By: Dana
Summary: "There's no point in throwing blame, Pippin, when we've both had our hands in deep, helping cause this most particular mess."
Characters: Frodo, Pippin, mention of Merry and others
Pairings: Frodo/Pippin, Frodo/Merry and Merry/Pippin both discussed
Rating: R/NC-17
Warnings: Slash, sexual content, Pippins gone wild
Author's Notes: Written for the at hobbit_smut "The Weather Outside is Frightful" challenge.
I should start off by saying, this is the start of something longer. I don't know when I'll get to it, but I do plan on getting to it. *grin*
Anyhow, if you know me then this pairing isn't much of a surprise. But I did like writing this story and, more than that, it is one of my holiday ficlets that ended up getting, uh, long. So, this is dedicated to Molly, who wanted the pairing and is really quite wonderful. *love*
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.

The snow is falling in mad flurries beyond the glass pane of their inn-room's round window – snowing like it hasn't in, oh, at least as long as it's been since Frodo first came to live at Hobbiton, and that has been – oh, a very long time. He can only imagine what a press that will put on their travel plans, and he hadn't wanted to come along from the first, which only makes it more of a bother. Of course, it isn't Pippin's fault, either – most especially, the heavy-falling snow. No, and it isn't that he hadn't wanted to come, at least, not completely. But it had taken a bit of persuading, on Pippin's fault, and Frodo is still rather surprised that Pippin got his way.

Now Pippin is standing at the window, and he says: "If you'd not waited so long, we'd have made it to the ferry before the storm – but you waited, and here we are, stuck the night through at the Floating Log, of all places." Pippin sighs, and folds him arms across his chest. He's staring out the window, while Frodo lounges closer to the fire. Pippin is growing up, and very well, Frodo thinks. Then Frodo extends his hands to the fire, rubbing palm against palm for some friction, wanting for the heat.

"Pippin," he says, "I thought you liked the Floating Log."

Though Frodo can't see him (as he's turned away, and looking at the fire), he still imagines Pippin's shrug. "Yes, yes. It's quite an acceptable place. The beer's not near as fine as what you'd find at the Golden Perch, but it still is quite a fine place."

Frodo can't help but grin, and with his hands still spread open to the warming fire, he turns to watch his cousin where he stands watching at the window. "If you'd only waited out the night, and not been so insistent as to drag me out like a child, we'd still be warm and comfortable and stuck at Bag End. Well, we're warm, still, but you must understand." He turns again, and watches the leap and twist of dancing flame, red-gold in all its glory. "There's no point in throwing blame, Pippin, when we've both had our hands in deep, helping cause this most particular mess."

Pippin sighs – quite loudly, and the floorboard creaks loudly as Pippin takes a heavy step. "But Merry wanted you to visit, Frodo – he's been going on and on about how you've not spent near enough time around – and he's right about that, you know." Frodo drops his hands to his lap, and looks back just as Pippin drapes himself across the back of his high-backed chair – a very comfortable old chair, he must admit, as the Floating Log really is a fine old place. There is a twinkle in Pippin's eyes, but it fades and then he says: "You've not even been writing – instead, you've kept yourself holed up at Bag End, and have gone made yourself scarce."

Frodo blinks, and his jaw hangs over – well, the impudence of such thought. Frodo is hardly surprised – this is Pippin, after all. He stands, and turns, and Pippin doesn't move from where he's draped himself. "Pippin! I have – oh, that is a load, Pippin, I've done no such thing, and I'll thank you kindly not to suggest that I have." Frodo almost bites down on his own tongue, gazing down at the Took, the flash of leaf-coloured eyes and the sharp curve of his nose.

Pippin only says, as innocent as he can: "A load of what, Frodo? I've only told you what I know."

"Oh, you – know," Frodo sputters. "You very well know, and this is all a load of manure and I would like it if you'd not – oh." His hands ball at his sides, curling in on themselves, becoming fists. "I've not been avoiding Merry, and for to even suggest that I have – "

At that, Pippin blinks, and then stands. He puts himself before Frodo – not near enough that they are touching, but not far enough between them that it would be no difficulty for that touch to occur. "Frodo... Frodo Baggins! My own dear cousin." Pippin purses his lips slightly, and shakes his head. "I said no such thing."

Frodo blinks – he can't recall, actually, if Pippin had or hadn't, but the thought of it is enough to keep him mad. "You did so, Peregrin Took! And now, you insult my intelligence, and to my face – "

Pippin touches his cheek, grinning as he does. "Frodo. I only said that Merry missed you – well, not even that. But he does – miss you, that is." Pippin's hand falls away, and then he turns, back towards the clouded window.

