By: Dana
Summary: Finding warmth after being stuck out in the rain.
Characters: Frodo, Pippin, Merry
Pairings: Frodo/Merry/Pippin
Rating: R
Warnings: Slash, sexual content
Author's Notes: Pre-quest though not by much. Written because I can. Happy naked hobbits; that's basically all that this is. Betaed most recently by Lullenny. This is PWP fluff at it's best - or worst, or however else you'd like to look at it.
Most recent revision: November 10, 2004.
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.

They trek mud into the front hall as Frodo giggles like a drunken tween. Their progress is haphazard grace, and they lurch more often than not, and Frodo has one arm tucked about Pippin's waist, his fist clenched in Pippin's weskit, the other arm slung across Merry's shoulder, and he grasps empty air; his weight is more or less evenly distributed between. Merry is glad that Bilbo is long gone, for their cousin would chide them for Frodo's condition; though in fact, it's all Frodo's fault that they were even caught in the storm.

"You two are wonderful," Frodo hiccoughs. "I love you both lots."

"We know that, Frodo," Pippin comments fondly; of the three, he's the least under the effect of drink, though not by very much - which Merry thinks, in some part of his mind, is really quite strange. "Here, Merry, give a hand, so I can get him out of this wet cloak."

Merry nods, sluggish and slow, and it is difficult to hold onto Frodo as he wriggles and squirms, giggling as Pippin first unfastens the clasp at his throat; then he shrugs the cloak off, and hangs it on a peg. Pippin takes off his own, and Merry watches the deft movement of Pippin's fingers, and then Pippin's own wet cloak joins Frodo's on a peg.

"Need a bit of help?"

Merry grins, nods, and he gives Frodo over to Pippin, and Frodo wraps his arm around his young cousin, and this time it's Pippin who grins over Frodo's shoulder at Merry, with Frodo's breath against his neck.

"Mmm, Pippin, you taste like rain."

Pippin muffles what sounds like a giggle as Frodo makes good on that comment, tilting his head back as Frodo licks up to his ear, and then he's moving, and Frodo's mouth slides against the line of his jaw. Merry laughs, hangs his sodden cloak with his cousins', and then he tugs Frodo free of Pippin's hold.

"Come now, cousin Frodo, let us go have some tea."

Frodo grins and cuts Pippin a look. "I'd much rather have Pippin, instead."

"After the bath," Pippin says, shivers, and Merry nods; he feels the chill himself, and a good hot fire and a fresh cup of tea would do him good. "I'll get the water on, and heated. You get something hot into Frodo, I doubt he even knows that he's cold."

Merry nods again, wraps an arm around Frodo's shoulder as he guides him into the kitchen. Frodo doesn't seem to notice the temperature, no, though his skin is chill to the touch. The fire in the kitchen is down low, and Frodo sits at the table; he watches Merry as he builds the fire up. When it crackles with life, Merry begins to stand, but stops, as Frodo's arms slide about his waist.

"Hullo, there," he says, amused, and Frodo kisses his cheek. He isn't all giggles, now, instead he's steady and calm. Frodo moves back to the table, and pulls Merry with him, turns him round as he walks backwards and sits himself down in a chair.

"Ah, better," Frodo murmurs, pulls Merry down onto his lap; he goes willing enough, and cold wet clothing slides together as he settles down. Merry hears a rumble of thunder, a reminder of the storm that pounds against the Hill, feels the warmth of the fire at his back. Frodo's fingers are cold as they tug at his collar, unbuttoning, baring skin. "S'very good night, wouldn't you say?" he mumbles, bends to kiss Merry's throat, and lick the rainwater from his skin. Merry shivers, reaches back to grip the back of the chair. "Such good companions, my cousins."

And Frodo had let the tavern at large know that, Merry thinks, half-amused. "It could be better, I think," he says, and Frodo's eyes are clouded with laughter when he looks to Merry.

"Yes," he replies, bends close to taste the moisture on Merry's lips. They're cold, they both are: though Frodo doesn't seem to feel it. Merry does, though his shivers come more from Frodo's tongue than from the cold, and Frodo pushes, urges him to part his lips, inviting. The alcohol burns from his blood.

