West of the Moon

A Tolkien Fanfiction Archive



The Terror Of Buckland
Frodo has been helping himself to more than just Farmer Maggot's mushrooms.
Author: Aratlithiel
Rating: NC-17
Category: Canon-Humor/Parody


This story was written for the hobbit_smut Livejournal Community "Beneath the Mistletoe" Challenge.

The scent of evergreens, sharp in his nose; mulled wine, spiced just right by Aunt Esme's own hand; the rich sweetness of apples, baked whole in cinnamon and syrup and fowl roasted slow then braised with a shimmering glaze of rosemary-wine sauce. Frodo stops in the tunnel just outside the main gathering hall and closes his eyes, inhales deeply. He smiles. Yule always brings such warmth with it and he lets that warmth seep in from his nose and blossom right through him.

Guests had begun arriving almost an hour ago and, judging by the volume of the gathering and the hearty laughter that filters down the tunnel, Frodo has already missed several toasts. No matter; plenty of time for catching up.

The small hand ensconced in his own tugs impatiently at his fingers. "Frodo!" Merry grumbles. "Why have we stopped? Come on, then."

His little cousin tugs again, this time more sharply and Frodo grins with a fond chuckle. "Aren't we the impatient hobbit this evening?"

"Impatient nothing," Merry returns. "It's only sense, don't you think? There's a perfectly good party underway and we're not at it. I think that ought to be against the Rules, or something."

Frodo laughs and lets himself be pulled to the door. "All right, then," he agrees. "We certainly wouldn't want to break any rules, then, would we?"

Merry might not have even heard; they reach the doorway and his eyes take on an eager shine and he smiles, all small, white teeth and rosy cheeks. Frodo watches as his young cousin takes in the scene before them then looks up to Frodo in unveiled excitement.

"Mum says I might have a thimbleful of wine this year, if you tell her I've behaved."

Frodo lifts an eyebrow, makes his mien stern. "Well, then, you'll have to be sure to behave, won't you?"

"Merry-lad!" The mum in question comes gliding across the floor, evergreen skirts swaying about her ankles, a bright smile lending even more gaiety to the warm flush of her cheeks and the luminous sparkle of her merry eyes. She kisses them both on the brow, turns her gaze to her son. "Don't you look the handsome lad? What did cousin Frodo do that I didn't to convince you to wear the red, hm?"

Merry squirms a little, tugs at the stiff collar of the red wool coat he so despises. "Threatened to save my Yule gift for his birthday," he answers with a sideways scowl to his cousin.

Esme raises her eyebrows at Frodo with a twinkle. "Mmm, clever lad." She tousles Merry's hair and then Frodo's for good measure. She stops, peers at Frodo then whips a hanky from inside her dress. Frodo knows what's coming and he does his best to suppress a grimace as she wets the tip of the hanky with her tongue and dabs at his cheek with it. Why all mothers seem to think that their spit holds magical cleaning qualities he will never understand but he endures the process with as little fidgeting as possible, hoping she will satisfy herself with removing whatever (probably imaginary) smudge she has spied and leave off. He's only glad that she caught him now and at the doorway, rather than later and in the middle of a dance with whatever (hopefully) appealing lass might care to have him.

Esme finishes her task with a satisfied sigh and a quick kiss to the tip of Frodo's nose. "I'm off to do the pretty." She busses her son on the cheek. "You mind your cousin, now," and then she is gone with a smile and a flick of skirts.

Merry turns to Frodo. "I think she's in her cups already," he observes. "She didn't straighten my collar, or try to clean my face, or anything!"

"That's because she was too busy with mine," Frodo mutters. "There is a definite advantage to being below eye-level sometimes." He shakes his head then rubs his hands together. "Now, what say we see what sort of fare we can lay hands on, eh? I haven't eaten since tea."

Merry agrees readily enough and they begin making their way through the mass of hobbits and toward the food tables. Frodo can smell ham now and perhaps even some of those whipped yams he's so fond of even before they've reached the tables. His mouth waters. A hobbit with a drink-laden tray passes and he snags a mug of mulled wine for himself and a cup of cider for Merry. He lifts his own cup for a swallow and--

"There's sommat amiss with my Maybell, I tell you and it's one of your Hall lads, as sure I stand here."


