By: Dana
Summary: "I suppose we must have thought you had better things to do."
Characters: Frodo, Merry, Pippin, mention of Folco Boffin and Fatty Bolger
Pairings:: Frodo/Merry/Pippin
Rating: R/NC-17
Warnings: Slash, sexual content, light kink
Author's Notes: A Christmas-ficlet for Tracy.
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.

Frodo sees Folco and Fatty out the front door, and down to where their ponies await them, clapping Folco on the back, then shaking Fatty's hand.

"Are you quite sure you can't stay any longer?" Frodo asks, smiling. "We've wine a plenty, you know. If anything, if you stay, I'll not have to fend against Merry and Pippin alone."

"Those two are yours to fend against, cousin," Fatty says, with a teasing grin, as though forgetting he's hardly any older than Merry. "Be careful, though. One day, you'll not know what to do with them. And then what?"

"I'll worry about that then when it comes about, I suppose," Frodo laughs back. That said, they say their goodbyes, and Frodo stands and watches until they have ridden out from his sight. Then, with a goodbye to the sun and sky above, he turns back up the path, and walks back into Bag End, closing the round door behind him.

"Good riddance," he proclaims quite cheerfully, as he enters the parlour. Pippin, from his place on the couch, stretched out along the length of it with his head against Merry's lap, laughs. Merry, grinning as he shakes his head, is busy running his finger through the Pippin's cinnamon-bright curls. He'd have thought it would have been awful for them, sitting through their early dinner, being so close but not yet able to touch - but he was proven wrong by them, again and again, when they met with small touches: he didn't even want to think about what they must have been doing with their feet.

Pippin says, "And here I thought that you thought them good friends."

"They're good enough friends, indeed," Frodo laughs. "But, as you should know, there are some things I'd rather only do with the two of you."

"Is that so?" Merry asks, smirking. Pippin, sits, slowly stretching, languid like a content cat warmed from the sun.

"It is, and don't you go and be so surprised. Did you not think I had it in me?"

Pippin makes a comment under his breath, loud enough for only Merry to hear. Merry cracks a grin - had he ever stopped? - and tilts his head at Frodo. Then, quite soberly, he says: "I suppose we must have thought you had better things to do."

In the free spot between them, Frodo sits. "Honestly, Merry, what I want most, right now, is to do you - and Pippin, of course, I'd not leave you out - and then worry about being done myself, in return."

Pippin makes a pleasant noise, and wraps his arms about Frodo's waist, settling his chin at Frodo's shoulder. "Are you up to it, then?" he asks, his mouth pressing against Frodo's ear. Frodo makes a pleasant noise back at him, and Pippin's hands - and Merry's too, and it's Merry's mouth that skims along the line of Frodo's jaw - are working together as they unfasten the long line of buttons - all round and copper bright - down the front of his dark dinner jacket.

"I think that was a yes, Pippin."

Pippin's hand pulls Frodo's jacket back, and Merry's hands slide along the buttons of the dress shirt; Pippin's hands, then, pressing flat against Frodo's belly, pulling the shirt open wide. Cool air, heated skin. The tease of Pippin's fingers as they skirt across his chest, almost touching flesh; then, the sharp pleasure-pain as a nipple is tweaked.

Then, and only then, does he speak. "I do think you're right about that, Merry," Pippin quite cheerfully agrees.

Frodo, realizing finally that he is caught, bucks beneath Pippin's touch, the light pad of fingers as they trail at his sides; he groans beneath the weight of Merry's mouth, where it sucks upon the flesh of his throat.

"Please - " he gasps.

Merry's mouth is more insistent, and Frodo groans. It seems my plans have all turned on me, he is still able to think. Pippin's hands tug, more persistent, on his jacket, and the shirt beneath. His hands are caught, and his arms are, too - half Pippin's persistence, half the tug of fabric where it is caught about his arms. Frodo twists, but the fabric's pull only tightens. He groans, and twists his head back, catching Merry's mouth against his, only to groan deeper against Merry's mouth, and into Merry's kiss.

"Please - "

He pulls hard against the binding of his jacket, and the shirt, only for Pippin to pull back, harder. Frodo grunts, and hears a chuckle, though he can't tell the voice, and Merry presses closer, fingers working at the fastening of Frodo's trousers.

Pippin's fingers (at least, the fingers of one hand, as the other is busy holding him from behind) skim down his side, and Frodo jerks beneath that feather-light touch. "Pippin!"

Pippin laughs, and Frodo is certain that it is Pippin, and his back arches as Merry's fingers (the pads of his fingertips are slightly rougher than Pippin's, and Frodo knows this well) trail lightly up his stomach, over his navel, then to splay flat at his chest. Pippin's mouth is on his neck, then, and, as Merry's hands quite boldly free his hard cock of the bonds of its imprisonment, Frodo cries out so that it must be a keen.

Another broken word. "Please -"

Pippin's hand pulls harder on binding cloth, and Frodo's arms bend, caught tightly, as Merry bends his head to Frodo's throat, licking a slow, wet line, from ear to collarbone. Frodo moans, trembling, as Pippin's hand snakes about him - a touch, just fingertips, against hard flesh, and Frodo almost screams.

Not almost - he does - but Pippin's hand flees, as fast as it had come, and a hand clamps down hard on his mouth. Merry leans against him, and Frodo squirms.

Pippin bunches cloth, tying off the sleeves and leaving Frodo's arms caught, and Frodo groans, chest heaving. He lowers his gaze, and Merry looks back at him - grey eyes, slightly narrowed, but a pleasant smirk on his lips.

"Merry - "

"Tsk, Frodo," Pippin whispers. "Look what you're making me do."

No other time for words, at the touch of soft fabric. "Open your mouth wide," Pippin's voice smiles at him, and his breath wraps about the shape of Frodo's ear. "Please."

Frodo does, a grin hanging on his lips for a moment, and he shakes his head then settles back, his jaw hanging open. His skin is thrumming, his legs spread open, his cock hanging out and wanting for touch. He twitches, and Merry's hand splays at his hip, pressing through cloth as it skins down his leg. Frodo blinks, and Pippin ties his scarf off. Frodo grunts, and Pippin's tongue flicks against the tip of his ear.

Yes.

"There now, all better. Don't you think so, Merry?"

"I do so, Pip. You really are a noisy one, cousin Frodo."

He would speak again, but a hand is on his cock, and Frodo jerks, liquid fire in his veins, muffled cry soaking into the warm, thick fabric of Pippin's scarf. For a Stars, yes.

Frodo is spinning, is dizzy, and would fall if not for Pippin, pressed so close: Pippin's breath, damp and warm, where it touches his throat; and Merry, pressed even closer at his front; Merry's mouth open against his collarbone, the faint prickle-press of sharp teeth.

He wants to stretch his legs, he wants to move, but he an barely think, can hardly breathe, and skin works on skin, and Frodo strains harder, and, with a muffled cry that could be one name, could be the other, comes. Stars slide through his vision, and he blinks against dark splotches that float across the red-warm air. His nostrils flare as he breathes in, and air stings in his lungs. Left reeling, he falls back hard against Pippin, slouching. Pippin grunts, but arms shift and slide about him, and hold him up.

"We haven't worn you out already, have you?" Pippin asks into his ear.

A weak chuckle, and Frodo grumbles back at him. Merry leans close, and Frodo smells smoke and spice and sweat on his skin, and Merry deftly loosens the makeshift gag.

"Not yet," Frodo gasps, and grins.