Easily Broken

by Lulllenny

e-mail: gutter2stars @ yahoo.com

*

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." 

<I>Never before now,</I> 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, <I>ahh!</I>  

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: <I>It's mine! It's 
mine!</I>  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.