Frodo stands stock-still, barely even feeling Merry's insistent tug on the pocket of his frockcoat. He turns, scans the crowd. Farmer Maggot stands over by the great hearth, in close conversation with Cousin Bilbo and... The hobbit turns and Frodo's stomach does a quick flip as he recognizes the profile. Uncle Saradoc. Bugger.

"Fro-do! I thought you were hungry." Merry yanks at his coat.

Frodo turns to his young cousin, gazes at him blankly. "Hm?"

Merry rolls his eyes. "Hungry?" He waits but when Frodo just blinks at him, he lifts his eyebrows, leans closer. "Food?"

"Now, Maggot, I don't know how you could possibly conclude that it's one of the Hall lads," he hears Sara retort. "You've Rushey right at your backdoor, after all and more towns and the like between here and the Marish than one can count. There's lads everywhere!"

"Go on ahead, Merry," Frodo says weakly. He takes a large gulp from his mug. "I'll be along directly."

Merry looks to the tables then back to his cousin. He rolls his eyes again, shakes his head then makes a beeline for the tables and grabs up a plate. Frodo watches him from the swirling pit of panic he is currently tumbling through.

"Like as not but she had her cap set on someone from the Hall only this past spring and she's not a one easily put to sway."

"Well, who is it, then?"

"Haven't a clue. But whoever it is, he's a weakness for mushrooms as well. It was only after I stopped her from her jaunts up this way that they started to disappear and all that was left in their place were the same footprints, time and again. A poor harvest it was this summer, aye. And I seen them same footprints again in the snow only a few days past, so it isn't only mushrooms he's after."

Frodo gulps at his wine. Then seriously considers whether taking himself to the mudroom and nicking a pair of snow boots will raise any suspicions.

"Well, lasses will be lasses and lads will be lads, Maggot." This from Cousin Bilbo. "You know that well enough. You can't stop the young ones, once they've decided to have a taste of the finer things."

Frodo sees Sara waggle his eyebrows. Judging by the dark scowl on Maggot's face, he doesn't think the farmer is much amused.

"The lads and lasses of the Hall can do as they will but I want the rapscallion fingered, else I'll be setting my dogs to work and that you can count on. Then we'll be able to tell who it is by whichever lad comes home with a piece of his arse missing!"

Sara blows out an exasperated breath. Frodo takes some small comfort in the fact that his elder cousin doesn't seem inclined to take this quite as seriously as Farmer Maggot does.

"There aren't any likely lads at the Hall, Maggot. Why, the only one near Maybell's age--"

Frodo's fingers clamp around his mug. Oh, nonono don't say it!

"-- is Frodo!"


"Where is that lad, anyhow? Haven't seen my Maybell since we got here and if that young scoundrel..."

Let no one ever say that Frodo Baggins doesn't know a cue for a quick exit when he hears one. He spins and, as quickly as he can, begins inserting himself into the crowd between the older hobbits and the tables.

"Ah, there he is. Frodo-lad!"


Frodo freezes, closes his eyes and takes several deep breaths as the panic blooms in his belly and turns his knees to water. He clenches his teeth and, with more composure than he actually possesses, pastes on a smile and turns to Sara.

"Hullo, Uncle," he says with a respectful bow and remarkably steady voice. "Hullo, Bilbo," again with a respectful bow. He turns to Mr. Maggot and does likewise, all the while trying to come up with a less-than-obvious method of hiding his feet from view. Apparently there isn't one.

Maggot looks him up and down suspiciously then grunts a surly greeting. Bilbo just regards him with a sharp gaze and a clever little smile but Sara claps Frodo on the back. Frodo makes a valiant effort not to fly into Mr. Maggot with the force of Sara's enthusiastic blow. As it is, he's glad that he's already drained his wine or the farmer would currently be wearing it.

"How are you enjoying the party, lad?" Sara wants to know.

Frodo rotates his shoulder with what he hopes is a barely noticeable wince. "Well, I've only just--"

"You haven't seen my Maybell, have you?" Maggot interrupts with eyes narrowed.

