By: Dana
Summary: Pippin was, of course, very good at getting his own way – near as good as Frodo was, when it came to getting his.
Characters: Frodo, Pippin
Pairings: Frodo/Pippin
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Slash, sexual content, demanding Pippin
Author's Notes: I did a drabble/ficlet request. This was for Ruby Nye.
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.

Pippin was, of course, very good at getting his own way – near as good as Frodo was, when it came to getting his. So it was, two weeks and three days before Pippin's twenty-fifth birthday, that they came to something of an impasse. At least, that was how it felt to Frodo, and though he had known his share of stubborn Tooks (for all that he thought his Brandybuck heritage less than his better half, as he was too fond of old Bilbo, certainly he was not near as Tookish as, say, Pippin was, when he put himself in a mood), but Pippin was far more stubborn than any other Took that Frodo had ever known.

It did not help that they were at Bag End, and Merry had left three days earlier with business to the east. It did not help that it was Frodo's bed that Pippin had set his attention on, nor that he was intent as he was to tumble with his older cousin. Pippin did not seem to hear him when he stated, again and again and then, yet again, that he was far too young to be saying or to be thinking or to be wanting such things.

But, Pippin, did not relent. And here they went and called Bilbo cracked, for all he had been a Baggins (and Frodo certainly thought his Baggins half his better), when Pippin was full off his head.

"I do not think you know what you're wanting – "

"I assure you, cousin," Pippin had said, "that I do."

And, stars above, he did, and this was no first kiss that Frodo was being given – no, Pippin knew too much for his own good, from the light in his eyes to the grin that curved upon his lips, before his mouth had descended upon Frodo's. His hold on Frodo's wrist was tight – and, admittedly, it had been too blasted long since Frodo had properly let himself enjoy another's touch. What harm could their be –

Well, other than his cousin Paladin thrashing him soundly for having had a hand in the corruption of his one and only son, or Merry descending upon him in a wrath, or the stars above falling from their places in the heavens to crash down upon him, for even thinking such a thing – well, it wouldn't be all that bad, really, if this did not go as well as it could.

If anything, Pippin was corrupted before he ever laid a hand on him. And, really, if one was looking for technicalities in the midst of all this mess, he'd yet to – and it was Pippin who had, and who had instigated this at all.

Pippin's mouth was warm, inviting, and Pippin's right arm snaked loose about Frodo's middle, tightening as Pippin gripped hold of Frodo's jacket at the small of his back. Frodo groaned – mostly because he could not help himself, and his arms wound themselves back around Pippin, at which Pippin was suddenly pressed firm against him, warm and solid and, where he touched Frodo's hip, very, very hard.

"Well now," Pippin said, drawing back. "Have I your attention, then?"

"You have it, and more," Frodo replied, and his laughter was near breathless, soft and low, and Pippin's breath was warm, and slightly damp, and where his mouth almost touched Frodo's, it sent a hot spark down through Frodo's body – it almost felt that he would alight, burst into flame, and claim Pippin in that inferno, as well.

But Pippin, being Pippin, only grinned, and his left hand took hold of a clump of Frodo's hair, holding on tight, though he did not pull as hard as Frodo would have thought. "Good, then, as there's – other things, that I am wanting to say."

And he did not say much, not at all, as they kissed again, his hands falling free of their perches, if only to work free buttons and smooth hands over velvet and brocade. Frodo groaned, again, a deep rumble in his throat that washed through him like ripples on the water. Oh, but Pippin had yet to touch skin, and already he was so deeply buried –

Oh, and yes, and Frodo wanted more.

"A bed – "

"Yours – I took the liberty to leave something… well," and then Pippin whispered the rest of it, hot and low, against Frodo's ear.

"Well," Frodo laughed, as all of Pippin's planning fell so neatly into place. His waistcoat was gone, and how had that happened? Pippin's fingers, so nimble and so quick, were now working free the buttons of Frodo's dress shirt from their buttonholes, and making good time. "Well, I should not be so surprised."

"No. No, not at all." At that, Pippin grinned.

It hardly seemed fair that Pippin was so clothed when Frodo was quickly losing what covering he had had. His shirt joined his waistcoat on the floor, and he thought ill of leaving such a mess, but then Pippin was guiding him back with the press of his hip, and how could Frodo walk or think, or manage anything, at all, when Pippin was yet working upon the fastening of his breeches? He was only one hobbit, after all, and he did not have the will nor grace as one so tempered as an elven lord.

"Frodo…"

"Yes?"

"I want you, you know."

Pippin's gaze was, for a moment, very earnest – Frodo was far too used to Pippin the fool, whether he was truly a fool or if he was only playing the fool, for the sake of others. But he was no fool, now, and never had he seen Pippin with such seriousness.

Of course, then, Pippin grinned, and bent his mouth to Frodo's.

Frodo blinked. Pippin had licked along his lower lip. "Yes, I know."

"To the bed, then," Pippin said, and yes, that was where they ended, Frodo falling back and Pippin immediately climbing to straddle him, pushing him firm against the mattress. Frodo arched, Pippin's touch sending sparks through him – so slow, and steady, and it was like wildfire was building in his veins.

