By: Dana
Summary: Summer, and sticky sweet jam.
Characters: Merry, Pippin
Pairings: Merry/Pippin
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Slash, sexual content
Author's Notes: Happy birthday, Jen. With all of my love, and more.
Follows after/extended from Summer Sweet.
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.
Merry groans, "Oh, Pip."
Pippin, who has an even temper, and can be considered quite sweet, grins his most terrible grin at his cousin, licking apple-butter jam clean from where it had fallen into the pointed crook of forefinger and thumb. That is Pippin's answer, Merry decides – Pippin, who can so well make actions suit better than words.
"You're awful, you know," Merry grumbles, though he's not at all annoyed. "Perfectly awful."
"Well," Pippin says, then licking his lips. "I suppose I am."
Merry sets his jaw. "I'll just have to do something about that, then."
Pippin's left eyebrow twists upwards in interest. "Oh?"
"Oh," Merry says back at him, perhaps mocking cool demeanor with his own certain grin. Pippin seems taken by surprise, at least, as Merry propels himself forward across the short swath of green grass and yellow dandelions that separate them, on hand and knee. Pippin's head is tilted just slightly to the left, leaf-green eyes wide and bright, and his hands are splayed outwards – one in grass, the other caught mid-air.
"Merry – "
"Right," Merry says, and sets himself to his task.
"Merry!"
Pippin squirms. Merry catches Pippin at the off-white lapel of his less-than-best shirt, which gives Pippin a chance to regain his balance, and his hands both clutch at Merry's shirt, in turn. "What are you about – " he begins, as Merry, snug against Pippin and almost fully in his lap, presses with his thighs against Pippin's legs.
Merry just smiles. It's Pippin's right hand that he goes from, and colour blossoms faintly over Pippin's cheek as Merry's fingers press at the soft skin at his wrist, and Merry turns Pippin's hand so that thumb and forefinger are pointing straight and square, baring an even softer stretch of skin.
Pippin's hand is still sticky, and the scent of apple-butter jam is a soft, nonsensical sweet, and it tickles at the back of Merry's nose, almost absently, just as Merry imagines his hair must be tickling, faint-soft-scratch, where Pippin's arm angles upwards at his elbow. There's a thing about Pippin, and Merry must know it better than anyone else, that once he starts at it, or he gets you starting, there's no stopping unless the stopping is *right*.
(You wouldn't think Pippin is the proper sort, but he is.)
Pippin's voice just kind of goes high, like a stream of birdsong, or water-ripple-laugh, and Merry feels it, flooding him, leaking into his ears, stretching his name out of shape as his tongue seems to caress it, just as Merry's mouth is working at caressing Pippin's skin. Pippin shakes, and he groans, and when he says Merry's name, this time, it's short and flat and rounded, but sets the faint hair at the back of Merry's neck, and all up his arms, on end.
"Merry, please – "
Merry doesn't stop – Pippin, one hand at Merry's mouth, the other planted backwards, hoping to give himself some sort of balance, tremors like cloud in a clearing sky, a leaf caught in a quick breeze, and Merry sucks at the skin up the length of Pippin's thumb, to the tip, letting his mouth smooth over that flesh, leaving Pippin to gasp, and squirm. Merry strips the sweet taste of jam from Pippin's finger, until only the faint-salty-clean taste of bare flesh remains, and then he draws back, hands still wrapped about Pippin's wrist, though his eyes are on Pippin's.
He wets his lips.
Pippin's breath seems to skip, but then he's grinning back, reclaiming something of the smug teasing that brought them to this point. "All out of it, are you?"
Merry's mouth quirks at that. He settles back, and lets go of Pippin's hand. Pippin plants both his hands in the grass, and tries to wriggle himself free – but Merry's legs are pressed too snug against his own.
"We have more."
They do – there is a basket that they'd brought with them, for the sake of their picnic. All Merry need do is – yes. He leans forward, body pressed against Pippin's, and he leans, stretching his arm out as far as it can go – leaving Pippin, right now, would be an awful, awful thing, and his hand closes, in triumph, about the small crock.
Merry sets back, again, and Pippin is flustered. "Merry – "
Merry untops the crock, eyeing the pale gold contents, and then Pippin's chin, upwards, to his mouth. "Merry – " Pippin says again, rather distraught beneath the weight of Merry's gaze. "You need to say something, please, because that look is starting to – oh."
Merry snaps the two buttons closest to Pippin's collar, and then the one beneath. Pippin's surprise comes in the form of a shocked squeak, and Merry pushes his shirt open, and Pippin just seems to push *back* – hands losing grip, he slides back, back flush against the mostly-even ground. Merry sticks two fingers into the jam, feeling the cool, smooth texture of it, and he scoops it free, cradling a dollop, and he slathers it in a long line across Pippin's chest.
Pippin gasps, then jerks beneath him, as Merry sets his mouth to one nipple, sucking on the sweet jam and Pippin's hardening flesh, beneath. He jerks again, so hard that Merry thinks he might be knocked free, so he grips Pippin's arms, attempting to hold him in place. He worries the nub of flesh, giving it a brief twist, then licking it with the flat of his tongue. Pippin groans, and whimpers, constantly at motion beneath Merry's mouth. He cries out Merry's name – Merry can feel it, the reverberation of echoing sound, against his lips.
Summer air buzzes at his ears. Merry follows the line of sticky, sweet jam left, licking across Pippin's sternum, sucking at his skin, fastening his mouth to Pippin's left nipple, and giving it a likewise twist. Pippin is like liquid motion, beneath him, and the pleasant heat that builds in Merry's groin seems like some sort of chance, though he doesn't find it objectionable, occurrence. Merry presses flush against Pippin, from his stomach down, and feels hardness press back against him, likewise pleasantly warm.
