By: Dana
Summary: What a bachelor is meant to do with his free time.
Characters: Pippin, Frodo
Pairings: Frodo/Pippin
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Slash, sexual content
Author's Notes: Pre-quest. Some might call it a PWP. Beta by Karri.
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.

"So this is what a bachelor is meant to do with his free time?"

It is autumn isn't it always? and pitch snaps in the fire that's set upon the hearth. Frodo lifts his head up, gives Pippin a grin. Pippin's own weskit is spread out over Frodo's bent legs, and Frodo is holding one arm of it up. There is a long rip in the stitching there, as if Pippin had caught himself on something. And Frodo's grin is sharper now, as sharp as the threaded needle he holds in his hand.

"I don't recall that you complained when you came to me to start."

"Yes," and Pippin wets his lips and Frodo bends his head back to his task. "I thought that you would lead me to someone who could sew. I didn't think that that was one of your own talents, you know. But now that I think about it," and Pippin laughs, shaking his head, "it seems to make sense."

"Oh?" Frodo queries, though he doesn't lift his head. The firelight glints red gold off the needle in his hand, dipping and darting, cutting back, as Frodo works at stitching the rip.

"Yes," and Pippin sighs, leaning back. The air here is warm and dinner is settled pleasantly in his stomach; and dessert is content, there, too; they had apple crumble, after, and a glass of Old Winyards each. "It does."

"Will you share it with me, then?" Frodo asks. "Explain it to an old hobbit, please."

Pippin laughs. The carpeting here is thick underneath his hands and the air smells faintly of smoke and wood. Frodo's dark curls glisten and the curve of his neck is long and pale and the collar of his dinner jacket is darker than even the darkest burgundy wine. "I don't see what there is to explain."

Frodo is grinning Pippin can tell it, the way that his cheeks pinch and he chuckles, softly, a short puff of air. "You must be blind."

Pippin shifts, crossing his legs, and he leans closer to Frodo. "It doesn't matter, whatever it is. Who taught you this, Frodo? I'd always thought that some Gamgee lass attended your laundry, but now it seems that I was wrong."

This time, Frodo's laugh is sharp. "Bilbo thought it handy," he says, and Pippin nods, when he realizes that Frodo won't be saying more than that. One of Frodo's hands rake back through his hair, and Pippin follows its progress, as Frodo rubs his neck, kneading it, sighing at the tension he must feel.

"You really don't have to do this, Frodo," Pippin says. "I could always take it home, and Mum could stitch it up"

Frodo gives him a sideways glance. "I'm nearly finished, Pip."

"Yes, well, I know."

Frodo ducks his head back to his work, his shoulders shrugging slightly as his hand weaves, up a little, down. Pippin wets his lips (hadn't he done this already?) when his attention shifts, inadvertently, from Frodo's hands, back up his arm.

"As long as it's no bother"

"No bother at all."

"Well, good."

Pippin frowns not because he's unhappy, or he's sad, but just that he's confused. Like there's something more he's meant to say. Its autumn, it always is, and he's sitting on Frodo's parlour floor, and there's something odd about it all, but strangely, there's something right. When the air is warm and Pippin can feel the smoke tickling the back of his nose, and Frodo's dark hair is lit by fire and candlelight, too. Something pops in the hearth and Pippin snaps back to now, and the world shifts like he's stepping out of a dream.

Frodo's hand is working, still, up and down, and the needle is quicksilver in his hand. Pippin wets his lips, once more (how many times?), certain he can taste apple-wine-crumble on his tongue, watching Frodo's parted lips as he breathes.

"Oh."

"What is it, Pip?"

Pippin blinks, once-twice-thrice, and then he shrugs. "You're just full of surprises, Frodo Baggins."

A chuckle. "Am I, now?"

"First a fine dinner, and a wonderful dessert, and" But it falls short, and Pippin is certain that if there is something he is meant to say, then it can't be this. He looks away, watching their shadows stretch back from the fire, and he can feel heat on his cheeks, but its cause is no earthly flame.

"What were you saying?"

Pippin laughs. "Nothing. I don't think, at least."

The air is buzzing and Pippin looks back at Frodo, looks back at him hard. And this seems right, because Frodo is looking right back at him. "Are you all right, Pippin? You didn't even have much of the wine"

"It isn't the wine," Pippin says, shifting. "At least, I don't think. It's just"

"It's just?"

"How old am I, now?"

Frodo gives a short laugh, rather like a snort. "Shouldn't you know?"

Pippin tilts his head, and if he could see himself, well, then he would now what Frodo is seeing, right now. And what he sees in Frodo is an amused grin, Frodo's rose lips, the color on Frodo's cheek; as if Frodo thinks that Pippin could have had too much of the wine.

