Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3296969.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M, Multi
  Fandom:
      The_Lord_of_the_Rings_-_All_Media_Types, The_Lord_of_the_Rings_-_J._R._R.
      Tolkien, The_Lord_of_the_Rings_(Movies)
  Relationship:
      Boromir/Merry_Brandybuck/Pippin_Took
  Character:
      Boromir, Aragorn, Merry_Brandybuck, Pippin_Took, Original_Hobbit
      Character(s)
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_High_School, Alternate_Universe_-_Modern_with_Magic,
      Family_Dynamics, Sexual_Confusion, aragorn_is_a_good_bro, Gay_Bar,
      Interspecies_Relationship(s), Interspecies_Romance, Interspecies_Sex,
      Interspecies_Awkwardness, Underage_Drinking, Adopted_Sibling
      Relationship, Adopted_Children, human_raised_by_elves, Siblings, Sibling
      Love, Protective_Siblings, Denethor's_A+_Parenting, Recreational_Drug
      Use, Smoking, Size_Kink, Size_Difference, Penis_Size, Backrubs, Locker
      Room, Body_Hair, Frottage, Basketball, Leashes, Double_Oral_Penetration
  Series:
      Part 1 of Welcome_To_Greyhame_Academy
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-02-05 Completed: 2015-02-21 Chapters: 6/6 Words: 7436
****** Boromir Is A Pervy Hobbit Fancier ******
by Not_You
Summary
     Boromir is having to adjust for the cuteness of hobbits.
Notes
     Title taken from the Very Secret Diaries, of course.
***** Chapter 1 *****
As a general cultural rule, elves hate cellphones. Aragorn has one anyway, of
course, and usually he appreciates the convenience of the thing. Right now,
he's cursing himself for not switching it off before bed. He paws around on the
bedside table, eyes barely open, and finds it at last, squinting at the number.
Boromir. At half-past three on a weekday morning. Fuck. It's probably something
stupid, but he'll never forgive himself for not answering if Faramir is in the
hospital or whatever.
"Yeah?"
"Aragorn, I have a problem." Boromir's voice cracks, and Aragorn sits up,
really worried.
"What's wrong?" He isn't sure what he's expecting, but it certainly isn't for
Boromir to sob pathetically.
"I... I think I might be a pedophile," he whimpers, sounding utterly wretched.
"...Boromir, what the hell are you talking about?" Aragorn switches on the
light, squinting in the sudden brilliance.
"You heard me."
"Boromir, what the hell makes you think... look, a pedophile would sit through
a tea party with stuffed animals better than you do."
"But..."
"Seriously, who the hell are you attracted do that you'd think that?" Aragorn
pinches the bridge of his nose, starting to get a headache.
"I... They're not kids, but what if that's just me trying to rationalize it?
They're so little and cute."
"This is about Merry and Pippin, isn't it?"
"...Yeah."
"Boromir, I don't know what the hell you learn in Gondor school, but hobbits
aren't kids. Hell, those two are seniors! They're older than you!"
"Yeah, but--"
"Fuck you, it's almost four in the morning. Look, here's what you're going to
do. You are going to borrow your good friend's fake ID and you are going to get
into the Prancing Pony. It's a gay bar in Bree for humans and hobbits. There,
you are going to watch the two races cruising each other, and realize that
you're not a pedophile. Good night." He hangs up over Boromir's futile
sputtering, and catches another two hours of sleep before he has to get up for
school. It's not that Aragorn sneaks out a lot, but everyone needs downtime.
Especially human orphans living with elves. Aragorn loves his family, but they
don't even live at the same speed. Elrohir and Elladan have been in college for
as long as Aragorn can remember, and they look the same now as they did when he
was a tiny kid pulling at their braids. Now they smile their mirrored smiles at
him over cups of golden mallorn tea. Aragorn smiles back. He may be human, but
dried mallorn blossom will always be what a cozy morning at home smells like.
"Good to see you in time for breakfast, little brother," Elladan says, and
Elrohir fixes a plate for Aragorn, salad and grains and fruit, with a cup of
clear green broth. He takes it in both hands in the approved Elven way,
ignoring Elladan because he knows perfectly well that humans need a lot more
sleep and is just being a dick. Celebrian is never up for breakfast, but no one
jokes about that. She must have had a good night, though, because Elrond comes
in looking positively chipper, for Elrond.
"How's Mother?" Elrohir asks.
"Resting peacefully," Elrond says, accepting a cup of tea from his bio-son
before turning to Aragorn. "You, on the other hand..."
"My friend called me," Aragorn says, shrugging. "He's just being dumb. We'll
work it out." Sometimes the ways that elves are more distant than humans are
really convenient. No one bugs Aragorn about his friend or the friend's
problem. The twins just let him finish eating, enjoin him to wash his face
properly for once, and then wait for him by the car. It's a sleek little thing
in the usual green that makes parking lots in elven neighborhoods such a
nightmare for the uninitiated. The twins have thoughtfully applied a 'Last
Alliance of Elves and Tea' bumper sticker, which is some help. Aragorn slings
his backpack into the back seat and climbs after it, napping as they skim along
to Greyhame Academy.
