By: Dana
Summary: It has been far too long since they'd had a proper visit.
Characters: Merry, Pippin, Frodo
Pairings: Frodo/Merry/Pippin (Merry/Pippin, Frodo/Pippin)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Slash, Pippin always gets his way, sexual content
Author's Notes: For Thuri, for my birthday.
Disclaimer: The author makes no claim to owning the rights of anything to do with J.R.R. Tolkien or New Line Cinema. Any and all characters and situations that have been borrowed are for the author's personal use only, and for the entertainment of others.

Three months is far too long to have gone between proper visits, Merry thinks, as Pippin near bowls him over with the force of his almost too exuberant greeting. Pippin catches Merry tight in a hug, and Merry's legs almost buckle beneath him – though that isn't only from Pippin's weight and the energy of Pippin's greeting. Part of it – the good majority of it, really – is that three months is far too long to have gone between visits, and his body has gone beyond hungry for Pippin's touch, and is now starving. Merry wants to touch Pippin all over, but he can't, at least, not right now. Instead, he hugs Pippin tight, hands smoothing down Pippin's back – following the curve down to the small of it – and then he squeezes, tightly, pressing down through cloth to flesh. He breathes in Pippin's scent – heady, and Merry could spin. He mutters something, but it's low enough that it must not matter.

"I've missed you," Pippin says.

Merry would, very much, like to kiss Pippin, because it's been three months and his mouth is hungry and his hands twitch impatiently as Pippin draws away. He hadn't thought he'd become so accustomed to having Pippin about – but there had been along stretch of months at Bag End when they had all been together (and Frodo, too, and Frodo is a world away – well, a day's ride, at least), and then time after that at Brandy Hall, then, when Merry had wondered if Pippin would ever leave and go back to his own home. Not that he had minded. Well, until Pippin had left, and for the harvest so there'd been no chance that Merry could have gone along with. Now, Pippin's hands skim lightly down Merry's arms to his hands, taking hold, and Pippin smiles a sly Pippin-smile at him as Merry settles back into current thought.

"I've missed you too," Merry says. "But don't you think – " The last time they'd been caught kissing, Pippin hadn't heard the end of it for a full fortnight, or so he'd told Merry when they'd seen each other again. It was somewhat odd, he supposes, that his parents had been more concerned than Pippin's had – Saradoc hadn't lightened up on him, yet, and Merry thinks himself lucky to be standing here at Great Smials at all. Not that there was much that could be done more than talk. But Merry felt, no, knew, that his father had been wanting to keep Pippin away.

It is the curve of Pippin's mouth (the flash of his grin and the glint of hard white teeth), and the light in his eyes (bright like stars and sparking with such mischief), that sets off fire in Merry's veins. It is a sudden rush, and he nearly consumed by that want – to hold Pippin closer, to kiss him, to throw him up against the wall since there is no bed for them to use, and yet he'd still be free to do what he wants and have what he wanted –

Pippin laughs – low and sweet, and he's grinning still, pressing the thumb of his right hand firm against Merry's palm. "I really am glad you're here, if you couldn't tell by the weight of this smile. Oh. Shall we go to my room?"

Merry nods – he thinks of Pippin's bed, and grins, and bends close and sets a chaste kiss upon his cousin's cheek. "Lead on, dearest Pippin. I'm sure you have much you'd like to tell me – why, it's been months." His voice doesn't even break until the end of that word.

Pippin is still holding his hand, and they go from the empty parlour out into the main hall. The long way, Merry thinks, as they work through to the great hall, greeting relations as they do. They work through a throng of tweens – it is the Thain's birthday, that is, it is three days from the Thain's birthday and yet the celebrations are already underway. Paladin, as Pippin's father, and the next cousin in line after Ferumbras, enjoys a special position here at Great Smials. When Ferumbras is gone (and half the Shire already knows this and it seems they are waiting for the day), Paladin will be Thain and then Pippin after him, at some distant time.

And the smial is packed with cousins, aunt, uncles, and more cousins after that. Pippin's grip is tight – Merry grins as charmingly as he can at a passing group of lasses, and one of them – Amethyst, he thinks her name is – grins back at him, and blows a kiss.

"Pip, I do think we're causing a scene."

Pippin's voice laughs, though he doesn't laugh himself. "Oh, they're just jealous, Merry, since they're not the ones who'll have you in their bed."

Merry smiles. Then, he laughs, and heat fires upon his cheek mostly because he can't will it away, and then he smiles even wider when they cross through the great hall. It almost seems that Pippin is wanting them all to see who he has with him, and it seems obvious enough what Pippin must be planning. This is Pippin, after all, and any hobbit knows that a tween has too much energy than is good for him.