'Maybell of the bosom entirely too generous to be believed?' Frodo thinks but says, "Maybell? Not sure I know your Maybell, sir. You have several very lovely daughters." He composes his countenance into one of pleasant curiosity. "Is she the one who wears the daisies in her hair all summer long?"

Maggot's eyes narrow further. "No," he answers, "that would be Daisy."

"Ah," Frodo responds with a nod, "of course. Then she must be the one who always has a rose pinned behind her ear."

Maggot turns querulously to Sara, who simply shrugs, then to Bilbo, who only lifts an eyebrow. The farmer looks back to Frodo, now with an expression that says very clearly that he is under the impression that he is currently conversing with a complete idiot.

"No," Maggot answers again, very slowly this time, "that would be Rose."

"I see," Frodo says. Then, deciding that being imagined as mentally slow might be better than being imagined as the horny lad shagging Maybell Maggot (because Frodo is well aware that farmers are in possession of very pointy metal things such as pitchforks and scythes - not to mention very large dogs with enormous teeth), he only smiles vacantly at the farmer and waits for one of the others to breach the awkward silence.

Sara breaks first. He clears his throat and shifts from one foot to the other.

"Yes, well..." He clears his throat again then smiles a bit suspiciously at Frodo. "Don't let us keep you, lad. I know you're to be keeping an eye on young Merry this evening and young lads tend to get themselves into..." And here he pauses, twinkles a little. "...mischief when not watched closely." He lifts an eyebrow, a tiny knowing smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

Frodo smiles back and says not a word, fearing that one false step may queer what appears to be shaping into a clean getaway. He bows to Sara and Bilbo and then to Maggot. He turns abruptly, making his way through the mass of hobbits as quickly as he possibly can without actually breaking into a full-out run.

It is only when he reaches the bar, clear on the other side of the great room, that he slowly unclamps his fingers from their death-grip on the mug in his hand and allows himself to take a long shaky breath. He waves his mug to the hobbit behind the bar, who quickly snatches it up and refills it for him. Frodo downs the wine in two convulsive swallows, warmth flooding the pit of his belly and tendrilling out to his limbs. The other hobbit barely raises an eyebrow when Frodo waves the mug at him a second time. He is just grabbing up the second refill when there is a sharp tug on his sleeve. Frodo is surprised to find Merry peering up at him in what he can only define as disgust.

"I've a message for you," Merry says through his curling lip.

"Message? From whom?"

"I'm not to tell you," Merry replies. "Only that you are suddenly feeling very cold and are in desperate need of a coat." Merry says all of this with much rolling of his eyes then folds his arms over his chest and glares at Frodo.

Frodo frowns, completely bewildered. "Wha...? But I'm not at all cold." His gaze wanders over to the Yule log, crackling merrily not ten yards away from where he stands. "Who gave you such an odd message? And what would I need--"

"She said you'd be obtuse about it," Merry complains with more rolling of eyes and now adds an exasperated sigh. "She said to tell you that you're very cold but you can get yourself as warm as if it were May, if you only go and get your coat. Bother, Frodo, even I know what that means!"

Frodo should probably feel a little insulted by his cousin's obvious disdain but he, in fact, knows what that means now as well and his thoughts are suddenly off of small cousins and onto... He licks his lips. Then he musters up a shiver.

"You know," he tells Merry, "I am suddenly feeling a chill."

Merry grimaces. "I thought you might."

"Why don't I just go..."

"Get your coat?"

"Yes, my coat." Frodo nods, already eyeing the most direct route out into the hallway and to the coat closet. "And you'll..."


Frodo smiles down at Merry. He reaches his hand out.

"If you pat my head, I'm going to tell Mum what you're up to."

Frodo stops, quickly withdraws his hand. He shoves it into his pocket.

"Are you angry, Merry?" he wants to know.

"A little," Merry admits. He scowls then turns a fretful glance to Frodo. "You won't spend the whole party with her, will you? I know you're a big lad but I'm getting bigger, too! I can be just as fun as any old girl." This last is grunted out through a sneer. "And I wouldn't make you meet me in a closet, either. What on earth can you do in a closet?"

Frodo smiles, hunkers down to Merry and wraps an arm around him. "Girls are fun in a different way, Merry," he says. "I know it seems hard to believe but one day you'll be thrilled beyond measure to be invited into a closet with one."

