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Éowyn’s been living in the Shire for several months now. She’s watched the seasons change like the unspooling of ribbon—sumptuous and gilded. Merry knows this because she comments on how beautiful each one is, as though she has never seen them before. Perhaps because he has lived here his whole life, he takes them for granted. As long as Merry’s been alive, it has snowed in the winter, the summer turns the Shire lush and verdant, and spring and autumn both are riots of colour.
It is summer now: rolling green hills dotted with flowers like gems in a riverbed, willows and maples and mallorns hanging overhead with wide-palmed leaves, the sky above always a cornflower blue. Merry chews on the end of his pipe, and Éowyn sits with her feet in his lap as Pippin weaves flowers into braids in her golden hair. In the backyard of Crickhollow, a breeze kicks up. Closing his eyes, Merry tilts his head back, gusts out a happy sigh. In a while, they’ll venture inside for dinner and card games until they grow sleepy-eyed and their voices raw from laughter.
This routine they’ve found themselves in cradles Merry in its soft palm. It’s comforting to know what is expected of him on any given day. It allows him to slow down, take notice of the fat bumblebees and the cool shush of river water around his ankles. He takes notice of other things as well—the way Pippin walks sure footed like he’s more grown into himself with the impish crook of his smile smoothed out into something more contented; the way Éowyn grows plumper from good cooking, her cheeks turning a healthy pink, her hair growing softer and silkier. Even now watching the two of them sit in companionable silence as Pippin braids her hair, Merry feels his belly grow warm. He takes a deep drag off his pipe, trying to ignore the feeling.
All around them is the detritus of their lunch. Plates with cheese rinds, pieces of crusty, seeded bread, peach pits and pears, half-forgotten glasses of dandelion wine from Bree. After so long spent living on rations, Merry delights in all the nuances of food and drink he can. Though as a fauntling he’d never enjoyed cooking, he’s now taken a shine to it. He borrowed a recipe book from Brandy Hall’s kitchen when they were there for Yule and has been steadily working his way through it. There’s something soothing about the whole process of cooking; he’s sure Sam would laugh at him for only figuring that out now.
“You know,” Éowyn says, brushing a stray piece of grass off her knee, “I never learned to swim.”
“Most Hobbits don’t,” Merry says. “We’re the odd ones out here in Buckland.”
“Would you teach me?” she asks.
“Of course!” Pippin says. He then touches her waist, adding, “All finished, love. You’re fit to be the May Queen. Shame it’s not Midsummer for a few weeks longer, this is my best work yet.”
Éowyn says, “I have every faith that you will make me even more beautiful by then.”
“But yes, if it doesn’t rain tomorrow, we can all go out to swim,” Merry interjects.
There hasn’t been rain for a fortnight, and there shouldn’t be another summer storm for at least another week. The Brandywine’s low and slow-moving, so it should be safe to teach Éowyn. Pippin stands and stretches; his back gives an almighty crack.
“I think I’m due for a nap,” he says. “You mind getting supper started in a while, Merry?”
“Nah, you go on. We’ll take care of it.”
When Pippin’s disappeared back inside, Éowyn reaches out a tanned hand to hold Merry’s. He starts, turning to look at her. Her mouth curves in a gentle smile that crinkles her nose, “Thank you.”
“For what?” he asks, stupidly, distracted by the crop of freckles sprayed across her nose. How had he never noticed them before?
“For agreeing to teach me. You’re the only one I’d trust.”
“No trouble at all, really. I’ve taught all my younger cousins.” He cringes.
Éowyn takes it in stride, tucking an errant curl behind his ear that immediately springs back into place. She says, “I’m sure you’re the finest teacher. Handsomest too.”
“Ah,” Merry falters, feeling himself blush, “don’t— don’t let Pip hear you say that.”
Éowyn laughs, shoulders shaking. “Let’s go for a walk,” she says, standing and still holding his hand, “there’s still plenty of time before dinner.” After they clean lunch’s remnants, Éowyn laces their fingers together, and Merry’s belly swoops as she guides them into the woods that skirt Crickhollow’s land.
Later on, after their stomachs are full, they sit in the drawing room, giggling and tipsy. Their card game was abandoned about an hour and half a bottle of wine earlier. Pippin sticks his feet in Merry’s lap, regaling Éowyn with some story from his and Merry’s misspent youth. And isn’t that a strange thought, it occurs to Merry, that he and Pippin are no longer youths. Though Pippin’s not yet 33, he carries himself with the air of someone far older than his years. When Merry’s being honest with himself, which is mostly when he’s deep in his cups, he feels guilty for how Pippin grew up too fast. That Pippin’s tween years were cut abruptly short, and there’s no way to recover them. It feels as though he’s relearning Pippin—the Hobbit he’s become and becoming. Pippin isn’t the same one who kissed Merry in the spring meadows behind Brandy Hall, who just as easily pulled Merry into some prank as the pantry to snog him senseless on a rainy afternoon.
