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Title: It Was A Dark And Stormy Night... Author: Daffodil Bolger
Pairing: Frodo/Merry/Pippin Summary: Merry and Pippin are just too good at getting what they want.
Written for the hubbit_smut lj community "In The Wardrobe, Under The Bed" Challenge
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IT WAS A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT …
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It’s dark and it’s cold and all Pippin wants at this moment is to latch onto Frodo, turn them around and head back to Whitehall. Why Frodo had insisted upon waiting until night to travel is something he cannot fathom in the first place but insist he did and now all Pippin wants is a warm bed and to not be so bloody terrified.
“Frodo, we really ought to turn back. There’s something very wrong.”
Frodo says nothing, just keeps plodding steadily but Pippin knows he feels it too. Something watches them from the black-silk of the night, something darker than the night itself, something hungry and not entirely happy that they have stumbled into its sights. There are eyes out there somewhere – he can feel them. Prickling cold at his nape, burning right through his skin and lighting a pit of fear in his belly.
“Frodo--”
“It’s fine, Pip.”
Frodo doesn’t sound so sure. Pippin’s not entirely certain because he’s never heard that quaver in his cousin’s voice before but he’s as near to certain as he thinks he needs to be: Frodo is frightened. And that, more than anything else - more than that feeling of eyes upon him, more than the malevolence so thick in the air he can almost taste it on his tongue – that well and truly strikes the fear through his bones.
“Frodo, I want to go back.” And Pippin really means it. No matter that they are already three leagues from the ferry and they’ve only less than a another to the Hall. Too much can happen over the amount of time it will take them to cover the last two miles or so and Pippin thinks that if he has to feel this foreboding for much longer he will go completely out of his mind.
“Frodo, I am very serious. I want--”
“Yes, Pippin, I am aware that you are very serious. You have repeated that fact to me at least four times now and I have believed you each and every time. But since I have told you each and every time that I have no intention of going back, you must realize that I too am very serious. I tell you, I am not turning back, so if you’re truly that serious, you should turn around now and go back yourself.”
“By myself? Are you mad?”
“Well, since I have invited Peregrin Took to accompany me on a walking trip, then yes, I suppose I just might be completely insane. Which does not alter the fact that--”
“Yes, yes – you’re not going back, I know.”
“Exactly. Now look, we’ll be at the Hall in just over an hour and we’ll have a hot meal and a warm bed if we only keep up this pace. But we cannot keep up this pace if you insist on stopping every several yards in order to demand that we turn around and go back to Whitehall. Which, I will remind you, is at least another eight leagues in the opposite direction, so why you’d even think of--”
“It’s coming from the Forest and you know it.”
It is Frodo who stops this time. His back stiffens and his head snaps ‘round and then he is piercing Pippin with a dark, alert gaze.
“Why do you say that?” he asks sharply.
Pippin is a little taken aback. “I… well, it just is. Can’t you feel it?”
Frodo frowns, stares at Pippin intently for a moment, lip twitching. He opens his mouth on a reply but it’s swept away by a sudden gust of sharp, cold wind. And it’s not the wind so much that seems to stop that reply but the sounds that creep in on it. A howl almost – deep and low and filled with such misery… longing almost and there is insanity within it and it seems to Pippin an odd thing to be able to hear but the oddness of it does not alter the fact that he can hear it.
Frodo turns to Pippin, wild-eyed. Pippin can feel Frodo’s hand trembling as he clutches at Pippin’s sleeve--
“I most certainly did not!”
“You did so.” Pippin shrugs off his traveling coat, tosses it to Merry and attempts to roll up his sleeve. “You left bruises, too, I’ll wager. I’ll show you.”
“If there are bruises, they’re from when you tripped over your own feet to get away from this supposed bogey you’ve been terrified of all evening and fell face-first into the hedgerow,” Frodo retorts indignantly.
They’ve only walked in the door not five minutes ago and Merry ushered them directly into his private suite. Frodo hadn’t even time enough to take his hands out of his pockets to warm them over the fire before Pippin had launched into his overly-dramatic (in Frodo’s humble opinion) tale.
“Then why were your hands shaking?” Pippin wants to know as he wrestles with his cufflink.
