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Title: Porn and Pests Pairing: Frodo/Pipin Summary: Pippin gets more than he bargained for, and Frodo retains his bits.
A/N: This story was written for the
hobbit_smut Livejournal Community 'First Line' Challenge. * * *
PORN AND PESTS
* * * "Hit it with something!" Frodo stops, clenches his jaw and turns slowly to Pippin. "And just what," he grates, "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. In point of fact, it would have been a little difficult not to. Frodo's manner of dress - or rather, undress, as it were - 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 tightly about his head and looks warily about the room. "Throw one at it!" "Are you mad?" Frodo wants to know. "Some of these are rare and beyond price, you know. I won't risk a split spine or mangled binding just because--" "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 hotly. "They go right for the hair, you know. And you, standing about, bare as birth. It'll go right for the goolies, mark my words." Frodo frowns and spares a glance downward, frowns some more then slants his gaze back to travel the ceiling. Nothing. Just to be safe, however, he angles over to the hearth and takes up the poker. Hair he is willing to risk but the goolies? Erm... no. "You don't think you're actually going to be able to hit it with that, do you?" Pippin wants to know. "It's too narrow. They're very fast, you know. It'll change course before you've even finished your swing." "Yes, Pippin, I have actually seen a bat before, thank you." "I'm only saying--" "Pippin, if you want to talk to me, you're going to have to come out from under that blanket. I refuse to keep carrying on a conversation with a heap of knitted wool." "I think not," Pippin says evenly. "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," he warns, though he has to admit that it looks very still and isn't seeming to pose an immediate threat. "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?" and he takes a step toward the door. Pippin's hand shoots out and latches on to Frodo's arm. "What are you going to do?" he asks, somewhat alarmed. "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, don't you know. Hardly seems fair." Frodo's hand clenches on the poker. "Pippin," he grates. "If you think, for one moment... mmm..." Pippin pre-empts the tirade with a kiss, lets a hand creep out from beneath the throw and runs it up Frodo's flank before pulling back. He directs a smoky gaze through his lashes. "Yes, Frodo? You were saying?" Frodo stares, licks his lips. "Pippin," he breathes, winding an arm around Pippin's waist. Pippin holds back a smirk. "Mmm?" he hums, silk twining 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 says around a grin, "you're making more sense every minute." He returns his attention to the doorjamb and is glad to see that their unwelcome visitor is still where he had last seen it. He 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?" "Well... no, I suppose not," Pippin answers dubiously. "But the foaming madness, Frodo. What if it bites you?" "Then we'll have plenty of time to finish what we started before I begin foaming at the mouth and you have to run for the healer," Frodo answers reasonably and takes a step forward, gripping the poker tight. "Wait!" Pippin calls, staying Frodo with a hand to his arm. He frowns, shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other then wordlessly unwinds the throw from around his head and 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 says with a shrug. "I've plans for that later. When you're through, of course." Frodo grins. "Of course," he answers. He steps forward again 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. And another. He is perhaps a pace and a half away when the little creature stirs. Its head rotates, wings twitching before it emits a high-pitched squeak and leaps from its perch. Frodo swings the poker blindly up and sweeps it around his head while Pippin squawks and 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 through the same open window it had entered through. Frodo and Pippin stand, silent and blinking. Frodo lowers the poker slowly, eyeing the window. When nothing more sinister than a warm breeze comes through it, he straightens, frowns. "Hmph," he says. Pippin snickers at him. "You look disappointed, Frodo," he observes wryly. "Counting on impressing me with your skill in battling winged rodents, were you?" "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 exactly 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 his 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, his breathing already gaining speed. "I never can remember from one moment to the next." "I might decide to be insulted by that later," Frodo answers and Pippin slithers against him. Pippin opens his mouth to respond but then Frodo nips at his ear, runs his tongue along the shell, so Pippin decides that the only response required is a small groan and a slow grind. Frodo is in complete agreement. "You know," Frodo murmurs as he slides his hand into Pippin's hair, pulls his head back to expose his throat, "this might be a little more comfortable if we went the few extra steps to the bed." He runs his mouth lightly along Pippin's throat, lets his breath flow hot and moist against the smooth skin. "Mmm," Pippin says and lists to the side a little, clutches at Frodo's back and presses harder. Frodo smiles lazily. "Is that a yes," he breathes and his hand drifts down Pippin's chest, "or a no?" as he pauses to tease a nipple. "Mmm," Pippin repeats 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?" Pippin gives a little nip, pulls back and tries that smoky gaze again. Judging by the way Frodo's hand cups his bottom and pulls him in closer, he thinks he is safe in assuming that it's working this time. "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 the cords of Frodo's throat, "...with a brain..." runs his hand down the length of 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 slips his tongue into his mouth. Nothing but the wet heat assaulting his tongue and the hot, pliant body against him