"I only had a glass."

Frodo blinks. "Oh, well, yes. The same as I."

"How old am I, now?"

Frodo gives Pippin a look, as if he's judging the worth of this question, the merit of giving Pippin his answer. "Twenty-two," Frodo says at length, then bends his head back to his work. "Are you happy now, Pippin?" he asks, and Pippin wonders if he is, letting his eyes wander the length of Frodo's neck.

"I think so," he says. "But I don't know if I'm sure."

A chuckle, but Frodo says nothing, then, and Pippin is content to let his gaze wander almost startled when he wonders what it would feel like to touch Frodo, there, there, and even there, and before he knows it, Frodo is speaking again, and Pippin is sitting half in and half out of the now.

"There, I've got it. What do you think?"

What does he think, Pippin wonders. His mouth is dry and his tongue is unresponsive, because he's trying to talk, but he just can't. "Pippin?" Frodo asks again, and Pippin opens his mouth, closes it, setting his lips in a firm, unhappy line.

"Are you certain that you didn't have too much to drink?" Frodo asks. "Must I put you to bed?"

Pippin almost laughs. He blinks, once, twice, thrice, and then he reaches for his jacket, taking it from Frodo. "You did a good job," he says, eyeing the fine stitching. "You can hardly tell that there was ever a tear."

"Yes, well, that's a skill that I've put to good work." Frodo laughs. "A gentlehobbit must always look his best."

Now Pippin's grin is wide but it doesn't live long, not when Pippin drops his attention, and he fingers the dark cloth of his coat. Frodo's voice rises up, like a song that needs to be learned. "Pippin? Are you very sure that you're well?"

"I am," Pippin murmurs. "Honest, I am."

"Then what"

"It's just that I'm thinking," and Pippin laughs. "And you know what that does to my mind."

But Frodo doesn't laugh, and his look is so?ewhere beyond amused, halfway to despair. "You've been watching me all night."

Pippin's head snaps up and he watches Frodo, now wide-eyed, and Frodo is looking back at him, calm and controlled. But that is Frodo, isn't it? Ever the gentlehobbit, ever the one in command.

"I haven't"

"You have."

" have I?"

Frodo's laugh doesn't seem right. "You have."

"I hadn't noticed that."

"So it seems."

With a sigh, Pippin folds his weskit, over and over, until it is nothing more than a bundle of dark fabric between his hands. "Did you have a fight with Merry?" "Are you sure? You seem detached." "Well, if it isn't Merry, then what is it?", and each question is answered when Pippin shakes his head and gives his "no".

"I think it's you."

"Me?"

"Yes, you."

That dream again, and Pippin looks at Frodo, drinks him in. Frodo, with his eyes so dark and his hair like night, Frodo, who is watching him right now, his lips half parted, and Pippin is sure that he shimmers when he breathes. Frodo, and Pippin is reaching, touching, kissing, before he knows what he is even thinking, and the feel of Frodo's mouth against his own is just one more level in this dream.

Oh, and it feels so good.

"Pippin " Frodo's voice, and Frodo's mouth is wine-shock-surprise, and Pippin opens his eyes (when had he closed them?), and there Frodo sits, no more than a breath away, and their noses almost brush when Pippin lets out a breath.

"Oh."

Pippin breathes in, out, closes his eyes. The carpet is smoother under his hands, yes, and against his knees. "I think that's what it was," he murmurs, and he isn't even sure if he can hear Frodo breathe.

"Look at me," Frodo says, and Pippin tilts his head up, does, and their eyes meet. "Now what was that for?" Frodo asks, color in his cheeks, color, yes, and there is something else there in his eyes. Almost a something that Pippin can hear, it's been too long, and Pippin trembles as he looks for the proper words.

"I'm not sure," he says. "It felt right. I've been wanting oh for such a long time."

The curve of Frodo's lips, then, that look in his eyes almost thoughtful, oh so wanting, and Frodo lifts his hands up, and Pippin feels fingertips trace the curve of his cheek. Pippin's lashes flutter, and he tilts his gaze at Frodo, wondering. When fingers brush over his lips, he parts them, giving, and Pippin is more certain of that something more in Frodo's gaze; something dark, like a passing shadow, but now they're both back in the light.

"I think I'd like to yes." And Frodo pushes his hand back into Pippin's hair, tangling his fingers in Pippin's curls, tilting his head and leaning and pushing his mouth against Pippin's. A moment, a gasp, and Frodo's tongue pushes its way between Pippin's lips. A moment, and a sigh, and Pippin's pushes back, against seeking wet heat.

