By: Dana
Summary: Merry's sent a message.
Characters: Pippin, Frodo (later, Merry, Sam)
Pairings: Frodo/Pippin + Frodo/Merry (Frodo/Merry/Pippin)
Rating: NC17
Warnings: Slash, sexual content, Tooks being Tooks, lacking a substantial plot
Author's Notes: This is the second of the two stories that I wrote for Ruby Nye during my Hobbitpile week.
Like the first, she's already seen this in its rough and raw draft form, but now it's all ready for posting. And again, Ruby, this is for you, and with all my love.
Also, Hyel, thank you for giving this a poke.
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.

"Merry's sent a message," Pippin said, not nothing more than that (and he had been so distressingly concise), and Frodo found himself backed up against the doorjamb – hardwood firm and solid against his back, and Pippin all too willing against his front. Any proper, sensible hobbit, knew about limitations, and bounds, and that a gentlehobbit could come quite attached to his personal space – not, Frodo knew, that limitations, and bounds, factored all that highly into their past goings on, or what currently was being done. It wasn't something that he minded, as he rather did enjoy finding himself in his younger cousin's company – and that was something else, entirely, wasn't it, as he'd not come to terms with it, not fully, until he and Merry had spent a full season away from him, and had Frodo thought that he would end up going mad.

Anyhow, Pippin wasn't known for being amongst the most proper, or sensible, of hobbits, though Frodo knew he was far more proper, and sensible, than he liked to have others believe.

All through that, Pippin had made himself familiar with the buttons of Frodo's dress shirt, and now worked upon the third, though it proved far more tenacious than those that had come before – Pippin tugged on it, and tugged harder, but still it held, and he jerked on it so hard that the button popped free of the hold and pinged out to the side. And Pippin laughed, all but crushing his mouth against Frodo's, and Frodo laughed, too, arms less senseless than they'd been, and he wound one up about Pippin's waist, fingers bunching tight in cloth at the small of Pippin's back.

"Why are you laughing? And what is this message, cousin?"

"Oh," Pippin said, and his tone was blithe, his breath warm and sweet and his mouth almost touching Frodo's, "we'll soon enough get to that." Then, as though he'd finally given himself time to think, he said, "where's Sam?"

"He's about, I suppose, though likely off with his Gaffer. Now, Pippin – " Frodo started, but managed no more than that, when Pippin found that answer to be satisfactory and no he'd not have thought of it before, and Pippin's hand slipped in and up under his shirt, and fingers grazed hard and hot and Pippin's mouth slid over skin, the moist flick of his tongue as it lazed along Frodo's collarbone, and then the harder press of teeth flowing into firm suction as Pippin's lips sealed along Frodo's pulse, and sucked. It was a gasp that broke free of Frodo's mouth, and a garbled one, at that, and his hand twitched and then clutched harder at Pippin's jacket, and the other hand went to steady him, and them both, coming to rest at Pippin shoulder. Fingers curled over cloth, and beneath it, skin.

It wasn't all that much, and had it been that long, and Pippin's mouth was too damp, too smooth, and Frodo groaned and his head rolled back, the back of it knocking hard against the door. But he didn't care, not at all, not when Pippin's hand – not the one that teased him, the one that slid against bare skin – popped the forth and then the fifth and then the last of Frodo's buttons, and Pippin's mouth rose from skin long enough for Pippin to busy himself with pushing Frodo's shirt back. And Frodo took it from that, and shucked the shirt slowly, muttering something when it fell to his feet. But Pippin's mouth was on him, once again, and the hallway was too warm and Pippin was warmer, and Pippin's fingers were too quick and too clever, working free the fastenings of Frodo's breeches.

Oh.

"Pippin – " Frodo gasped, again. "What is the meaning – "

"I'm giving you," Pippin whispered, too matter-of-fact, "Merry's message. It was a long month, without you, and I'm riding home, as I told you in my letter. Well, Merry couldn't manage free from his duties, as Aunt Esme wouldn't allow it – and you know how Aunt Esme gets, when she thinks there's shirking about. Well, we've missed you, Frodo, Merry and I, and this is what Merry would say – would do – if he were here, himself."

Gasping, Frodo said, "but you'd be here, as well."

"Yes, well, I can only do the work of one hobbit," and Pippin chuckled, licked, and teased his hand down slow under Frodo's trousers, taking Frodo boldly, so boldly, in hand. Frodo arched, hips thrusting-pushing forward, all but standing on his toes.

"Pippin – " Frodo gasped, once more.

Pippin said no more, not then, and he'd not again, forever, for all that Frodo could tell, or could care. His hand was smooth but hard, and it moved along Frodo's hardening cock. Frodo whimpered – hard and rough, it caught in his throat – and his fingernails dug into wood, as Frodo strained. "Is this what Merry would do?" Frodo whispered, and yes, Merry did like taking the situation in hand. He closed his eyes, and it could have been Merry himself, before him, for as in control as Pippin was acting.