“If my hands were trembling – and I’m not saying that they were – but if they were, it was because it’s bloody cold outside.” He pauses, flashes a grateful smile as Merry hands him a mug of mulled cider before going on, “As if you could tell whose body parts were trembling and whose weren’t, considering the dubious state of your addled mind.” He flops into a chair by the fire, takes a drink from his mug. “Besides, how could I help but get a little out of sorts, what with you nattering on about Hildifons and Isengar wandering about, seeking out random Tooks to take Away with them.”
“Is that what all of this is about? Pippin!” Merry casts a dubious eye to his cousin. “I thought all of that nonsense had been left behind, along with stuffed bears and baby blankets.”
Pippin lifts his chin, sniffs. “Whatever Frodo may say about my state of mind - or lack thereof,” and here he pauses to glower at Frodo, “I still have my wits and I know what really happened.”
“Yes, and you still have your bears and baby blanket as well,” Frodo mutters dryly.
Pippin lifts an eyebrow, clears his throat. “Those are for when I have children.”
“Oh, no,” Merry snickers. “Pippin, please tell me this is all a joke. Honestly, it’s all too much. Hidifons and Isengar? Those tales are just stupid legend that parents use as a way to get their little hobbits safely into their smials before dark. You can’t really still believe those old tales?”
“I tell you, Merry, something was not right,” Pippin insists. “There was something out there – I could feel it! And so could Frodo, though he won’t admit it. He knows just as well as I do that whatever it was, it came from the Old Forest.”
“Now, just you stop saying that,” Frodo says evenly. “I know no such thing.”
“Then why does it seem to frighten you so?” Pippin demands with eyes narrowed. He abandons his battle with his cufflink and advances on Frodo. “You were fine until I mentioned the Forest. A little nervous but you didn’t become actually frightened until I said that whatever it was that howled was coming from there.”
Frodo looks away, takes a sip of his cider. “I was never frightened,” he defends.
Pippin rolls his eyes, throws up his hands and looks to Merry. “He was,” he insists. “He’s trying to appear the brave hobbit for you, I’ll wager, but I tell you, he was frightened near out of his skin when that howl sounded.”
“Well, who wouldn’t be?” Frodo demands hotly. “What with you sending my nerves into a dither all night and the wind kicking up just so…” He turns to Merry. “You wouldn’t believe him, honestly. He had me so twisted up, even I was jumping at the snap of a twig.”
“Well, what was it?” Merry wants to know.
“How in blue blazes should I know?” Frodo answers angrily. “Why am I the one you both turn to when you’re wanting answers to All Things Bizarre?”
Pippin gives a sharp nod of satisfaction. “See? I told you he was frightened.”
Frodo grinds his teeth and appears on the verge of sending his mug sailing directly at Pippin’s head. Merry gives his arm a light pat and turns to Pippin.
“Listen, Pip, I don’t think you’d best pursue this discussion at the moment. Cousin Frodo is not fond of the Forest and for very good reason.”
Pippin lifts an eyebrow, turns to Frodo in surprise. “Is that true?” When Frodo doesn’t answer, he turns back to Merry. “Why? Did something happen?”
Frodo glares up at Merry but Merry pretends he doesn’t notice. He nods at Pippin.
“Yes, something did happen, though Frodo has never said exactly what. But it was enough to shock him white, I’ll tell you that.”
“You were ten years old, Merry,” Frodo growls.
“How could you possibly even remember?” “I remember very well,” Merry answers. “When a ten-year-old’s hero straggles home, pale as a sheet and almost mute, one tends to remember.”
Frodo’s expression softens. “Was I your hero?”
Merry reaches out, strokes his cheek. “Of course you were.” He leans in, brushes a kiss over Frodo’s mouth. “Still are.”
Pippin rolls his eyes, throws up his hands. “You two are hopeless.”
Merry chuckles and turns to Pippin. “Feeling left out?”
“As if I couldn’t have the both of you drooling with the flick of a few buttons,” Pippin shoots back. “No, I’m not feeling left out, I’m feeling put off. I want to know what that was out there and I want to know about Frodo in the Old Forest and I don’t want to get side-tracked by turning storytime into playtime.”