Frodo blinks, and then he says: "I've not avoided him. I'd been meaning to visit, but..."

"But?" Pippin queries. Then he turns, and he stands much as he had at the window – pensive looking, and his arms crossed over his chest. There is too much in his eyes – far too much – and Frodo finds himself wishing that Pippin would stop looking at him, at least with those eyes. "Well? Answer me, Frodo – what's kept you away? Was it Bilbo's fabled hoard of raunchy old Dwarf erotica – you'd have thought he'd take that with him, when he went away – oh, well, you can tell me, whatever it is."

Frodo's tension – there had been a good deal of tension – falls at that, and he almost finds himself laughing. "I – oh." He grits his teeth together, hard, and smiles more than grins. "Pippin, you are a miserable brat."

Pippin smiles, and lets his arms fall to his side – hands finding rest in the pockets of his trousers. "Yes, Frodo, I know that, and I love you, too. You haven't answered me, still, and I'll have my answer – now, what has kept you away?"

Frodo sighs. "If I knew, I'd tell you – oh, wipe that smirk off your face, before I wipe it off for you." He's almost laughing, yet again, and he goes over and he takes Pippin by the shoulders, shaking him until the smirk does fall off his face. "You blasted Took – miserable brat, that's not even the start of it." Then he lets loose his hold on Pippin, and sighs, and wipes a hand across his brow. "But if you must know, well, I've missed him too."

"Well, of course," Pippin quips. "As you should, and you'd best. With all the time you spent together, this last spring and the autumn before – and I won't even get into all the time you spent together throughout the Lithedays-Faire..." Pippin is just standing there, now, and he shrugs and then waggles one finger at Frodo, before crooking it as if to tempt Frodo nearer, with a waggle of his index finger and a very pointed look. Frodo sees it once more, something in Pippin's eyes that is almost too much to stand – but Frodo sighs, and pushes that away, and he lets his smirk settle in place as he raises his chin high. "Dear cousin... I have told you this before, but it bears repetition given our current situation – you have a very foul mind."

Pippin flashes his grin. "It must have something with the company I keep, and those I love best. You should know, they've very foul minds, too."

Frodo snorts – he can't help it, and then he's laughing. "Now, you needn't insult Merry..."

Pippin's grinning, still. "Oh, I'm not set on insulting him, Frodo, but he does deserve a good amount of blame. But don't you worry over Merry, Frodo – I've blame for you, and just as well."

"Not this again, Pippin!" Frodo laughs even harder, until his lungs are aching and his sides are too, and he wipes his hand across his eyes and then forces a scowl. "Are we back to this, little cousin, playing games of blame?"

Only Pippin's grin falls away, and then he's looking to the window – the storm beyond, the snow as it blows hard, and how the world beyond is made of pale light, white and grey. "Look at that, Frodo. Do you think this storm will ever clear?"

Frodo blinks, and he goes from watching the storm to watching Pippin, where Pippin stands so still. "Soon enough, I suppose – I hope."

"I hadn't planned on spending Last Night stuck in some old inn. If this storm hadn't come, then we would have made it through to Brandy Hall."

There's more than one thing that Frodo could say – anyhow, he had thought he'd be spending his Yule at Bag End. He hadn't even thought that he'd make it this far away. "Now, the Floating Log isn't just some old inn. It is a very fine establishment – why, you've said so yourself." Not that Frodo had wanted the same – well, Brandy Hall would not be so awful, and Bag End might have been better – but he'd not thought he'd find himself here.

Pippin does grin, then, but it's nothing but a momentary thing. "Yes, yes, I know – but think of the celebrations, out at Brandy Hall – stars, just think of what it must be like at Budgeford right now. I'd rather be either place, than here – oh, do you suppose we might impose upon – " He sighs, and then he looks at Frodo, but Frodo knows where he's going and knows what he wants, and knows what he has to say.

"Pippin, no. I'll not go back out into this weather, and I'll tie you down before I let you do something so foolish – "

"Oh, is that a promise?" There's something bright and cheery in his eyes, and hopeful, too, and he rubs his palms against his trousers before extending one hand. Frodo blinks at it, then blinks at Pippin, and his mind works over what Pippin's just said.

"Pippin – what?"

Pippin shrugs one shoulder and then wheels around, before turning back to Frodo and heading to him, then taking his hand. "We ought to have a celebration of our own – a grand party, just the two of us. We'll drink and revel all we want, and you can tie me down if you'd really like to, and if the storm clears tomorrow then we can be on our way to Brandy Hall, a bit late but none the worse for wear – and we needn't speak of this night, if that's what you desire." Pippin looks up from where he'd been looking so intently, at Frodo's held hand, and that bright cheery something is still in his eyes – almost just the same as before.