After Pippin finishes, and their laughter dies down, Éowyn yawns. “I’m off to bed,” she says. She kisses both their cheeks before disappearing into her bedroom. Merry kneads the knob of Pippin’s ankle, rubs his shins and calves. Pippin sighs, stretches like a languid cat.
“Hey Pip,” Merry says, quiet and low.
“Hmm?”
“Can I? Why haven’t? I mean,” he struggles to get the words out, fumbling and wishing he could stuff them back inside.
Pippins sits on his knees, concern clouding his features, and Merry hates that look on his face. He wants to smooth out that furrowed brow, press away the worry lines.
“What?” Pippin says.
Very small, Merry says, “You haven’t kissed me. Since we got home.” He looks deliberately away, casting his gaze towards the rug that needs a good airing out.
“ Oh ,” Pippin says. Leaning forward, he rests his forehead on Merry’s shoulder. “I thought you didn’t want me to. With Éowyn being here and all.”
Something akin to hysteria claws at Merry’s throat. “What do you mean?” he starts.
Pippin cuts him off by cupping his face and pressing a kiss to his lips, brief and overwhelming. “Don’t worry about it,” he says. Pippin smoothes a hand over Merry’s hair. “Come to bed with me tonight? Haven’t been sleeping too well anyway.”
“Of course. Just let me clean this up. You go on, I’ll be there in a moment.” Merry scoops up their dirty glasses, depositing them in the sink to be dealt with in the morning. Later, when he slips into bed, he curls himself around Pippin’s back. Burying his face in the nape of Pippin’s neck, Merry takes a shuddering breath.
“I love you, Pip,” he whispers.
“I know,” Pippin says, “I love you too.
“Don’t ever go that long without kissing me again,” Merry mutters. Pippin laughs, snuggling deeper into Merry’s hold. “Have you really not been sleeping well?” Merry continues. He slips a hand beneath Pippin’s shift and idly strokes the soft skin of his rounded belly. They shared the same bed when they first moved back into Crickhollow. The night terrors were too much to be dealt with alone. Merry doesn’t enjoy recalling those times when Pippin would wake up sweaty and gasping, begging for his life before the Eye. When Éowyn moved in, they separated by some unknown force. Or, perhaps, Merry knows now why.
“Yes,” says Pippin. Merry tightens his grip.
“No more of that,” Merry declares.
Pippin mhms , but he’s fading fast, so Merry allows himself to be lulled by Pippin’s breaths.
“Come, Merry,” Éowyn calls the next day, pulling off her stays and letting her gown pool around her ankles. In the sunlight, Merry can see the shadowed outline of her body through her chemise.
Swallowing, Merry mutters to himself, “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Pippin snorts a laugh behind him, and Merry’s cheeks grow hot.
“Go on,” Pippin says, stripping off his own clothes, “she’s waiting for you.” Pippin takes off, jumping in with a stupendous splash. Éowyn whoops and cheers.
Merry follows suit before walking up to Éowyn’s side. He gently touches her skirt, and she smiles down at him. “Today’s the day I learn to swim!” she says, excited and joyful. Merry’s never known her to be afraid, so of course she wouldn’t be now, even facing the Brandywine’s wide bank and soft currents.
Merry’s tongue sticks in his mouth.
“Better late than never I suppose,” she continues before stepping in, wading in slowly until she reaches hip-deep. Her chemise turns see-through and clings to her. Pippin thankfully is there to hold onto her arms and steady her while Merry continues to stand on the riverbank like a hayseed. It takes every ounce of his will to take one step forward, then the next, until he’s by Éowyn’s side once more, extricating one of her arms from Pippin.
“First step,” Merry declares, trying to find his voice, “holding your breath. Take a deep breath and hold it in, then go under water and let it out. Pip and I’ll hang on to you, yeah?”
Looking equal parts determined and trepidatious, she nods.
“Hold your nose if it helps,” Pippin adds, demonstrating for her. “Like this.”
She nods again, then all at once, dives down. When she resurfaces, it’s with a splutter and laugh, shaking her sopping hair out of her eyes.
“Well that’s,” she says, “that’s brilliant!” She does it again. There’s a childlike sense of wonder to her face that steals from Merry breath and things like it. Every part of him aches to take hold of her and—his next thought feels like a betrayal of Pippin—but Merry wants so badly to kiss her. To taste her smile, so different from the icy woman he first met, lick the river water from her lips.