“Oh, lovely! Pippin’s telling stories tonight.” Frodo takes a casual sip of his cider. “I’ll have one about trolls, please.”
Pippin narrows his eyes. “No, I am not telling stories – you are.”
“No, in fact, I am not,” Frodo responds. “I haven’t any stories to tell.”
Pippin sends a sideways glance to Merry. Merry catches it, ponders. He must admit he’s rather intrigued. He’s been wanting to know what happened to Frodo in the Old Forest for years and, regardless of Frodo’s stubborn protests, he knows beyond doubt that something did happen. He cannot even fathom a guess as to what it could have been; all he knows is that it was fearsome enough to send his otherwise fearless cousin stumbling home breathless and ashen and very much afraid.
And Pippin’s right about one thing: it takes very little to make Frodo drool and the flick of a few of Pippin’s buttons never fails to turn the trick. Merry thinks he knows a very good use for that particular weakness. He leans over Frodo and, before Frodo can even blink up at him, Merry has him by the lapels of his coat and drags him to his feet, spins him around and pins him to Merry’s own front, locking his wrists behind his back with one hand and wrapping his other arm firmly across Frodo’s chest.
“What the bloody--” Frodo begins but stops abruptly at the hot breath in his ear.
“Tell us what we want to know,” Merry croons as he lets his tongue travel lightly over Frodo’s ear, “and we’ll give you what you want.”
Frodo makes a half-hearted attempt to slither out of Merry’s grip. “What I want is for you to set me loose.”
But now Pippin hovers in front of him and oh, Frodo’s been at the receiving end of that particular glint in his eye too many times for him not to recognize it now. A small Tookish smile wraps about Pippin’s mouth and he trails the tip of one finger – only one – up Frodo’s thigh then circles it lightly at his hip. It’s enough to catch Frodo’s breath sharp in his throat and he knows good and well that his wily cousins have almost certainly won this game before it’s even begun.
“You never did lie well,” Pippin tells him softly as he leans in and up, slicks his tongue hot and slippery over Frodo’s throat. “I can see what you really want. It’s written all over your…” and here Pippin’s finger moves inward, feathers over the slight rise in Frodo’s trousers and my that happened fast, didn’t it, then? “…face.” Pippin leans back, smirks and Frodo should want to throttle that smug smile from his face but oh, this is getting interesting.
“You know you want to, Frodo,” Merry breathes into his ear and heat blossoms, runs right through him and doesn’t stop ‘til his toes begin to tingle. “You talk and we’ll make you glad you did.”
Frodo’s already glad and has barely said a word yet. He knows these two – knows them very well – and knows that it doesn’t take so very much to melt their resolve with the flutter of practiced fingers or the confident flick of a wrist. And he begins to think that if he can just distract them a little, lead this where he wants it to go…
‘Divide and conquer,’ Frodo thinks then pushes back into Merry and suppresses a smile at the quick gasp and quiet moan. He leans his head back on Merry’s shoulder, turns his face and then his mouth is on Merry’s throat, small nibbles and the dart of his tongue bringing forth a quickening of breath and a slow roll of Merry’s hips. Merry’s grip softens and Frodo twists his wrists oh, so gently and surely it will be only a matter of moments before he is the one directing the action. Oh, this is so much easier than he’d thought.
But then Pippin pulls back further and takes hold of Frodo’s chin, turns his face toward him. There are matching groans of frustration from both Frodo and Merry and Merry’s grip tightens once again. Pippin chuckles and it’s maddening but also, Frodo is annoyed to admit, far too affecting and bugger but he’s right back where he started. Well, not right back where he started – there is the new-ish matter of this rather large bulge in his trousers.
“We know your tricks, Frodo,” Pippin murmurs and he feathers a kiss, soft and moist over Frodo’s mouth. Despite himself, Frodo leans in but Pippin pulls just out of reach. Blasted clever Tooks anyway. “At least one of us does.” This last Pippin directs over Frodo’s shoulder to Merry. Frodo feels Merry straighten a little and his grip tightens even further in response. “Tell us a tale,” Pippin says, “or we’ll stop right now.”