Merry lets him in, slides his tongue against Frodo's, a tangle of warmth that comes up out of the cold. They shift and sigh and sigh again, and Frodo giggles, muffled against Merry's mouth, his hands slide down the wet curve of Merry's back.

"Mmm, yes. Gettin' closer to perfect."

It's Merry's turn to laugh, and he does, and presses back down against Frodo. "I ought to make tea," he mumbles, nuzzles his mouth against Frodo's. He'd say something more, but then Frodo kisses him, again, and Merry's reply gets lost in a mix of tooth and tongue and wet.

"You should wait for Pippin," is Frodo's reply, and they kiss again, long and silent, and Merry thinks that if he kisses Frodo a bit harder, then it'll be better - and he does, and it is, and Frodo sighs open-mouthed against Merry before he kisses him again, slowly, nibbling his lower lip.

"Ah, Frodo," Merry murmurs, and the chair creaks as he grinds forwards, and Frodo moans.

"You should kiss me again. That's what you should do."

Merry's lips twitch and he tilts his head forwards, seals his mouth over Frodo's. They shiver together, Frodo's hands tug at wet cloth, and Merry steadies himself, moving his hands to grip Frodo's shoulders.

"Merry." Frodo's mouth slides to Merry's neck, his teeth graze over clammy skin. Merry shivers, and it's still not the cold; it's Frodo's hands where they slide against the small of his back.

"Frodo," and Merry startles as Frodo bites down, sucks, his mouth warmer with each moment that passes. "Ah, Frodo," and then Merry settles against Frodo, against Frodo's warming-cool body and Frodo's hot-cold hands. There's a breathy sigh, a soft exhale of laughter, and then Merry feels Pippin's hands slide around his waist, covering Frodo's.

Pippin's lips brush the point of Merry's ear, with a little flick of his tongue. "How impatient we are."

Merry can only whine, and his head falls back, and Frodo hungrily kisses his neck. Pippin's damp curls tickle Merry's forehead, then his nose, and the smell of wet and Pippin fills Merry's nostrils as Pippin leans forwards, kisses him as he pleads. "It was, oh," another kiss, and Merry is about to melt, "it was hardly my fault."

"Yes, well, that's always what you say."

Merry is caught there, between two cold bodies, though Pippin's hands have moved - one rests at his arm, the other curved against his throat. Merry is muffled by Pippin's kiss, but he gives back all that Pippin takes, as Frodo's hands tug impatiently at the fastening of Merry's shirt, a line of flat, carved buttons from his neck down to his groin. The first is unfastened first, as it should be, but then Frodo's hands skip, tugging perhaps a bit too hard. One of the buttons pops with a ping, and Merry groans, but he forgets ?hat annoyance (how cold he even think of it?) when Pippin's mouth, warm and soft, slides across his cheek, to nibble on his jaw.

Pippin is right, Merry thinks. It is.

Now Merry is warmer, and Frodo is hardly laughing at all. They must be sobering up, and Merry nearly jolts from his skin when Frodo's cold mouth brushes a nipple; a moment more, and that mouth is hotter, scalding, and Merry arches back, his back bending like it's ready to break. Frodo is busy, sucking and biting. Pippin is kissing Merry's throat.

Another moment, and Merry just about falls from Frodo's lap, and Pippin laughs at his ear. "Your lips are a bit too blue for my tastes," he says, and kisses Merry's cheek; Merry only whimpers softly, a muted exhalation of breath, and Frodo holds his sides, hard, lapping at his chest with obvious intent.

Pippin laughs, again, brushes his fingers through Frodo's wet hair. "Come now, Frodo love, let us get our poor Merry to the bath."

"Poor Merry, indeed," and Merry half-laughs and half-shrieks as Frodo bites down on his chest. He shoots Frodo an inured look, and Pippin shakes his head as he draws Merry back, and Merry slides from Frodo's lap. Merry rubs the red mark, right near a nipple, frowning at Frodo.

"You're going to bite something off, one day."

Frodo just smirks as he rises to his feet.