He doesn’t though, merely announces that she’s ready to move onto the next lesson. They spend hours in the water, and the lessons turn to games that dissolve into the three of them laying out in the grassy bank to dry as the sun begins to settle to sleep. Éowyn eats an apricot plucked ripe from a nearby tree, darting to lick the juice running down her arm. Her chemise is still see-through, and Merry can see the round, fullness of her breasts, the way her muscles bunch and flex, not a part of her unused. Pippin stretches out, all angles and lines. Pippin’s always been slight for a Hobbit; where Merry is rounded belly and thick thighs, Pippin is slender and sly as a fox.
“What are we making for supper?” Pippin asks. A dragonfly buzzes overhead and lands on his nose. Pippin stares cross-eyed at it until it flies off.
“You know, I don’t really feel like cooking tonight. Should we head over to the Hall? My mum would be happy to see us fed,” Merry says.
“We’d need to wash up first. You know she’d yell at us about smelling like fish at her dining table.”
Éowyn says, “Why do I have the suspicion that is something you’ve both experienced before?”
At the same time, Pippin and Merry both groan. “You show up for supper one time as a tween without bathing after a swim, and your mother never lets you forget it!” says Merry.
“Had to bake her my mum’s apple cake to get her to forgive me,” Pippin says. “It’s an old Took recipe that no one’s been able to figure out. Mum keeps it under lock and key.”
“My uncle was the same way,” Éowyn says. “Sometimes Theodred, Éomer, and I would spend the afternoon playing with the dogs. We’d track mud in all over the Hall. Oh , and when Boromir and Faramir would come to visit, we’d get into all sorts of trouble. That’s the only time I’ve ever seen him raise his voice.” She laughs, gazing off into the distance where the trees dance and sway with the breeze. Merry wonders how much that memory hurts. How much it cost to speak it aloud. But overhead, the clouds shift, and sunlight streams down over them. Éowyn’s dried hair, frizzy, looks like a halo around her head. Merry notices Pippin watching her too, and something possessive washes over him.
He says, “On second thought, I don’t really feel like walking down there. I think there should be some cheese and smoked meat in the larder.”
“Yeah, I can never eat too much after spending so much time in the sun,” Pippin says. Merry knows this to be a patent lie but chooses not to comment.
“I bought some bread a little while ago. We should finish it up,” Éowyn says. She stands, gathers her clothes, and says, “I’m going to wash up. Want me to bring your clothes with me?” They nod, and she gathers the extra garments up and walks into the house.
Turning on his side, Pippin places a hand on Merry’s waist. Merry grasps his wrist and pulls him so they’re pressed together, damp skin against damp skin. They don’t speak for some time. Merry feels his body sink into the cool grass, sink into Pippin’s body as though they were melding into one, rooted to the earth.
“You love her,” says Pippin, firm yet quiet. As though that statement didn’t shatter this fragile world they’ve built, and Merry’s back on the torn up fields of Pelennor, watching the End of Everything.
Merry turns on his own side, and their eyes meet. Pippin’s are filled with such utter tenderness that Merry’s breath catches.
“I love you ,” Merry confesses. His chest constricts, frantic like a rabbit caught in a snare.
“And I love you, Merry,” Pippin says. His hand rests on Merry’s cheek; his thumb swipes across the flat of Merry’s cheekbone. “But you love her too. You know, like how Sam and Frodo love each other, but they also love Rosie?”
Merry remembers when Rosie moved into Bag-End with Sam and Frodo. He remembers watching the three of them share a stolen kiss in the kitchen; how Rosie brews up tonics for Frodo’s shoulder and Sam’s knees, Sam keeps food on their table, and Frodo knows exactly how they all take their tea. The three of them are a marvel—all of their parts interlocked to keep them moving, fitting together in unique and fascinating ways. Merry watched them, always believing that while it worked for them, it could never be for him. It was simply never an option. He had never been shown how to love that way.
“I want you to be happy, and she makes you happy. She makes me happy too. You know I’m not good at being quiet about something I don’t like,” Pippin says, swiping away a tear, and oh, he must be crying. He didn’t realize. He didn’t realize a lot of things.
“When did you get smarter than me, Pip?” Merry chuckles, watery.
“When are you going to realize I’ve always been the smarter cousin?” Pippin quips back. Then he kisses the corner of Merry’s mouth, kisses his lips, soft and sweet. Merry falls onto his back, bringing Pippin on top. Their bodies slot together like two puzzle pieces. Even if their edges are more jagged now, more sore to the touch, they are relearning the ways of each other’s hearts. Neither of them are tweens anymore. They are scarred and bruised and older than they should be, but this new season of life is exciting , Merry thinks. They have so much time .
When they part, it’s with giggles and reddened lips. Pippin kisses his way down Merry’s throat, the hollow of collarbones, the dip of his waist.
“We can’t,” Merry says, reluctantly. “We’ll miss dinner.”