Frodo considers. These two think they’re very clever, don’t they? Manipulating him, getting him flustered and needy and they think he’ll just do whatever they want him to, just because they’ve already got him so hard he could probably open doors without using his hands. Well, he’s a Baggins, isn’t he, then? These two wouldn’t know resolve if it walked up and asked them for a ride to market but the Baggins line has more than a nodding acquaintance with the word. It would take more than hot breath down his nape and a hard bulge pressing into his backside and clever fingers hovering just to the left of where they really, really need to be and right now and a slick-hot tongue sliding up and over… oh, that feels nice, that finger circling just… mmm…
Bother.
No! He’s a Baggins! He has resolve and to spare! He’ll show them! Try and manipulate Frodo Baggins, will they? They’re not getting any story out him, no sir. He cannot possibly let them win this, if for no other reason than that it would set a terrible precedent. If he allows them their victory here, as much as he wants to (and oh, but he really, really wants to) there’s no telling what they might try next. No. Absolutely no story. He squares his shoulders, takes a deep breath.
“It was so very dark that night,” Frodo begins.
No stars, just the scrim of silver clouds against the blooded orange of a fat, bloated harvest moon. What little light there is seems alive, almost – muddy red that seems to slither right over his skin, work its way into the pit of his belly. Gooseflesh crawls beneath his shirt.
He takes the ancient key, cold and heavy in his grip. The weight of it seems foreboding almost and Frodo grits his teeth, pushes aside his foolishness.
He is not frightened. There is not a single thing to be frightened about, after all. Uncle Sara goes in the Old Forest all of the time and he’s never even once been chased by bogeys or accosted by ghosts… At least, none that he’s ever told Frodo about.
“Stop it,” Frodo tells himself. “If anything had ever happened, he’d’ve told you, if only to scare you away from trying to go in yourself. Nothing ever happened. There is nothing to be frightened about.”
He pushes the key into the lock, turns it slowly. It seems far too easy for such an ancient-looking mechanism. He’d expected it to give him at least a little bit of a fight. It gives him pause. It’s almost as if the Forest wants him to enter.
“That’s enough. You’re acting like an idiot.”
Frodo squares his shoulders, lifts his chin and walks…definitely…uh…no, defiantly… through…through the… oh…
“Having trouble concentrating, Frodo?”
The question works itself in through a haze of sensation, warmth pressing in at him from every angle and slow, rolling movement pushing at him, carrying him on a wave of--
“Frodo, if you don’t keep talking, I’m going to stop,” and to prove his point, Pippin pulls away, leaving Frodo suddenly exposed to the chill of air at his chest and good heavens but when exactly had his shirt come undone and wasn’t he wearing a coat and waistcoat only a moment ago? Frodo growls incoherent protest and reaches out to snatch at Pippin’s shirtfront – itself undone and for pity’s sake, he’s missing far too much of all of this to suit him and hoy, there, look at that; Merry seems to have let go Frodo’s hands and he makes quick use of them, winds them into Pippin’s shirt and yanks him close.
Pippin allows himself to be drawn into a deep and urgent kiss and then Merry is pressing even harder at Frodo’s backside, his mouth latching on to Frodo’s earlobe, tongue hot as coal-fire and teeth nipping up along the shell. There are hands raking over Frodo’s chest and he’s fairly certain they belong to Merry because one of them is moving ever closer to a nipple and Merry never can resist tweaking--
“Ah!” Frodo bucks hard into Pippin and Pippin drags his mouth away from Frodo’s with a maddening chuckle and that cocky Took is enjoying this little game far too much for Frodo’s liking. Frodo hauls at Pippin’s shirt, pulls him in tight and presses his thigh between his legs. And that gets rid of that bothersome smirk well and good.
Pippin gasps and pulls back sharp, yanking the shirt out of Frodo’s grip and himself out of Frodo’s reach. Bugger.
“None of that, now,” Merry breathes into Frodo’s ear and it’s all Frodo can do not to melt entirely at the heat against his skin. “We’ll hear the tale, if you please. You were on your way into the Forest.”
Frodo tilts his head, closes his eyes. “Forest?”
