Rating: R
Pairing: Frodo/Merry/Pippin
Disclaimer: Frodo and all recognisable characters are the property of the Estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. No offence is intended, nor profit made.
Summary: Hobbitpile!

'It's Took tradition', Pippin says, standing at the opened door to Bag End, where both Frodo and Merry had greeted him. Took tradition, Pippin's said, and Frodo wonders just how long Pippin's been waiting to say that, given his grin. Pippin is often all about grand gestures, after all. Then Pippin takes them by hand, and leads them to the bed; a kiss and a tumble, both on the first of spring, and it will be a very fine season, all in all; and he'd kissed them at the front door, after he'd dropped his pack onto the floor, after he'd shut the door hard and let the latch catch. His mouth against Frodo's is a wet fumble, not ice and snow but grass and sun. It's been three months since their last proper visit, Brandy Hall at Yule. When Pippin draws back, his eyes are warm and his cheeks are flushed, and he puts one hand up at the nape of Merry's neck, mouth reaching for Merry's mouth. They kiss, a breath away from Frodo, and Frodo wonders if he ever did try and tell Pippin no. He knows he had, knows he's had to at some point, but he can't recall it to his mind.

Not that he wants to, now, and Pippin is warm and Frodo puts one arm about Merry's shoulder, and Pippin's heat is in Merry, too. One arm loops about Frodo's waist, but the other is about Merry's, and Merry's hand is flat against Frodo's chest, the other working free the fastening of Pippin's trousers. They all stop, Pippin laughing, his cheeks bright pink; then he kisses Frodo again, his trousers undone and slipping down his hips. I've missed you both, Pippin says, without uttering a word; and the look in his eyes says I love you, I love you both.

'Happy spring,' Pippin says, and that as when he takes them both by hand, leading them deeper into the smial, to Frodo's room and his sturdy bed, big enough for all three. The window is thrown open, and, though the day had been cool, with Pippin here the dark room is warming, and quick. Pippin, who kisses Merry briefly before saying, 'Oldest first,' and then he sits Frodo down at the edge of the bed. Frodo, who looks at him in amusement, and is too aware of Pippin's heat. So, he lets Pippin spread his legs, lets Pippin open his trousers and take him in hand, lets Pippin's mouth take hold of him and in that instant, if his blood had been moving too slow, now his blood is rushing through him, flooding all his senses, and he aches within its heat.

Merry stands watching them, and Frodo feels Pippin's mouth full and wet and hot, one hand curling at Frodo's hip and the other grasping hold of Frodo's shirt. Frodo shuts his eyes and clutches at the covers and tosses his head back, staring at the ceiling overhead. Pippin's heat spreads through him, through his bones and through his blood and to the very tips of his fingers, down his body and all the way to his toes. He groans and Pippin's mouth makes short work of him, and Frodo hardly makes use of the time to take hold of Pippin's hair, fingers curling tight; and he shouts as he comes, feels himself undone. Pippin's not through with him, drinking of him, and Frodo's breath flutters out, but then it's all very hot, too hot, and Pippin's finished with him, and he feels the tremble in his thighs. When Pippin stands, Frodo collapses in a boneless heap against the covers, and Pippin crawls up on top of him and winds his arms about his neck, kisses him, sucks salt from Frodo's mouth, and Frodo's lungs sting as he's left gasping for air.

Frodo is vaguely aware of Merry muttering, 'if it's tradition, then it's only yours', as if his wits have finally come back to him. Then Merry crawls onto the bed and pulls Pippin away from Frodo, and Frodo distinctly misses, and longs for, that heat. He shakes, his eyes wide, and Merry and Pippin make a tangle as they kiss and touch and laugh, pulling at their clothes, hands and mouths reaching for skin. Pippin's eyes roll back as Merry sucks on his throat, pushing hardness against Pippin's heat, and Pippin groans and winds his arms about Merry, wraps his legs about Merry's waist and lets Merry push against him, rocking to the tune of wordless song, to Pippin's gasps and groans and pleading breath. Frodo is suddenly more aware, and Pippin arches and cries out, and Merry's hips snap to a rhythm and Pippin clutches at his shoulders, the other hand twisting in the sheets. The first of spring, a Took tradition, and Frodo watches in wordless wonder, and he feels himself grow hard again, too fast, but for all that it is too fast, it almost feels too achingly hard.