There had never been any question about Aragorn going to the Academy. Elrond is
a firm believer in keeping the races of Middle-Earth on a more than nodding
acquaintance with one another, and the twins and Arwen had all done a senior
year there. Legolas of Greenwood is doing the same thing this year, despite his
father's objections. This morning he's sitting on the giant eagle statue out
front of the building, looking beautiful and otherworldly the way elves do. He
waves when Aragorn steps out, and Aragorn goes to join him as his brothers head
on up the hill to the university.
"You look tired, Estel," he says, in that funny Greenwood-accented Sindarin of
his.
"I am," Aragorn replies, settling on the eagle's other wing. "Boromir called me
at three in the [spider-infested] morning, because he's an idiot."
"Boromir is always an idiot, but he doesn't always call you at horrendous
hours."
"Point. It's a personal matter, or I'd put the plan up for your approval."
Legolas nods, letting it go with classy ease as Frodo pulls up. His car is
silver rather than the traditional green. It sits there at the curb for a few
minutes before Sam comes tumbling out like an adorable golden puppy, moving
quickly on those short legs. "G'morning!" he calls, coming to a stop by the
pedestal of the statue. Legolas beams at him, leaning down and offering one
slender hand, pulling Sam up when he clasps it. Frodo pulls away, apparently
satisfied that he has fulfilled his charge to 'look after young Sam' for now,
at least.
"Good morning, Samwise."
Legolas and Sam start talking over Sam's Beginning Sindarin lesson as Merry and
Pippin come bounding up out of nowhere the way they always do. Pippin has
autumn leaves in his hair and there's a smudge of dirt on Merry's cheek. They
look like they've been up to no good, which is hardly unusual. Aragorn helps
them scramble up, and they sit on the pedestal and kick their hairy feet as
they admit they may or may not have been stealing mushrooms out of someone's
back yard and asking where Boromir and Gimli have gotten to.
Legolas rolls his eyes. "Gimli's in the art room already. Making something nice
for Arwen's grandmother because he's some kind of fanboy."
"I think it's sweet," Sam pipes up, and Legolas sighs.
"You would, dear."
Aragorn watches for Boromir as the others chatter, soothed by the everyday song
of their voices. The first bell goes, and then the second, and then he has to
pick his bag up and get to class.
Boromir doesn't show up until a quarter of the way into first period. He looks
like shit, pale and haggard and puffy-eyed. Aragorn sighs, and moves his
backpack off the seat beside him, letting Boromir slump into it and pretend to
be paying attention to their Westron assignment as the teacher glares.
During the first break Aragorn drags his friend into the upstairs bathroom that
no one ever uses. "Here," he says, thrusting his fake ID into Boromir's hand.
"Take this and stop fucking worrying."
"That's what I love about you, man," Boromir says, carefully putting the card
into his wallet. "You really care."
***** Chapter 2 *****
Boromir takes a deep breath, and presents Aragorn's fake ID to the bouncer, a
huge and disinterested human who mutely gestures him on into the bar. Either he
doesn't care or having pretty much the exact same coloration as Aragorn and a
similar haircut is enough. In a weird way, the Pony is a lot like the Academy,
with the same sense of having been built for all scales. The bar stools are all
adjustable, there's a second brass rail at a good height for hobbits, and the
racks of clean glasses go from thimble-sized up to the huge mugs dwarves like.
There's a fire at one end of the room, and colorful paper lanterns of the kind
Boromir always sees at hobbit parties, hanging from the ceiling and in strings
down the walls and from rafter to rafter. There are brighter glass lanterns
behind the bar.
The men of Gondor refuse to be daunted, and so Boromir goes right up to the bar
and gets mulled wine because it's the first really cold night of the year. At
least this isn't his first drink or anything, and the heat and sugar and spices
are comforting and homey as he glances over at the fire and the collection of
hobbits sitting there in the general cloud of weed smoke one gets when hobbits
congregate anywhere. Still refusing to be daunted, he goes and takes a seat
close by, cupping his goblet in both hands and wishing he could blend into the
shadows the way Aragorn does.
"Good stuff, isn't it?" says a light voice at his elbow, and Boromir almost
drops his cup. He looks around to see a hobbit standing there. Apparently in
the Shire just about everyone is white-skinned, so this must be a city hobbit,
with enough Southern blood to make him soft brown, his hair a cloud of loose
black ringlets. He grins at Boromir, flashing those perfect white teeth that
hobbits all seem to have no matter what or how much they eat. "Sorry, love,
didn't mean to startle you."