Frodo wants to turn, wants to sink into Merry’s mouth and drown there but Merry’s arm is firmly across his chest again, holding him in place. And now Pippin’s hand is brushing over his groin again and Frodo thinks they really might be trying to kill him.
“The story, Frodo,” Pippin demands.
Dark and cold and he can feel the eyes on him, almost as if the gaze itself is alive and there is dreadful malice all around him. The creaking of wood is the only sound until a low moan works its way up, seemingly from the very ground at Frodo’s feet. He looks down, horrified and paralyzed and can only watch as a grey mist swirls its way up from the carpet of leaves that cover the forest floor. A pillar of what looks like smoke but is somehow more solid, more substantive, grows and changes right before his eyes.
A form begins to take shape and it’s tall – taller than anyone he’s ever seen and this must be an elf, surely? He’s never heard tell of elves materializing out of thin air before but they’re certainly magical and something like this shouldn’t be beyond the more talented of them. Right?
Or a trick of the eye. Or a dream! Yes, that’s it – he’s fallen asleep and he is right now in his bed and this entire thing is just one very long, very vivid dream. He will wake when Merry creeps into bed with him, as he does most every night, and he will probably startle because how could he possibly help it but then he will pull Merry in, cuddle him close and he’ll be taking comfort from the nearness, rather than just giving it this time and--
“That is one of the nicest things you’ve ever said about me.” Merry wraps both arms around Frodo’s chest and squeezes. “I can’t believe you thought of me at a time like that.” He buries his face in Frodo’s shoulder and sways them side-to-side.
“Oh, don’t get so carried away with yourself,” Pippin mutters and slips his hand into Frodo’s trousers and oh, my but it seems Frodo’s missed those buttons coming loose as well. “You’re distracting him,” and Pippin slips his fingers into Frodo’s smallclothes and Frodo thinks distraction is really so far beyond understatement at the moment that it would be funny, if he wasn’t already thoroughly occupied with being desperately hard. He jolts, thrusts himself into that eager grip and Pippin gives him a satisfied smile, directs it to Merry then turns it into a smirk.
Frodo can’t see but he can almost feel Merry narrow his eyes, glare at Pippin. “I’ve never really liked you,” Merry tells Pippin.
Pippin is unfazed. His smirk widens to a grin.
“Perhaps not,” he says amiably. “But many, many parts of you do.”
To prove his point, Pippin’s other hand snakes around Frodo and Frodo can feel it slither behind his back and work its way down into Merry’s trousers. Merry’s reaction is very much like Frodo’s was and he bucks himself forward, pushing himself into Frodo’s backside and Frodo more firmly into Pippin and he’s sandwiched snug between them now and oh! blessed heavens but if the pressure doesn’t kill him, the pure bliss of it just might. Oh, Pippin really is far too talented at making people succumb to his will. A dangerous talent in a Took.
“Tell me more, Frodo,” Pippin whispers and Frodo can see him latch his mouth onto Merry’s out of the corner of his eye. Frodo swallows.
Its shape is solid now and it must be a Man because no elf could possibly look so… well, the only polite way of putting it is ‘scruffy’ and surely elves had to smell better. Frodo suppresses a grimace and he’s finding that he’s a little more disgusted now than frightened.
The man looks him up and down and Frodo does the same. The man’s beard needs to be introduced to a comb and soon, is the first thing Frodo notices. And his hair isn’t much better, though the helm covers the top portion of it at least. He is dressed all in beaten leather that has seen much better days and a chest-plate that looks as though someone dragged it behind a cart for a month or two. And then stomped on it for good measure. His long, black cape is torn and ragged and he holds a broken spear in one gloved hand.
Frodo blinks up at him. The man blinks back. There is a long silence and then Frodo does the only thing he can think to do: he bows.
“Frodo Baggins, at your service.”
The man blinks some more and then he shrugs. He bows back.
“Inglon The Black.”
Frodo stares for a few minutes. The man stares back. Frodo takes a deep breath, looks at the sky, examines the moon.
“So…” Frodo says.
“Right,” replies Inglon.
They nod at each other. The silence spins out. Frodo clears his throat. He swings his arms back and forth, drums a little tattoo against his thighs. He suppresses a ridiculous urge to whistle. He rolls his eyes, blows out an impatient breath and turns back to the man.