Frodo's mouth is opened, but making words follow, now, that's not so simple: "Pippin, now – "

Pippin gives Frodo's hand a squeeze. "And what do you desire?"

"Stubborn, as well. A stubborn, Took-blooded brat."

Pippin says, absently, "You've Took-blood, too." But then, he draws a breath, and his gaze is somewhat more serious than it had only just been. "Frodo, now, whatever you might think – oh, I am being quite serious, actually. I hope that wasn't your no. You haven't even thought on it, and I'd not want you rushing through such an important decision..." Then he grins, and he taps one finger to the side of the bridge of his nose. "But just so you know, I think that a tumble would do us both good."

"Pippin, I will not – " It hits him, really, what Pippin has asked him – and he doesn't feel so disinclined, that he might disagree. But his voice is too loud, and this is almost too much for him to stand, and –

Pippin gives his hand a squeeze, and then sets his other hand at Frodo's neck, letting fingers thread in hair. "Now, Frodo, you needn't raise your voice. I've thought about this a very good deal, if you must know, and I've spoken with Merry about it, too – "

Frodo blinks, and gapes, and says, "Merry knows?"

Pippin's expression is open, and honest, and clearer than it's been in, oh, a very long time -- though, really, Pippin's not ever really been one to lie. "Of course Merry knows, Frodo. I'd not keep this sort of thing from him – it's important that he know." It hits Frodo, again, what Pippin is asking him – and he knows, by all the stars, does he know, that he should send Pippin away. Well, there's no place else to send them – they're sharing the last free room. All right, then, he should at least know that Pippin is old enough to deal with rejection, and would be able to cope with Frodo turning him down.

"Frodo? Are you listening? We have gotten very good at sharing him, I must admit, and I thought that we should – well. The thought intrigued Merry, at the least, when I let him in on my plans – "

Frodo blinks. That Pippin has plans... "You've plans?" Well, that's almost more pressing than the thought that Merry knows – and knowing that Merry knows, well, that thought is somewhat more intriguing than it should have any right to be.

Pippin is smiling, once more, open and honest and terribly cheerful. " – and he thought that I should bring it up to you. Well, consider it brought up." He lets loose his hold on Frodo's hand, and Frodo shivers – he actually shivers – as the hand that had rested at his neck, small and warm, slides away.

"Pippin."

That stops Pippin, and he turns his head slightly until he's facing Frodo, and then he smiles – the sort of smile that says a terrible amount of things, but Frodo can't for the life of him make tails of one or heads of another.

"Yes, cousin?"

Frodo shakes his head, but then he nods, and he's out of breath and exasperated all at once. "I think I – yes. We should."

Pippin quirks one eyebrow at him, hesitant and hopeful but that doesn't seem the right combination, but that's how Frodo sees it, at least. "We should?"

Frodo nods, once more, and runs one hand back through his hair. A drink would be nice, yes, and it would do him good. So he nods and then turns to the fire and goes to the sitting table and the bottle of wine that is left out on the wooden surface; Pippin had insisted that they pick it up on their way up from the taproom. "Yes. Have a drink, at least, and think about it. And you will tell me all your plans?"

Frodo only hears Pippin's answer: "Will I?" He can't see Pippin's face.

Frodo grunts when he twists the cork free. "Yes."

Then Pippin puts his hand on Frodo's shoulder, and kisses Frodo's cheek. Frodo doesn't giggle – he never giggles – but the sound he makes is probably very close to a giggle, anyhow, and he might not ever giggle but just the thought of Pippin's suggestion has thrown him out of his skin.

Pippin says, as if he's been thinking on it very carefully, "Well, we ought to have a drink, first. Or perhaps three."

Frodo laughs, and then turns and kisses Pippin on the cheek, almost the same place that Pippin had set that first touch. "My dear Took – do you want to get me drunk?"

Pippin grins, teeth flashing white, and his hand curls in tight and takes hold of the collar of Frodo's shirt, and when Pippin kisses Frodo next, it most certainly isn't just a chaste peck upon the cheek – and while there are no explosions, as if fireworks were blasting and going off, Frodo can't say that he doesn't like kissing Pippin – and, yes, if anything, it certainly doesn't feel like he's doing anything particularly wrong.