“Mhm,” Pippin agrees but without ceasing his exploration. His hands roam over every bit of exposed, sun-warmed skin. He licks the hollow of Merry’s hipbone. “You were watching her earlier. She’s very pretty.” Pippin wraps a hand around his cock.
Merry squirms, gasping, “ Pippin .”
Pippin doesn’t give him an inch. “I bet you wanted your mouth on her. Wanted to take her out here in the grass like our first time.” Pippin squeezes him, digs his thumb into the slit, jerks him off hard and slow the way Merry’s always liked it. It’s been so damn long since Merry’s been touched like this, his body shakes and comes apart so fast. And he thinks about Éowyn now . After spending so long swallowing down everything she means to him, he thinks about kneeling between her legs and worshiping her like she deserves.
“Pippin,” he repeats, “come up here. I need— need to kiss you. Please.”
Pippin surges up and kisses him, hand moving faster and twisting. Their foreheads knock together, and Merry spills. With a near-silent cry, he comes over Pippin’s knuckles and his own abdomen. While he catches his breath, Pippin rolls his hips into Merry’s once, twice, thrice before coming himself. Droplets catch in the thatch of hair on Merry’s stomach, glinting like pearls.
“And just how are we supposed to go inside in this state?” says Merry, panting and petting Pippin’s hair. Pippin presses a smirk into Merry’s neck and sinks down to lick up the come. Merry groans, “I forgot. You’re absolutely filthy.”
Satisfied he’s cleaned them up, Pippin pecks his cheek, “All for you, Merry.”
They stumble into the bathroom, necking like tweens as the tub fills. The sweet smell of Éowyn’s rose-scented soap lingers. It’s as familiar to Merry as his mother’s perfume, and Bag-End’s gardens, and Brandy Hall’s kitchens. They take turns washing each other’s hair and chase each other with fond touches while they dry and dress.
By the time they’re finished, Éowyn’s in the kitchen slicing up the cheese and meats. Her hair is piled up in a bun, small pieces falling out, curling at the base of her neck.
“There you two are,” she says. “Would one of you care to slice the bread? I’m almost finished here.”
“I’ve got it,” says Pippin, brandishing the breadknife for a moment like a sword.
“Ah, my fearsome knight,” Éowyn says, “saving me from my labours.”
This time when Merry watches them, he doesn’t feel jealous. He feels something sweet and bubbly fill him up. Biting back a smile, he disappears into the cold pantry, retrieves a bottle of sparkling wine from the last time they were in Bree, and they all three pile into the drawing room. When he uncorks the bottle, a bit of vapor escapes, curling smoke-like over the top. The wine is a light pink—the exact colour of the sky at dusk, and when he sips, the bubbles are small and delicate. Bilbo always said they “go right to your head,” and once Merry became old enough to fully appreciate the taste of wine, he found he agrees. Éowyn makes a small, delightful noise of surprise at first sip.
“It’s fizzy,” she says, “like ale. I didn’t know they made wine like this.”
“New technique they figured out about, oh, 10, 15 years ago?” Merry says, “over in Bree. It’s a celebration wine.”
“And what are we celebrating?”
“Well,” Merry stutters, “I suppose, you learning to swim.”
“And our continued health and vitality,” Pippin adds, cheeky, “or whatever rubbish you say during toasts. I can’t rightly remember, I always disappeared when it came time for toasts at parties.”
“You mean you were already too deep in your own cup to appreciate the fine art of toast-giving, Pip,” says Merry.
“Maybe so.”
Éowyn laughs. Then, she says, “My people toast to the venerable dead, and to glorious victory in battle. So,” she lifts her glass, “To the venerable dead animals that we shall feast on tonight, and to glorious victory over drunkenness and making fools of ourselves.”
“Here, here!” Pippin and Merry cheer in tandem. They tuck into the food with gusto, silence falling as hunger overtakes them momentarily.
Later on, Pippin says, “Merry, my mum wrote the other day to call on her. One of the cousins is getting engaged, and I must be there. I’ll only be gone a week though. Shouldn’t be a problem for the two of you, right?”
Pippin and Éowyn share a Look, and Merry feels instantly like he’s being sized up like a prized pumpkin at the harvest festival. Subtlety has never been Pippin’s strong suit.
“I think we can manage to entertain ourselves,” Éowyn says. Merry feels himself go hot at the insinuation in her voice.
“I’m sure ,” Pippin drawls.
Cheeks red, Merry admonishes, “That’s enough, Pip.”
Éowyn looks at him, a smirk playing over her mouth, but the two of them leave him be for the remainder of the night.
“Here,” Merry says, adjusting her hold on the pipe, “inhale and hold the smoke in. There, you’ve got it!”
