A very tall hobbit.

The Party Tree shimmered beneath hundreds of lanterns, golden lights swaying in the warm evening breeze. Music drifted across the Field, laughter rose from every direction, and the scent of fresh bread, roasted meats, sweet cakes, and pipe-weed mingled together in the air.

Everyone in Hobbiton seemed to have come for Bilbo Baggins' eleventy-first birthday.

You stood near one of the long tables, smiling as children darted between the benches chasing one another while older hobbits chatted happily over overflowing mugs of ale.

It was impossible not to smile.

Everything about the evening felt magical.

You reached for a little fruit tart just as another hand reached for the very same one.

"Oh!"

Both of you stopped.

The curly-haired hobbit standing opposite immediately withdrew his hand.

"I'm terribly sorry," he laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. "You were there first."

"You can have it." You politely smiled

"No, no. I insist." The make hobbit gestured

"I insist more." You argued softly

His bright eyes sparkled with amusement.

"Well... this is becoming quite serious."

You laughed. "I suppose we could split it?"

His face lit up.

"Now that's a brilliant compromise."

He broke the tart neatly in half and offered you the larger piece.

"There."

"You gave me the bigger half." You looked up slightly surprised

"I absolutely did." He seemed smug, almost like he'd won

"Why?"

"Because," he said with a grin, "I'd like to make a good first impression."

You couldn't help laughing.

"I suppose it worked."

He offered a small bow.

"Meriadoc Brandybuck."

"I know."

"You do?"

"You're rather famous."

His cheeks flushed pink. "Oh dear... hopefully for the right reasons."

"So far." You smirk

He placed a hand dramatically over his heart.

"I've survived."

The two of you wandered through the party together almost without noticing.

Merry seemed to know everyone.

Every few steps someone waved at him or called his name. He greeted everyone with the same cheerful smile before turning his attention straight back to you.

"So," he asked, "have you tried Bilbo's famous raspberry cakes yet?"

"No."

His eyes widened.

"No?"

"I've been distracted."

"That simply won't do."

He gently took your hand. "Come on."

Your heart skipped. He didn't seem to realize he'd taken your hand.

Or perhaps... Maybe he had.

His fingers were warm. Comfortable. Like they'd always belonged there.

He proudly presented you with one of the raspberry cakes. "It might change your life."

"That's a bold claim." You chuckled taking the cake gently

"I'm a bold hobbit."

You took a bite.

Your eyes widened. "Oh."

"I know!"

"That's..."

"I know."

"It's incredible."

"I know."

You laughed so hard you nearly dropped it.

He looked ridiculously pleased with himself.

"I've never seen someone so proud over cake."

"Cake is serious business." You spoke mouth full

Music began again.

A lively fiddle tune echoed across the field.

Couples hurried toward the dancing.

Merry looked toward them before glancing shyly back at you.

"Would you..."

He hesitated.

"...would you like to dance?"

"I'd love to."

His smile was so bright it could have rivaled every lantern hanging above the Party Tree.

He offered his hand properly this time.

You accepted.

The dance was fast and joyful.

Everyone laughed whenever someone spun the wrong direction.

Merry wasn't the fanciest dancer.

He nearly tripped twice.

Stepped on his own feet once.

And accidentally spun you into another couple.

"I'm so sorry!"

"It's alright."

"I'm making a complete fool of myself."

"I think you're adorable."

He froze.

"...You do?"

You realized what you'd said.

"So I've been told."

His grin returned, somehow even softer than before.

"I'm very glad to hear that."

Later, the music slowed.

The stars had fully emerged overhead.

Lanterns glowed like tiny suns beneath the branches.

The crowd grew quieter.

People sat together telling stories.

Children had begun falling asleep in their parents' laps.

Merry led you away from the noise toward the edge of the Party Field.

Crickets chirped softly in the grass.

The distant laughter became little more than a pleasant murmur.

"It's peaceful here," you whispered.

"It is."

He sat beneath the Party Tree.

You joined him.

For a while neither of you spoke.

You simply watched the stars.

"I've never met anyone quite like you," Merry admitted quietly.

"Oh?"

"You make everything feel... easy."

You smiled.

"I was going to say the same about you."

His ears turned pink.

"I've been trying not to stare at you all evening."

"You've been failing."

"Oh."

"I noticed."

He covered his face with both hands.

"That's embarrassing."

"It was sweet."

He peeked through his fingers.

"It was?"

"You smile every time you look at me."

"I can't seem to help it."

Neither could you.

Fireworks suddenly burst overhead.

Brilliant flowers of red and gold blossomed across the sky.

Everyone below cheered.

You both looked upward together.

Blue stars rained through the darkness.

Silver butterflies fluttered through the air.

Golden dragons chased spinning wheels of light.

"They're beautiful," you whispered.

Merry wasn't watching the fireworks anymore.

He was watching you.

You turned your head.

Your eyes met.

Neither of you looked away.

The cheers from the party seemed very far away.

"I..." he began before losing his nerve.

"What is it?"

He smiled nervously.

"I was thinking..."

"Yes?"

"...that tonight has been the happiest evening I've had in a very long time."

"It has been for me too."

He looked down, laughing softly.

"I was worried I'd spend the whole party pretending not to like you."

"You've only just met me."

"I know."

He looked back into your eyes.

"But somehow... it feels like I've known you much longer."

Your heart fluttered.

"So what happens now?"

He took a careful step closer.