Boromir can feel himself blushing, but returns the smile. "I'm still not used
to how quiet hobbits are." He has at least managed to stop saying 'halfling,'
which they really don't appreciate.
"Gondor boy, eh?" He hops up into the human-sized armchair next to him, and
gets his tankard arranged comfortably. "I've always felt like you people were
deprived of some excellent company."
Boromir grins. "I think so too." He's attending the Academy to broaden his
horizons, after all. His new acquaintance turns out to be named Marlowe
Greenhill, and to be very knowledgeable in the field of human/hobbit relations
of all kinds. Having discovered an affection for human men at a young age
(while still appreciating his own kind, which he says is important) he has many
valuable hints for Boromir.
"It's important not to loom. It's not all that intimidating to most of us,
since we're always the shortest ones in the room, but it does hurt one's neck
to constantly look so far up." He takes a long drink from his goblet. "And it
can frighten some."
Boromir nods, and blinks to see a blushing young human stroking an older
hobbit's salt-and-pepper feet. "What about them?" he asks softly, and Marlowe
chuckles.
"Scandalous. I'm happy for them. Not just anyone gets to touch our feet, you
know."
"Oh?" Boromir remembers helping Pippin pick the leaves out of his foot fur, and
blushes. Marlowe's sharp eyes catch it, and he grins.
"Who's been flirting with you, kid?"
"A guy I know." He pauses, remembering Merry offering him a foot to pet on the
first day of school 'because you don't know any hobbits yet,' and says, "A
couple of guys, actually."
Marlowe laughs. "A couple, eh? Watch yourself, they'll wear you out if you let
them."
Boromir tries not to blush, thinking that he might rather like being worn out.
He spends a good portion of the evening that way, and the rest of it actively
failing to keep himself from going as red as a spring strawberry, which is
apparently what hobbits say. He learns a lot about hobbit culture from
Marlowe's running commentary on the action around them. There are all kinds of
men and hobbits here, and according to Marlowe similar places exist for women
and for mixed crowds.
"Your friend just knew where to send you, that's all," he says, finishing his
second half-pint and setting the mug aside before pulling a small pouch out of
an inner pocket of his jacket. "Ever smoke weed, Gondor boy?"
"It's actually illegal for human use in Gondor," Boromir says, watching Marlowe
pack deep purple pipeweed into his little wooden pipe. Merry and Pippin each
have their own, and Boromir has always admired the carving on them. In
deference to human and elf traditions as well as Gondor law, pipeweed isn't
allowed on the premises, but the pipes themselves are, being hobbit art objects
and frequent good luck charms. Marlowe's is more complex than either Merry's or
Pippin's. Theirs just have little dock leaves around the bowl and a rendition
of the floral design seen when one cuts an apple the wrong way, respectively.
Marlowe's has a duck on each side, in the same position as Pippin's apple-seed
flowers, but there's a whole little scene of the marsh around it with hills in
the background. "What beautiful carving."
Marlowe smiles. "Thanks. I've had this for a while, and we often add to the
designs as we age."
And then he's off, with the whole history of his given name, and how it was the
surname of some maternal relative of an ancient and proud lineage that dwelt
beside a dry marsh. Boromir is familiar by now with the way hobbits will go on
about such subjects when given even half a chance, and settles back in his
chair to finish his current drink and to let the words wash over him as Marlowe
lights his pipe and starts adding to the smoke in the air. He tells Boromir
about family names and local history of distant lands and all the elements of
the Greenhill heraldry. Apparently the duck is due to a mistransliteration in
some old records, and has been kept because of the versatility and hardiness of
the bird.
"And because we'd have had to change all the linen and things," Marlowe says.
"Sorry, I must be boring you senseless."
"I'm getting used to the hobbit interest in genealogy, it's all right."
"C'mere and I'll give you a hit for putting up with all that," is his reply,
and Boromir feels himself blush yet again. Merry and Pippin of course
surreptitiously smoke during breaks in the school day, and he has seen them
pass smoke from mouth to mouth many times, due to their policy of only risking
the confiscation of one of their pipes at a time.
"I'll have you know that two hobbits is more than enough," Boromir says, even
as he leans down.
"You're too young for me, boy, don't worry," Marlowe says, and doesn't actually
touch his lips to Boromir's. They're so close that Boromir can feel the heat of
his skin independent of his warm and humid breath, and he breathes in as
Marlowe breathes out. The smoke is thick and resinous and spicy, and Boromir
wobbles just a little as he sits back up, feeling light-headed and relaxed.
Marlowe lets the rest out as smoke rings, grinning at him.
***** Chapter 3 *****
Pippin sighs, resting his chin on his hands as a cool breeze ruffles his hair,
a perfect counter-point to the heavy late-autumn sun that warms the bleachers.
"We've got to do something about him, Merry."