and Frodo grips Pippin's skull more firmly, dives deeper. He slides his other 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 gives it to him, hand shifting inward to cup then grip. Pippin pulls his mouth away, head falling back, body arching. Frodo watches Pippin's mouth open on a low moan, feels his 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. Ah, this body, hot and writhing against him - more than he ever expected, more than he thinks he deserves but he is oh, so willing to accept everything offered. Every flutter of reaction that flits across Pippin's face works its way into Frodo's body, heats his bones, sends his blood careening and molten through his veins. Amazing things happen to his body when this compact spitfire is thrashing against him and he feels every twitch, every breath, every moan that vibrates up from Pippin's chest as it slides beneath his own skin and makes a direct path to his groin. Frodo looks down at the body that is now almost bent in half, draped backwards over his arm and wonders if he's ever seen a sight more arousing than this lean, supple Took of his, caught in a haze of pleasure that Frodo himself is responsible for. Lovely, this and intensely arousing but it would be even more so if Frodo could feel Pippin fully against him. Knitted throws certainly have their uses but one of them is definitely not getting between him and the smoldering body that is surging and crushing against him. He stills his hand and brings Pippin up to face him. Frodo watches as disappointment fades into confusion into understanding into amusement - and all of it in the blink of an eye and then, almost as if Frodo had spoken aloud, Pippin is tugging at the blanket knotted at Frodo's hip, nimble fingers loosening folds of fabric, then pulling away to let it fall to the floor at their feet. Frodo follows its progress, watches it glide down his legs and come to rest around his ankles. He slides his eyes up to Pippin's, sees answers to questions he hasn't even thought to ask yet and all of them resoundingly in the affirmative. "I know we'd at least gotten to this part," Pippin says coyly and his hand creeps down Frodo's chest, passes feather-light over his ribs then sweeps down to catch hold. The touch is blistering and knowing and sensation slams through Frodo with crystal-sharp clarity. Everything, he feels everything, to the smallest mote of dust raining from the ceiling to settle on his burning skin. He closes his eyes, hears a soft moan rise from his own chest; it rings in his ears as a blast of thunder in a fierce summer storm and he wonders just exactly where his knees have gotten off to. Hands latching onto his arms, a quick turn and 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 quickly 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 that 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 and locked on Frodo's and Frodo is once again made aware of the challenge in his cousin'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. Pippin would end up protesting, of course because Pippin is Pippin, after all and Frodo is not going strictly by the rules right now. But, argumentative Tooks notwithstanding, Frodo wouldn't allow a bit of creative rule interpretation stop him from claiming victory anyway. Moans and shudders and 'Yes!' and 'Right there, oh, 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 and 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, his hands clenching at Frodo's thighs, drawing him in, his hips thrusting in cadence. Just the sight of that face lax with pleasure and the sounds coming harsh and fast from Pippin's throat are enough to send Frodo plummeting over the edge if he's not vigilant. No slow and sinuous play for this Took, oh, no and Frodo knows just how to make him scream, too and he thinks that doing just that might be the solution to the growing problem he's having with the chasm of release that's growing wider with each thrust and just waiting for him to judder himself into it. He rests all of his weight on Pippin's chest and moves his hands behind him, unwinds Pippin's legs from their grip around him. Pippin fights him, tries to reclaim his grip and thrashes beneath him. Frodo lays his mouth to Pippin's, thinks to still him but Pippin bites down hard 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, he chuckles. "I know," is all he says before he raises himself to his knees and dips his head to tease at a nipple. Pippin twists, squirms and "Frodo, please, I'm begging you," and 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 most likely 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 immediately follows. Oh, he wants to dip his head, wants to take that sultry heat into his mouth and hear Pippin cry his name with a jagged breath, wants that body twisting beneath his touch. But there has been a challenge put forth and all and Frodo is finding that his relentless desire to prevail is secondary to the spoils of victory and he will do whatever he must to secure that victory because he wants, oh he wants... He slides one hand up Pippin's thigh and then Pippin's foot is slithering between his 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 lets loose a groan that's a mixture of relief and intense arousal and Frodo couldn't agree more. His hips rock against Pippin's foot as Pippin pushes into his mouth and Frodo takes him deep, sliding firm and wet around him. Pippin's voice rises into a sharp cry that reverberates right through Frodo and he groans and pushes harder against Pippin's foot. Pippin seems a little lost in his own sensation at the moment and can't seem to be bothered with what his foot ought to be doing, so most of the work in that department is left to Frodo. He finds he doesn't mind much because the jerk of Pippin's hips and the throaty moans falling in a steady stream from his throat are really enough to keep Frodo dancing on that edge anyway. The foot just might complicate things for him, so he doesn't complain when it drops limp to the mattress. Not that he could at any rate, what with his mouth being rather pleasantly occupied. Frodo 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 and mouth moving down and up and deep and fast. Pippin's hips are thrusting mightily, the foot that offered such promise to Frodo's own need only a moment ago now digging into the mattress, toes curling and 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 Frodo thinks they passed that stage ages ago already, so 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, especially since Pippin's squirms and groans and jerks are doing so much to enflame Frodo's own need. 