"I was hoping..."

His voice was barely above a whisper.

"...that I might ask if I could kiss you."

Your smile answered before your words did.

"I'd like that very much."

He moved slowly, giving you every chance to change your mind.

One hand gently brushed against yours before your fingers intertwined.

His thumb stroked the back of your hand.

When he finally leaned in, his forehead rested lightly against yours.

"You have very pretty eyes," he murmured.

"So do you."

He laughed softly.

"I've wanted to tell you that all evening."

"You could have."

"I lost my courage."

"You found it."

"I think I did."

The fireworks painted the night in shimmering colours as Merry closed the last little distance between you.

His kiss was gentle.

Sweet.

A little shy.

It lasted only a moment before he pulled back with the biggest, most bashful smile you'd ever seen.

"Well," he whispered.

"Well?"

"I think that was even better than the raspberry cake."

You laughed, unable to stop yourself.

"Now that is a bold claim."

He squeezed your hand.

"I stand by it."

The boisterous warmth of The Prancing Pony wrapped around Pippin Took, a delightful change from the cold, uncertain road. He was perched on a stool, nursing a pint of ale—a truly excellent brew, he thought.

​His gaze, however, had drifted past the mugs and the milling Bree-folk, fixing instead on a quiet corner near the hearth. There sat a human woman. She was small for a Human, perhaps only coming up to his chest when seated, but Pippin knew she would still tower over him when standing. Her hair was a rich, dark brown, and the way the firelight caught the subtle flecks of green in her eyes held him utterly mesmerized. He had never seen a Human with such a confident, easy bearing aura, and he was suddenly painfully aware of his own Hobbits-of-the-Shire-brand country innocence.

​He’d been staring for perhaps a full minute—maybe two—before the door creaked open, admitting a gust of cold air and his companions: Samwise, Frodo, and his dearest friend, Merry.

​"Pippin, there you are! Why didn't you—" Merry began, pulling off his damp cloak. He paused, following the strange, fixed trajectory of Pippin's gaze.

​Frodo looked too, his brow furrowing slightly, while Sam merely shook his head with an exasperated sigh.

​"Oh, look at him," Sam muttered to Frodo, leaning in. "He's got that look on his face. The one he gets when he sees a particularly tempting plate of smoked ham or a jug of the finest cider."

​Merry clapped Pippin roughly on the shoulder, nearly making him spill his ale. "Pippin! What on Middle-earth has captured your attention? Is there a new kind of plum-cake on the menu?"

​Pippin jumped, his cheeks flushing a desperate red that rivaled the fire. "W-what? Nothing! Just... enjoying the atmosphere," he stammered, trying—and utterly failing—to pull his eyes away from the woman.

​But the moment of reckoning had arrived.

​The woman in question, perhaps sensing the sudden focus of the four Hobbits, slowly pushed herself up from her stool. She was indeed taller than Pippin by a good head and shoulders, but her frame was lithe and graceful. Her lips curled into a slow, mischievous smile that made Pippin's already racing heart stutter and nearly fail.

​She sauntered over, her confidence a tangible thing, stopping right in front of the Hobbits' table. Her eyes, those captivating green ones, were locked entirely on Pippin.

​"Well, hello there," she purred, her voice low and rich like warm honey. She leaned her elbow casually on the table, bringing her face tantalizingly close to Pippin's.

​He shrank back instinctively, a blush spreading down his neck. He felt exposed, caught, and wildly, terrifyingly interested.

​"You've been giving me quite the study, haven't you, little man?" she asked, a suggestive lilt in her tone.

​Merry and Sam instantly straightened up, while Frodo watched the exchange with a mixture of amusement and concern.

​Pippin could barely breathe, let alone speak. He was practically vibrating with shyness. "I... I was just... admiring the decor," he squeaked, his voice sounding entirely too high.

​She let out a soft, amused chuckle, her eyes never leaving his. "Is that what they call it in the Shire? Admiring the decor?" She reached out a finger and traced the line of his cheek, right near his ear, sending a jolt through him.

​"You have very pretty curls," she murmured, her voice dropping lower. "And your eyes... they look like a lost field mouse caught in a lantern light." She winked slowly, then moved closer, leaning down so her lips were almost touching his ear.

​"If you're done 'admiring the decor,' perhaps you'd like to admire something a little closer... in my room?"

​Pippin's mind went entirely blank. His eyes were wide, round saucers. He was too stunned to move, a perfect statue of blushing, flustered Hobbit.

​Sam elbowed Merry sharply. "He's going to faint, Merry. Get the smelling salts, or some water, quick!"

​Merry, however, was beaming a truly wicked smile. "Well, Pippin! What do you say to that?" he asked, trying to stifle a laugh.

​The woman straightened, her expectant gaze fixed on the speechless Hobbit.

Pippin’s internal world was a riot of clashing emotions. Shame, overwhelming heat, and a powerful, dizzying curiosity spun together like a whirlwind. The scent of the woman’s faint, flowery perfume and the warmth radiating from her body were suddenly the only things he could perceive.

​He attempted to articulate a response—perhaps a polite, "Thank you, but I must attend to my friends," or a very simple, "No, thank you." What actually came out was a high-pitched, unintelligible squeak that sounded suspiciously like a startled kitten.

​His eyes darted desperately around, landing on Merry. Merry, far from offering aid, was wearing an expression of pure, unadulterated enjoyment, practically vibrating with suppressed laughter.