Pippin gives a tug, arms around Merry's waist, and they somehow manage to walk though they are, for the most part, going in the wrong way. Frodo could be their eyes, but Frodo is too busy with Merry's shirt, pushing it off, and tugging at Merry's trousers.

"Work on your own clothing, cousin," says Pippin with a grin, turning the corner, somehow managing not to hit himself, or lose hold of Merry, in the process. Frodo is still smirking.

"Very well, Pippin," he says, not at all unkindly, and Merry wonders if there will be anything of himself left, after these two are finished with him. His teeth chatter and Pippin turns him round, pushing him into the bathroom. Clothing is shed, hitting the floor with wet rustles, and Merry thinks it's a funny turn of events, watching his cousins undress, and then they're the ones naked and he's still left in damp trousers.

"Just enough left of Merry," and Merry hears more than sees Pippin's grin, and then he's caught up in a storm, kissing and touching. He closes his eyes and feels, because he can hardly see, but he can certainly sense, and he knows their touches so well he hardly needs to see. That's Pippin, light, assured, and that's Frodo, deep enough to leave scars. They touch him, and kiss him, and leave him trembling, their stroking and caressing almost too much to bear. Merry is relieved when they're in the water, because at least then he doesn't have to stand.

And that's good, because his knees were going weak; this is better, best, feeling Frodo against his back, hot and hard and soft, and now Pippin has settled between his legs, warm against Merry's thighs.

Merry sighs, gathering what breath he can, arching when Frodo's hands move and slide and tease. The water sloshes, and then the tip of Pippin's chin is sharp against Merry's shoulder. "Oh, I think we can do this," he murmurs, and Merry chokes as Pippin's hand encircles him, a lazy sort of tug. Merry feels Frodo's grin against his shoulder, the brush of Frodo's lips. The water is just hot enough, but they are both moreso.

"I'm quite sure that we can," says Frodo, in the same voice.

They've definitely sobered, and Merry is wordless, pushing simultaneously back and forth, straining against both Frodo and Pippin. "Might be a bit uncomfortable," Pippin mumbles, with a long slow stroke, and Merry's eyes roll back in his head, as he slumps against Frodo, and Pippin continues to tease and caress him between his legs, moving to brush his thighs, then moving back to the length of his erection. Frodo laughs, bites down on Merry's shoulder, and Pippin trails kisses up Merry's throat.

"Mmm. Definitely a tight fit."

Merry laughs sharply and Pippin squee?es his hips, then, one of Frodo's hands snake around Merry's chest, holding a rounded bar of soap. Pippin just grins and Merry's teeth click together from the shock of Frodo's hands sliding against him and around him and just about through him, under the water.

"I... Oh oh!" Merry laughs again, groaning, needing, and Frodo's hands are never still; maybe he needs more than that, more than this light touch, and Pippin chuckles as he kisses then sucks on Merry's collarbone, licking the moisture there, licking his way to the hollow of Merry's throat.

"We'll get to that, now. It is a tight fit. Slide your legs back, love, yes, like that."

Merry is dizzy and Frodo has an arm around Merry's waist, tugs insistently for Merry's mouth, and Merry can turn and kiss Frodo, while Pippin's hands make themselves busy, so busy, under the water, between Merry's legs; and Pippin's kisses, too, sucking on one hard nipple, and then the other, soft kisses that leave marks across Merry's chest. Merry has to steady himself on Pippin's shoulders, gripping tightly, and push back against Frodo and his kisses; oh, and then, Frodo and his heat, and water splashes from the tub, and Merry breaks the kiss to throw his head back with a deep keen.

He's shaking, and Frodo holds him, and Merry digs his nails into Pippin's shoulders, a grip that will leave marks, bright bruises that will blossom before the morning. Pippin shakes, and Merry trembles, but he sinks back against Frodo with a long, tremulous sigh, hardly able to breathe. When he gathers his breath, and only then, when the world has stopped spinning and there's one and not two Pippins dancing in the blur of his vision, only then does he speak.

"Oh. Oh." Merry quakes, flesh to flesh, and Frodo is a solid presence, holding him down. Frodo tightens his hold about Merry's waist, and tugs his mouth back. Merry, with a sigh, goes back, falls into a deep, open-mouthed kiss. The soapy water sloshes.