When Pippin draws back, his tongue flicks pink across his lips, and Frodo finds it hard to lift his gaze up any higher than that. Then Pippin answers him, and Frodo does manage to look him in the eyes, and there's something wild and glorious there, and dangerous only because it's known somewhat, and mostly unknown. "Yes," Pippin says. "Yes, I do."

A light step – so to say, as he feels rooted to the floor and he's not moving except for when he breathes – and Frodo speaks again: "Are you hoping that I'll let you have your way with me?"

Pippin's grin softens and his eyes do, too, and he kisses Frodo once and then again, soft hard presses of mouth and then tongue that make Frodo wonder if, having said yes, he'll ever after be able to say no. "I might have thought that, yes."

Frodo laughs, and then he kisses Pippin again – fingers wrapped about the long neck of the wine bottle as he does, and the bottle scuffs against the tabletop and Frodo all but loses himself in Pippin's kiss.

He knows that he should stop, stop while he can and they're still able, but he finds that he'd rather not and when he breaks back and away from Pippin's mouth and Pippin's kiss, he lifts the bottle up and swings it loosely in his grasp. "Shall we, then?"

Pippin nods, smirking, but then his mouth softens to a smile. "We shall."

It is a very nice inn room, the one they have – the sitting table which would be big enough for a full meal, and the comfortable bed, and the comfortable sofa, too, that is positioned so it's closest to the fire. It is long and the cushions are all plush, and there is an old knitted coverlet thrown over it, like knitted dream. Pippin takes Frodo by the hand, and leads him to it, and Pippin sits down and Frodo follows after.

"You didn't think to ask for any glasses," Frodo says.

Pippin's hand bumps against Frodo's, and Pippin lifts the bottle from Frodo's hand. "Oh, do we even have to bother?" he asks, and takes a long drink – cringing, afterwards, and his throat works as he swallows. "Glory, Frodo, but that tastes about as good as paint."

Frodo snickers, and then laughs louder. "It is something of an, ah, acquired taste."

Pippin grins at him and hands the bottle over – then Pippin shakes his head and opens his mouth wide, breathing out deeply. "It can be sweet," Frodo says, tilting the bottle back and placing his mouth at the smooth lip. "If you drink it while eating the right thing."

"Well, we've no food here, Frodo," Pippin says, and he stretches and then he wraps his arm about Frodo's shoulder, and kisses Frodo's cheek. "You've only me." He sounds very serious, saying that, and Frodo supposes that he shouldn't laugh, but he does anyhow. Oh, and it can't be all that awful, not when Pippin grins.

"You've such cheek," Pippin says fondly, and his mouth tastes like the strong southern wine as he kisses, fingers threading into Frodo's hair and kissing with somewhat more force. But when he falls back, lips parted, he laughs a little and he says. "Oh, it'd be best if we relax, I think," and his fingers slide over Frodo's against the cool bottle, and then Pippin is pulling it away. "I want you to be very comfortable. I want you to know – oh, whatever you want... especially if it's something Merry'd never, ever agree to, in forever at least... Well, I want you to be very comfortable." He tilts his head back and the bottle, too, and Frodo is fascinated by the flow of liquid from dark glass and how it vanishes into Pippin's mouth, and how Pippin's throat moves as he swallows...

Frodo is perhaps too fascinated by that, and he shakes his head and shoves those thoughts away from him, as forcibly as he can.

"And I mean it, Frodo, I do," Pippin says, finished with his drink. "Merry can be... well, you know how Merry is," and that's fond enough, and he smiles. But then he's grinning and one finger loops itself around the top button of Frodo's shirt, and Pippin gives it a tug. "This will be very good for us, I think – all of us."

"I can only imagine what you hope the future will bring," Frodo comments, as dryly as he can. That makes Pippin snicker, and then he takes another drink. Frodo bends his mouth to Pippin's, when the bottle drops away, and he kisses Pippin once more. Pippin wriggles, and Pippin is close enough that Frodo can feel it – and Frodo doesn't stop kissing him, and he doesn't stop touching him, either, letting his hands rest first at Pippin's shoulders, then roaming southwards down his arms, and fitting themselves at his sides and sliding down, and then one hand is at Pippin's hip and the other is at his thigh, and Pippin makes a pleasant noise against Frodo's mouth.

But then Pippin's mouth is free, and touch alights against Frodo's ear, and licks the shell of it with the warm wet tip of his tongue. "Cousin," he says, and Frodo shivers, not daring to move because this must all be some sort of dream, though it does seem a pleasant one and he'd like to see what it has planned.

"What is it, Pip?"

"Shall I suck you off? We needn't have to hurry, and I do want you to relax..."