​"Well?" the woman prompted, her lips twitching with amusement at his predicament. She wasn't pressuring him, but her confidence made the question hang heavy in the air. "Don't tell me a charming fellow like yourself has lost his tongue?"

​Sam, finally deciding the poor lad needed intervention before he expired from embarrassment, stepped forward slightly. "Ah, miss, he's just a bit—"

​But Pippin, feeling a sudden surge of defensive pride—or perhaps just sheer panic—interrupted Sam before he could label him as shy or inexperienced. He braced his hands on the table and pushed himself up. Even on his stool, he still had to tilt his head back slightly to meet her gaze.

​"I—I haven't lost anything!" Pippin insisted, his voice cracking midway through. He gulped, trying to regain a shred of composure. "I was just... contemplating the gravity of the situation."

​She raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "The gravity?"

​"Yes!" Pippin rushed on, fueled by adrenaline. "You see, we're on a very important, highly secret mission—"

​Frodo shot him a warning look that could curdle milk. Pippin caught himself just in time, slapping a hand over his mouth.

​The woman laughed—a full, delighted sound. "A secret mission, is it? To sample all the finest ales of Bree, I presume?" She reached out again, this time gently cupping his chin and guiding his focus back to her eyes. "You're full of surprises, aren't you? A little secret Hobbit on a grand adventure."

​She leaned in close again, her smile dazzling. "I like secrets. And I like the look in your eyes. Tell you what. I'm staying in the room at the end of the hall. The one with the slightly chipped door handle."

​She gave his chin a gentle squeeze, her fingers lingering for a moment too long.

​"If your 'secret mission' ends early tonight, perhaps you could come knock on the chipped door. No need to bring your friends. I can keep a secret."

​She straightened up, gave one last, utterly captivating smile that Pippin felt deep in his stomach, and then, with a playful wiggle of her fingers, she turned and strolled back toward the hearth, leaving Pippin utterly breathless and rooted to the spot.

​A moment of silence passed at the Hobbits' table.

​Then, Merry burst into loud, uproarious laughter, slapping the table so hard the mugs rattled. Frodo shook his head, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips, while Sam merely looked bewildered.

​"Pippin!" Merry gasped, wiping a tear from his eye. " I didn't think you had it in you!"

​Pippin, still staring at the corner where the woman had been, slowly sank back onto his stool, his face radiating heat.

​"I didn't say yes," he mumbled weakly, taking a huge, restorative gulp of ale.

​"No, but you didn't say no, either," Sam pointed out, leaning in conspiratorially. "And she was certainly putting on a show, wasn't she? Did you see the way she looked at you?"

​"We are supposed to be keeping a low profile, Pippin," Frodo gently reminded him, though his tone lacked any real severity.

​Pippin stared into the depths of his pint, utterly torn. His heart was screaming at him, a confused mess of nervousness and wild excitement.

Pippin, Merry and yourself had decided to relax down by the Brandywine River, tranquil, peaceful and private. It was a section the Brandybucks had reserved. And seeing Merry was now the man of the household, he had to fill the big empty space, that's where you and Pippin come into it. Yes, merry had staff but it didn't feel the same to him. He needed his 2 best friends.

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the banks of the Brandywine River, turning the slow-moving water near Brandy Hall into a sheet of liquid copper. A gentle breeze carried the scent of late summer flowers, and the air was thick with the happy, playful tension that defined the friendship between Meriadoc, Peregrin, and yourself.

Merry had ensured the picnic spot was secluded and comfortable, overlooking the river. Upon the blanket, the simple meal was nearly done, save for one crucial, contested item: a solitary, perfect slice of Berry and cream pie.

​"I’m telling you, Pip, I had barely a morsel!" Merry’s voice was high with theatrical outrage. "You, however, had the majority, which means the last piece is rightfully—"

​"That is outrageous, Meriadoc!" Pippin countered, his eyes bright with competitive glee. "I need my fuel for the mischief I'm going to get up to later!"

​You watched them bicker, your heart warming at their familiar, loving silliness. They were so wonderfully predictable.

​Before either of them could act, your hand shot out with a surprising swiftness, snatching the solitary slice of Berry and Cream Pie and its fork from the plate.

​Merry and Pippin froze, their jaws slack as they stared first at the empty plate, then at the prize in your hand.

​You brought the piece to your lips, closing your eyes to fully savor the sweet, tart burst of flavor. You took a second, decisive bite, then offered them your most serene, innocent smile.

​"Problem solved," you declared simply.

​The stunned silence lasted only a moment before they broke into shared, helpless laughter.

​"You are absolutely cruel!" Pippin gasped, but he was already leaning in, his gaze full of adoration.

​"And utterly brilliant," Merry conceded, shaking his head with a wide grin.

​You finished the piece and set the empty plate aside. You shifted, settling your back against Merrys chest. The three of you were always so very close. Intimate things like this didn't really bother either of you.

​"Now that all distractions are gone," you said, raising a playful eyebrow to the empty plate "what ever shall we get up to now?"

"I have an idea" Merry's fingers began to sift through your hair, then moved to your neck and shoulders, finding the precise spot where tension always settles. Applying gentle pressure, you leaned back and looked up at him smiling. You'd never noticed how good he smells. Pipeweed, sweet pastry and just something utterly Merry.

"I know just the mischief" Merry murmured, his breath warm against your ear. He paused his massage to press a slow, sweet kiss just behind your ear. His touch is such a steady comfort.