Pippin's hands next clutch at Merry's sweat-slick hips, grasping but not finding proper hold, and he gasps and shakes and trembles, hard, and as he peaks and as Merry peaks, and makes a good deal less noise than Pippin had; and Frodo might not be touching them right now (but he wants to fix that, and he'll soon reach for skin), but he can feel their heat, still. Dizzy, he pulls off his shirt, and Merry brushes at his own damp hair and then bows his brow against Pippin's; and for the moment, they only breathe, and Frodo can almost hear their racing pulses. Like heat, he can feel it in the air. 'Well, it would have been my turn,' Merry says, at last, rolling off of Pippin but pulling Pippin along, letting him settle against him, Pippin's mouth on his and their legs and feet both twining about.

'Pippin,' Frodo gasps, then grasps at him, his voice rough and needy and Pippin so smooth and pliant. Heat, where Pippin touches him, and Frodo is even harder now and he doesn't just ache, because everything is too much and his skin is stretched too thin. Like his body screams for release. Frodo grinds his hips against Pippin, rubs against him with his trousers only half down his hips, but his cock out and hard, as if seeking him on its own. Pippin's mouth is slick, as slick as his fingers, and Frodo pulls Pippin against him, settles Pippin between his legs, and Pippin's arms are about him and his hands touch him, and his mouth traces fire across Frodo's skin, and then back to his mouth. Merry tangles with them both, and Pippin's mouth leaves Frodo's but then Merry kisses Frodo, and Pippin laughs brightly but then gasps for his breath, clutching at Frodo's hips and with Merry at his back; and Pippin is all arms and legs and pressure against skin, and he arches back and his eyes flutter shut as slick fingers scrabble at his hips and then jerk backwards. He even laughs for a moment, when his eyes fall back and he twists a bit to get a better hold on Merry, winding his arms about him and kissing him, breath against breath. Must be getting hard again, or maybe he is already, and he watches Merry and Pippin press against each other, friction and heat. Pippin, who kisses him once more and runs his hand down Merry's thigh, before turning back to Frodo. And Merry goes with him.

Pippin settles himself back between Frodo's legs, hands touching and grasping and then his mouth is on Frodo's, and Frodo does rather like that – so he grips at Pippin, holds him close, and if Pippin could come any closer than he had, flush against hot skin. 'Yes, happy spring,' someone mutters, and Frodo isn't even sure of who it was, and then Merry's hands are on Pippin, and Pippin gasps as he pushes back against that touch.

Pleading, wordless, breathless, and he twists a bit against Frodo and that's rather nice, too, the feel of that and then Pippin forms words with his mouth, and whatever it is that Merry's doing (and he knows what Merry's doing) must not be going quite as fast as Pippin would like.

Then Pippin's breath flutters and stops and his head drops against Frodo's shoulder, curls damp and his breath hot, and he laughs a little as his nails scrape down Frodo's sides (which makes Frodo twitch and even twist, and gasp), and Merry's hands are at Pippin's hips, now, and he must have what he'd wanted, sunk in deep.

'There. Will that shut you up?'

'Not quite,' Pippin murmurs, lifts his head and kisses Frodo and he pushes back against Merry, letting one hand slip down idly between his and Frodo's skin. Then Pippin takes hold of him, and Frodo's eyes roll back in his skull and he pushes up, clutches at Pippin as he shakes, trembling like a wind-blown leaf. Then one of Merry's hands cover one of Frodo's, and Pippin's hand is moving on him and Pippin is pressed against him fully, and Merry is moving, too, grunting, rough-sounding breath. Grinding and pulsing, and Pippin cries out first, throbbing like flame as he peaks; and Merry follows, and then Frodo comes undone and the fire overwhelms him and the breath all leaves his lungs.

And they all collapse, a twist of heat and slick skin, Frodo's heart pounding, and he can feel Merry and Pippin's hearts racing too. 'I thought you said, oldest first,' Frodo says, and he can feel the heat going from him, as if retreating back into Pippin's skin, though Pippin is still stuck against him.

'Maybe not first, not always,' Pippin mutters, shuts his eyes and sleeps; and Merry laughs and kisses his shoulder, then brushes a hand through damp curls and kisses Frodo too. The heat does go, but they are left a sated tangle of breath and limbs, with Pippin off to the side and snoring gently, his cheek against Frodo's shoulder; and Merry moving onto his other side, one arm crossed over Frodo's torso and grasping at Pippin's side, his leg up over Frodo's with the fur on his foot pressed against Frodo's calf. 'No need for covers,' Frodo says, conversationally. Merry chuckles wearily, kisses Frodo's cheek and then his mouth, and then he settles down fully, just breathing, and follows Pippin into sleep.

And Frodo smells more than hears it as it rains, and holds out as long as he can manage, though then he sleeps.

The End