Soon enough, he'd need release.

Soon enough, he'd burst.

But Pippin was not so quick, as he skinned off Frodo's trousers, and then, gracious as he was, he said that Frodo could undress him himself, if that was what he wanted. He did, and Frodo, wanting to give back what his infuriating not-so-young cousin had given him, tried slow and steady.

And slow and steady did not work, and Pippin burst out laughing as Frodo tugged on the buttons of his shirt so hard that they popped free from cloth completely. "You're paying for my tailor, Frodo," Pippin gasped, grinning. Frodo cursed, and Pippin shrugged off the wounded shirt. His trousers, then, and Frodo had him where he might possibly had wanted him – beneath him, which was all well and good.

But that was not what Pippin was wanting, and he rolled Frodo over with such sudden force that the wind was knocked from Frodo's lungs, and he would have fought – he would have, and he could have, and there is thought enough still that thinks he should have – but for the firm, hard pressure of Pippin's want, pressed up against his thigh.

"I do want you," Pippin whispered. "Want to have you, and for you to remember this night, forever and for always, and you'll not ever look at me the same as you've before – "

Of course, and this before the bedding, Frodo already knew that he would not be thinking of Pippin, forever or for always, in quite the same way. But, well, this was not at all a bad thing, and he grinned and looped his arms about Pippin's shoulders, and drew him flat against him, so that his own hardness could press back firm against Pippin – answering his own want.

"Well, now, that is not at all a bad thing. And I am quite liking this side of you, Pip," and with that, he set his mouth to Pippin's, and kissed him so hard he almost forgot that there was need to breathe. His nostrils flared as his lungs began to sting, but there was warm, slick skin between, and he was not at all wanting to let loose of what he now held.

Pippin, though, had other thoughts, and he freed himself from Frodo's hold, and Frodo watched him as he moved – to the bedside, with a sly enough grin, to claim the oil that he had left there.

"Rose," Frodo laughed, as sweet scent filled the room.

"Yes, well, it was all I had handy," Pippin returned.

Rose, or not, there was no complaint when the cool, sweet stuff was put to work, though Frodo startled at the temperature, at first. Pippin warmed his hand upon him, slicking Frodo's cock with the stuff, rubbing along the shaft with such slow, steady strokes, that Frodo thought that he would never, ever, ever know release.

The build up was almost too good. And, yes, he wanted more.

"Hurry up," he gasped, impatient, moaning, and Pippin grinned even wider than before, letting oil pool in the palm of his right hand, setting the container back where it would not get in their way, and then he rubbed his hands together, warming the stuff. His breath fluttered when he rubbed upon his own length, and Frodo sat, halfway, letting his hands join Pippin's.

Pippin moaned.

"The covers," Frodo whispered, "are going to need a good washing."

Pippin's laugh was sweet, but strained. "Only you would think of such a thing," he said, and then all his previous words and actions seemed like naught compared to his nest, and he gave Frodo's leg a nudge with his foot, and Frodo spread himself wider. Pippin pushed close against him, one oil-slick hand at Frodo's hand, the other steadying himself. Frodo reclined, spreading his legs further as Pippin settled himself between, arching his back as Pippin pressed against him. A low moan, and a gasp, and the pressure was – something that Frodo had missed. Very slowly, Pippin entered him. Very slowly, sensation washed over his skin and burned with sudden heat, and desire. Frodo was, as slowly, pressed back to the bed. If not for how he had supported himself, he would have been pressed fully back, and pinned.

But as it was, Pippin was buried deep in him, and Pippin's breath was low, and strained.

"Well, show me what you've got, Took," Frodo gasped.

And Pippin did.

It was slow still, if only because it seemed that Pippin was in more than he had bargained for, or had expected, and Frodo groaned as the friction rippled out through him, that first, slow thrust. Steadier, after, if only because Pippin was more secure, and Frodo realized distantly, his hands wound so tight about Pippin and wasn't Pippin far too thin for a proper hobbit?, that he was thinking too much, and Pippin had one foot braced against the foot of Frodo's bed. The next was not so slow. And, more pressure, and glorious tightness, and sensation, and Frodo lost himself in the wave that rolled over him – that there was not thought, only feeling, and it burned through him and out of him, pounded against him and over him, and it drew him under, making him feel nothing but it. Such pleasure, such heat, and it was Pippin that he held close, Pippin who was shaking from the force of it, Pippin who was brighter than any mortal light, and Frodo, holding on, felt himself falling, fading fast.

It hit him, sucked breath from his lungs and made him cry out, voice roughed from his pleasure. It was Pippin's name, near a shout, and then Pippin, star that he was, came falling from the sky, and followed him, almost whimpering as his came.

And then the world stilled, and they sunk back to the covers, and Frodo was sticky all over, and sated, and he thought, as he felt exhaustion wanting to leaden his lids, that Pippin getting his own way, even when it got in the way of what Frodo thought he wanted, was not at all a bad thing.