Pippin watched curious, he met Merry's gaze who gave him a knowing look. This made Pippin come before you.

He gently took your foot in his lap. "How about a foot massage?" His thumbs began working into the arch of your foot with focused concentration. It feels heavenly.

The boys stayed tending to you for a good few minutes, in a comfortable silence, other than you humming in approval. Though, you wondered when the mischief was happening and what it would be. Would they tickle you, wrestle you, they had to get back at you for stealing that pie somehow!

​Pippin looked up from his task, his face glowing with open affection. He leaned down and planted a soft, quick kiss on the soft skin of your shin before resuming his massage. "We share everything, don't we Merry?" He looked up at his older friend.

You turned your head slightly to await his answer, meeting Merry's gaze, and he leaned in for a long, kiss—a deep expression of your gratitude and joy. When you drew back "We do indeed Pippin" His voice seemed darker somehow, your hand instinctively reached for Pippin’s fingers on your ankle. He immediately paused his work to lace your fingers together.

​You settled back, feeling perfectly cherished and protected. Merry’s lips were pressing soft, repetitive kisses into your hair, while Pippin’s dedicated hands continued their blissful work on your tired feet. The last golden rays of the sun wrapped around the three of you, catching the flow of the Brandywine. You were caught blissfully between your two friends.

​"It’s getting awfully dark out here," Pippin suggests, his voice a low drawl that seems designed to heat the air around you. "The Brandybucks have such a warm, comfortable house, and the fire in the drawing-room is always kept roaring"

​Merry trails his fingers down your arm, reaching for your hand and intertwining your fingers with his. His eyes hold a silent, eager question. "We could move this… activity indoors."

You feel the delicious tension pulling between them—the tender eagerness of Pippin, the steady, commanding desire of Merry. You squeeze both their hands.

​"I think," you reply, your voice barely a husky whisper, "that sounds like the most sensible plan I’ve heard all evening."

​As they both rise smoothly, Merry keeps his arm securely around your waist, pulling you close to his side. Pippin reaches out, gently taking your other hand to draw you to your feet.

They pause, looking down at you in the dim light, their faces etched with equal measures of adoration and desire.

​"Come along then," Merry says, his voice a low rumble of satisfaction.

​Pippin leans closer, kisses you lightly on the forehead, while Merry gives your waist an intimate squeeze.

The walk back to Brandy Hall is short, but the darkness of the path heightens your awareness of them both. You are held snugly between them, your hand laced with Pippin’s as he leads the way, your waist secure beneath Merry's arm as he keeps you pressed close to his side. The combined scent of river air and pipe-weed is intoxicating.

Pippin, ever the spontaneous spirit, lifts your hand as you near the back entrance. He doesn't just kiss your knuckles; he turns your hand over and presses a deep, fervent kiss into your palm, his eyes meeting yours with a dark, promising intensity before he pushes open the heavy wooden door.

​The transition from the cool night air to the warmth inside is immediate. The hall is mostly quiet, lit by the comforting glow of several large lamps.

​"Drawing room," Merry murmurs in your ear, his breath tickling your neck. He steers you away from the main hallways and toward a quieter wing of the house.

​The drawing room is exactly as Pippin described: cozy, well-appointed, and blessedly private. A cheerful fire burns low in the grate, casting dancing light on the dark wooden paneling and the deep, comfortable armchairs.

​Merry guides you straight to the largest hearth rug, which is piled high with thick, embroidered pillows. He gently pushes you down onto the soft cushions, his hands lingering on your shoulders.

​"There you are, Princess," he says, his voice a low, possessive rumble. He kneels immediately in front of you, looking straight into your eyes.

​Pippin closes the door with a soft, decisive click, sealing the three of you in. He crosses the room in three quick steps, his eyes never leaving yours. He sheds his outdoor jacket, tossing it carelessly over an armchair.

​"You look chilled," Pippin observes, though his gaze is anything but. He kneels beside Merry, reaching out to cup your cheek in his hand. His thumb strokes your skin in a gentle rhythm. "We should warm you up."

​He doesn't wait for an answer. He leans in and kisses you—a long, deep, and beautifully messy kiss that leaves your senses spinning. It is full of all the eager, open affection Pippin possesses, and you taste the last faint sweetness of berry pie on his lips.

​As Pippin pulls back only inches, Merry moves in from your other side. Unlike Pippin’s enthusiastic demand, Merry’s kiss is slower, more patient—a soft, deliberate brush of lips that quickly deepens into a long, profound expression of commitment and desire. His hand slips from your shoulder down your back, pressing you forward until your chest is flush against his.

​When Merry finally pulls away, you are breathless and thoroughly kissed. You are now comfortably wedged between them, their knees touching yours, their scents and warmth enveloping you entirely.

​"See, Princess," Merry whispers, his eyes dark with shared intimacy, "we knew exactly what you needed. And the night is still young."

​Pippin leans forward, running a finger along your collarbone. "We have the rest of the night to cause mischief."

​Brandy Hall is the largest Hobbit-hole in the Shire, built into a huge hill with hundreds of windows facing the Brandywine River. The Brandybuck's were kind enough to let you stay in their home while your house was under repair. One of the windows had broken and it was far to cold to stay there in it's current state. Merry was always a good friend of yours and he didn't hesitate to offer one of the vacant rooms within the giant house.

