucky to have you, Sam Gamgee. And I am lucky to have you both."
Sam was blinking furiously as Merry drew away. He forced a chuckle, "Aye, well, just remember that next time you decide to stick a teaspoon in your breeches, sir, cos if I don' tell Ms Lobelia on you, I'll be coming to fetch it out meself."
~*~
{3 aina_baggins 2 2 }3 cousin love. caps by shadowfax8 NAME europanya
TITLE BUTTER
CHALLENGE First Line
WORD COUNT 3243
RATING USDA Dairy Rating=R
PAIRING Master/Gardener/Butter
WARNINGS Unhygienic use of dairy products between male hobbits. Please, don't try this at home.
SUMMARY Mr. Frodo's stuck. Sam runs to get butter. Slash ensues.
NOTES Don't even try to find a plot. All apologies to the fandom at large. This is the number-one reason why I never write in first person.
DEDICATION For Trilliah, who requested mindless fluff-in-smut. I'll bet she regrets that now. Heh.
BUTTER
by europanya
"It got stuck and I couldn't get it loose!"
"See here, Mr. Frodo. The trouble is your shaft needs a bit of greasing to get it moving proper again. I know just the thing. Hold on!"
That would be Sam I hear--that strapping young hobbit-gardener helping out the Master today. Sounds as if he's in a bit of a tight spot and I've a notion Sam'll be coming for me any minute to help ease the problem, whatever it may be.
"Sam! Where are you going? You aren't going to leave me out here holding it up like this, are you?"
"Won't be but a moment, sir. I reckon the strain won't be too hard on you. That old tool's got a few tricks left in it, as they say!"
"Sam!"
I can hear Sam coming through the backdoor now and into the kitchen. He's heading for the cupboards.
"There's nothing for it, Mr. Frodo! You'll have to hold it or else it's likely to spurt all over the door and we wouldn't want the boards to warp, would we?"
"No…." I can hear the Master answer weakly as Sam opens the cabinet sheltering my little hiding space.
"Hold on! Here we go!" says Sam as he takes me up by the handle and lifts me out. He grabs a spoon and a couple clean rags and hurries us all outside. It's bright out here in the garden. The bees are buzzing and the finches are doing their scratching and chirping. I don't get out much, so the change of scene is quite welcome. My place is over the kitchen counter where Sam will reach up to add a generous tablespoon of me to the fryer or a nice pot of steaming tea.
"Sam," Master says as I'm set at his feet. "That's the buttercrock."
"Right it is, Mr. Frodo. Just churned it fresh this morning myself. We're fresh out o' pig fat, begging your pardon. I'm not expecting more 'til the slaughtering is done later this week. I wasn't looking to be greasing up nothing until then, so this will have to serve. I've used it a time or two to ease the pipes and works. Nothing finer for it, mind I keep the crock clean! Now just step back a bit and I'll see to the problem."
From my place in the crock I still can't see exactly what Sam's on about, but he's taking a hearty two-fingered dip of me and rubbing me into one of those nice clean rags. I'm tumbled about as Sam works me into the cool cotton with his strong hands. Then I feel myself running along the length of a long narrow shaft.
"Oooh," Master says. "I didn't know this was what you had in mind, Sam, or I would have suggested it much sooner."
"No use getting your hands soiled over a job that's best for me to see to, sir. You aught've said you were having a time of it--working it up and down on your own all these days as hard as it's been. And with the weather getting so hot now, you'd have gone and given yourself quite a turn, Mr. Frodo. My gaffer'd clop me if he caught the Master out in a sweat. Here's a chore as needs doing by the proper hands as they say."
"As they say, Sam…It's not that I can't handle a few labours on my own, but ahh…there it starts to go…my right arm was beginning to give me a frightful cramp."
Sam sets me aside with the cloth and the shaft groans and slides, working itself freer and easier. I'm getting slipperier and more heated as Sam throws his shoulder into it. And the Master's excitement is mounting as he sighs and claps his approval.
