-ism in this story. Catch it if you can.
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 is it that you're planning?" Frodo asks, amazed and amused and more than just half aroused by the look that flashes so bold in his young cousin's eyes. Pippin is first to crawl up onto the bed, followed by Merry, and Frodo finds that he is pressed close between two bodies (well, he thinks, at least they are still dressed.)
"You said that you were cold, dear cousin," Pippin says, and smiles, a sharp wide smile with a flash of hard teeth, "and that, quite simply, just won't do." He kisses Frodo's cheek.
Merry, and they are thinking those same thoughts, continues with a pleasant enough grin, and a kiss to the angle of Frodo's chin: "We will make you quite warm, we will, Pippin and I."
Frodo would say something more, but then Pippin is pressing him back to the bed, plucking the book from his hands and setting it aside – and there is thought enough left in Frodo's head that he hopes that Pippin had thought to mark the page that he had been at with the long velvet bookmark, before he had gone and set it to the side. Only then Pippin sets his mouth to Frodo's with a delightful intensity, tangling his fingers in the good fabric of Frodo's button-up shirt, and Merry sets himself to work at Frodo's trousers, and Frodo loses hold of all thought. Certainly, before they had come, Frodo had been content enough to sit bundled beneath the coverlet, a fire crackling on the bedroom hearth, and a book set to read. But this, oh, this seems quite better. He shan't complain.
It is a long kiss, and deep, and Pippin seems to wrap his mouth about Frodo's, however that might be possible. He hums pleasantly, and warm hands slide at Frodo's side – Merry's hands, he supposes, as Pippin seems more intent on popping free buttons, and kissing to the very depths of Frodo's mouth. Frodo squirms against the bedcovers, a warm wet lick across his stomach, and he laughs against Pippin's mouth, clutching at Pippin's sides, as if desperately wanting to keep one of the two of them steady. It seems to work. Mmm, no. He shan't complain.
Merry is tugging at his trousers, freeing him of them, and a rush of cool air dances across his skin, setting him to shiver. He gasps, and Pippin swallows that, pressing his hand to Frodo's stomach, as Merry's hands rub heat along the skin of his inner thigh. He groans, and squirms, body wanting for a better, bolder touch. It is given what it wants, and Merry's hand – his right, Frodo thinks – wraps about him, and he is left aching, fully hard.
Pippin laughs as he draws back, setting kisses down the curve of Frodo's chin, his curls brushing against Frodo's cheek, and tickling. Frodo ducks his head back, and then Pippin's mouth finds itself free to duck itself against Frodo's neck, which it does. Frodo shudders, a long slow lick, and then he groans, and bucks, as Pippin's hand tangles about Merry's, and Frodo's hard, wanting cock.
"Please," he groans. They know what he wants most.
The pace quickens. Pippin contents himself to suck on soft skin, smoothing with his tongue, a long sweeping sensation of pleasure that washes all the cold from Frodo's skin. Merry's mouth nips lightly at a nipple, catching it between hard teeth, twisting and then sucking on it, in proper term. Frodo cries out, begging for more, the force of that cry startling even him. He clutches at Pippin, at Merry – fingers tangling in a warm shirt, hand grasping at Merry's upper arm – and he finds himself grounded between the two, moving hands, and moving mouths.
"Stars above," he cries out, and Pippin sucks at his ear, teeth scraping mostly lightly as his mouth rounds to the tip. Merry's mouth presses firmer against a sweetly tortured nipple, hard and oh how it tingle, how it wants for more. "Please."
The pleasant humming of laughter, delivered by the touch of a mouth. The pace slows again, and Frodo bucks, straining, clutching harder at his boundaries, pushing his hard up against the force of those containing hands. Merry's mouth finds his next, and he drinks of it, sweet and deep, like clear water, though it isn't cool. Fire leaks from Merry's mouth, from a joined touch, from Pippin, too, as he presses himself close against Frodo's side.
And that is all that Frodo can take, it seems, and the world sparks like fireworks in the darkness, a rain of fire overhead that is brilliant, blossoming overhead, in blue and white and gold and red. Frodo is taken beneath that heat, swallowed by it, wrapped in it as he would by a dear embrace. And he breathes, when his eyes open, blinking against the flickering gold of candlelight, pale and faltering.
"Oh," he gasps, and limps boneless back against his bed.
"Are you warm now, Frodo?" Merry asks, idly licking at the corner of Frodo's mouth. Frodo exhales, humming, and turns his mouth to Merry's, and giving him a proper kiss.
"Mmm."
Pippin laughs. "I'll take that as a yes."
Still quite boneless, Frodo forces his eyes back open. He smiles at one, and then the other, and then draws first Merry, and then Pippin, as close as he can.
"Whatever did I do to deserve you two, I wonder? You are far too good to a silly old hobbit like me."
"You're lucky, is all," Pippin says.
"We're here to take care of you, you see."
"Mmm," Frodo says again, eyes closing to stay. "A good enough answer, I suppose."
"Oh, don't you go and get tired on us, Frodo, it isn't time to sleep. Pippin is proddy, and you know how that tends to go. And I have things planned, and no good will come of that planning if you were to be so inconsiderate, and to fall asleep."
"And here I thought this was all for me," Frodo quite languorously replies.
"It was, for the most," Pippin replies. "And don't listen to what Merry has to say, this was all his doing. I'm an innocent party in these here matters, don't you see."
"You're hardly an innocent here, Pip," Merry says, and they are both then mostly quiet, as Frodo supposes they must be kissing.
Yes, he thinks, lucky is a good enough word, he supposes. Though perhaps he might think fortunate, or somehow blessed; they do bring something to his life, something that it might seem he'd be content to go along without, but they, oh, they do make him see it from a viewpoint that isn't his own. He'll not go and name it, though, as it rather fits better, not knowing all that it is.
And they deal with the rest of worn clothing, too, all in their time.
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