"Pippin. Oh," and that is how Pippin tells when that kiss has ended, when he hears Frodo, can almost feel the moving of his mouth. Pippin opens his eyes, looks up. Frodo's hand is still clasped tight in his hair, and Frodo's eyes are nothing more than half-lidded slits, and Frodo almost seems unreal, sitting here and drinking in the soft light of this fire's glow.

"I think I want to "

"Yes," and Frodo nods. "I think I want to, too."

Kissing, yes, Pippin already knows this well, and now Frodo pushes on him, pulls, and Pippin feels like he might be torn apart. But maybe that's all right, and Frodo pushes him back against the carpet, settles himself against him, pushing at his legs, and Frodo is warm against Pippin's thighs.

"Frodo," Pippin whimpers, because he can't help it, when Frodo grinds against him; sparks of heat flashing, melting, and Pippin bucks up against Frodo, panting, and Frodo pushes back down, grounding, and Pippin is stilled. "Ahhh, Frodo, please."

Frodo pushes down on his shoulders and his voice is quicksilver, hot, burning, at Pippin's ear. "Do you, really?"

Pippin exhales, frantic. "Yes."?p> "Then. Don't. Move."

And Pippin is glad that Frodo has demanded this, because his limbs feel weighed down, heavy like lead; he couldn't have moved, even if he hadn't, so this is all working out nice, yes indeed. And at least now with Frodo gone, Pippin can breathe. And he does, staring straight up into empty air, and the smial's roof curves overhead.

Don't move, he tells himself. Don't move.

And then Frodo returns.

"Frodo " a gasp, and Frodo pushes them back into a kiss. What need are words, then, in Frodo's mouth, with Frodo's tongue. And Pippin is sure that he can feel Frodo's touch burning him, through all of his clothes.

"Let's get this off," Frodo gasps, sitting back, and his hands work, impatient but steady, still, at buttons, and Pippin doesn't have a chance in helping him, then. "It's not time to move yet, Pippin," Frodo grins, and his teeth flash white in the light.

"Oh," and Pippin laughs, shivers, and Frodo's hands spread wide over his chest. A button goes, here, and there, and then again, and a shiver once more, when Frodo's hands (surprisingly cool) touch the bare skin underneath. "Oh!"

And Frodo is still sitting back. "Sit up," he says, and Pippin does, pushing up and his legs are spread wide where they circle Frodo's legs. "And help me get this off." Pippin nods, then, and this is Frodo, pale and dark, and there is still firelight flickering shimmer-shimmer in his hair. Pippin swallows, nods again, and fingers the fine cloth of Frodo's weskit. A deep breath, and he tugs on the three buttons, one by one. Frodo's dress shirt, underneath, is soft and cool.

"Don't stop," Frodo urges.

Pippin doesn't. He's almost spinning, now, and buttons fall free, one by one. Frodo is pale, still, underneath, and his skin is warm under searching fingertips. When Frodo catches Pippin's hands, he lifts them up, kisses first one palm, and then another.

It's been so long.

"Not quite yet," he says, gripping Pippin's wrists hard, leaning in close so he can meld their mouths again. And they do, and Pippin must be falling, but somehow Frodo is able to hold him up. This is what he wants, and it isn't just wine, and shock, and apple crumble, that he tastes, but something that is irrevocably Frodo; a something that he won't soon forget.

And now Frodo's shirt hangs unbuttoned, and he frees Pippin, if only to strip his jacket off. Then, his arms slide around Pippin's waist, pulling him closer, and Pippin is sure their legs will tangle. Frodo's breath is hot, his skin is scorching. Pippin thinks his eyes might just slide back in his skull, feeling the hard shape of Frodo's cock, straining through cloth, straining against his own.

"I can't breathe," he gasps, and Frodo laughs, tucking his head against Pippin's throat.

"Just a little now," a murmur, and Pippin squirms, half-hearted, and Frodo's arms are holding him so tight. But then he feels the soft scrape (an odd sensation) of Frodo's lips sliding against his skin. His heart just about leaps into his throat. Oh, and fire, melting, let it never be done.

"Frodo," a desperate groan. "Please."

What is it that he wants? He isn't sure. But Frodo doesn't question, kissing his way over Pippin's throat, as if he's wanted it, so long (and Frodo's own throat is pale, soft, gleaming, so close), but Pippin is caught off guard, again, and pushes back against the ground.

A pathetic whimper as Frodo grinds them together. "Oh. Please. Please-please-please," and Pippin squirms, writhes, frantic, as Frodo holds him down. Holds his breath, waiting. At least Frodo is still able to breathe.