Merry did like acting in control.

When Pippin's hand left him, Frodo thought his knees might give, that he might fall, and his eyes snapped open, his mouth twisting open, too. "Pippin – "

But he stopped – he could say no more.

"He'd greet you, of course," Pippin said, and he smiled. "But he'd so much more than that – he'd take you to your room, and he'd push you to your bed, and he'd ride you like a – oh, well, you do know how Bucklanders like to ride."

Frodo shuddered, and felt rough wood against his backside, and he was sliding down – and Pippin laughed, merry enough but low, and he pressed Frodo tight, supporting his weight. "But Merry's not here, cousin. And his message's not yet through – he'll be wanting an answer, you know – and there's still so much I'm needed to say."

"And not just say?"

"And not just say."

Pippin's mouth was on him, a fierce, blinding moment, and Frodo was reeling – but Pippin took him by the hand, chuckled when Frodo had to kick his legs free of his trousers, down about his ankles as they were and far too in the way, and Pippin was far too dressed, and Frodo did see to that, as they stumbled down the hall. And Pippin might have laughed, and Frodo might have laughed, too. It was heady, and it was real, and it was good, too good, and Frodo thought of turning the tables (so to say), on Pippin – and he did, when Pippin went to push him to the bed. He fell back, yes, but he put his legs about Pippin's – at the knees, and he pulled Pippin down on him, too. Somewhere between here, and there, that had been at the door, Pippin had lost his clothing, and Frodo had lost what clothing of his that had remained. Pippin's yelp was less than dignified – and Frodo laughed, sniggered, and flipped Pippin over neatly, and it was Pippin who found himself pinned back against the bed.

"Frodo – this isn't how it's to go – "

"Is it not?" Frodo asked, pressing his hips to Pippin's, and Pippin gasped as hard pushed against hard. "I rather like the feel of it, myself."

"Yes," Pippin muttered, moaned, made a soft liquid noise that was something more than even that. "The feel of it, yes."

"Do you like it, too?"

"Well – " a gasp, and Pippin arched, twitched, and laughter fell free of his mouth, when Frodo clutched firmer at Pippin's wrists, and flesh pushed flush against flesh. "Yes, now that I think about it – I do."

"Shall I, then? As long as the heart of Merry's message is retained – "

"Yes, the heart of it," and Pippin's gasp was strained.

"And I'll show you, I think, just how we Bucklanders like to ride."

Pippin laughed – rippled, groaned, and gasped. "But you're a Baggins, dearest cousin – "

And Frodo said no more, not when he could pull Pippin closer, and Pippin could wind his arms about Frodo – and their legs were tangled, and flesh was slick, and they rolled over, to the center of the bed, and then once more – and Frodo pushed again, and he caught Pippin in hand.

Pippin gave a small shriek. "Frodo!"

Frodo laughed. "You sound like a – "

Pippin grit his teeth and, somehow, and Frodo couldn't fathom how, he ended up on top again, and he ground his knee up against Frodo – right there, and Frodo gasped, let go of Pippin, and groaned. It was like fire – in him, on him, and with Pippin rubbing against him just so – "Oh. Oh. Pippin, you are – awful. Don't – stop." Pippin grinned, and then he laughed, and he pressed a bit harder and Frodo's toes curled against the bed and his back felt as though it intended to break. He grabbed hold of the covers, grabbing hold tight, and Pippin rubbed – with his knee, of all things, and Frodo muttered something under his breath.

And Pippin laughed. "Cousin, I'm shocked. Such language."

"Bugger – I'll – " he couldn't manage more than just that.

And Pippin giggled – he didn't often giggle, and it was positively wicked, and Frodo cursed under his breath, but he was begging more, too, and he wanted it, oh, he wanted it, so.

Pippin would give it to him, Frodo knew he would. Even when his cousin eased off, smoothed his hands over Frodo's arms, his legs, set kisses down his throat, and chest. He was warm, and slow, and smooth, and Frodo all but vibrated in his impatience.

Each touch, such heat. Frodo groaned.

"And you would say that I sounded like a lass," Pippin whispered, grinning, and he licked and then bit, and Frodo jerked and shouted out, throat tight and hoarse, when Pippin began to suck. Then, a wet sound, and Pippin's mouth fell away – a void left between, empty, aching, and Frodo grit his teeth hard, breath wheezing out.

And Pippin said, "you should listen to how you sound."

Frodo grit his teeth, and gasped. For all that Merry liked acting in control, Pippin was rather more fond of it, bless the stars. And Frodo was rather fond of it, too.