There are several things that Frodo could say to that, but he can't just choose one and the noise that he makes is a combination of them all. That sets Pippin laughing – well, Frodo ought to laugh, too, and Pippin wipes one hand across his eyes and then sets the bottle beside the sofa, and he gets up on his knees and drapes his arms around Frodo, and he kisses him after he says, "Oh, that is the very best way to say yes."

"Pippin – "

Pippin must hear the hesitation in Frodo's voice, and Frodo isn't hesitating because he wants to – it's out of habit, he guesses, and he catches hold of Pippin's wrists and he looks Pippin in the eyes. "Pippin, I – "

"I love you, don't you know that? You're my very best cousin, and I mean that even more that Merry – and you know I love Merry like flowers love the sun. But I love you, Frodo – and it doesn't seem fair, that you won't let me love you, too."

"Oh, Pip..."

"If this doesn't work, then we needn't bring it up – ever. Again. I promise you that. But I think – well, it wouldn't be fair, if we didn't get to try."

"I would like to try. But Pippin – "

"No," Pippin says. He loosens one hand from Frodo's hold, and pushes his forefinger against Frodo's lips. "Well, unless you do mean no."

Frodo shakes his head – and Pippin's finger inches down, and Pippin grins as he teases open that first button but his hand keeps moving, and he nudges his nose against Frodo's and then kisses him, once, with his hand busy down between. Frodo is stuck, wondering, thinking, that this is Pippin and he has known him his full life – from very small infant to charming, and at other times, wicked-grinning lad, from teen and now to this tween whose hand is – Frodo gasps, "Oh! Stars, Pippin!", and Pippin presses a laugh-shaped kiss into the hollow of Frodo's throat, and Frodo can't help but laugh, too, though he groans as well, as Pippin's fingers tease him to the point where he is almost unbearably hard.

Then Frodo manages, and in as conversational a tone as he can, "I thought that you meant to – "

"Oh, but I'm getting to that, Frodo," Pippin says, and his voice is merry heat against Frodo's ear. "Patience, cousin. Shouldn't you have – " and he presses against Frodo, and his hand strokes harder and Frodo pants and groans and wants to thrust himself against Pippin's horrible, wonderful hand " – more of it, given your age?"

Frodo makes that noise again, when he can't quite work his mouth, and if he could he'd curse Pippin, but for all he knows he'll never speak again. When he thinks it's too much – and it is too much, there's no denying that it is – Pippin relents, as abrupt and wild as a sudden winter storm, only Frodo's not left cold.

"Pippin – "

Pippin's hand is gone – that wonderful, horrible hand – and Frodo's legs are aching, sore, and Pippin is grinning at him, and his eyes are clear and bright. "I suppose I wanted more than only comfort," he says. "And I admit, it's nice to hear you get so worked up."

Frodo almost says something – he groans and grits his teeth, instead, forcing out laughter that seems to want free. "I'll have no comfort, if you don't – now," and Frodo feels spread open and splayed wide and it doesn't seem right that Pippin laughs at him, but if he was Pippin, well, he might be laughing too.

"Well then, let's get these awful things off you," Pippin says, after a hard kiss and a teasing touch, and Frodo groans in relief and lets Pippin attend him – yes, those awful trousers, they do need to go, and Pippin is quite accommodating as he helps, but then the trousers are gone and that really is all that matters, Frodo thinks, and moments aren't forever but their passing does make it feel as though it's been the passing of an age, and Frodo's back is pushed against the arm of the sofa and it isn't quite comfortable and Pippin's breath is feather-light and his touch is slow and soft, and then hot and wet and Frodo's hips crash-snap-rise upwards like the rush-surge- force of moving waves.

Frodo doesn't even think to grab him, hold him in place – and what good with that do, under Pippin's force and the wet-heat of his mouth, and Frodo throws his head back and his eyes, right then, feel as though they might just roll backwards, out of their sockets – and Frodo's fingers clutch at rough fabric, rigid, helpless, and hold on where they still can.

When it is too much (and it is, it is, and Frodo can't see how he can stand it), and Pippin is finished with him – well, no he's not. Pippin climbs up him, winds one arm about his shoulder and then presses his mouth to Frodo's. Frodo opens to him – winded, somewhat, and he laughs against the pleasant salty-sweet press of Pippin's mouth, a kiss that's languid, something that Pippin hadn't been before, when he had taken him off, and with such force. When Pippin draws back – those heady lips parted, breath cool against damp warmth, Frodo laughs again, tired and somewhat sort, and still rather out of breath. Pippin presses against him and laughs softly, then murmurs something against skin and kisses Frodo's shoulder. Then Pippin tilts his head sideways, and grins at Frodo – the sort of grin that leaves Frodo thinking that, no, he won't ever after be able to say no.

