Easily Broken
by Lullennye-mail: gutter2stars @ yahoo.com
Story notes: Kinky birthday mathom smut -- no shame.
Frodo complains in the next stall, muttering imprecations, and Pippin cheerfully says, "What's wrong, Frodo -- can't handle my pony?"
"Unlike you, Wing is delightfully responsive and I've been handling her fine all afternoon," he replies smartly.
"Ah-ah, you can't take credit for Wing's performance today," says Pippin as he brushes his father's pony, Pinecone. "She was easily broken, you know."
"Easily, hm?" Frodo makes a sound of effort.
"Gently, don't you know. It took weeks, but it was worth it," Pippin replies. "My father says if you seduce a pony to her saddle, she'll never notice the burden, and never fight her rider."
"That sounds like something your father would say," Frodo says wryly. Pippin hears scuffling in the next stall. "But there's no need for fighting -- I'm a good rider."
"Oh, yes, you're as graceful as a duck, Frodo."
"That is so untrue, you miserable ass, and beside the point anyhow."
"What is the point?"
Pippin hears Wing stamp and whicker and the jingle of her bridle. Frodo curses again, and then says tightly, "I'm caught."
Curious now Pippin settles his father's pony, hastily slinging the tack on their pegs before he peers into Wing's stall. Her black neck shining from the day's effort Wing steps about agitated, forcing Frodo to follow because his shirt cuff is caught on the decorative silver stud on the bridle just over Wing's nose.
Pippin peals laughter, startling Wing into tossing her head and yanking Frodo's hand up high. "Pippin!" he says. "Don't stand there laughing -- help me out of this!"
"Hold still, hold still." Pippin clucks his tongue at Wing and gentles her long enough to slip the bridle free. Frodo takes it, his cuff still caught, and leaves the stall; Pippin kisses Wing on her velvet nose and whispers, "Don't mind him, my dear. He's just a very silly old hobbit."
Bridle in his lap Frodo is sitting on a bench in the stable, pulling at his cuff, his tongue poking out and heavy concentration on his brow.
"Still stuck, are we?"
"This will rip if I'm not careful," Frodo says absently, "or worse, break the button."
"So?" Pippin drops next to Frodo and looks interestedly into his lap.
"So I don't want to do either."
"Oh, stop being such a prig. It's just a button."
"Easily broken, too, and I don't mean 'seducing' it off this bridle." Frodo shoots a brief glance at Pippin. "And you are quick with the insults. I am hardly a prig for wanting to save my shirt."
"Then just rip it off so we can be gone. We're missing tea."
"No," he says. "I don't want to. This is my favorite shirt. The buttons came from Rivendell."
"Leave it to you to get excited over buttons." Pippin tugs at a trailing rein, which pulls Frodo's hand from his lap. Frodo protests while Pippin laughs. "I always considered you a sharp dresser, but I never pegged you as a slave to fashion."
Frodo snorts as he jerks back his hand and the bridle. He bends to worry at them again, giving Pippin only the crown of his head to look at. Even his bowed neck seems dismissive rather than yielding.
Irked, Pippin pulls the strap up, dragging Frodo's arm over his head and his attention from the button. He sees a peg in the wall, leans over Frodo to reach, and winds the leather around it. He perches on the bench once more and looks Frodo up and down. "Ha! Now we'll see. If I leave you here, will you rip yourself loose, or miss tea altogether to wait for someone to come and save your precious button?"
"You think you're clever, don't you?" Frodo smiles wryly. His color is high from riding in the sun all afternoon, and Pippin thinks that, should he take some, kisses from Frodo's neck would taste salty.
"Yes. I am clever. I've got you right where I want you." Pippin climbs to his knees and straddles Frodo's lap. He kisses Frodo's smiling mouth, which parts obligingly. Pippin is mildly surprised Frodo allows this -- he is usually discrete about where and how they take their pleasure -- and he takes full advantage of the opportunity, turning his head to better sink into Frodo's mouth. Frodo hums low in his chest encouragingly, but then breaks away.