Merry can't wait for Pippin to spend that energy as he will.

Then they're up the broad stairs (stairs underground, and that's odd enough when he thinks that Brandy Hall is all one story, with winding tunnels that go all ways), and taking the long corridor that winds even higher, to the Thain's apartments and the quarters of the family who is closest to him – which of course includes the family of Paladin Took. They make it no further than that, though, when Pippin quite abruptly catches Merry up against the wall, pressing against him with his body and with his mouth, tonguing for Merry's reacting and causing him to groan.

Fire sparks and rushes through Merry's veins, but his arms hang limp and useless as Pippin quite effectively kisses his mouth. He is dimly aware (and hardly even that) of the buttons of his jackets being undone, of Pippin's hands pushing them back so that the sleeves are inching down Merry's arms. Then it's that Merry's trousers, having tightened, begin to loosen, and Pippin tears his mouth from his – and Merry is left gasping and groaning and too damned hard, and what is that look in Pippin's eyes, and what –

"I've missed you. So." Then Pippin grins, a sly curving of his lips and a bright flash of his teeth, and he drops to his knees, hand wrapping about Merry's shaft and mouth smoothing over the already-damp head. Merry's hips jerk forward, Pippin's hand falling away from him to steady him at his knees. Merry's fingers curl in Pippin's hair, back arching against the wall as Pippin quite – no – too efficiently bobs his mouth, no rapid motion but slow-paced-suction instead. Then one hand is rubbing and squeezing him, brushing at his shaft and making fire spark again, brighter and brighter still until Merry feels he'll be confused – no, he has, and he's burning up, now. He groans, and feels his hips thrusting in time to the speed of Pippin's mouth, smooth wet heat and Pippin's own groan reverberating through him, and Merry pulling tight on Pippin's curls, though Merry is the one who gasps.

When he comes, it's hard and he's left gasping, croaking Pippin's name, and Pippin doesn't finish with him until his knees begin to sag. Pippin holds him steady, still, not sucking now but only licking, and Merry feels a soft mewling sound trap itself in his throat.

He moans. He lets it out. It seems a great weight lifts from him. But it isn't enough.

Pippin's tongue is even slower now, steady and somewhat more rhythmic, a slow lapping. Merry whimpers, then twitches. Then Pippin is slowly, too slowly, rising to his feet, and he presses his body back against Merry's, keeping him in place, pressed hard against the wall.

"And I missed your taste." Then Pippin is kissing him, slow and invasive, and Merry opens himself to that – well, it doesn't seem like an intrusion, not at all, and he winds his arms slowly about Pippin's slim shoulders as Pippin wraps his arms up around his arms and back, and Pippin's trousers are hard and somewhat scratchy where they press against warm, spent skin.

It only makes Merry want more, and he could dream himself into a warm comfy bed and with Pippin pressed into him, and he groans against and presses back against Pippin, imaging the depth of his thrust.

"I want you," he whispers, feeling hazy.

"And I you," Pippin lightly says, then smiles too sweetly. "Merry, I have a surprise for you. Let's get your trousers done back up, and I'll lead you to him, hmm?"

Merry blinks. And smiles. "Whatever you say, Pippin, dear."

And Pippin kisses him, smirking before he does, and the kiss itself is slow and sweet, all the while as he does up Merry's trousers. Then he takes Merry in hand (and Merry is still somewhat shaky-legged, so the help is much appreciated), and leads him the rest of the way down the long corridor, stopping at his door. "Are you ready?" Pippin asks, and smiles, and Merry smiles when he sees that Pippin is somewhat nervous. "I do hope that you're ready. I have been planning this for some time." At least, underneath, there is a flicker of doubt.

He leans, and kisses his cousin's brow. "Lead on, Pip."

And Pippin does, opening the door and tugging on Merry's arm. In to the front parlour (with a long sofa and the hearth that is linked to the bedroom, and other amenities and necessities, though Pippin's actual bedroom is much finer), and Pippin closes the door when Merry is in.

"He's waiting," Pippin says.

And Merry's brain isn't so muggy as it had been, when pleasure had still been pumping itself through his veins, and he sees, and hears, and says: "He?"

"Well," Pippin says, and worries his lower lip. The very faintest smile curves. "Yes. He."

Merry, perhaps because his brain is fuzzed over enough by pleasure even if it isn't as much as it had been before, doesn't seem to mind and he reaches out, putting his hand back in Pippin's. "Well then, show me what it is, Pip. I should have known that you were – up to – something. You and no good."