You'd always loved his home and how beautiful and regal it looked. It was already so late in the day and Merry showed you to your room. "I'm right next door if you need anything, just knock and I'll be right there" he smiled leaving you to get settled. You noticed he didn't go to his room, he walked the opposite way, though you're not sure where as you have no idea where anything is. Actually, you couldn't even get back to the front door if you tried.

You unpacked the few days worth of clothes you had packed and settled on your bed and started to draw the view of the river from your window. The water reflects the barest hint of starlight and the pale crescent of the moon, breaking the darkness into shimmering, elongated shapes that dance with the current. ​Along the banks, the tall, ancient trees—oaks, maples, and sycamores—become looming, silent silhouettes. Their dark, complex forms frame the water, creating a sense of enclosure and mystery.

Suddenly a rumble erupted in your stomach. Hunger. A hunger that only the famously well-stocked Brandy Hall pantry could satisfy.

​You knew the risks. Hobbits are light sleepers, especially the Brandybucks, who seemed to have a sixth sense for anyone approaching their larder. Merry and Pippin, in particular, had elevated kitchen-raiding to an art form.

​Slipping out of bed, you pulled on your thick woollen dressing gown—one of the gifts waiting for you upon arrival—and tied the sash tight. The floorboards of your room, thankfully, were covered in a heavy rug, but the hallway was bare wood.

​Each step was a calculated risk. Creak. You froze, heart hammering. Creak. You moved on.

​The hallway was a tunnel of velvet darkness, broken only by a sliver of moonlight spilling through a high landing window. You tiptoed past the portraits of stern, long-forgotten Brandybucks, their painted eyes seemingly following your movements.

​Finally, you reached the main staircase. It was the oldest, grandest part of the house, and the wood was temperamental.

You managed to descend two flights without incident, your nerves frayed but your mission nearing completion. The kitchen was just down the final, short, winding passage.

​You pushed the heavy swinging door open—a feat of silent strength—and stepped into the kitchen.

The room smelled of yeast, herbs, and faint woodsmoke from the banked fire. The moonlight here was brighter, slicing through the high windows, illuminating the rows of gleaming copper pots and the large, worn butcher’s block in the center.

​You went straight for the pantry door, a humble, latch-handled slab of oak, and slid inside. The air was cool and dense with the fragrance of stored apples, aged cheese, and dried spices.

​This was no ordinary cupboard. It was a treasure trove. Your hands fumbled, finding a tin of the shortbread biscuits you loved, and then a thick slab of Wensleydale cheese wrapped in muslin. You were just reaching for a jar of plum jam—the perfect accompaniment—when a low, amused voice cut through the silence.

​“Having a little midnight picnic, are we?”

​You nearly dropped the cheese.

​You spun around, clutching the jar of jam like a weapon. Silhouetted in the doorway, leaning lazily against the frame with his arms crossed over his chest, was Meriadoc Brandybuck.

​He wasn't wearing his usual smart waistcoat or even a shirt. He was dressed in thick, dark-green cotton trousers and a loose, unbuttoned shirt that looked like he'd grabbed it in a hurry. His hair was tousled from sleep, falling charmingly across his forehead, and his expression was a mix of mild exasperation and sheer delight.

​“Merry!” you whispered-hissed, dropping your voice to a low rasp. “You scared the wits out of me. What are you doing here?”

​He pushed off the doorframe and stepped fully into the moonlight, the shirt catching the silver light. “I could ask you the same. I heard a… very elaborate mouse moving through the west wing."

​He took a step closer, his eyes twinkling. He didn't look angry; he looked… happy to see you, even in the middle of a failed mission.

​You immediately felt heat rising in your cheeks. Standing in a pantry in your dressing gown, caught red-handed, was not your most graceful moment.

​“I was… I was just getting a glass of water,” you lied weakly, gesturing vaguely with the jar of jam.

​Merry laughed softly, a low rumble that did wonderful things to the quiet. “Plum jam, eh? Rather a viscous form of water, don’t you think?”

​He reached out slowly and gently took the jam jar from your hand, placing it back on the shelf with deliberate slowness. His fingers brushed yours—a warm, brief contact that sent a ridiculous shiver down your spine.

​For months now, there had been a quiet, almost secret understanding between you and Merry. It wasn't just the easy camaraderie that existed between all the hobbits, but a specific tension, a shared glance, a lingering touch after passing a tea cup. It was slow-burn, the kind of gentle affection that felt less like a sudden flame and more like the warmth radiating from a perfectly banked hearth fire.

​He turned back to you, the moonlight casting his profile in shadow.

​“You didn’t need to sneak, you know,” he murmured, his voice now lower, losing its teasing edge and becoming something richer, more intimate. “You could have woken me. I know the best spot in the kitchen for a quiet raid. The squeaky floorboard is right here.” He gently tapped the floor with his bare foot.

​You didn't answer. You couldn’t. The air was suddenly thick with everything you hadn't said. The hunger was gone, replaced by a strange, thrilling nervousness.

​He took another small step, closing the distance between you. He was close enough now that you could smell the faint scent of pipe-tobacco and the crisp night air clinging to his shirt.

​“You look lovely,” he said simply, his eyes dark and warm in the moonlight. “Even when plotting the downfall of our biscuit supply.”

​He reached up, and you held your breath, expecting a joke or a nudge. Instead, his thumb brushed gently against your lower lip, wiping away a crumb of shortbread you hadn't realized was there.