"This is nice, but hardly the place," he says.
"Why not? There's only Wing and Pinecone in this part of the stable, and none of the hands will come to tend them until after supper."
"Someone could still come looking for us." Frodo reaches up and tries to unwind the rein.
Pippin moves quickly, and with several quick turns of the other rein binds Frodo's free hand and pulls it up to a second peg, one a little further up the wall. He can feel Frodo's breath cloud warm on his stomach even through his shirt, and then he sinks down once more.
"Pippin!" Frodo sounds equally affectionate and exasperated. "You and your games. You never stop playing, do you?"
"Why would I? This is far too much fun." Pippin resumes kissing him while fingering the designs woven into the brocade cloth of Frodo's waistcoat. Frodo kisses him back, pressing insistently into his mouth for long moments. Soon he squirms on the bench under Pippin and his arms pull at the reins; Pippin hears a leathery creak and feels Frodo's elbow brush his shoulder.
Pippin's position on Frodo's lap is the same as when he takes Wing jumping the hedgerows, with his feet tucked tight under his buttocks and his weight borne on his knees. Jumping can be dangerous, but it is always fun, and Pippin is willing to take the risk every time. He smells leather and sunshine on Frodo; and the rhythm that develops between them as they move is like riding, too.
But Frodo's waistcoat distracts Pippin. It is smooth, made of silk; embossed flowers raise a subtle pattern under Pippin's fingers as they slide, exploring the buttons that mark a trail down Frodo's chest. Frodo moans, and Pippin can feel the vibration both in his mouth and his hands. It makes him shudder because Frodo is letting him do this, here, in the barn, and he settles back, just a little, on his heels that are braced on either side of Frodo's lap.
The pleasure they have taken before has been simple, and they have been taking it only since spring. Pippin regards Frodo's tipped face and recognizes clean desire in his parted lips that are red and wet from kissing, but he sees something different in Frodo's hooded gaze, though it could be merely how the sun is lowering in the sky and casts thicker light through the open stable doors.
"I think you're enjoying this game," says Pippin, and with his hands splayed on Frodo's chest he rocks forward from his hips. He feels heat and hardness to match his own rising up from under Frodo's belt, and Frodo makes a throttled sound.
Pippin likes the feel of Frodo breathing hard under that silk waistcoat, and he slides his hands over ribs and down as he covers Frodo's mouth again with his own. The left pocket catches two of Pippin's fingers and they slip into a narrow and silky passage, hot from Frodo's skin. It is surprisingly deep, and Pippin pushes his fingers further until he feels the odd bits at the bottom. "What," he speaks against Frodo's lips, stealing small kisses between words, "is in here?" He feels string, and a small stone that Frodo had picked up that day: a pretty spear of crystal with six perfect sides. "Mm," he says, nibbling Frodo's lower lip, "no coins to pay for our drinks at the inn tonight?"
Frodo is pliant under Pippin, and he makes vague noises of agreement. Their kisses are languid and heated, and desire coils lazily below Pippin's stomach. He curves his free hand into the sultry heat under the curls at the back of Frodo's neck while the fingers of the other dig deeper into Frodo's pocket.
Pippin feels something round and hot at the very bottom. His fingertips stroke an utterly smooth ring. At once Frodo draws a quick breath through his nose and his hips thrust up, nearly unseating Pippin. Pippin gapes at Frodo, who stares back wide-eyed, and Pippin feels as though he's been turned to stone, a troll touched by a pale blue dawn.
Then Frodo drops his head while his eyes swivel up to continue holding Pippin's. In the pocket, Pippin's fingertips glide along the ring again. The silk of Frodo's waistcoat seems like tree bark in comparison. Frodo moves still under him, a rough undulation of his hips, and he smiles, just a little, his lips closed. Shadows deepen his eyes, and make his mouth look a little cruel.