"Yes, a thousand times yes," Merry murmurs, not taking his eyes off of Boromir
as he charges down the blacktop. He doesn't really have the build one
associates with basketball. That's Aragorn, but Boromir makes the most of what
he's got, strong and tireless. He's also a real team player. Merry and Pippin
don't generally go in for sports, but as a general rule hobbits do not approve
of showboating or of hogging the ball, and Boromir's even-handed approach to
play and to captaining the team in general is definitely one of his many
charms. This is a warm, mild autumn, so the team is still practicing outside,
something for which Pippin is profoundly grateful. Sunlight shows the red-brown
undertones in his hair and the golden ones in his skin, and actually sparkles
on his sweat. Watching practice later in the year won't be anything like as
fun.
"Smoke?" Pippin asks, pulling his pipe out of an inner pocket of his book bag.
Outside of school hours the smoking ban is a lot less stringent, even if they
don't really want it on the grounds at all, for fear of corrupting human youth.
Pretty much only human, since elves think smoking is gross and dwarves tend to
prefer blackroot, which they take very seriously as a cultural thing and won't
touch until their legal dwarven majority, anyway.
"You know it, love." He produces a box of matches and Pippin grins. It's one of
the many things he truly enjoys about Merry, the way they always somehow have
complementary possessions. Soon he has the pipe loaded and they're passing it
back and forth as the team runs up and down the blacktop with those big noisy
human strides.
"It's no wonder he wants Aragorn so much," Pippin murmurs, voice thick with
smoke.
"Only for the team, I hope," Merry says, taking the pipe as Pippin tries to
blow smoke rings, even though the air is nowhere near still enough. "He'd be
hard to compete against, even if he is a greasy mountain-man."
Pippin laughs. "Boromir would get no change out of Arwen, and you know it."
"Point," Merry agrees, and takes a long, lazy hit.
They're discussing the likelihood of escaping Frodo's apartment with a bottle
of the good booze Bilbo sends him from the Shire when Aragorn springs up onto
the bleachers next to them, landing almost as lightly as an elf. He actually
has washed his face at some point today, which is a start, even if that lovely
hair of his is still pretty lank. Even with the sun out it doesn't show red-
brown like Boromir's, closer to the near-indigo of dark-haired elves.
"Afternoon," he says, and they return the greeting, Merry passing the pipe over
as well. "Ah, hobbit hospitality. Thank you kindly."
The nice thing about Aragorn is that unlike a lot of young humans, he knows how
to relax. He drapes his long frame over a couple of risers and watches the
action. In repose he actually does look kind of aristocratic and beautiful, as
opposed to gangly, spotty, and strangely furtive. He's some kind of last
dribblet of the line of Isildur, but in these democratic days most people have
the decency not to bring it up.
"Beautiful form," Aragorn murmurs, as Boromir makes one last charge down the
blacktop. Practice finishes at four o'clock, which is already here by Pippin's
watch.
"The play or the guy?" Merry asks, and Aragorn laughs.
"Mm, both. Mostly the play, though. I mean, I have Arwen." His face takes on
the sweet, dreamy look he gets whenever her name is mentioned, and Pippin
laughs as Boromir makes his basket and then collects the ball, waving everyone
off toward the locker room.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Pippin says, watching them go, "the Evenstar, jewel of
jewels and most exquisite of women. You're lucky chicks dig that kind of crap,
man."
"Every bit of it's true and you know it," Aragorn replies, voice mellow and
smoky. He reaches over and gently tweaks Pippin's nose, making him laugh again.
Merry smiles fondly at both of them, and then calls Pippin back to the mission
at hand, which is to catch Boromir on his way out and see if they can ride
along to pick up Faramir. Besides wanting to flirt with Boromir, they genuinely
like his kid brother and can usually help the boy with his Westron assignments,
since Shire schools place a great deal of emphasis on etymology and obscure
grammatical rules. Aragorn waves as they leave, and then takes over the
blacktop, shooting with an easy grace that would make Boromir despair if he was
around to see it.
Pippin may want to climb Boromir like a tree most of the time, but he stinks
like a polecat after too much exertion, making them glad to wait for him to
shower. His long hair adds to his time, but not too much, and he emerges before
they get too bored. He actually puts his hair up when it's wet, and it's just
as adorable every time. His skin looks fresh and pink and still slightly damp,
and Pippin can't help the goofy grin he can feel spreading across his face. He
waves, and Boromir comes to join them.
"We were wondering if you wouldn't mind us tagging along to get Faramir," Merry
says, and Boromir actually blushes.
"No, I wouldn't mind. Come on."
After rows and rows of green elven cars, it's nice to see Boromir's black one,
and they pile into the back. Faramir is only twelve, but he's growing like
grass in high summer and needs the leg room of the front seat more than they
ever could. Boromir always listens to Gondor radio, which is a mixture of
ancient songs about the deeds of kings, plaintive ballads, and the things young
people actually dance to. Boromir finds one of the latter, and soon they're all
singing along.