And for a moment, the only thing that he can think, is, it hasn't been too long, but it does feel like it's been forever.

"You are – Pippin," Frodo says, and then he laughs, because he would have given insult if he could, but Pippin has rattled him to his foundations – at least, his he has last otherwise magnificent grasp on language, and he feels he might have forgot just how to use his tongue. And there's no other quite like –

"Yes," Pippin replies. "I'm Pippin. There's no other quite like me, I should say."

Frodo chuckles, presses a weary kiss to Pippin's cheek. "Oh, but I do put up with you. Why do I, do you guess?"

Pippin shifts – Frodo groans – and Frodo fingers hold of one of Pippin's braces, giving it a tug. "I couldn't say why," Pippin answers him, and Frodo supposes this must be Pippin, as open and as honest as could be – and Frodo doesn't think of Pippin as one who tends to lie, and he never has. "But I'm glad you do."

Frodo gives another tug – and lets the brace snap back. Pippin starts, but then he's laughing, and he crushes his laughing mouth against Frodo's, and they are both mostly quiet for a time. Perhaps he has not lost complete control over his tongue, Frodo guesses – well, he's doing well, at least. "And Merry, too?" Frodo manages, when his mouth is next free.

"Oh, and Merry, yes. Merry, best of all."

"I'll tell him that, I think," and there's mostly-quiet, again, as they kiss.

Mostly-quiet, but that doesn't mean that Frodo lets himself be idle – he unclasps one brace, and then the other, and that leaves him free to work on the buttons of Pippin's shirt. "You are wearing," he declares, in a murmur against Pippin's lips, "far more that you ought to be," and that makes Pippin shift again, almost a wriggle, and Frodo groans out loud when Pippin's mouth falls full away. "We should do something regarding this grievous error, I believe."

"Oh, should we?" Pippin asks, sitting back. His weight is firm against Frodo's right knee, and Pippin's grin is lopsided, though charming all the same.

"Yes, yes we should."

Frodo looks at Pippin – and says more than he might have, otherwise, if he'd relied on words alone. But Pippin settles back, lifting hands to help Frodo with his work. And Pippin doesn't say a thing – not one word, Frodo thinks, and Pippin is truest to his nature when he talks – when Frodo wraps his arms about his waist, and pulls Pippin closer. It is a very simple thought, that Frodo would like to know Pippin – he can feel Pippin against him, underneath his hands, but there's cloth between, still, and Frodo will deal with that, as soon as he can.

But right now, he presses his face into the warmth at the meeting of neck and shoulder, giving first a nuzzle and then a kiss. Pippin shivers – in a very good way – and then, when Frodo bites down, yelps and starts on Frodo's name, and Frodo then laughs. "Oh, you were due that, you mischievous young rascal. We are here because of you. I imagine you have some hand in this awful, and near unnatural, winter storm." Lips skim against skin, licking and finding and then knowing, and Pippin shudders once more when Frodo finds a particular pulse, and point. Frodo finds, when he sucks, and just hard enough, Pippin will say the most incredible, and the most incoherent, things – and that's what he does, just what he does.

In time, his mouth does find its way back to Pippin's, once again – and a kiss, the sort that lingers, and Pippin's short of breath and moaning softly when Frodo pulls his mouth away.

"I am wondering," he says, and nips at glistening lips. "What I should do with you."

"Oh," and Pippin is out of breath, colour high on his cheeks and it seems that he is thoroughly pleased with himself, too. "Whatever you should like. Most especially, ah," and there, with a full-body twitch, Pippin's breath catches, as Frodo's hands skim and touch and push through bothersome cloth. "... ah, the sort of things that Merry would dislike."

"To do to him?" A forceful kiss. "Or that he'd not want done to you?"

"Oh, the sort that he'd not let you do to him, and if you did try, oh, he'd ruin it all with his need to complain."

Frodo chuckles – and thinks back, and Pippin had been too eager when he had mentioned tying him down – and Merry wouldn't like that, never has liked it. He too likes his hands being free. "Even just a bit of play," Pippin goes on, almost complaining, though not really – Frodo supposes that Merry always does make it worth Pippin's while, whatever it might be. Anyhow, and Frodo is thinking that now, perhaps he is thinking too much on something that won't and isn't and might not ever be.

He almost has Pippin's shirt off, but then he pauses. Pippin looks at him, wondering, and Frodo taps Pippin's cheek and then says, "Ah, I do have a plan."