“May I ask what your business here is?”
Inglon appears to ponder for a moment before his eyes brighten. “Oh, yes!” He grins a little self-consciously. “It’s been an awfully long time since I’ve had company, you understand.” Frodo nods magnanimously and Inglon pulls a stern face, draws himself up. “My sovereign has claim on this land and I am its guardian. I am obliged to take any caught trespassing to my liege, who will make of you a guard to walk this tract for all eternity.”
Frodo is well aware that he should be frightened. He is in conversation with a ghost, after all and one that not only wants to take him captive but seems to want to turn him into a ghost himself and sentence him to haunt unsuspecting hobbits for all eternity. Not as terrible a thing as say, being eaten alive or sentenced to burn in unconsuming fire for years without end but he rather thinks that what this ghost proposes would get awfully boring after a while.
“Who is your liege?” Frodo wants to know.
“King Daglad of the North Kingdom,” the man states proudly.
“All right,” Frodo agrees. “Why don’t you run off and collect him and I’ll wait here?”
The man frowns. “You misunderstand, my lad,” he grumbles. “I am to take you to him.”
“Oh, I’m afraid that won’t do,” Frodo replies. “My uncle has forbidden me from traveling too far from home and he’ll tan me good for coming even this far. I’m afraid I can’t possibly go with you. But thank you for asking.” Frodo bows and turns.
“Wait!” cries Inglon.
“Well, I don’t know why I should,” Frodo says over his shoulder and is dismayed to see Inglon following. He quickens his pace. “You’re not terribly polite, you know.”
“Ghosts don’t need to be polite, brazen lad. I have been set a lonely task and it is my fate to carry it out.”
“And it’s mine to get home before I’m noticed missing,” Frodo returns. “Sorry I can’t help you. Bye, now!”
“You will come with me,” the man says with a growl.
Frodo feels an icy grip at his shoulder where the man’s hand has laid hold. He halts in his tracks, turns. Time to try a different tack.
“Hold on,” he says, narrowing his eyes. “Did you say your liege is master of the North Kingdom?”
Inglon squares his shoulders proudly. “Aye, that I did. And now he will be your liege as well.”
“Well, for pity’s sake,” Frodo says, shaking his head. “You’re rather off your mark, aren’t you, then?”
Inglon frowns. “Off the mark?”
“The North Kingdom was miles and miles back that way, in days of old. Out past the Weather Hills.” Frodo points back over the man’s shoulder. “You’re haunting a place at least forty leagues west of where you’re supposed to be. Have you no sense of direction?”
The man stares, scratches his chin. He looks in the direction of where Frodo pointed. “Forty leagues?”
“At least,” Frodo clarifies. “It’s probably more like--”
“Oh, you are such a liar!”
Pippin pushes away and staggers backward – which might have much more dramatic effect if his trousers weren’t down around his ankles. Of course, Frodo doesn’t even know where his own trousers might have got to – he’s missed that part as well somewhere in the haze - but at least he’s not trying his best to look haughty. And speaking of losing things in the haze, when exactly had they migrated to Merry’s bedroom?
Pippin is incensed. “I cannot even believe you would stoop to such a thing, after--”
But Frodo is completely free of restraint at the moment – and clothes, come to that - and he takes full advantage; he launches himself at Pippin, tackles him to the bed and pins him to the mattress. Pippin’s mouth is still open and he seems to think about finishing his scolding but then Frodo rolls his hips and Pippin thinks better of it. He lets a moan flow and his entire body ripples in one long, sensuous undulation. Frodo takes hold of Pippin’s mouth with his own, plunges his tongue deep.
Enough play – it’s time to get down to some real business and Frodo’s in charge now. He’s been teased long enough, thank you very much and Pippin is far too hot and pliant beneath him and Frodo’s far too desperately, urgently hard to waste any more time. Frodo rocks into him forcefully and drives them both right into a rhythm that has Pippin gasping into his mouth.