After a few failed first attempts that left Éowyn choking on smoke and scrambling for a drink, she manages to get the rhythm down. Smoke clouds escape her wine-stained lips with a sigh as she sinks deeper into the grass. It’s a few days since Pippin’s left, and Merry’s been mulling over things like Éowyn and love . Even contemplates writing Frodo a letter but loses his nerve before finishing a sentence. He finds it’s easier to not think and rather accept. Three days ago, he loved Pippin and cared for Éowyn; now, he loves them both. He can already feel the reality of their routine shifting to accommodate this new fact.
Éowyn’s skirts are hiked up to the knee, hair pillowing around her head like a crown. Éowyn turns to look at Merry with soft, hazy eyes. She reaches out and twirls a finger around one of his curls; Merry’s breath hitches.
“My lady,” he says, hesitant. He starts to reach out to touch her, falling short halfway.
Her eyes fall shut. “You haven’t called me that in a while.” Then, she takes his hand and brings it to her cheek. Lazily, she presses a kiss to his palm.
He can’t think of anything to say, so he remains silent. Instead, he traces his thumb along her cheekbone, pleasantly pink from the midday sun. Gathering along the horizon line are heavy, dark clouds. Distantly, he hears the humming of summerlife: crickets chirping and bees buzzing in harmony with the birdsong; river water lapping at the muddy bank while a warm breeze rolls over them.
“Merry,” says Éowyn, “we should swim.”
“Sure,” he agrees without hesitation. He would do anything she asked of him. She sits up on her elbows, swiping her hair out of her face. He watches her unlace her stays and wriggle out of her skirt before standing. When she pulls her chemise up and off, Merry has to look away because looking at all her bared skin feels like looking into the sun. She is the sun: life-giving and blinding in her glory, for Pippin is the rain, nourishing and grounding. Merry cannot have one without the other.
Her hips sway as she walks to the river. For a moment she pauses, stretches, then wades in. Scrambling to follow, he leaves his clothes in a heap next to hers. The water is warm and the sand soft under his feet. He swims up to her, though it’s not any deeper than he can comfortably stand.
“Have I taught you to float yet?” Merry says.
“I don’t believe so,” Éowyn says.
Merry inhales and sinks onto his back. He always loved floating on the river like this the most, no sound save for the water in his ears, the gentle buoyancy of the Brandywine carrying him. Éowyn follows suit, and he knows so because their hands brush. She turns to grin at him, and he can’t help but smile back. They let the current carry them for some unknown time, and when they’re far enough away, Merry ducks under the water to begin the swim back upstream.
“Merry!” Éowyn calls behind him.
“Bet you can’t keep up with me,” he calls back.
“You know I can’t!” she replies, but Merry hears her kicking and splashing behind him.
Going upstream takes significantly longer, and they’re both left catching their breath once back in sight of Crickhollow. She’s strong—her upper body built from sword-work, and even with the few lessons she’s had, she takes to the water as though she were born to it. Their eyes meet, and Éowyn splashes him.
Spluttering, Merry says, “What was that for—” He’s cut off by another splash.
Éowyn laughs when Merry splashes back. They tussel like children, swashing water back and forth, sides hurting from laughter.
“Enough!” says Éowyn, “I admit defeat!” Reaching out, she grabs hold of his wrists, tugging him close. Their giggles subside, and Merry’s left gazing into her sun-reddened face. Her eyes flicker across his face, down to his lips, and his stomach twists up fiercely.
Éowyn slides a hand up his arm, coming to rest on his shoulder. He shivers. Her fingers, ticklish, trace the freckles splashed across his skin. She cups his neck, thumb sliding from the apple of his throat to the hollow of his collarbones. And Merry wants so badly to say every thought he’s ever had about her: to speak into existence how he could spend a lifetime content in her presence, or how she makes him feel like something cherished, but speech stops in his throat like a cork in a wine bottle.
His mouth parts, and oh , there’s her thumb, now resting against his lower lip. Trembling, he moves a piece of her hair off her cheek, tucking it behind her ear. Then, it is Merry cupping her jaw. He holds her face between his two hands and breathes out a shuddery breath. For a second, he is facing the Nazgûl Lord again—he is on the precipice of ruin and triumph, and there is Éowyn, as bright as the Evenstar to guide him.
“Whatever you and Pippin share,” she says, voice a hoarse whisper, “I shall not come between. Nor do I seek to replace him.”
“Pippin and I—” Merry struggles out, “he understands. He understood before I did. It is the two of you.”
She smiles, and it is the knowing smile of two who share a secret. Two who are so fluent in the others’ language that it has become something brand new entirely.
And so Merry kisses her.