"I will, Merry," Pippin says and, then leading him across the parlour to the bedroom door, gives it a nudge open. "Hullo, Frodo. I brought him, as I said I would. I kept my word."

Merry, sated, chuckles. Frodo, sitting on the bed, shakes his head then laughs. "You are thoroughly incorrigible, Pippin. I should have known, but I didn't think it possible. Not until you brought Merry here, that is."

"So," Pippin says, with his hand still about Merry's. "Was the waiting worth it?"

"Pippin, lad – "

"I'm no child, and I'm bloody sick of being treated as if I was one. Merry knows I'm no child, Frodo, and I'll show you the same." Pippin continues speaking, though Merry can't hear it for the life of him, and he wraps one arm about Pippin's shoulder and then leans close, weight into Pippin's, and whispers at Pippin's ear: "Love, there's no need to argue," and he licks Pippin's cheek.

Pippin shudders. Pippin groans. Pippin turns, and kisses him as he has more than Merry can think, though it seems somewhat more charged, more intense, and if Merry had thought Pippin going down on him in the hall (where anyone could have found them, and see, though Merry hadn't been able to think of that then), then this is somehow somewhat – more. He might not be a child but he's still young and when Pippin presses against him, Merry can feel how hard he is, and it must be killing him. He almost puts his hand down Pippin's trousers, but he knows – he somehow knows – that this isn't the time.

And he can't tell how.

Pippin lifts one hand to Merry's face, fingers curling slowly at his cheek. "I'll show you, I'll show you both," he whispers, and his brow draws itself together. The bed creaks softly, and Frodo stands. He walks over, and wraps his arms about Pippin's shoulders, leaning his head against the left one, and pressing his mouth against Pippin's cheek.

"We've all had our play, Pippin, but – "

"But? What? Shall you leave me now, through with me? Well," and he wrenches himself from Frodo's hold, turning quickly and catching him in a tight hug, startling him so Frodo stumbles back towards the bed. Pippin goes with a firm, "Frodo, I'm not through with you."

Merry's hand is warm where Pippin had touched him, and he's not so out of it as he had been, and he's never seen something so arousing as Pippin pinning Frodo hard to the bed, mouth working upon Frodo's. And Frodo had tensed, but now he's languid, arms tight about Pippin as he kisses Pippin with as much intensity as Pippin does him. Then Pippin draws back, and he whispers, hoarse, "Well?"

As though Frodo might catch his breath and laugh it all off. He doesn't, chest rising and falling. Pippin must pack force that Merry had not imagined – but then, he's seen this side of Pippin, that part of him that is sly and demanding and somehow knows just how to get his way. That part of him that knows just what he wants, and all it is, and all he plans on doing to get it.

"Pippin – " Frodo gasps.

Pippin sits back, straddling Frodo's legs. "I mean it, Frodo. I do. I want you to know that – that one of us didn't think this all play and games. I'm as serious now as I've ever been, Frodo." Then he leans down, and he whispers something else at Frodo's ear.

Merry wishes he was close enough to hear.

But he's not and then Pippin is sitting back, slowly, smoothing his hands down Frodo's chest. Merry thinks back and, hadn't Pippin been the stubborn one when they had, at last, wanted to bring them in on their – thing, whatever it is, or could have been, he can't think a better word up than thing. For all that he'd not wanted to think that Pippin could have been right (when he'd already been right) about the lasting power of him and Frodo – and not when it came to them in bed, where staying problem never did seem an issue – but it seems sure enough that Frodo has been slipping away, sly Baggins that he is. And Merry doesn't mind as he might have, once, as he's become more and more fond of Pippin – this Pippin, in particular, though they've more in common than just wanting for the bed.

Now Pippin is popping the buttons of Frodo's jacket, his shirt to follow, and fingers loop slow about his bracers, pulling on and then letting snap back. Frodo jerks, laughing, and he shakes his head, dark hair mussed against the covers.

Pippin leans back down, bending against Frodo, mouth to his, and Merry seems that he is rooted in place – as fixed as the great rose bushes outside Bag End – and then Frodo is shucking off his jacket, talking almost conversationally as he does, and Pippin helps him with the shirt beneath, letting free his bracers first.

Pragmatic to a fault, Pippin is, at least when it comes to logistics of the bed.

Pippin rolls him over, still dressed fully but drawing Frodo closer. And Frodo goes with him, shuddering faintly when Pippin's mouth seeks out skin at his shoulder – and groaning, perhaps too loudly, when Pippin's mouth becomes more insistent. There will be marks, in the morning, kiss bites, and then that thought spills free as Frodo moans, again, louder than he had before, words spilling in an incomprehensible jumble from his mouth as Pippin's mouth continues its motion, skimming across skin.