An indignant, “Hoy!” comes from somewhere behind him and then even more heat is laid to his skin, this time draped over his back as Merry decides that watching is probably a lot less than what he personally thinks the situation calls for. He takes hold of Frodo’s shoulders and pulls him off of Pippin, rolls him onto his back. And Merry seems to have decided not to waste any further time as well because Frodo hasn’t even fully realized that the tables have turned before Merry’s mouth closes around him and his world is quite firmly enclosed in moist white fire.
It’s Pippin’s turn to protest and, with a muttered curse, he bounces up from the bed and Frodo dimly hears him rooting through Merry’s bedside table. He knows full well what Pippin’s after, of course and pulls together enough wits to wonder if he’ll get his chance at using the oil that Pippin’s triumphant, ‘ah!’ signals that he’s found but then Merry swirls his tongue and sucks so hard that Frodo would not be surprised to see his own teeth come out Merry’s mouth when he’s finished with him and the subject of oil recedes into the ‘let’s worry about that later’ category.
Oh, this is almost too much and Frodo hopes that neither one of them expect him to last very long because his head is already beginning to spin and white noise is roaring in his ears. Merry has set a rhythm that’s bidding fair to drive Frodo to frenzy and he is only prevented from bucking up wildly by the firm grip of Merry’s hands on his hips. Then Merry moans and his jaw relaxes around Frodo for a moment and Frodo would protest but he knows what this means and now he pries his eyes open, pulls himself up onto his elbows because he has to see.
Pippin is pressed flush to Merry’s backside. His eyes are squeezed closed, his jaw is slack and his head lolls on his shoulder. It is such a look of euphoria and beauty and Frodo is instantly captivated and just the thought of the sensations that Pippin is experiencing right now makes Frodo whimper. Merry takes that as a hint and Frodo really hadn’t meant it that way but he’s certainly not about to argue because Merry’s mouth has tightened around him and his head is bobbing and his tongue is pressing wet and slick and thought is completely beyond Frodo now.
Pippin leans down, lays a kiss to Merry’s shoulder and it looks so hot and wet and open and Frodo can almost feel Pippin’s breath on his own shoulder, can almost feel those teeth sinking into his skin, biting hard. Merry’s own mouth is like liquid fire surrounding him and it’s blisteringly hot and his moans are spiraling right through Frodo, taking hold of his nerves and driving him straight out of his mind.
Frodo’s eyes fall closed and there is so much feeling over every single inch of his body and he might die or he might go completely mad with it and he simply can’t bring himself to care. He rocks wildly and there is equal response from Merry and Pippin and just the sounds are enough to send him over the edge and he doesn’t want to, wants to make it last but it’s already too late and Frodo pulls a scream up from his toes. His legs turn to fire and it rolls up into his groin then blossoms out to every single extremity and then he jerks and spasms and shrieks his release.
That seems to send the other two tumbling from the edge and their voices join in unison as they both cry out. Muscles tense against him, bodies rock madly and Frodo wonders if it’s possible to burst apart just from the pure sound and dual beauty of their release. The shrieks turn to moans and their bodies relax. Merry rests his head against Frodo’s leg and Pippin curls up against Merry’s back. They wilt, one into another in dopey, sated completion.
Pippin is the first to gain his senses. He peers up at Frodo with narrowed eyes.
“Not fair,” he mutters.
“All’s fair,” Frodo retorts. “I told you a tale of the Old Forest. That’s what you wanted.”
“We wanted your tale,” Merry slurs as he rolls over and they all sit up slowly.
“That was my tale,” Frodo defends.
“Not the real one,” Pippin puts in.
“And how do you know that?” Frodo wants to know. “Were you there?”
Pippin glares for a moment, opens his mouth on a hot retort but then he stops and his face lightens. He lifts an eyebrow, smirks. He scouts around for a moment then spies what he’s looking for and bounces off the bed.
“Where are you going?” Merry asks him.
“I left the oil on the floor,” he responds. He picks up the bottle, waggles it in his fingers. “We’ve all night to get the real story out of him.”
Frodo rolls his eyes. “Pippin,” he says reasonably, “you have completely exhausted me. I’m much older than you, you know. You can’t possibly expect me to--”
But now Merry is circling a nipple with his tongue and Pippin is looking at them both through a lusty haze and…
Oh, why not?
“It was a dark and stormy night,” Frodo begins.
* * *
END?
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