Faramir is waiting for them on a bench in front of the middle school, gnawing
on an apple and totally immersed in a book. His hair is wavier and just a
little darker than Boromir's, and here's a kind of sweet humility to his whole
bearing that's going to make him an unknowing heartbreaker when he gets older.
He looks up and smiles in a way that lights up his whole pale little face.
Boromir smiles back the same way, getting out to give his brother a bear hug
and take his heavy backpack for him as they walk to the car. One of the first
things that had really drawn Pippin to Boromir had been his unselfconscious
devotion to his little brother. Their mother is dead and apparently their
father has always been cold to him, and Boromir has spent a lifetime doing his
best to fill the gap. It touches Pippin's heart every time he sees them
together.
Faramir smiles when he catches sight of Merry and Pippin, settling into the
front seat. "Hey." He buckles up because Boromir won't even let go of the brake
until he does, and they head for the section of town some people call Little
Gondor. Almost all human and almost all of them Gondor-born, it does stand out
a bit from the rest of the city, with more white buildings and a kind of lofty,
minimalist look to the street art and the parks.
***** Chapter 4 *****
As soon as they get home, Faramir goes to his room to deposit his things and to
change into pajama pants and the ratty old white tree t-shirt that Boromir
won't let him wear to school anymore. Merry and Pippin hang around in the
kitchen while Boromir washes grapes and makes ham sandwiches. There's a
casserole for later, but technically all four of them are growing boys and will
need something in the meantime. The hobbits are very helpful with this kind of
thing, fetching ingredients from the fridge, setting out plates, and not
laughing at him when he cuts the crusts off because Faramir doesn't like them.
Pippin hops up onto the counter and sits there, kicking his furry feet and
eating the scraps while Merry sets up the hobbit seats. Shops in the city sell
all kinds of adaptive furniture, and Boromir had bought a set after two weeks
here. They're round, overstuffed cushions, twice the thickness of the
equivalent item for dwarves, and they snap into place around the slats of the
chair to keep them steady. Merry climbs the slats and settles onto the cushion,
and Boromir helps Pippin down, despite the upturned milk crate he used to get
up there in the first place. He's heavy for his size, firm and warm and just a
bit squishy, like pretty much all hobbits are. Boromir can feel himself
blushing, and strives to get a grip on it so he'll look normal when his brother
comes in.
He must succeed, because Faramir just smiles at all of them and thanks him for
the food, setting out writing supplies and textbooks before grabbing his first
sandwich and devouring it as he finds the page for his math assignment. Merry
and Pippin start work on their history project, and Boromir digs out his
Westron paper. He hates essays, but they're not actually that hard. As he
works, Pippin and Merry explain their project to Faramir, which they say helps
them think. It's about the role of hobbits in the history of Middle Earth,
something kids from human-only communities don't know much about.
They also check Faramir's equations for him, both of them with a knack for
mental math. They're kind and patient without being patronizing, and when
Faramir takes a break to work on one of his poems, they're genuinely interested
and appreciative. In Gondor writing verses is unmanly, and Boromir will never
get over the bashful and grateful look on his brother's face any time a denizen
of the city tells him that his work is good. Best of all, Merry and Pippin are
actually some good at verses themselves, and can offer help when Faramir wants
it, an area where Boromir is nearly useless.
Hobbits are generally very good guests, and Merry and Pippin are kind enough to
wash the plates once everything is done, and afterward to bring out a bag of
those really good all-natural strawberry candies their relatives send them from
the Shire. The way Pippin sucks on his is a bit obscene, and the shape of
Merry's lips is more distracting than ever when they're tinted berry-red.
Boromir squirms and sucks on a sweet of his own, hoping Faramir isn't noticing
any of this. He doesn't seem to be, crunching up two at once and squinting down
at a difficult sentence on his Westron worksheet. Being a creative and
sensitive type, Faramir hates worksheets. He likes them a lot better with the
hobbits around, though, who can tell him whether or not he's right without long
thought or having to look it up in the heavy, dusty old compendium their father
gave them.
The thought reminds him that he's supposed to check in, and he steps out of the
room to call his father's office, sort of hoping to get his secretary. Beregond
has the same stone-faced gravity as Father, but it doesn't go as deep. He's
more like Father was back before Mother died, the better times that Boromir can
remember so clearly and that Faramir just has snatches of. Father is there,
though, and Beregond puts Boromir through. Father is always so pleased to hear
from him. That's the worst part. He asks all about the team and how Boromir
feels about the upcoming season and how he's doing at finding a nice girl.
After the whole first round of greetings and updates, he asks about Faramir and
is not nearly happy enough about his perfect grades for Boromir's taste. He
asks if Father wants to talk to Faramir, but he claims not to have the time. He
says that he loves them both, though, and to call him if there's any trouble
about the direct deposit for the rent, or if they get through their allowance
faster than expected.