"And what is that, my own dear cousin?"

"Get up. And get undressed."

Pippin's look is quite quizzical – but then, Pippin grins. "I can do that, I think," and he kisses Frodo, rather slow and lingering in a way that reminds Frodo most and first and best of honey, warm and drizzling, in thick summer heat. Then Pippin moves – peels himself free, perhaps, and when he's standing, and Pippin shrugs his shirt off and lets it drop, in an almost swirl, to the ground. "Getting slow, in your old age? Or lazy, is that it?"

"Oh, I'm anything but lazy," Frodo drawls, reclining more comfortably against the arm of the sofa, watching Pippin – and Pippin is half-turned, more amused than anything else, but then he turns away completely and he busies himself with his trousers and getting them undone – they fall an inch, half at least, and then Pippin says.

"You seem rather lazy, right now."

"Oh, but I'm busy, don't you see?"

If Pippin were looking (and, right now, he is being a slow tease and he's not), he would see that Frodo has one hand full of something – stroking himself, wanting for that aching hardness, and wondering at all the somethings that Pippin might allow him. It isn't to say that Merry hasn't been a giving partner – oh, more than, at times. But with Merry (always, with Merry), there has been a pushing and a taking and a giving and an allowing, and Frodo would like... oh, to not have to bother with all that.

When Pippin does drop his trousers, it's without much acclaim, and Pippin doesn't return to Frodo's side – instead, he sits back on the bed, legs spread wide in the most fascinating, and the most languid, stretch, and Frodo's hand gives himself a tug – and Pippin quirks one eyebrow at him, almost smirking.

"Look at that, then. It would be best, I think, if you were to join me here on the bed..."

"Well, of course," and though Frodo would rather just sit and stroke himself, he knows that it will be best if he were to join Pippin – best for them both. So he stands – awkwardly, at that, and shuffles across the floor, complaining all the way. Pippin snickers and pushes up, swinging his knees back and forth and looking both bemused and completely appetizing, and at the same time.

"Oh, I'll – "

"What?" Pippin asks, and somehow manages to sound as innocent as – well, far more innocent than he actually is.

"You'll see," Frodo grits out, but then he's laughing, and he shrugs off his trousers like a second skin, and then he stands (half-hard, and Pippin isn't just almost smirking, now), and wags his forefinger at Pippin. "You, you miserable Took-blooded brat, up against the headboard, then – if I'm to have my way with you, then it should be in the most wicked way it can... but, then, we haven't any oil, and I don't think you'll – "

"Blockheaded old Baggins that you are," Pippin drawls, and then scoots back against the bedcovers, mussing them all, until he bumps against the headboard. "Perhaps you ought to check my bags."

Frodo quirks one eyebrow back at Pippin, and he does check it, and he's laughing when he bounces down onto the bed, cork-stoppered crock in hand. "I should have known," Frodo says. "Oh, I should have trusted you. Now, give me your hand."

Pippin waggles one eyebrow at him, grinning wide, but he offers over his right hand and holds onto the container when Frodo's freed the top (and will they find it, now that Frodo's thrown it off?); and Frodo kisses him, on his knees between those wanton-spread legs, and kisses Pippin's mouth and trails one slick finger down Pippin's chest. "Oh, you. You are – positively – tell me, now, how you talked me into this all?"

"I am just rather good at this, I guess – or, oh, lucky. It could have to do with luck." Pippin's breath hitches and his lips stay parted, and he breathes out. "Oh."

"Did you like that, then?"

"Oh – yes." And Pippin's voice is something strained. "But I – would rather – now, it would be nice if you wanted to pound me into the headboard. Really, cousin, I wouldn't mind."

And Frodo's twice as hard as he was, and he laughs then groans and growls against Pippin's mouth, kisses him thoroughly and deeply, strokes him hard. Pippin's protest is hardly that – oh, but Frodo does like this. He's rather glad he's stuck here, right now, and with Pippin, all alone...

"Frodo. Cousin. Dearest. Oh." Pippin wants to move against him, but the positioning – and how Pippin is caught, against the headboard, makes it somewhat awkward, at the very least. "Please. Oh. You bloody awful, wonderful tease."

"Are you calling me a tease? You, of all – "

And he would like it, he thinks, to pound Pippin against something – the headboard, or the mattress, either would work, and work very well. Frodo grits his teeth and lets go of Pippin – and Pippin's breath whooshes out, hard and fast. "Are you going to debauch me, cousin?"