Merry gives him a skeptical frown. "Not everyone is as daft as you are, Frodo."

Frodo laughs. "Very true." He peers closely at his little cousin. "Why don't I just stay here with you? The dancing will be starting soon and there will be games as soon as your mum gets everyone together. I know how you love ribbon-tag."

Merry seems to think it over carefully before shaking his head. "I really hate to be the one to tell you this, Frodo, but you're awful at ribbon-tag. Most of the lads try not to get you on their team."

Frodo blinks, lifts an eyebrow indignantly before Merry gives in to his snickers. Frodo glares at him then sighs, laughs and shakes his head.

"I think you can count on two thimblefuls of wine tonight, Merry-lad," he says then, though he's been specifically warned, dares to ruffle his cousin's hair. He stands. "I won't be long."

Merry narrows his eyes. "You promise?"

Frodo gives him another smile. "Promise."


Frodo reaches the door of the closet, stops and peers in every direction, checking to be sure he isn't observed. He spies a candle in a holly wreath holder on the small table beside the door and snatches it up before slowly turning the knob. He swings the door open cautiously and lifts the candle into the darkness within. All is quiet and he begins to wonder if he's got the wrong closet.

"Maybell?" he whispers as he takes a step forward. "Mayb--"

The candle goes flying and there is a muffled screech from farther within the closet as he trips over what could only be a spinning wheel that some treacherous soul has left directly in his path. He falls face-first to the floor, barking his shins on the wooden bench of the spinning wheel and scraping his palms on the rough wood of the floor. He only just misses giving himself a nosebleed by smacking his face into said floor and what a spinning wheel would be doing in a coat closet of all places he can't fathom but bugger all that really hurt!

Frodo sits up, growls and rubs at his shins. "Mother--"


And his face is being covered in kisses, soft moist lips latching on to his own. His nose is filled with the scent of apples and he tastes honey and spices. There's only one person in all the world who tastes like this. He pulls back a little, groans, "Maybell," then dives right back in, prying her mouth open with his tongue. She is more than willing to go along and she opens wide for him, delves her own tongue deep and he groans some more as his hand reaches up and--

"Ow!" Frodo yanks his hand back, sticks his fingers in his mouth. "What have you got in your hair?" he wants to know. He pulls himself away and up to his hands and knees then begins feeling about for the candle.

"Oh," Maybell says. "Drat." Frodo can almost feel her blush in the darkness. "It's mistletoe," she tells him. "It was supposed to be cute. You know - like a private joke."

Frodo is confused. "But mistletoe doesn't feel like dozens of little pins stuck in one's fingers. Ah!" This last as his hand lands on the candle. He digs into his pocket for a match.

"Well," Maybell returns with a quiet chuckle, "it does when one gets it to stay in one's hair with dozens of little pins."

Frodo smiles as he strikes the match and lights the candle. He takes a moment to locate its holder and place it safely on the bench of the spinning wheel before turning to Maybell.

"Oh," is all he says as he takes her in; a wealth of chestnut curls trapped in a wreath of mistletoe at her brow, shimmering russet in the candlelight and spilling down her shoulders, literally pointing the way to that magnificent bosom. Dressed all in green the colour of bay leaves and a look in her eye that promises much, much more than what mistletoe usually involves. "It's lovely," he tells her. He takes a step toward her--

"Ow!" Frodo shakes out the match that he was apparently too preoccupied to pay attention to before the flame reached his fingertips and singed off a layer or two of skin. He again sticks his wounded fingers in his mouth. "Bugger!"

Frodo is just beginning to think that the idea of meeting in a closet - for whatever pleasant and worthy reason - was not one of Maybell's best when his hand is pulled away from his mouth and toward Maybell's. And oh, what a clever mouth she's got, all plump, red lips, hot and moist and laying slick-smooth promise to his skin. She licks the tips of his fingers slowly, staring brazenly into his eyes whilst doing so then sucks his middle finger into her mouth, swirls her tongue.


Frodo hopes that wasn't really as squeaky as it sounded. He clears his throat, tries again.