Tongues lash, and Pippin has to pry Merry's hands from his shoulders, just threading their fingers together, and Pippin has to slide back, an impatient "Merry", and Merry is coming with him, just enough. He grips the back of the tub, and Pippin's feet push against the far end, and he can feel both Merry and Frodo and oh, oh. "Merry, please," and Merry never has been able to say no, anyway, so he pushes forwards, gives Pippin just what he wants, gripping Pippin's hips and pulling him forth. Pippin looks like he's choking, and he can't breathe, but he's begging for more, and Merry will give him - them both - his all.

"Oh. Oh. Oh, Merry, Frodo. Oh."

He slips and slides for a grip on the edge of the tub, until his knuckles turn white, and Frodo rocks against Merry and drives Merry against and into Pippin; Pippin just about shrieks, biting on his lip though not yet hard enough to draw blood, and Merry moans. He moves to grip Pippin's hips and, then, at a nod from Frodo, a kiss on the back of his neck, Merry grips Pippin's legs under his knees, and pushes back, back, until they're flush against Pippin's chest and Merry can press forwards, more. Can have it all.

He shoves forward, an unsubtle shift.

Pippin wordlessly begs for a kiss, and Merry gives it to him, and they're moving, the three of them, establishing a rhythm, and if any part of them thought if it could be better, it was, and all the lines were blurred from existence, and it was just them, and flesh, kissing and touching, and moving, and oh, faster, better, fastermorenownownow, and Pippin loses himself, first, and Merry doesn't still. They're just one, now, and they couldn't be without the next.

Their music is interrupted by soft whimpering, and Pippin can't stop moving under Merry, moving all that he can, kissing him all over. Frodo chuckles, clutching at Merry, possessive, claiming Merry, claiming them both, faster, faster, and then he loses himself, and Merry goes with him, and they all sort of crumple. All is still, and silent. Then Pippin laughs.

"I'm being ?rushed."

"Mmph, well that's your fault, for wanting to be on the bottom of bottom." Merry comments, with a string of lazy kisses. Pippin grumbles and tilts his head, and then he can kiss Frodo, too, all wrapped around Merry. The water is still warm and Merry rests his head against Pippin's shoulder, and Frodo shifts behind him, a little more comfortable, and he can rest against Merry, his face pressed to Merry's neck, and Merry's curls.

"We can't stay here forever," Pippin mumbles.

"Mmmph. I know." Merry presses another string of lazy kisses to his shoulder, up the curve of his throat, to his lips.

"Off of me now, you two. I'd like some tea."

Frodo gives a little yawn. "As would I."

"We're clean enough," he comments, and then he's crawling from the tub.

"We're clean enough," Pippin seconds, groaning as he moves his legs and wraps himself about Merry, and that's better, because he's free to kiss Merry deeply. Frodo is watching as he towels off, a wide grin spreading across his face.

"I'll leave you two to your play, then," he laughs, then Pippin is untangling himself from Merry, with a last kiss, rising up out of the water, taking the towel that Frodo offers with a grin.

"We should have ourselves a snack, too."

"The energy of a tween," Frodo comments, as Merry follows after, and Pippin becomes more intent on drying Merry than himself, though they do finally manage to make it to the kitchen, all wrapped in warm robes.

Afterwards, in the parlour, Pippin builds the fire up then settles down between his cousins on the sofa, and they talk and eat and drink. Pippin falls asleep with his legs across Merry's lap, his head against Frodo's shoulder, sitting right in their middle.

"The finest companions," Frodo murmurs, one hand softly stroking a snip of bare flesh at Pippin's thigh, where his robe is pulled back, the other toying with the soft dry hair at the nape of Merry's neck. Merry turns, kisses those fingers, and he's content to simply let himself drift off, then, to the feel of Frodo's touch.

Merry makes a promise then, and Pippin seconds it, though he's hardly aware; he'll stay at Frodo's side, always, through thick and through thin.

Frodo is whispering as Merry drifts away, a soft buzz of sound, the whisper of soft skin. "My own, my own," he says, and the world falls dark.