Pippin twists. The sweet taste is gone from his skin. More of it, then, and Merry sits back, leaving Pippin there, gasping, upon the ground, colour staining his cheeks and his chest, which also glistens wetly. "Merry – " he gasps, dazed, eyes on Merry.
Merry eyes him back, then grins, and traces the shape of Pippin's chin with his thumb, and then his lips, dipping two sticky fingers back into the crock, drawing a line down Pippin's bare chest, from his chest down past his belly button.
Pippin twitches. "Yes – "
Merry finds that funny, and he chuckles, stretching himself so that he is free to idly tongue his way back down Pippin's chest, to his belly, stroking at the sweet stuff with his tongue, massaging Pippin's inner thigh as he does. The fabric of Pippin's trousers is rough, and his skin in stark contrast, smooth. Merry knows what Pippin wants – he is young enough to want it, and want it hard and now and fast, and he'll play at a tease to get it, too – but Merry has age, at least a handful of years, and that tempering has given him something to even the edges of Pippin's teasing, and he has patience, too, and he has tricks of his own.
Pippin's leg moves, and Merry's hand continues its caress, and Merry's tongue dips low into Pippin's bellybutton, licking and then licking again, stroking that dip of flesh until Pippin moans. "*Yes-yes-please* –"
Pippin is so focused, he doesn't seem to notice that Merry's hand has moved, tugging free the fastenings of his trousers, one hand pushing in, pressing almost idly against hot skin. Merry draws back, and breathes against wet skin – his fingers slide against warm curls – and that, *that*, Pippin does notice, and oh, but the way he twitches and jerks.
"*Yes-Merry-please*!"
Despite that entreaty, Merry goes no quicker than he must, drawing Pippin's trousers open wide – Pippin shifts his lips, but Merry pulls them down, no further than Pippin's knees – and Pippin is hard before him, beautifully so, and Merry grazes sticky fingers over that flesh, feeling Pippin quake with his need.
"Please I need – " Pippin's plea is lost as he gasps, and Merry's sticky fingers wrap around his hard length. Merry mouths the head, licking sticky-salt from it, and Pippin shudders and moans, almost like he'd twist himself free of his body. But Merry has him pinned, and Merry licks him, slowly, feeling ever tremor, every slight shift, of Pippin's form, skin pressed against his mouth.
The jam follows, then, and Merry slathers the length of Pippin's sock with it, from the head down the full length of the shaft, at his balls, too, leaving Pippin helpless, twitching and groaning and pleading for more. His legs are wide open, demanding, and Pippin certainly does make this action suit better than any words.
Merry begins to lick him all clean, and Pippin comes before it is even half-over, when Merry sucks hard on the head of his sock, sucking it fully into his mouth – perhaps in the wet slide of tongue and the faint scrape of tooth, Pippin lost control of himself. Merry sucks him in, and sucks him dry, and Pippin whimpers, as Merry lets his cock free.
Pippin's chest is heaving – his fingers are digging into dirt and grass – his eyes are wide and Merry, as he rises up, finds that Pippin's eyes are on him, and Merry is wanting, desperately, the feel of Pippin's skin.
"Hullo, Pip."
Pippin gasps, then laughs, closing his eyes.
"Hullo, Merry."
"Mmm."
Merry pulls Pippin's trousers free, then licking at his belly, and his spent cock. Pippin groans, senseless. He is still sticky there, and Merry works himself free of his trousers – his shirt still fully buttoned, though he doesn't seem to care – and he flings them off, settling himself over Pippin – pressing himself against, almost into, warm, sticky skin.
"Yes. Mmm."
Pippin is drowsy, and soft, and warm, like melted butter, or summer air, and he wraps his arms about Merry's neck, his chest sticky down to his belly and at his groin. Merry feels the press of Pippin's knees at his hips, as he himself angles his knees better to press forward against Pippin's skin. The return is a pleasant reverberation of sensation that sparks like wildfire, across the span of Merry's flesh. He pushes firmer, rocking himself into a rhythm water movement and an echo of undulating sound.
He can't help but take his time, when he feels Pippin growing hard, against, beneath him, against him, and he rocks into that friction, finding time, like he was making music, though Pippin is the one who has been more musically inclined. Perhaps that is why, now, he feels as though Pippin is the guide – the soft whisper of Pippin's voice, words lost in beneath a pleasant, unintelligible, droning, not even fully stopping as Pippin presses his mouth to Merry's, and they kiss.
It shouldn't be possible, that he can hear those words, clearer now, that Pippin's lips are on his, that his mouth has been stroked open, moaning and pleading, beneath Pippin's sweet tongue. The fire is a pleasant one, spreading in a constant over Merry's skin. Pippin's knees press at him, firmer, and Pippin's hold down not relent at Merry's neck.
The kiss falls deep, about Pippin's tongue, and the thrumming of Pippin's words. Merry closes his eyes, rocking himself against Pippin's rhythm, the joined heat of their hard cocks, and the pressure builds up so that release is an almost absent pleasantry, as well, spilling against Pippin's words still, only for him to cry out, and Pippin's heat spills against Merry, and they are left sticky between.
The world seems empty. Motion stills, and sound all drains. Merry gasps, falling back into action, though only to slump, spent, exhausted, against Pippin. It almost feels that it has been too much. Pippin's kiss marks his lips, and Pippin's hold relents, as the pressure of Pippin's knees vanishes from at his hips.
"Pippin."
"Merry. Love."
"Love."
They find their breath, together, slow like melting jam, and then they find strength to move, and speak, too.