​The touch was feather-light, yet it grounded you completely. The world narrowed to the small, sweet-smelling space and the man standing inches from you.

​“I think,” he whispered, leaning in just a fraction, “that a proper midnight snack should be shared.”

​He didn’t move further. He left the final move, the final decision, completely up to you. This was Merry—always patient, always waiting for you to be ready.

​You didn't have to think. The long anticipation, the months of shared smiles and secret glances, crystallized into one simple impulse.

​You lifted your hand, placing it softly on the center of his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. And then, you leaned in, closing the final gap between you.

​It was not a sudden, dramatic kiss. It was slow, soft, and tasted faintly of plum jam and late-night warmth. It was the perfect culmination of a long, slow-burn friendship—a comfortable, undeniable connection that felt entirely like home.

​When you finally drew back, your foreheads were resting together, and a quiet, contented sigh escaped his lips.

​“Much better than water,” you whispered, echoing his earlier joke.

​He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his hand cupping your cheek, his thumb tracing a slow, warm path beneath your eye.

​“Much, much better,” he agreed, his voice husky. He then gave you a mischievous grin. “Now, come on. We’ve still got cheese and biscuits to devour. But next time, my dear. Just wake me up.”

​He reached for the forgotten shortbread tin, holding the pantry door open with his foot.

The Shire air was thick with the scent of pipe-weed, roasting meats, and summer night. Under the Big Party Tree, hundreds of lanterns glowed like captured fireflies, casting a warm, deceptive veil of innocence over the chaos of Bilbo Baggins’ grand feast. You stood near the edge of the sprawling tent, clutching a mug of ale that you hadn't dared to sip much from, mostly because every time you raised it, your eyes darted to the Hobbit currently monopolizing your attention: Peregrin Took.

​Pippin was in his element. His jacket was already slightly askew, his curls were dusted with stray confetti, and he was laughing—a loud, rich sound that seemed to carry over the party. He’d just finished telling a slightly exaggerated story about retrieving a forgotten pudding from the kitchen, complete with dramatic gestures that involved nearly knocking over a pile of stacked plates.

​“...and when Mrs. Maggot saw my face, she just sighed, slapped the pudding into my hands, and told me I was born a menace,” he finished, his blue eyes bright with mischief.

​You laughed, shaking your head. “Pippin, you are going to be the death of me. Or perhaps, the ruin of my reputation.”

​He leaned in, the party noise fading instantly as his voice dropped to a low, intimate murmur that vibrated just against your ear. His breath smelled of cider and sweet pastries.

​“Ruin, darling? Nonsense. I’m simply planning to elevate your reputation… to that of a Hobbit with excellent taste,” he corrected, pulling back just enough for his gaze to lock with yours. He flashed a wicked, knowing grin. “And, if I have my way, you won’t be worrying about reputation at all later tonight. Only about me.”

​Your cheeks instantly warmed. You felt the blush start low in your neck and flood upwards, the heat almost painful against the cool night air. You took a quick, desperate swallow of ale. “Pippin, there are hundreds of people here.”

​“Exactly why I have to be subtle,” he whispered, his eyes sparkling as he watched the colour bloom in your face. His hand, which had been resting innocently on the small of your back, now tightened slightly, guiding you a step closer to the shelter of the tent flap. The small pressure was utterly captivating, a silent directive that your body instantly obeyed.

​“Subtle?” you managed, voice a little breathless.

​“Mmm. It’s a challenge, don’t you think? To make promises with nothing but a look.” He let his gaze drift slowly down your body and back up, an action that felt intensely possessive. “For example, right now, I’m promising you that the moment we are back in the quiet of your burrow, I’m going to make you forget every single one of these two hundred noisy guests.”

​The sheer audacity made your stomach flip. You stammered, “P-Pippin, please. We still have the fireworks, and Bilbo’s speech…”

​“The fireworks are a delightful distraction,” he interrupted, lifting your hand from the mug and bringing it to his lips for a feather-light, lingering kiss on the back of your knuckles. The gesture was public enough to look sweet, but the intensity in his eyes was anything but. “They’ll give me an excuse to lean in close, perhaps to shield you from the noise, and whisper exactly what I’m going to do with all that noise once we’re home.”

​He let your hand drop, but his fingers trailed across your palm as he did so.

​You had to fan your face discreetly. The man was impossible. He knew exactly how flustered and feverish his low, possessive tone made you.

​Later, seated at the long, groaning tables for the main dinner, the situation only intensified. The food was magnificent—cold cuts, glazed hams, cheeses, and enough pastries to sink a small barge—but you could barely focus on the plate in front of you.

​Pippin had managed to maneuver you into a corner seat, ostensibly because it was “less drafty.” In reality, it meant he was boxed in beside you, his presence a constant, warm pressure along your entire side.

​He ate heartily, of course, entirely undeterred by the dark undercurrents of his own conversation.

​“Try this spiced apple tart,” he instructed, spearing a piece with his fork. Instead of placing it on your plate, he held it up to your mouth, tilting his head.

​You opened your mouth to take it. As you did, he leaned impossibly close, his lips brushing your ear as he pulled the fork back.

​“Be careful not to fill up too much,” he murmured, the sentence entirely unrelated to the apple tart. “I want you to have energy for later. It’s going to be an active night, for you.”

​You nearly choked on the pastry.

​“P-Pippin!” you hissed, trying to glare at him, but your eyes kept flicking to his mouth.