Boromir thanks him and hangs up, heart aching a little. In the other room
Faramir is laughing, though, and he has to smile when he goes back to them to
find Merry in the middle of one of his epic stories of trespassing, petty
theft, and death-defying acrobatics. This is apparently the one where they
ended up hiding in a tree until Pippin had made friends with the dog below.
It's a good one, and he lets them finish it before pointing out how late it's
getting. There really isn't enough dinner for company, particularly not hobbit
company, and Boromir helps them gather their things and walks them out to catch
the last bus out of the neighborhood.
The streetlamps are coming on and there's a fine mist in the air. Boromir keeps
his steps short, keeping pace with the hobbits and admiring the way the water
beads on their hair and makes it even curlier.
"Your first game is coming up, right?" Pippin asks as they reach the bus stop,
wiping his face on his sleeve and climbing onto the human-sized bench.
"It is," he says, sitting down beside Pippin, Merry hopping up to join them.
"Were you thinking of coming? Even Faramir doesn't usually bother for the early
ones."
Merry laughs. "We'll bother, but don't be angry if we forget the rules and
cheer at the wrong time."
Boromir smiles down at him, overcome with the urge to pull them both into his
lap and cuddle them close. "Thank you kindly, Master Brandybuck, and you as
well, Master Took," he says, glancing over at Pippin, who grins up at him.
"You are more than welcome, Son of Denethor." The address slips between his
ribs like a blade, and Pippin must see it, because he puts that tiny hand on
Boromir's, all barely-sticky warmth and hard calluses. "Hey..."
"I just... I know Father loves us, but I don't think Faramir knows that. And it
worries me."
"Can see how it would," Merry agrees, leaning his small weight against Boromir
as the mist turns into real rain. The bus is late, and that's just fine with
him. Pippin sighs, and pulls out his pipe. "No neighborhood ordinances, right?"
Boromir chuckles. "None. Go ahead." Between the two of them they get it filled
and lit, and the rest of the wait passes in a haze of fragrant smoke and the
quiet drumming of rain on the roof.
***** Chapter 5 *****
Merry still isn't very clear on the rules, but if he can enjoy watching
practice, surely he'll find a way to enjoy this. Pippin is practically glowing,
and is even wearing the team's red and grey, carrying a bag of popcorn and
looking like some kind of actual fan. The floor and the first row of the
bleachers are reserved for hobbits, though there are a few more further up,
standing or being held high enough to see by larger friends. Boromir was right
about the low turnout for early games, though, so they can arrange themselves a
bit further up without help.
The main game in the Shire is cricket, and this bears almost no resemblance to
it. After a bit Merry gives up entirely and just cheers when Pippin does,
watching Boromir dash up and down the court. One thing he understands perfectly
well is the scoreboard. Greyhame stays so far ahead that Merry really can't
imagine why anyone who doesn't love to ogle Boromir would even be here, but
he's happy.
They linger after the inevitable victory, as spectators and players all leave.
They wait until they're actually a bit worried before finally going into the
locker room in search of Boromir. It might alarm him, but at this point Merry
is worried that he slipped on wet tile and hit his head or something.
"Boromir?" Pippin calls, voice echoing a little.
"Over here." He doesn't sound too flustered, which is good. They turn a corner
to find him mostly dry and wearing sweatpants. He's sitting on a bench, other
clothes and his towel beside him. Merry is filled with the desire to run his
fingers through all the hair on his chest, but manages to control himself.
"All right?"
"Maybe I didn't warm up enough. I'm sorry I'm taking so long." He grimaces,
rubbing his left shoulder with his right hand.
"It's okay." Merry climbs up onto the bench as Pippin comes to stand at
Boromir's knee. "Here?" he puts a hand on the indicated spot, feeling tight
muscle.
"Yeah." He drops his head forward as Merry starts kneading it. His own hands
look so small, and he shivers.
"Is it helping?"
"Yeah," Boromir murmurs, hissing a little. "That's good. Harder?"
Merry puts his back into as Pippin eases his way between Boromir's legs,
avoiding all the real work the way he usually does, the little sod. Boromir
moans softly in what sounds like pleasure and pain, and Merry tries not to gulp
audibly. Boromir makes a high-pitched and shapeless little noise in the back of
his throat, and then Pippin is kissing him, pressed tight against him and
burying his hands in all that dark hair. Boromir quivers, and moans into
Pippin's mouth when Merry kneels to kiss his neck. The bench is hard on his
knees, but right now he really doesn't care. He's too busy burying his face in
Boromir's skin, feeling drunk on his sharp human musk and reaching around to
tug at his chest hair.
"Oh..." Boromir breathes, and turns his head to kiss Merry, those massive arms
wrapping around them both. Dealing with his bigger mouth is a bit tricky, but
in a moment Merry has it figured out. He sucks on the dainty tip of that huge
tongue and thinks about all the other things it would be good for as Boromir
moans and melts against him, suddenly barely able to hold his own considerable
weight. Merry glances down to see Pippin happily suckling on one pink nipple,
pinching the other gently.