He gave Pippin's bottom a squeeze, pressed his mouth to Pippin's throat. "Shall we, then?" he murmured, and he pressed firmer with his fingers, pulled Pippin tight against him. It was – yes. Yes, and he whispered that, groaned it, let it out into the space of pure warmth that existed between his mouth, and Pippin's skin. The heat was – more than it should be – more than Frodo could take. With Pippin against him, and their skin slick with sweat – Frodo trembled, and he pressed his mouth to Pippin's, kissing him, sucking him in.

Pippin shook. Pippin twisted free. Pippin took hold of him, and pressed up from behind him. Frodo arched, pushing himself into Pippin's grip. "Merry should be here to see you like this," Pippin whispered, licked sweat from Frodo's ear, and slid his hand along Frodo, and oh but the feel of him, and his sure fingers. Almost teasing, but certainly Frodo's attention was focused where Pippin wanted it – though Frodo could hardly think for it, and Pippin moving on him. "Beautiful, and with your eyes so dark." Where his tongue had flicked, now his teeth lightly, faint pressure, pricked, and Frodo moaned – deep in his throat, felt it shake out through his limbs, and he felt the press of Pippin's grin when Pippin set a kiss to Frodo's cheek.

"Too bad for Merry, then," Pippin said, and he laughed, and Frodo cried out – hoarsely, begging, pleading – when Pippin's touch faltered, skimmed lightly, then fell away.

"No – "

Something dark flashed behind his eyes, but it seemed as bright as midday beyond, and Frodo took hold of Pippin, fingers pressing hard enough he thought, no, knew that there would be bruises, come as early as that night, or perhaps the morning. Pippin said nothing, though his breath puffed out, and he grit his teeth together, and then he tried to ground himself – push against Frodo, hold him there, and Frodo's grip had yet to loosen. Frodo's hands only reluctantly slid from Pippin's arms, and that was when Pippin pressed himself even closer – burrowing into warm empty space, flesh damp but fitting nicely where they touched. He nudged his knee up against Frodo's thigh, and Frodo's leg lifted, parted, and Pippin pushed his leg full over. He rolled them both, and it was gentle, somehow, and Frodo's hair fell to cover his eyes and Pippin –

And Pippin –

And Pippin screwed his eyes shut, something – something that Frodo found he couldn't name – flashing across his face, and even his mouth was twisted in its concentration. And he pressed harder, with flesh, and fit himself between Frodo's legs – Frodo bent them at the knees, spread further, a bit wider, and Pippin's breath hitched in his chest. "Frodo."

Dazed, that was how Pippin came to him, that something that Frodo found unnamable flickering once and then again, setting a spark deep in Pippin's eyes. Frodo reached for him, wound ground him closer – but Pippin ground himself, steeled himself against the bed, pushed Frodo's legs up higher and then, too tight heat and something slick, he was in, and Frodo could only cry out, surprised.

Just right, when Pippin didn't right away move, his own sweaty curls hanging down before his eyes. He laughed, very faintly, and that seemed to draw on him – then he bent his neck, turned his head, kissed Frodo's knee, and –

Was moving, a little deeper, but sure enough and Frodo felt his toes curl and his back bend and he scrabbled for hold – Pippin's hand, and the covers, and he knotted fingers about one just as tight as he did about the other.

It was motion, it was bliss, it wrenched cries free from Frodo's throat and it tore answering sounds from Pippin, bending them, breaking them. And Frodo was left gasping, hot and damp and sore but content and Pippin was far too lovely, glowing and, when he collapsed, spent, Frodo wound himself about him, arms and legs, too.

"Love. You've worn yourself out."

Pippin's answering gasp, breathless, "I have. But – I have."

With the day as early and spreading long as it was, tangled so, they slept.

(And Frodo never did ask after that "but".)

When Merry came to Bag End (at last), Pippin was long gone. "Where has he gotten to?" Merry asked, and Frodo grinned at him when he took his cousin by the arm. "He said that he would stay, at least, until I could manage myself free of mum's obligations."

And Frodo then said, "Merry, you know well enough where he's off to. And you’ve your answer, if you've wanted."

There was a slow, still, space of silence, and there wasn't much between them, other than that. Merry grinned back at him, and his arm curled slow about Frodo's shoulders. "I should like to hear it, Frodo," he said.

"And not just hear?" Frodo asked, and he thought of Pippin, but he thought of Merry, too, and three days since Pippin's visit and departure had left Frodo wanting for something more. Either he was being spoiled – or they were too energetic, and would one day be too much for him to handle.

"And not just hear."

And Frodo didn't see Sam until the morning after, when Merry was still in bed, and had reckoned all that time that his gardener had been away – but he thought better of it, at least, when Sam flustered when he saw Frodo, though he gave no proper explanation, and set to tending the new shoots, instead.

(Frodo decided that well enough was better than not, and did not press Sam for anything more.)