He presses his mouth to hers and pours out his longing. Éowyn wraps her arms around him, pulls his chest against hers. He feels clumsy from the nerves, quavering in her hold. She tilts her head, so their lips slot together better. She slides her tongue into his mouth, and he moans softly. He is not fit to have her in this way, to have both the sun and the moon, but he twines their tongues together anyway. He drinks her down until he notices the tears slipping down his cheeks.
Breaking apart, Merry’s eyes flutter open. He very nearly gasps because Éowyn is ringed in gold. She is lit up, and Merry would crumble into pieces if not for her holding him together.
“I love you,” he breathes out. He curls his hands in her hair and presses their foreheads together. “I love you.”
She says, “And I love you.” She kisses him once more, this time fierce and awe-full.
They clamber to the shore line, stumbling onto the bank, and Éowyn presses him into the grass. Laying her body over his, she kisses the hinge of his jaw, trailing down his throat. She shivers as she noses along vein in his neck. He traces over the plane of her back, feeling the knobs of her spine flexing. He aches to touch every bit of skin. His insides fizzle and bubble over. He moans when she bites his shoulder, worrying her teeth to leave a mottled, purpled bruise, and when his head tilts back, she latches on to his throat, sucking another into the tender area.
With Éowyn straddling one of his legs, Merry props his knee up to give her something to rut against. Her lithe hips rolling over and over, the thatch of hair at the apex of her thighs sweetly scraping against him. He whines at the feeling of her cunt flexing, the way he wants to taste it so badly—wants her to linger in the back of his mouth. Propping herself up with a hand on either side of his face, she echoes him with a grunt, before redoubling her efforts. Her hair falls in a curtain around their faces, shielding them from the outside world, even for this brief moment. Moving back up to his ears, her breath ghosts over it before trailing her tongue along the shell of it.
Gathering his strength, he flips her onto her back. To his delight, she gasps. Making his way down her throat, he trails kisses down her breastbone, clutching her waist. He adores how the flesh is soft and giving; it showcases how she is well-fed and cared for, reminding him that he is a proper caretaker. Turning his attention to her breasts, Merry licks one nipple, then the other. Their eyes meet, and Éowyn bites her lip, so he latches on and sucks. Her head falls back, nails digging into him.
Éowyn gentles over his mouth. He latches on to her thumb and sucks.
“I want your mouth on me,” she says. “I want to keep you on your knees for me.”
Her words are a spark at the base of his spine, catching his spine aflame. Stars , he wants to put his mouth on her cunt—he wants it so bad it fucking aches . His cock pulses where it’s pressed between them, spurting out a dribble of come.
Éowyn tweaks their positioning, so they’re grinding against one another. His cock sliding between her folds, their mouths moving against one another in something less like a kiss and more like an imprecise dragging of mouths. He can feel how wet she is already. He did that to her. He pants wetly against her temple as she wraps her legs around his waist.
“Ah—” manages Merry, wriggling a hand between them, “how do you like it?”
“Mm,” Éowyn hums. “Up and down.” She demonstrates, but Merry’s quick on the uptake. He presses the very tips of his fingers to her clit and does as bid.
“ Gods, fuck ,” she curses. Merry rubs harder when she starts squirming underneath him, fingers digging into the grass.
Overhead, a crash of thunder sounds. Drips of rain begin pattering slowly, raising gooseflesh across them both.
“We should—” she says, panting. “Inside.” He gives her a teasing rub before nodding in agreement. They stand on clumsy legs and stumble inside, arms full of half-drenched clothes. Éowyn tugs him into her bedroom, with its Man-sized bed. Once inside, she presses him against the door and kisses him. In a swift movement, Éowyn hauls him up. Instinctually, he wraps his legs around her waist, whines into her mouth.
This is something Merry’s never experienced—being handled . There were those lonely nights during the quest when he would touch himself thinking of Boromir’s broad chest and strong arms, but there never was enough time. His whole being goes hot, stomach turning to water, roiling and slippery. With his dick trapped between their bellies, he starts mindlessly grinding against her, feeling himself drip an embarrassing amount.
“Merry,” says Éowyn. Merry blinks at her through unfocused, lust-hazed eyes. Chuckling, she strokes his cheek and says, “I want to fuck you. I have a—” Her eyes dart over to a nest of leather straps on her nightstand alongside a—
Oh .
Merry cock jerks, and he flushes hot.
“Is that a yes?” she says with a smirk. She wraps a hand around him and digs her thumb into the head of his cock.
Merry can’t even think . He wants Éowyn in any possible way—he wants Éowyn to push inside him, fuck him until she’s made her way into every part of him. He wants to be so full of her and ruined beneath her hands. By her hands.
“Yes, my lady,” Merry gasps out. The shock of his own need is equal parts humiliating and exhilarating.