"Always loves doing that, our Pippin," Merry murmurs, nibbling Boromir's ear.
"I... oh, little ones..." He's still kind of slack and helpless, but gets it
together enough to let Merry settle into his lap, trembling.
"You're safe with us," Merry says, and he's not even sure why, but Boromir
whimpers and hides his eyes against Merry's shoulder, clinging to both of them.
"This is a rotten place for it," Pippin mumbles, "but I don't think I can stand
to leave here without getting off."
"Don't even think it, Peregrin Took," Merry says in real horror. All three of
them are obviously hard, and he knows that he's wet. His shorts are already
hopeless, and he refuses to deal with blue balls as well. Pippin laughs and
Boromir manages a breathy chuckle as Merry pulls away to remove his clothes and
fold them up for later as Pippin does the same. He can feel Boromir's gaze, and
meets it with a smile. "See anything you like?"
"You're so smooth," Boromir says, looking awed, and Merry laughs, fluffing up
his own little tuft of chest hair.
"Look at Pippin, then." Pippin is smooth even for a hobbit, with nothing
between the hair on his head and that on his feet but a little blonde fuzz over
his cock and under each arm. Boromir stares, and then reaches out to touch. His
big hands on Pippin make an incredible picture, and Merry shudders.
"Like this for yourself?" Boromir murmurs, pinching one little nipple and
making Pippin stiffen and mewl. "I see." He grins, and scoops Pippin up into
his arms, cuddling him and suckling and biting at his chest until he's a
moaning, squirming mess. Merry strokes himself a few times watching them, and
then wades in to get his share, kissing Boromir's neck and Pippin's mouth
before demanding that everyone find a way to arrange themselves.
Boromir had for some reason not been expecting them to pounce on him, but
proves fairly adaptable, laying his towel out on the floor and sitting on it so
they can each straddle one massive thigh, all corded with long muscle and
dusted with coarse hair. He holds and touches both of them, staring into their
eyes and at their cocks as they rut against him, all three of them panting and
sticky with fresh sweat. Boromir groans and his massive cock twitches. The way
they are now, Merry can get a good look at it, and when he glances across at
Pippin, he can see those big eyes full of a familiar light. Pippin always wants
the most cock he can get any one time, and Boromir opens up a whole new
frontier there. They reach for it together, giving it a squeeze that makes
Boromir groan and tremble under them.
"Big as the rest you," Pippin purrs, and Boromir blushes again, his green-grey
eyes nearly all pupil.
"Oh..." His cock twitches in their hands, suddenly so much wetter.
"Likes being talked about it, does it?" Merry teases, and Boromir whines, a
higher sound than Merry would have thought he could make. Pippin can contain
himself no longer, doubling over to lick the head, which makes Boromir twitch
and shudder almost hard enough to unseat them.
"Mmm. I'll have to do that properly later."
For now they all just move faster, hitting the right rhythm to make all of them
go off like fireworks within moments of each other. Pippin makes that cute
little gasping noise and Merry lets out an undignified grunt, but Boromir
almost sobs, and clings to them for a long time as he catches his breath. Merry
starts to feel a bit worried about him, and he and Pippin both snuggle close
and pet and gentle Boromir and tell him how much they've been wanting to do
that. He's still a little shaky when he takes another quick rinse and then
dresses, but grins from ear to ear when Pippin asks if they can come over this
weekend.
***** Chapter 6 *****
Boromir is elated and terrified at the same time, and is very glad that Marlowe
gave him his number. After kissing his two adorable little hobbits within
inches of their lives, he rushes home to make sure Faramir has fed himself and
gotten his homework done. Once he's sure of that, though, and Faramir is in his
room listening to music, Borormir arranges himself on his bed and gives Marlowe
a call. As it rings, he starts to feel stupider and stupider, but when Marlowe
answers at last, he sounds happy.
"Boromir, love! How are you?"
Boromir blushes. "Uh, better? Those hobbits of mine finally pounced on me, and
I'm kind of wondering what to do."
Marlowe laughs, loud and long and musical "Good for you, boy!" He speaks to
someone in the room with him, asking for a drink, and Boromir blushes more than
ever.
"Am I interrupting something?"
"No, we were taking a break."
Boromir can hear the twinkle in Marlowe's dark eyes, and groans. "This was
embarrassing enough already, Marlowe."
"Well. What would you like to know?"
"Um... everything?" His voice actually cracks, the way it hasn't in at least
two and a half years, and he feels like kicking himself.
"Well, you won't break them unless you try, we're a hardy breed."
"...I was going to say something about how tiny they are, but I think they're
both taller than you."
"You're a sweet boy, Boromir. You'd have to try to really hurt them, and I know
you would do no such thing."
"...Thank you," Boromir mutters, blushing.