​He simply shrugged, eyes twinkling, and took a large bite of ham. “What? It’s a very filling tart. I’m looking out for your well-being.” He paused, then added, his voice dropping to that serious, almost dominant rumble that always melted your knees. “Though, in all honesty, I prefer you when you’re utterly spent and clinging to me. It suits you.”

​You dropped your fork. It clattered against the wooden table, unnoticed by the loud Hobbits surrounding you. You stared down at your plate, trying desperately to regain control of your breathing. This wasn’t just flirting; this was a deliberate, calculated campaign to keep you in a state of constant, feverish anticipation.

​“Stop it,” you whispered, hoping the command sounded stronger than the tremor in your voice suggested.

​“Stop what, my dear?” he asked, entirely innocently, but his hand moved under the table, finding your thigh and giving it a squeeze so firm it was almost demanding. “Asking for your full attention? I’m merely stating my preferences for when the door is locked and the lamps are low. You do want to know my preferences, don’t you? I believe in clear communication.”

​Then came the grand spectacle. Bilbo, having given his iconic, vanishing speech, disappeared in a flash of light. The crowd went wild with speculation, shock, and pure excitement.

​The distraction was perfect cover. Pippin, who had been momentarily stunned, immediately shifted his focus back to you. He stood close, his arm wrapping around your shoulders, ostensibly to pull you through the crush of Hobbits now surging toward the Party Tree to gape at the now-empty pedestal.

​“Focus on the fireworks, not the disappearing act,” he commanded softly into your hair, his voice sounding entirely too amused. And then the pyrotechnics began. Green and gold dragons roared up into the sky, filling the air with crackling thunder and blinding light.

​As a particularly large, blue starburst exploded overhead, bathing the two of you in momentary electric light, Pippin leaned his head down, his lips resting right against the shell of your ear.

​“See how quickly the night shifts?” he whispered, his eyes fixed ahead on the spectacle, making it seem as if he were only talking about the sky. “One moment, chaos and noise. The next, a profound, breathless silence.”

​He trailed his fingers lightly down your arm, the movement hidden by the press of the crowd.

​“That’s what I’m looking forward to,” he confessed, his voice dangerously soft. “The moment we are finally alone, and all the noise of the day is gone. I want that silence to be absolute, broken only by… your desperate noises.”

​He pulled back slightly, the fireworks casting dancing shadows over his sharp, handsome features.

​“I Don't worry darling, you’ll find that submitting to my instructions will be… quite rewarding.”

​The implication of his words—the blend of time, instruction, and command—was overwhelming. The fire in your cheeks must have been visible even under the darkness. You could only nod, mute, entirely incapable of forming a coherent response, much less a protest.

​He smiled, a satisfied, predatory curve of his mouth that told you he knew he had won this particular battle without even trying. “Good girl. I knew you’d approve.”

​It was well past midnight when the party finally dwindled. The lanterns were guttering out, and only the most dedicated—or drunk—Hobbits remained singing off-key near the extinguished fire pits.

​Pippin, walking with a long, leisurely stride that contrasted sharply with your hurried, nervous steps, led you away from the field and toward the path back to your burrow. The air was cool and crisp, a welcome change from the heat that his comments had generated.

​The path was dark and winding, lined with tall hedges. You were finally, truly alone. You cleared your throat, determined to sound composed. “It was… quite a night. I can’t believe Bilbo just left like that.”

​Pippin didn’t answer right away. He waited until you were passing a particularly dense patch of shadow, then he slowed his pace, caught your arm, and pulled you gently, but firmly, into the dark lee of the bushes. He pinned you there, not roughly, but with a definite air of finality. His eyes were dark, serious, and no longer teasing. The dominance in his expression was now palpable, no longer a joke.

​“The games are over, y/n” he murmured, his hands resting on your hips. “The performance is done. And frankly, I’ve been patient long enough.”

​He leaned in, his lips just above yours, giving you a chance to breathe, or perhaps, to object. You did neither, staring up at him, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

​“You’ve been blushing all night,” he noted, his thumb stroking your hip. “Every word, every touch. You gave yourself away in front of half the Shire, my sweet. Now, let’s go home so I can collect the payment for that little display. I promised you an attentive night, and I always keep my promises.”

​He kissed you then—a deep, confident kiss that was less a question and more a statement of intent. When he finally pulled away, he stepped back, leaving you shaky and breathless against the hedge.

​“Come on,” he said, his voice husky, taking your hand. “We’re almost there. And I need to start unwrapping my favorite gift of the night.” You followed him, your mind a dizzying mixture of embarrassment and overwhelming, immediate desire. The slow burn of the evening had finally caught fire, and you knew, with absolute certainty, that the night was only just beginning.

​You hesitated in the doorway, suddenly shy, the heat of your blush returning, now compounded by pure, heady fear and excitement. He turned slowly, the shadows playing over his features, making him look taller and in charge. The fun-loving, mischievous Hobbit of the party was gone, replaced by the man who had laid out his intentions with quiet command all night.

​“In,” he instructed, his voice low, gravelly, and entirely stripped of any tease. It was a command you found yourself desperate to obey. You stepped over the threshold, and the moment your foot landed on the rug, he reached out, not to touch, but to brace his hand flat against the doorframe, boxing you in. His eyes, usually twinkling with humour, were serious, dark pools of intent.