When Pippin sits back, again, it's to wrestle with Frodo's trousers, and Frodo says something – whatever it is, Merry can't say, and then he is fighting with buttons and ties of Pippin's, only getting as far as Pippin's shirt and the fastenings of his breeches before Pippin is pinning Frodo back against the bed – Pippin, half-dressed, but Frodo, not, and Pippin presses his hips forwards, and Frodo groans aloud at the heat of that friction. Imagined heat, for Merry. Oh, but it must be hot.

Merry loses site of one of Pippin's hands, but he knows where it must be when Frodo jerks and arches beneath him, hips pressing forward insistently. "Pippin," Frodo gasps, and Pippin licks a long slow line up his throat, mouth then fastening at Frodo's.

And Merry can, finally, move.

They are both flushed, and sweaty, Pippin not moving at all but for his arm and Frodo all but quaking beneath him. Merry sits, very carefully, at the edge of the bed, and Pippin whispers something else against Frodo's ear.

Frodo laughs, cheeks red, but then he's wriggling out from beneath Pippin, though Pippin gives chase, going so far as to pounce and pin him down, Frodo face down and bottom up. Merry can speak, at last, and laughs, saying, "Well, cousin, you asked for that, I think."

Pippin's mouth curves in a grin, his gaze latching on Merry's, but then his mouth descends to Frodo's skin, again, one hand sinking beneath him and the other trailing fingers through the sweat that has gathered damp on his back. Then, Frodo jerks up and throws his head back (and almost knocks Pippin with it, for what it would be worth), shouting out hoarsely when two fingers slide down a rounded cheek, teasing and then pressing.

"Ah, Merry. Do you think you could – ah, yes."

Frodo squirms and groans and Merry takes the oil, pops it and kisses Pippin as he lets his hand join Pippin's, slick now not only with sweat. Pippin makes a hoarse little noise, and it's a demanding yes, yes, and Pippin doesn't seem to shake at all when the kiss goes deep, and Merry presses deeper. Merry lets out his breath, trembling, and he draws away – before Pippin can grab him, before he can spill all the oil, but Pippin seems busy enough, now, pushing against Frodo, where it's tight and hot and deep, and Merry shakes harder before setting the oil beside the bed. Pippin seemingly finds it hard to breathe. Merry watches, fascinated – he doesn't think he's ever seen this, just like this, Frodo so gone and Pippin so apparently in control. His hand is moving, now, no, still, the other gripping Frodo tight, and Frodo's hips seem to hum, moving faintly, fingers knotting even tighter in the coverlet. Oh, how he pleads, and how he groans.

"Pippin, Pippin, please. Anything – oh – more –"

A breathy laugh, and Pippin untangles himself from Frodo, all but tripping over himself to get his trousers off. Merry moves, settling behind him, helping Pippin now that his hands seem unable to do their own work – and Pippin turns to him, kisses him until they are both left breathless, and all but slithers from his hold to sink himself into Frodo. Frodo yowls, back bending almost so it looks that it will break, pressing up with his arms, and his head again thrown back – neck bared, glistening in lantern light, and mouth parted and eyes pressed shut.

But then he sinks back to the bed, and Pippin clutches at his hips and begins to move, pressing in deeper and making Frodo gasp and whisper and plead and groan.

And Merry watches, still, more than just fascinated, as Pippin moves and Frodo reacts. He wipes sweat from his own brow, feels the tightening in his trousers, goes to loosen the tie – and bares himself, slips his hand inside, feeling that his cock is too hard to be possible. And his hand works upon himself, in time to the thrust of Pippin's body and how Frodo's body gives in return.

Dizzy, it doesn't last long, and he spills hot in his hand, watching as Frodo sinks down into the covers and Pippin collapses against him, both spent and very still. Then he feels that he is falling, and he does, onto the bed, laughing as he does.

Nothing is said, after. At least, not for a very long time.

And even after, when words are found, again, Pippin has none for what he has done – none for what they have accepted – and Merry suggests a bath, and Pippin agrees and then suggests both supper and afters, and Frodo only loops his arms about Pippin's shoulders, pressing his mouth and a sleepy, bemused grin, into the softness of his neck.

Merry wants more than just touch, now, but he is too tired – too sated, still, and spent – to desire anything more than just that want.

But he does kiss Frodo, and then he does kiss Pippin, and for the moment, and after all that's been, that at least seems enough.

Pippin says one thing, his voice low and drowsy and his skin all sweaty-soft. "Ah, when we've had our rest, I expect you to tup me. Both."

Merry knows they all know he'll have his way.