With a triumphant noise, Éowyn carries him to the bed, lays him back, and nestles her way between his legs. She urges them apart until he’s bared and open. The stretch to accommodate her shoulders twinges a bit, but being so on display for her alone is making him shiver and his dick twitch where it lays against his belly.
“Have you ever been taken before?” she asks, resting her finger against his hole, massaging in tiny circles.
Nodding, he says, “It was a long time ago, with Pippin. Before—”
She kisses his hip bone, understanding everything left unspoken. Merry is so grateful she chose to make a home with him and Pippin.
“I’ll take my time then,” she says. “I wish to savor this.” Then she’s licking his hole.
Tossing his head back, his back arches, and he gasps, grasping furtively at her hair. Éowyn looks up at him through her lashes with single-minded hunger, grasps his dick, and strokes him in time to her slick, clever tongue plying him open. She licks luxuriously, slowly, patient—the way he’s seen her interact with the ponies at Brandy Hall. She traces circles around the rim, hazy paisley patterns interspersed with sucking kisses. His thighs tremble beneath her petting touches. He sucks in a breath when she smears a hand up his belly. He takes it in his own, squeezing for reassurance. She squeezes back before pressing her whole face against him and easing her tongue inside .
Merry squirms in her hold, making a quiet, pleading noise in the back of his throat. Éowyn moves even slower, softer even, now that she’s inside him. She goes back to teasing the rim, then dipping back in when he’s not expecting it. Merry breathes out shakily, crawling out of skin at how good it feels to be pinned here under her weight, attention, and affections.
With each swirl of her tongue, Merry feels himself grow closer to spilling. The nigh-unbearable heat building in his stomach leaving his dick throbbing.
“Éowyn,” Merry says, unsteady and voice cracking, “you have to keep going. I’m close, oh .” Her thumb digs into the leaking head of his dick.
“Mm,” she hums, leaving one last smacking kiss on his hole. “Give me a moment my love. I wouldn’t wish you to embarrass yourself.”
There’s a brief moment where she disappears to fetch oil and wiggle her way into the leather harness, leaving Merry wanting miserably for her to return to bed. He clamps a hand around the base of his dick and tries not to look at her because he knows if he caught sight of her standing tall and proud with a cock, that he would lose himself entirely.
When she returns, she lays against his side, and he’s so very grateful for her grounding presence. He turns his face up, and she captures him in a kiss, licks her way behind his teeth. The cool wood of her cock digs into his hip, and he says against her lips, “Fuck me, please.” It comes out like a whine, and his cheeks go hot. He’s not often the needy one, always the lead with Pippin, and the reversal of roles leaves him a little shaky, unsure.
Petting his curls out of his face, she cups his jaw and says, “Of course. Only a little while longer. I’ll give you what you need.”
She starts with just one clever finger, slick with oil, easing inside him. She gasps against his mouth, and Merry recalls the first time he opened Pippin on his hands—the tight, greedy heat, the heady feeling of power, the way Pippin shook and fell apart. The pressure is intense and wonderful and everything his body’s craved for months. She pauses to give him time to adjust to the feeling before slowly, cautiously, massaging him in circles. Heat spikes through him, and his body bows once more. Hanging onto her shoulders, he shudders as his hips begin jerking forward of their own accord.
He doesn’t even notice when she slips a second finger inside. Just sinks deeper into her body and the way she draws forth pleasure from him like his body was created precisely for her. He squirms, feeling so open and warm with desire. He thinks she must’ve added a third because he feels so full now, he can only imagine how her cock will feel.
“Please, inside me,” Merry says, strained, “I can’t wait any longer.”
“Alright, alright,” Éowyn soothes. She eases her fingers out, and gods , there were four inside him, wipes them off, and then lays on her back. She urges him to sit astride her hips, and he swallows thickly, following her silent command with trembling legs. She is resplendent, radiant. She should be in the Golden Hall as a queen, not here in dusty Crickhollow, yet she chose to be here. With a trembling hand, he traces the curves of her body until reaching the cock and eases it inside himself.
He gusts out a blustery sigh that turns into a whimper, feeling that heavy, thick fullness settle inside him. Merry can feel it in his teeth , his insides rearranging themselves to fit all of her. Éowyn laces their hands together, and with her free hand, idly pets his side. His cock lays against her round stomach, leaving smears of slick shining.
“ Stars ,” says Merry, trying desperately to relax. His body’s gone rigid and tense, unused to the stretch after so long, but there isn’t room to relax. “‘S too big, Éowyn. Oh —”
Rubbing her thumb along the crown, she strokes his dick in even, teasing movements. He feels oversensitive, overfull. Fit to burst.
“You can take it, Merry,” Éowyn says, twisting her wrist at the base, “let me in, love.”
Sweat drips down his brow, matting his hair to his cheeks and face. Leaning back, Merry props himself on his hands and rocks his hips forward in an arc. The move drags her cock against that spot inside that makes his head swim. He moans and does it again, growing bolder with each downward stroke.