​“Look at me,” he said softly. When you obeyed, your gaze locking with his, he gave a slow, satisfied nod. “Good. Now, you’ll stop blushing, y/n. Stop running. Stop fighting the inevitable. The night is over, and I have won. You belong to me."

His free hand traced up your waist and the shape of your curves, past your breats where his palm found it's way to your neck, a gently pressure pinning you in place.

"Now, you're gunna be a good girl, and go to the bedroom." He freed his hand and moved slightly allowing you room to follow his command, he followed behind. ​He takes off his own jacket, tossing it carelessly toward a chair. He looked back at you, his eyes raking over your frame, lingering on the visible rise and fall of your chest.

​“No more games, my dear,” he stated, his voice now nothing more than a powerful whisper. “I have been polite and patient all evening. Now, I am going to remind you exactly who you came home with.”

​He moved forward, closing the distance, and the entire focus of the world condensed down to the space between your bodies. His hands settled on your shoulders, and he pushed down gently, sinking you onto the edge of the mattress.

​The movement was commanding, placing you exactly where he wanted you to be: submissive and ready.

​“We’ll start with everything I couldn't do at the table,” he promised, his voice deepening with intent. Climbing onto you, hoisting your dress up as his body moved down. Pulling your undergarments from your highly sensitive body, replaced by kisses up your legs, thigh, only stopping at your already wet folds. "Oh, someone's hungry" he commented, his breath cold on your aching womanhood. He didn't miss a beat, hungrily he dove down, tongue running along your slit, sucking on your sensitive bud, a yelp jumped from your chest, hand instant moving to hold his curls. He was eating you like sucking chicken off he bone, and he left no crumbs. Oh the noises pouring from you, how your body writhed in pleasure.

Eventually he rose up, mouth glistening. "Oh sweet y/n this...is just the start". He undone his suspenders and took off his dress shirt. "Undress. Now. I want to see your beautiful body". You moved from the bed, purposely moving slow, undressing painstakingly slowly. Pippin stood at the foot of the bed. Completely shirtless however left his trousers on, watching you, knowing exactly what it was you were doing. "Y/n...you're going the right way for a punishment" he ordered. But you didn't listen, your bodice fell, and now you movedcyour dress, dragging it down your body. Pippin sighed, stormed over and ripped it down. Grabbing your wrist and moving you back to the bed, bending you over so your face was resting sideways on the firm mattress. His hand resting on the back of your neck. "Count with me..."

His hand swatted your behind, with force causing a gasp. "O..one..." you whispered, stifling a smile. "Good girl" He'd praise, again, his hand connecting the exact spot, more friction and hitting the same spot. Another gasp and a slightly moaned "two". He didn’t comment or wait...another hard smack to your rear came instantly, he hit the same spot causing a warm tingle."three" you answered, biting your lip.

"Oh such a good girl" He'd stood directly behind you, still bent over the bed, you could feel the fabric of his trousers against the skin of your behind, and an undeniable bulge pressing against you.

"Now, you're going to take me, no fussing, no games. I'm going to take what I want from you, while you enjoy being used for my pleaure"

He unbuttoned his trousers and freed his rock hard member. Lining it up to your dripping folds, he made a guttural groan as he slowly pushed inside, savouring the tightness. "Oh my world" he whispered, looking down watching as he moved in and out of you repeatedly. Holding your hips tight. "Make noise for me" he commanded in a pleasured whisper. How you obeyed. His name a mantra, telling him how good it felt, the moans filling the once silent hobbit hole. Skin slapping reverberating off the walls.

"So good taking me like this" his hand rubbed your back as he pounded into you, like a reward for being a good little girl. That was until his hand found it's way into your hair, pulling. Oh how he just pounded into you. Primal noises growling from him.

"Lay on the bed...I want...to try" he was breathless..probably done what he told you not to do...fill up on food.

You lay back, he moved on top, putting each leg over a shoulder. Hands either side of your head.

"If this...gets too much, tap me 3 times and I'll stop" he warned, his eyes shifted soft for a moment.

"Ok, I will" you replied, once he heard he switched back. Sliding in with a drawn out moan. Leaning down to kiss you full of want and need, quiet moans transferring from both of you. One of his hands kept him steady, the other around your throat, thumb and fingers pressing into your neck, applying a gentle pressure.

Your eyes widened, mouth opened. The blood rushing, the oxygen rushing sends you into an abyss as Pippin fucks into you, whispering praise "you're so good to me, look at you. So beautiful, i love watching your tits bounce as I own you".

You want to moan, you want to make pretty noises for him. You've never experienced him in this way and you like it.

Sure he's always been a little bossy, but this...this was a whole new level and you were craving it. Your eyes drifted shut from pure bliss.

"Open them up, I want to stare into your eyes as I fill you up like a nice creamy treat" his breath shaky, thrusts going out of rhythm.

The thought of him Cumming inside of you tipped you over. Your body convulsed, walls tightened around him. "That's it my pretty, let me feel you" he encouraged you. A few more thrusts later he leg his hand go from around your throat. You gasped eagerly for breath and at the same time he leaned to kiss you, a deep guttering groan into your mouth as he released himself deep inside of you. Slowing to a complete stop. He lay there on top of you. Both panting, both sweating and both savouring the moment. He was still inside you.

A short time later he got up, kneeling beside you cupping your face. "My love are you ok?" His face had softened. The love in his eyes returning. You nodded slowly, you were tired.