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 self-control, hips rocking into empty air and a rumbling groan loosing itself from his chest. Pippin's fingers twine hard and sharp into Frodo's hair and he is pulling with both hands as he strains up, screams, "Ah! Frodo!" and his hips buck convulsively and "Frodo, yes!" and 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 and his fingers twitch 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 nearly dissolves into the mattress, breath coming short and shallow, body still twitching and 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 just a little. He shifts up, lays his head to Pippin's heaving chest. Pippin winds his fingers through Frodo's hair, gently this time. "Bloody damn, Frodo," Pippin marvels, breath still coming harsh and gasping. "That was... that was..." Pippin pauses, takes in a deep, shaky breath. "I don't know what it was but good doesn't even 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?" and 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 down for a quick, soft kiss, "you invented the rules." "Mmm," Pippin hums as Frodo pulls away. He frowns a little. "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, scandalously talented mouth," and Frodo dips again to nuzzle at Pippin's throat. "Greedy, eh?" Pippin intones then Frodo's knees are being swept out from under him and his limbs are flailing 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's wide eyes peering down at him over the edge of the bed. His mouth hangs agape for a quick moment before snapping shut, lips pressing into a thin line to conceal what Frodo is fairly certain are snickers. "Are you all right?" Pippin chokes out. "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 probably unwise at the moment. "I'm really very sorry, Frodo," he says instead. Frodo sits up, wincing as he flexes his bruised 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, you know." "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 and climbs into his lap. Frodo is beginning to suspect that 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 backside and elbows still wailing indignantly and likely to be bruised by morning. But the arousal that had fled so suddenly upon his impromptu 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 answers with a grunt and hard thrust of his hips and Frodo's breath is knocked from his chest. Oh, yes, that's doing the trick quite nicely, thank you. Pippin pulls back, pants, "I only wanted better access," and now he's got it, hasn't he and Frodo decides that forgiveness is indeed a wonderful virtue. He plasters his mouth to Pippin's again and he blesses the resilience of youth, for Pippin is hardening again and giving Frodo the full benefit of that happy surprise. 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 into Frodo's mouth and it takes Frodo a minute to comprehend that there has been a question and that 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 and strains up to his mouth. Pippin grips harder. "Oil, Frodo," he pants. "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, tries to concentrate. "Drawer," he says. "No! No, washstand," he corrects and then gives a bit of a whine when Pippin scrambles off of 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 the likes of one hobbit at any rate 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 clear. Years and years, I've had this bed and never once have I so much as slipped off the edge in my sleep until a certain impatient Took--" "Oh, bugger all, Frodo, have I mentioned that you talk too much?" Pippin wriggles anxiously into his former position across Frodo's thighs and Frodo finds that he has completely forgotten exactly what it is that he has been talking too much about anyway. "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. Right now, in fact. 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. Does he care? Oh, no, not at all because that particular extremity is currently screaming bloody murder and begging to join the party. Pippin suddenly stops his writhing and yanks Frodo's hands away, saying, "Enough, Frodo. Now," and he clambers from his perch atop Frodo and 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 bottle of 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 blindly, clenches his hands to Pippin's arms and the heat coming from his 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 some time and is enjoying himself far too much to start now, so he's a little surprised when Pippin shoves back hard with a low growl and then begins to rock. Frodo dimly thinks that Pippin really does seem to have the ability to tup himself after all and that might be funny later but right now it's just maddeningly arousing. Frodo digs his fingers into Pippin's hips and 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 drives deeper still and 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 with 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 and 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. He draws in a deep breath, blows it out slowly then drapes his arm over his eyes, quite content to drop into sleep right where he is. "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 slurs. "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. Silence except for their breathing before Frodo stirs a little, asks sleepily, "Are we staying here on the floor, then?" A moment passes before Pippin gets up the energy to respond, "I'm not inclined to move. Are you?" Frodo can't seem to pull together the will to reply 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
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