"Kiss me," says Frodo. He raises his face, and mellow afternoon light paints a less alarming expression there so that Pippin feels released from his insistent stare; he looks at Frodo's lips instead, and then he closes his eyes as they kiss.
Pippin strums that ring, quick dabs of his fingertip along the flawless curve, just as Frodo's tongue penetrates the kiss, commanding roughly the intercourse of their mouths. As if the Sun suddenly entered the stable, Pippin is abruptly hot. New sweat breaks at his nape and down his back, while desire flushes up to heat his chest and neck. The leaden weight at his groin is harder than he has ever felt, and he squirms without rhythm or pride to rub against Frodo, barely able to haul air into his lungs and uncaring. Pippin feels enthralled by his own lust.
"The trousers," Frodo demands. "Open them."
Pippin fumbles with one hand. Frodo nudges him hard in the cheek with his forehead. "Use both your hands."
Pippin hesitates. Nothing feels like the ring in Frodo's pocket: no polished stone or dewy flower petal or wood buffed until it shines as if wet; the most fragile curve of a newborn's cheek is not so precious as the ring that lies hidden.
"Pippin!" Frodo's voice strikes Pippin like a slap while he rolls under Pippin like a caress. His words are silk, pliant and strong: "The trousers. Now."
Slowly Pippin withdraws his fingers.
"Mine first," whispers Frodo harshly.
Pippin unbuckles the belt and slips it from the loops. He wonders dimly how it is that Frodo can order him about when Frodo is the one with his arms wound helplessly in leather, but it's a fleeting thought, secondary to the urgent need to open Frodo's trousers. He is rewarded richly: Frodo is beautiful under him, his face flushed and eyes feverish while below the hard red length of him is framed by the corners of his opened breeches.
Pippin reaches for the waistcoat, and Frodo growls a protest, frowning and trashing against the leather. "Wait," says Pippin. "Just let me . . ." His voice trails off as he concentrates on the buttons, quickly parting the vest before opening the sweaty white shirt.
Stricken at the sight Pippin thinks maybe heat shimmers off Frodo like phantom water glints on the horizon of a scalding summer's day. Frodo's chest is damp and flushed. The color deepens at his neck, and his cheeks and ears bloom red.
"Touch me, Pippin," says Frodo. "You've never been shy before."
Never before now, thinks Pippin, but he shakes his head as the thought occurs to him. This emotion isn't shyness, but while he cannot exactly define it, he knows he wants Frodo.
Frodo is hot and smooth in Pippin's hand, though not perfect like the trinket in his pocket. Frodo's eyes close as his head falls back to thump against the wall. Pippin leans over him to take those salty kisses he thought of before; he sucks at the straining tendon and Frodo rears under him. "Yes," Frodo hisses. "Harder." Pippin bites him, and Frodo calls out wordlessly, ahh!
Hands trembling, Pippin keeps one on Frodo while he rips at the fastenings to his own trousers with the other. The leather creaks. Frodo writhes so on the bench Pippin is hard-pressed to keep his seat, but he clamps his knees firmly against Frodo's thighs. His trousers finally part; he pulls himself free and gusts a shuddery breath at the touch of his own fingers.
"Let me see," says Frodo. Pippin sits a little straighter, and it is enough. Frodo stares down. He wets his lips, a dart of pink tongue. His voice husky he says, "Take them both in your hand."
Pleasure threatens to strike like lightning, and Pippin mutters, "This won't last long."
Frodo butts him in the jaw with his head, harder this time, and shocks Pippin into stillness. "No," he commands. "You wait for me."
Pippin nods slowly and resumes moving his hand. He wants to do so many things at once: kiss Frodo's red mouth, lap the hollow of his throat, bury his face in Frodo's hair and shove into the pressure of his own hand.
He wants to penetrate the narrow pocket again and thrust his finger into that faultless circle.
"No," says Frodo harshly, though Pippin knows he did not speak aloud. "Both hands -- use both hands."