Pippin doesn't even have that much, and he gasps, winded, but urging Frodo on. "Please don't oh, yes yes yes, don't stop, please!" A weak cry, harder, and Frodo is sitting back, once more, and Pippin feels strung along, undone.

"Frodo "

"Wait now, Pippin," Frodo chides. "Stay still."

And Pippin does, lying there, supported half-way by his elbows; watching Frodo, as Frodo watches back, id?e and slow. Steady, rising. That look in his eyes is grown, still. That darkness is spreading. If Pippin can't breathe, then maybe now he can't speak.

Frodo palms the hard bulge in Pippin's trousers and Pippin is wide-eyed, with an open mouth, and he can't even find breath to moan. Palms, rubbing a hard circle, and Pippin bites back a cry, then, as Frodo leans down, closer, closest, and kisses him deep.

"Almost ready."

A whimper because he can, then, and Frodo is tugging at the fastenings of Pippin's breeks. A soft gasp, and Frodo is tugging him free. The air is warm-cool-too much-can't be too soon, and Pippin's shirt is hitched up now, over his stomach, and Frodo is steady, intent, stripping him free.

That touch, burning skin, and Pippin does cry, Frodo's name. "Please-please-please-please-please," he begs, muscles straining, wanting to give. A look forwards, and Frodo watches Pippin, wrapping his fingers around that too-hard flesh. A first slow tug, and Pippin tightly closes his eyes.

The carpet is almost rough under bare skin, and Pippin presses down against it, presses up against Frodo's hand, trying to find some sort of friction that will suit him in this place. "Please," begging, still, needing, wanting, but Frodo is fire-building-slow, and Pippin is nearly incomplete.

"Oh, I want you so badly."

So many things that Pippin could say, but nothing really fits, not now, and he balls himself up, thrusting against Frodo, and Frodo's hand, and Frodo laughs. "I never did say you could move."

And there's nothing Pippin can say, then, even if his mouth could work. And it can't, not now, not with Frodo holding him, so tight, not when he can feel every muscle in his body twitch and squirm, not when he feels something, must be Frodo, pushing against his backslide, slick and smooth.

Because he can't move, either, not now when Frodo is dipping, teasing, pushing against him, pushing into him, and Pippin's mouth is wide open, but no sound is free to escape. Nothing fits, not now, and nothing but Frodo, and he does, and Pippin squirms, under Frodo's weight, over carpet that is threadbare, now, and coarse.

And the here air is so hot, thick, and Frodo's fingers (just his fingers!) are in him, moving so slow, and then so quick. Pippin thinks he might cry, or maybe he might die, but it's now that he remembers, yes-yes-yes, he can breathe, and he does, a ragged cry that might be Frodo's name, ripping free of his throat.

"That's good. That's it." And Frodo kisses him, smothering what else that might escape, and Pippin drowns himself in Frodo's kiss. Drowns himself, because he can feel Frodo, all along him, between him, and in between; can feel Frodo, hard (where had his trousers gone? But Pippin can't seem to make himself care), hard, yes, and right, and Frodo will definitely, certainly, fit.

And he does, when Pippin's mouth is filled with Frodo's tongue, and his own, tangling for some sort of supremacy, when Pippin lifts his hips up, demanding, meeting, and there is nothing, nothing else at all, but Frodo and Pippin is filled up completely, perfectly, and everything is right.

"So this," because Pippin's mouth is free, now, and Frodo's curls are damp against his brow, "is what a bachelor is meant to oh Frodo do with his free time?"

And Frodo laughs, then, sucking in a lungful of breath, shaking, rocking his hips against Pippin, and rocking himself deeper. An almost-spasm, then, and Pippin pushes hard against the rug, harder against Frodo, as if that is the answer to it all. "Oh. Oh, yes, I oh. Please."

Maybe it is.

What else can he say? He pushes himself up, pushes back with each thrust, feeling Frodo deeper, deeper, deepest, when Frodo clutches at his hips, and shifts him higher. Pippin falls back, breathless, stunned. He feels like a great drum, this rhythm being beaten, this rhythm that is tearing him apart.

"Frodo "

"Pippin, oh! Pippin, yes."

And Frodo pushes further, further still, and Pi?pin isn't even sure what happens when it all comes, when the world falls apart, but he's certain of Frodo's kisses, afterwards, as if it's that, and just that, that's pulling him back from that where he had gone when he had gone and fallen apart.

"I think that "

"Yes. I think so too."

Pippin wets his lips, and laughs.

The next morning, Merry will come to visit; but it is still a long night until then.