By: Dana
Summary: Sam wakes to something unexpected.
Characters: Sam, Merry, Pippin, Frodo
Pairings: Merry/Sam (Frodo/Sam/Merry/Pippin)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Slash, sexual content, and, as Ruby says, cheerful nonmogamy
Author's Notes: I did a drabble/ficlet request. This was for Angelica.
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.

Sam wakes with a hard elbow pressing into his side. His mind is hazy – of course it – and there is warmth at his front, and at his back, and he has known Frodo far too long and too well not to know the night noises that his master makes. Sam opens his eyes, and the moon lights the air, faint beams crossing through the night air as sharp as any blade. It is Pippin elbow that is pressing too hard, and it is Merry who is curled at his back.

Oh.

Sam flusters, heat on his cheeks, and he remembers too clearly the night before (well, the same night as this, but hours prior), when Frodo had been too into his drinks to tell his cousins no, and it isn't like Sam had minded as he thought he would, not when it was Merry who had asked him for his kiss.

And ask him he had, and Sam had relented, though he had not been set against it as he might have had Merry think. He knows that they had watched, Frodo and Pippin, as Merry had fastened his mouth onto Sam's, hungrily, and Sam had felt weak in his knees when Merry's hand, careful and unfaltering, had loosened the buttons of Sam's shirt, and left it hanging open and free.

Sam's memory is clear after that and then, too clear, and sharp and warm and Merry's arms had slithered about him, his hands fastening one over the other at the small of Sam's back. Merry had been insistent, and Sam had bent against him, like he were a tree and Merry were the storm. He groans, and he fastened his arms about Merry, holding him secure. And still they had watched, Frodo and Pippin, though Sam's recollection was hazy, here, and perhaps they had moved on to other things, instead.

They somehow made it to the bed, Frodo's, of course, and there Merry had chuckled against Sam's mouth and had borne him down onto the covers, and had proceeded to strip him of his clothing, all the while Sam blustering and hot-cheeked, though merry had been steady, hand and mouth. Frodo and Pippin had lost themselves in each other before Sam even knew Merry's proper touch, and Merry had worked like a knot about him, all bare flesh and seeking need.

Laughing, and questing hands, and Pippin had come near to dropping the oil, and Frodo had chided him, and then Frodo had touched Pippin in a way that nearly made him keen. Sam, against the bed and with Merry a firm weight above him, saw just how harsh the curve of Pippin's back was, Frodo's hand on him, and Pippin nearly bent back against the bed.

Merry's hand had been slick, and sure, and Sam is even hotter now than he had been there, and he can remember no more, not now when he is so hard and Pippin is too close and Merry is even closer, pressed against his back. Sam's breath catches, and for once since the start of this mess, he thinks clearly about being too far above his place – Frodo might be on thing, but his Frodo's cousins are something else entirely, and sure and enough this all can't be proper, or right.

Merry stirs, flesh against flesh, and Sam shudders and groans. He closes his eyes, and wills himself to sleep, and thinks, perhaps, Merry will sink back into slumber. But he doesn't, and Merry's hand wanders down Sam's side, beneath the warm coverlet, and Sam aches.

"Sir – " he gasps, when he can't help himself, can't hold it anymore.

"Hullo, Sam," Merry drowses, and Sam's breath catches. "What are you doing awake?"

"I – " he begins, but can say no more. Pippin snorts, and presses closer. If anything, Sam is only harder, blushing with his need.

But Merry chuckles, still almost sleeping, and presses his mouth against Sam's shoulder. "Frodo is right about you," he says, and Sam wonders what that might be. "If you're wanting, turn over, but be careful – Pippin doesn't sleep near as heavy as you might think."

Sam's blood churns. He nods faintly, and he moves, oh so very carefully, and Pippin mutters something and Frodo mutters something else, and this is wrong and Sam shouldn't, but he wants Merry's hand on him like he wants air to fill his lungs.

He turns, settled on his other side, and Merry presses in closer, all warm skin and a seeking hand. Sam gasps, crying out loud, and Pippin stirs at his back, when Merry's hand finds him, takes him in its grip. "Sir – " he groans, but Merry does not still himself, working Sam until blood pounds and his heart feels near to bursting, but it's not his hearth that bursts, but him instead.

"Better now, Sam?" Merry chuckles, drowsy, and he licks a line up Sam's throat, and then he fastens his mouth at Sam's, and kisses him long, slow, deep. Sam can't breathe, but he doesn't mind, and Merry's hand is sticky and there is wet heat between them and all Sam can do, then, is press in even closer and wrap Merry up in his arms.

"You're something else entirely, Mr Merry," he says.

Merry chuckles, face settling against Sam's shoulder. "I've been told."

He says no more, and Pippin snorts, irritated, and presses in closer to Sam's back, and Sam gets prodded by a sharp elbow. But he laughs, pressing his face into Merry's mussed curls, and it isn't long after that, perfectly sated and warm, he sleeps.

Right enough, he thinks. Proper as should be.