Pippin sets his forehead against Frodo's. Together they look down as Pippin hitches his weight a little higher and closer, and works together their blood-red cocks. Pearls of slick moisture bead out of each of them; Pippin holds back the skin and spreads it around the tips. Unthinking, he reaches up and licks one palm, the right. His eyes flutter closed. The taste is at once bitter and sweet.
"Give me the other one." Frodo's voice is thick. Pippin gives him his left hand. Frodo sucks in the first two fingers, the ones that had delved so deeply into his pocket -- they're sticky now. Pippin drops the other, palm wet, and gathers together again their lengths and strokes. He grasps tightly, good friction, and Frodo moans around his fingers as if lost, eyes closed.
"Frodo," whispers Pippin. "I can't -- I can't --" He rests his forehead on Frodo's again and closes his eyes because looking at Frodo is too much: eyelashes feathered on his darkened cheeks, hot mouth sucking on Pippin's fingers, chest flushed and heaving between the white wings of his open shirt, hips jerking in rhythm with Pippin's hand, the slick hard heat of him hot as a brand.
Frodo releases Pippin's fingers and he gasps for breath. Pippin's thighs tremble and ache from holding him above Frodo's lap, and he clutches Frodo's shoulder.
"More," gasps Frodo.
Pippin strips them faster. Agonizing expectation gathers in all of his limbs, and he throws back his head, on the edge of flight. Frodo struggles frantically and suddenly, with a small, sharp noise his arm is free. He clutches Pippin's neck and forces their mouths together. Gasping, Pippin twists away, unable to breathe. Frodo tangles his hand in Pippin's hair briefly before it falls and fumbles to cover Pippin's, whipping tight and smooth in his lap.
Pippin's left hand trails off Frodo's shoulder, down his side, while Frodo's speeds up. Silky brocade slips under Pippin's fingertips, and Frodo's fingers interlock on their lengths. Through the material under his left hand Pippin feels a small, hard circle. Frodo husks splintered words as Pippin slips his finger into the opening of the pocket. Pippin pushes deeper, seeking; he feels cut from the very world by a curtain of blind want and he knows as soon as he touches the ring he will loft into ecstasy like a hunted bird bursts into flight. He feels the string, and the stone, and then --
Frodo twists the circle of his fingers and thumb at the top of his stroke while his elbow rises sharply and shoves Pippin's hand out of the pocket. Pippin shouts as he spills, a harsh, wordless negation because the peak came too soon, good but not what he strived for.
Frodo forces their joined hands to continue stripping them quickly. Their hands are slick, but though Pippin is still brutally hard, the pleasure is painful. Frodo's head lolls back, eyes unseeing. His hand speeds, a perfect glide over thin, burning skin. His mouth works wordlessly; he's lost in bliss. He bucks up hard under Pippin as he spills hot, white skeins that stripe his stomach. He cries out hoarsely, words abused almost beyond understanding.
When all motion stops, and they lay slumped against one another spent and gulping for breath, Pippin frees Frodo's other arm from the leather strap holding it up. Absently he wonders if they ruined the bridle, an offense his father would consider punishable, but he feels curiously numb. He watches Frodo ease his arm and says, "You may well have broken that bridle along with your button, Frodo."
Frodo nods. "I think I did, but it was worth it. It was perfect." His tone is a purr.
Mild shocks of pleasure still shake Pippin, though they feel distant. Frodo looks sleepy, and he is content, and there is no apology in his eyes, though Pippin can almost hear the reverberations of Frodo's shout as he came: It's mine! It's mine! Pippin wants to button up Frodo's shirt and waistcoat, just for a chance to feel the contents of his pocket one last time, but he feels the ache of a bruise where Frodo knocked away his arm, hard, and he thinks Frodo would prefer he didn't.
But then Frodo gently touches his cheek and kisses him softly. He asks, "Mm, that was good, wasn't it, my dear?"
"Very good," replies Pippin, and his smile is genuine, if small, and he ignores the odd fancy that somehow, his pleasure could have been perfect.