By: Dana
Summary: "What an unexpected storm."
Characters: Merry, Pippin
Pairings:: Merry/Pippin
Rating: PG-13/R
Warnings: Slash, light sexual content
Author's Notes: A Christmas-ficlet for Molly.
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.

"What an unexpected storm."

The snow came between Brandy Hall and the ride to house at Crickhollow, and now Merry stands behind the closed door, first brushing snow from his curls as then stripping off his coat, followed by his gloves, as Pippin shrugs Merry's own cold-sodden cloak up onto a high peg to dry. "Let's get you the rest of the way out from these clothes, Merry," Pippin says, and Merry follows into the parlour, where the fire is burning brightly, cheery heat that paints the fine dark panels of the room a darker red-gold. There is a tray set out, tea sitting upon a knitted cosy, and two cups - a small crock of honey, or perhaps real sugar, and two spoons - a quilt spread out, with another one folded in a neat bundle at the side.

"You went all out for me, Pip," Merry smiles.

"Well, it's half for me, too - now, Merry, off with your shirt."

Merry just grins, "Yes, Pippin," and stretches his arms out otherwise-wordlessly to the side.

Pippin is smiling, charmingly so, and shakes his head, clucking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Such a bother you are, love."

He steps very close, and Merry can feel the heat of his skin. If he were to tip his head forward, he would be able to nestle his nose amidst Pippin's bright curls - with Pippin's fingers tugging so smartly at his buttons, Merry is free to do just that.

"You smell like cinnamon," he whispers.

"Well, there's cinnamon in the tea," comes Pippin's response.

"But I can smell it in your hair, Pip."

"Yes, well, that's very nice. Lift up your arms."

Merry, a likewise expression shot back at Pippin's bemused smirk, raises his arms up as Pippin peels cold, slightly tacky cloth, from Merry's arms and chest, and eyes the shirt, when he has pulled it fully free, from where it dangles in his hand far at the end of his arm.

He gives it a peculiar look. "The tea's going to go cold."

"Well, let's not have that."

Pippin nods, dropping the shirt with a parted twist of his lips, but before he can sit himself down, Merry tugs at the collar of his shirt with one hand, and tugs on one brace with the other.

"You, my dear, are wearing far too many clothes."

"Am I?"

Merry nods, serious-sage. "You are."

He tugs again on the brace, sliding with a loose grip down until he can work free the clasp where it connects with Pippin's trousers. The supple-hard fabric slips back, and sags down Pippin's back. Pippin's bemusement grows, but something fire-bright sparks in his eyes.

He stretches his arms out slightly, and half closes his eyes. "You ought to do something about that, then."

Not that Pippin can fully see, but that hardly matters, and Merry nods. "I will," he says, brushing his mouth over the curve of Pippin's chin. Pippin shivers - for as cold as Merry still feels, that must be a kiss like ice.

He tugs on the left brace, freeing it, untucking Pippin's shirt from where it had been bunched in his trousers. Merry starts with the top button, then, baring Pippin's chest slowly, skin that is gold-pale in firelight's soft glow. Merry pauses, skimming fingers over Pippin's chest, watching as Pippin tenses: biting at his lip, shivering at the press of fingers that retain winter's chill. Merry pushes the shirt back, buttons popping, all the way down to where the shirt hangs over Pippin's groin.

"You're still wearing too much," Pippin gasps, quite insensibly so, when the shirt is pushed back onto his arms, and he shrugs it off, letting it drop whisper-soundless to the floor. Merry was the one who had mentioned too-much-clothing, first, after all; then, Pippin doesn't always make the most of good sense.

Now, he presses his hands flat against Merry's skin, gasping softly. "You're winter-cold," he whispers. "Like snow and ice and riding out in the biting wind." Pippin tips up on his toes, and presses his mouth to the hollow that he finds where Merry's neck and shoulder meet. Merry jumps, and Pippin's mouth is hot like summer, or fire, and his lips brush warm over cold skin, leaving sensation behind.

A flick of a warmer tongue, and Merry finds that sound catches in his throat, when his hands settle at Pippin's shoulders - Pippin's hands settle at his hips, fingers looping in the band of his trousers - and liquid heat melts against Merry's skin. Another flat, the drag of the flat of Pippin's tongue. Merry shudders. That heat is pulling at his groin.

"Pip - "

Pippin draws back, and eyes him shrewdly. "Too much clothing, indeed."

He gives a hard tug on Merry's trousers, snapping the fastening with two fingers, and Merry feels cloth sag about his hips. He almost laughs, but Pippin's hand smoothes against him, the other tugging those down. "You get those off, Merry. Please."

Merry steps back, and does, trousers and smallclothes alike, and he is left wearing only the glow of firelight. Pippin's eyes spark - hungry, but something more - and a smile curves on his lips.

"You're beautiful," he blurts, but then he blinks, and blushes, as though that wasn't what he thought that he'd say. "I mean - what I mean is, I mean - "

Merry only grins, and steps closer, wrapping one arm back around Pippin's waist, tugging at his braces from behind, letting the other arm, hand splayed on Pippin's skin, rest at Pippin's neck. "Thank you, Pip. You're quite lovely, too."

Like fire on his cheeks, Pippin blushes. "Merry - "

He tilts his head - or perhaps, Merry tips his chin - and their mouths meet, open, wanting, a soft kiss that is quickly made deep and wet. Pippin shudders slightly, and presses closer - what a sensation, Merry thinks, groaning into Pippin's kiss, the friction of cloth, so hard against wanting flesh.

Pippin makes his skin feel alive.

Trousers come undone, and hands slide on flesh; knees buckle, or the world shifts, and laughter echoes as they tumble down to the covers, nearly upsetting the tray of cooling tea over so that it would spill, only rattling fine china, instead. Pippin laughs again, and Merry feels tension easing, feels warmth only, pressing himself against Pippin, feeling as Pippin wriggles free of his trousers. They are kicked free, and they are left there, pressed skin-close, against the covers.

"I love you," Pippin whispers. The fire cracks, and sparks scatter at the corner of Merry's vision, clouding his mind with shadows dark and empty and waiting to be filled.

"I love you," Merry whispers back, setting his mouth to Pippin's, so that they can kiss. For a long moment after, only breathing, music itself - shifting, up high and down low, an echo of a high shriek that fades to pleasant moans. Touching Pippin is a pleasure - there are still times when Merry cannot fully believe that Pippin, bright Pippin, who is at times the talk of th? Tookland, whether he's intending it or not, would ever touch him back.

That Pippin loves him - well. What more could be said?

Pippin's skin tastes of cinnamon, too.