Éowyn looks at him with hunger in a way that makes his body itch with warmth. His thighs tremble more and more with every wide, circle of his pelvis. And each time he fucks down onto her dick sends a shock of needy pleasure though him, urging him on faster and faster as he chases his peak. Éowyn reaches and grasps his hips to aid him, her thumbs digging into the hollows of his hip bones, framing his flushed, bouncing cock.
“So beautiful,” Éowyn says, voice like gravel. “So good for me.”
Merry moans in response, swiping the sweat out of his eyes. Every part of him feels heavy and worn out. Falling forward, he buries his face in the crook of her neck, panting wetly. Éowyn rubs his shoulders before wrapping her arms around his waist, planting her feet on the bed, and thrusting up into him with such force he cries out.
Merry knots a fist in her hair, holding on with all his might, as she fucks him, deliberately. Punishingly. As if she could make up for lost time if she fucks him well enough. He squirms fitfully against her, letting her grab hold of him and handle him in whichever way she pleases. Lets her use him as he would supplicate before the gods.
Distantly, he feels himself be moved to his front, Éowyn draping herself along his back. She worries her teeth in his shoulder and resumes fucking him. Merry jolts forward up the bed with each thrust, each pounding of her hips. He wrenches the bedclothes, forming peaks and valleys in his wake. It feels so impossibly good like this, his dick trapped between soft linen sheets and his own stomach, allowing her to take the lead. He feels her fingers ghost over his hole where they are joined, where his little body is splayed open for her.
Thunder crashes outside while the rain falls harder, and she fucks him to the rhythm of the storm. Her breasts press to the wings of his flexing shoulders. Her hips rock into him over and over and over . Éowyn slows her pace, thrusts turning languid and deep so her cock rubs against that spot inside him. Each pulsing thrust lets him grind his dick down into the mattress, and his mouth falls open in wordless want. Guiding his hands above his head, Éowyn once more laces their fingers together, effectively pinning him under her weight. She kisses the nape of his neck. Something in the cradle of his hips twinges, his guts tangling tight and slippery.
“Éowyn,” Merry says, “I can’t hold out for much longer. Please, I need it. Please, oh please. ”
Wrapping a fist around his dick, she says, “Come for me then, love.”
And Merry does.
He shudders and spills, choking on a moan. Air and things like it leave him in those breathless seconds as he falls over the cliff’s edge. Collapsing down, Éowyn eases her cock out of him, murmuring sweet words like beautiful and gorgeous . After she turns him onto his back, she straddles his face. Her wet cunt and thighs shine in the firelight, and Merry, despite exhaustion dogging his heels, recalls how badly he wants to taste her.
“Let me,” he urges, pulling her down onto his mouth. Groaning like a starving creature before a feast, he licks a line up her cunt. Sucks at her hole and laps at the slick. The taste of her sits thick in the back of his throat, musky yet clean. Éowyn is all around him; when he breathes, when he swallows, she is there . She parts her folds to allow him better access, and he thanks her by tracing the tip of his tongue around her clit.
“I won’t last long,” she pants raggedly. Her hips are rolling down onto his face in stuttered, jerky movements. He says nothing, merely humming and redoubling his efforts. He wraps his lips around her clit and sucks, and Éowyn lets out a high, thready gasp, then comes too. She gushes out a spray of liquid that soaks his chin, throat, chest. Spurred on, he continues to lap at her cunt, delirious and greedy now that he finally has her. He never wants to let her go.
“Merry, no more,” Éowyn says, tugging on his hair, “I’m spent.” She moves to his side and falls beside. Their chests rise and fall in quick time as they catch their breath.
After a moment’s silence, Merry says, “We have to sleep in my room tonight. I’ve made quite a mess of these sheets.”
Éowyn turns to burrow into his side. She says, “Well, you did have some help. Some sacrifices must be made, I suppose.”
Merry chuckles, smoothing a hand over her hair. “You are far too generous a lady for a Hobbit such as myself. Thank you, for allowing me a place in your heart,” says Merry.
Éowyn kisses his jawline. “It is I who should thank you. You have given me a home and place in your heart.” She pauses then laughs and continues, “And we should both thank Pippin, who is far more perceptive than us. Surely we both would’ve continued circling our feelings if not for him.”
“Yes,” agrees Merry.
“And now we have all our lives to spend together.” Éowyn grins giddily. “I never thought about a future for myself. For so long, I lived only for my people, Under the shadow of war. I did not know what a life lived for myself could look like. So thank you for showing me.”
“Whatever comes next, we will have each other.” Merry says this, but it is more than words. He takes her hand and kisses her knuckles. It is a promise.