"I feel as if I'm the one who's been debauched," and he kisses Pippin and threads one hand deep in hair, keeping Pippin still as he slicks himself and then presses against Pippin. Pippin doesn't pause – eyes half-lidded, lips parted, and he moans out loud, and then:

"Oh. You should – the oil. I wouldn't want to see the room bill, if we made such an awful mess..."

And Frodo almost feels like throwing the blasted bottle, but he laughs against Pippin's mouth and then he kisses him, hard and demanding, and then he pulls the crock from his hand and somehow, somehow, sets it down on the bedside – and then he's looking at Pippin, and Pippin is looking at him (and it isn't just forever, it must be the moment, because there's something unguarded in Pippin's eyes and Frodo doesn't know what to think of it, to make of it, or Pippin stretched out, reclining against the headboard, looking just like that). Then Frodo is moving, and he's on his knees against Pippin, and Pippin puts his hands on Frodo's cheeks (and not the ones behind).

"If I ask you one thing..."

"What?"

Frodo's hands slide down – he mouths Pippin's throat, feels the warmth of his breath and pulse. Pippin groans, pleasantly, and Frodo would like to hear more of that, oh yes. "Just – this... if I ask you one thing, would you..."

"What, cousin? What?"

Hands at Pippin's hips, Frodo takes hold, and then tugs – and Pippin slips against the covers, and he would have been on his back fully if not for his hold on the headboard, and then Frodo says: "Don't let go. The leverage will be – ah. Nice."

Pippin nods – knuckles going white – and then his breath catches, though it soon releases, and it takes a bit of arranging – and Frodo's glad that the headboard isn't that high, or else he might pull Pippin apart. "See now – for the best." And Pippin's legs are up and they fit rather nicely at Frodo's shoulders, and then all Frodo has to do is push and pull and he's in Pippin, deep, and if he's not careful then his head will bang against Pippin's, or the headboard, at the least. Either way, he really doesn't look forward to that pain.

And he can't think can't breathe can't move, but he has to, all of it – well, thought can wait, breathing is too important, and he can move and he will and he does, and it heat and pressure and Pippin, gasping and groaning, and the headboard creaking and the bed making more noise than Frodo really had thought it would.

He doesn't know how it's come to this, but he thinks he might be glad it has – well, he'll figure that all out, won't he? And he misses Merry, and he thinks that when he's deep in Pippin and Pippin is arching as best he can, wanting to meet Frodo's rather fervent feeling thrusts. He misses Merry, and he thinks – just for a moment, he thinks – that he is glad that Pippin dragged him away from Bag End, and it's best for him that he'll be seeing Merry again, and soon enough.

They'll be billed for this mess, anyhow – the first thing Frodo thinks, that he shouldn't think, and Pippin is motion, then slowing, and he collapses back, head banging against the headboard, though Pippin's too winded to really seem to mind. Frodo collapses – the very best word for it, really – and Pippin is pleasantly warm against him, beneath him, and his breathing is too shallow and, at the same time, too hard.

"I should have known you'd have it in you. Oh. Ow." And Pippin laughs. "I think I'm rather – this is quite – oh. Uncomfortable. I'm... oh."

Frodo laughs, mostly because he can't help himself, and he's spent and sore, too, though it's more than just his body that aches. "Let me – here. Let go. Let me... move, yes. Here," and he pulls Pippin too him, wraps his arms around him. "That would be why Merry... oh. One day, Pippin, you should tell me, how you first lured him to your bed."

"I did no such thing," Pippin says, and yawns. "It was... oh. I think I want to sleep."

"Then you should," Frodo says, and he kisses Pippin's cheek, letting his mouth find its way back to Pippin's. "We have a ways to go, still."

"You should tell me, you and Merry... oh, how." But Pippin closes his eyes. Frodo strokes his fingers through sweat-slick hair, and then he kisses Pippin once more. He's tired, and he's sore, he rises from bed – and the fire is burning low, and Frodo turns down the lanterns and then blows out the one last candle – and then he gets a clean cloth from the water basin, washing first himself off and, then Pippin. When he's clean (well, mostly clean), he falls back into bed, curling around Pippin – and Pippin presses even closer, seeking that comfort, that closeness. The room is only somewhat lit, and there are shadows all around – shadows across the curves of Pippin's face.

Frodo does miss Merry. He does. And he doesn't, really, understand why. Pippin must miss him, too, and Frodo never has questioned him that – well, only now, only after this, he does want to know.

He gropes in the almost-dark, finding the covers and pulling them up from under Pippin, covering them both and closing his eyes. He will deal with that all, in time. But for now – just for now – he would like to sleep.