I like Sam. I like the feel of myself in his capable hands. It was Sam who skimmed my cream from the morning milking and set me in the kitchen in a deep bowl to warm and sour. It was Sam who dipped his finger into me to taste my readiness and fetched the churn to pour me in and set his lid and plunger to me in brisk even strokes. Up and down, he sang a churning song as he beat a rhythm and I came apart, clumping and congealing into fresh thick butter. Sam opened me up and scooped me away with the butter paddle, smacking me this way and that in a wide pan until all my fluids were purged and the buttermilk drained away. Then he washed me in cool clean water, pressing the heel of his hands against me until I grew hard and stiff. Sam salted me and tasted me for doneness and packed me in my little crock. Then he set me up in the cupboards by myself to settle down until the time came to help him with the morning cooking.
I popped and sizzled with the bacon, I melted as I was smeared on the hot steaming scones. Sam took secret little nibbles of me while waiting for the Master to finish with his bath and come eat me. But the bath took longer than expected and Sam had to leave me behind to go see about the situation. I can't say what went on, but Sam's hands smelled like lavender soap when he returned. He came right up to me and slid my lid open for a quick dip of his forefinger. He squeezed me in his fist until I melted and out the back door we went for a spell.
It would seem that Sam needs a bit of pumping and flushing himself from time to time and I was happy to help as a part of me went flying with Sam's own rising cream into the compost pile.
I will say this for my Sam--he likes to keep things neat and tidy.
"Here now, Mr. Frodo. Give that a pull and see how it feels."
I can hear the gush of fluid come forth from the working well-pump as the Master gets his hands on it.
"Well done, lad! I daresay that old crank shaft was in need of a go! Look how it flows! My, that's a marvellous sight. I'm feeling much relieved."
"My pleasure, Mr. Frodo. Now while I've got this crock out and handy, is there anything else needing a bit of work?"
"Well, now that you mention it…the window in my study has been protesting rather loudly of late. Perhaps a good application of your miraculous butter will do the trick."
"Let's see to it!" Sam says all excited-like, and off we go, two hobbits and a crock, back into the hole.
************
"It's a bit tight back in here, begging your pardon, sir. Do you think I might get up on the chair and lean over the desk to see to that noisome hinge?"
"Of course, Sam. Sorry for the trouble. I keep meaning to tidy up in here, but then I get busy at my desk in the afternoons, and more often than not, I find I can't tear myself from the view."
"The view, sir?"
If there's a view, I'm not privy to it. My lid's still on as I sit balanced on the windowsill where Sam's set me.
Master coughs. "Well…yes, the marigolds and sunlight on the…what are those lovely purple blossoms again?"
"The onions, sir?"
"Uh…yes. The onions. Lovely, if not in aroma, at least in colour."
"Yes, sir," Sam says as he steps up on the chair (from the sound of the wheels and the creaking of the knotty pine under Sam's handsome weight) and leans over the blotter. He takes another swipe of me in the second rag and I go oozing into this cold stubborn window hinge. I must say, I prefer a good solid shaft to this type of detail work, but I do my best.
"If you wouldn't mind pushing that chair in a bit, sir, so's I can get at the top hinge."
"Certainly, Sam," says Master odd-like as the chair rolls on the hardwood floor and hits the edge of the desk. My crock trembles as Sam goes flat down on the rosemauling.
"Oh! Sorry, lad! That was too close, wasn't it? I must do better to keep my eyes on your progress….Sam! You're bleeding!"
From the bit if me that's been smeared from the rag onto Sam's fingertips, I can feel a drop of wetness spreading on Sam's plump lower lip
We will be placing other announcements in selected places as well as our own LJs.
Thanks so much to those who are participating in this first challenge!!! Get ready for the next one, which will be announced one week after this challenge closes (to give everyone a breather and give the readers a chance to read the stories)!
If you have ANY questions, don't hesitate to ask.
Ready? Set? Post (but not before the 14th)!!!
ETA: Rosie/Sam banner and Frodo/Aragorn banner!! Woot!2
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Zw 2 2 3 AN-TI-CI-PA-TION!!!
The excitement is building!! The