"Now, onto specifics! The tops of our feet are a bit sensitive and like
petting, and our ears are positively ridiculous, especially at the tips."
"What about..." Boromir blushes even more deeply, unable to go on. He has
measured himself, and while not over-large for his frame, his cock is the size
of most of Pippin's forearm.
"Cubic capacity?" Marlowe asks, with an audible grin. "We tend to have a hearty
appetite for most things, son. Just let them have you. They'll take whatever
will fit. Isn't that right?" he calls to whoever he's with, and Boromir groans.
He's going to blush himself to death if this keeps up. Marlowe laughs.
"Anything else?"
"No," Boromir mutters, "get back to taking whatever will fit."
Marlowe just laughs harder. "That's his job!"
Boromir groans, hiding his face in one hand. "Have fun, you two," he mumbles,
and hangs up on Marlowe's laughter. Now he just has to find somewhere for
Faramir to be on Sunday.
Because they don't have a mother, and because their father has no time, Boromir
barely understands why other people beat up and harass their younger brothers.
As Faramir seems utterly determined to do nothing on the weekend and to
comprehend no hints and take no suggestions, though, Boromir has to fight the
urge to shake him until his teeth rattle.
"Nimloth, Boromir!" he finally snaps, "Why do you even care? You never give me
shit about going out for fresh air or spending so much time in my room!"
Boromir sighs, because it's true. Contrary to their father's fretting and
nagging, Faramir gets enough exercise and all his writing does not seem to have
hurt his vision a bit, so Boromir tries to leave his poor brother alone.
Faramir tilts his head like a bird, studying Boromir. "...Brother, are you
sexiling me?"
Boromir groans, scrubbing his hands over his face. "Yes."
"In that case, I'm happy for you." His face is full of such real joy that
Boromir has to hug him.
"Thank you, brother," he says softly, and lets go again.
That Sunday Faramir takes his various books and assignments and goes to spend
the day studying with Eowyn. Boromir feels strangely guilty about this, even
though Faramir has had a slight crush on Eowyn for the past year and always
likes spending time with her, regardless. He seems to sense Boromir's feelings,
and tells him very sternly to have a good time before letting Eomer shepherd
him into the house.
Boromir goes home and does his best to follow his brother's advice, or at least
to not panic. He finds himself dusting things, and obsessively checking the
pantry. There are the ingredients for at least four things his hobbits will
eat, but he's too anxious to let anything alone. He isn't even sure what to
expect, if they'll just jump him like they did in the locker room or if things
will start out more like the usual weekend visit. Finally his phone rings, and
it's Pippin, warning him that they caught a ride with Frodo, so be sure and be
decent and prepared for a quarter-hour social call of the type hobbits pay in
the morning. Extremely glad that he didn't try to set a scene, Boromir sets out
enough scones for six, or one human and three hobbits, and puts on a nicer
shirt.
Frodo is kind of an odd character, but Boromir was raised to respect his
elders, even when they're laughing hobbits in Dwarven braids and jewelry. He
bows to Frodo and pours for him first, while Merry and Pippin attack the scones
with the lack of manners of children in the presence of a beloved and
permissive relative. Frodo asks after Faramir, and Boromir does not blush when
he reveals the kid's absence, but he doesn't dare look at Merry or Pippin.
After what feels like an age, Frodo finally leaves, admonishing his little
cousins not to eat Boromir's entire larder or destroy his house. Pippin gives
him time to walk away, and then sighs, unzipping his backpack. "I thought he'd
never leave!"
"I know," Merry says, doing the same.
Twenty minutes later, Boromir has a collar around his neck and each of the
hobbits is holding a lead clipped to it. They tug him where they want him,
covering him in kisses and bites and cooing endearments that are filthy and
silly by turns. He's their whore and their honeycake and myriad other things,
and he blushes even as he sucks both their hard little cocks at once, his hands
knotted into their foot-fur, fingertips rubbing hard circles that make them
shudder and flex their toes.
He can't catch it all when they come within seconds of each other, but they're
happy to kneel down and help him out with a sloppy, three-way kiss, licking his
lips clean and nuzzling along the sides of his jaw, hugging him tightly. "So
sweet," Pippin murmurs.
"So good," Merry purrs, and Boromir shivers, tilting his head to catch the
delicate point of Merry's ear in his teeth. Marlowe was right. Merry keens,
melting into Boromir and moaning as he sucks gently. He sighs, and lets Pippin
push him onto his back on the floor, keeping Merry close as he does. Pippin
laughs, kneeling beside them to kiss Boromir. He suddenly realizes that neither
of them have let go of the leads, and whimpers, the sound getting higher and
louder as Merry sucks his nipples and Pippin crawls down to slide two clever
little fingers into him. As Merry bites hard enough to make him cry out and
Pippin works him open with all four fingers, Boromir decides that it's all
right if these hobbits are the death of him. He can't think of a better way to
go.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!