Sensation lays a fiery path directly from his hand to his groin and his knees weaken. He's hard as stone already and now Maybell has moved in closer, backing him against the wall between the coats, pressing into him. Her mouth is hot as coal-fire and her hip is pressing right up against the growing heat in his groin and right now he could care less if he spends the rest of his life a soprano as long as she uses that mouth some more. And very soon.

In direct contradiction to his hopes, Maybell pulls her mouth from his hand and he groans, closes his eyes and yanks her closer, covers her mouth with his own and plunges his tongue deep. He slides his hands down and over her wonderfully firm, magnificently rounded bottom and oh, it's so lovely when the lass knows exactly what she's doing; she grinds against him, slow and thorough and heat rolls up from his toes. He pushes his hips forward, and this time she groans. She begins pushing his coat from his shoulders and working determined fingers between them to loosen the buttons of his waistcoat.

Frodo needs no further cue; his own hands move swift as arrows to the laces of her dress, tangling clumsily in the silken ribbon and he growls, tugs and yanks and growls some more. Maybell pulls back and pushes his hands away.

"You're going to tear it," she scolds as she proceeds to tend the laces herself and much more efficiently than he'd done.

She loosens the tangle then peers up at him from beneath her lashes, a small, sly smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, all smoky promise and silk-soft command. Frodo swallows and no, of course that was not a whimper because he does not, under any circumstances, whimper... except possibly in cases where a lass slowly unlaces her dress right in front of him, each slide of silk through an eyelet scraping mercilessly against his nerves and sending sparks to his belly. He thinks he might be forgiven a whimper or two in such a case and is grateful for his own magnanimous understanding because he's almost sure that he's loosing them without restraint now.

She finishes with the laces and now begins to open her dress, bit by maddening bit. Frodo's fingers flex. He moves to reach out a hand and bugger all but this blasted coat is still bunched around his arms. He struggles wildly to free himself, twisting, writhing, cursing and finally succeeds, throws the coat to the floor. He turns back to her and his breath catches sharp in his throat.

She really does have a magnificent bosom, smooth and full and silk-white lent amber shadow by candlelight. He wants - no, needs to touch, feel, bury his face and let his mouth take it from there. But all he can do is stand there and stare for a moment, feeling his jaw hanging loose on its hinges and his fingers once again flexing uselessly at his sides. Her small white hand slides up, feathers over her collarbone then hovers in clear invitation. And now he finds the will to move, draws her closer because she's gone and unwrapped them so nicely for him and surely she expects him to take advantage of her generosity. It would be almost rude not to.

He trails his tongue down over her throat, apple-scented and angled just so and he feels her back arch, her breath catch. She moans a little and the sound slices through him and oh, take your time, Frodo, make it last but he wants even more and slow and gentle have lost their meaning entirely. His mouth wanders lower, stirring shivers and ripples along the way and he's absolutely fascinated but far too intent on his purpose to stop and ponder the reactions he's drawing. He moves over the plump swell of her breast then bites gently at a peaked, brown nipple. Maybell shrieks and grinds against him, back arching further until she's almost bent in half over his arm. Oh, and what a lovely sight it is but he is already trembling and his knees are simply not to be trusted and he thinks he might do well to arrange them both into a position a little less precarious. He may not be the most experienced hobbit he knows but he is definitely aware that dropping a lass on her head is not likely to garner the results one hopes for.

He turns them both until Maybell is pressed to the wall then he goes to work in earnest, nibbling and flicking his tongue, moving from one to the other and back again, drawing sharp moans and a slow, wanton ripple of her hips. He slides his hand down further, over the generous rise of her hip, down her thigh and Maybell swings a leg up over his hip, pulls him yet closer and begins to rock against him. He trails his hand back up her thigh, bunching her skirts as he goes, the teasing touch of smooth, hot skin beneath his fingertips until he reaches... He pulls back, eyes wide.

"Maybell!" he cries. "You haven't any knickers!"

"Oh, they're around here somewhere," Maybell murmurs and slithers against him. "You took so long, Frodo," she breathes. "I was bored." This with a nibble at his earlobe, hot breath feathered over his skin and a shiver breaks loose, shakes his bones. "I had to do something to entertain myself."

Fireworks explode behind Frodo's eyes and this time there is no question at all - he whimpers. Yes, definitely a whimper. Oh, just the thought of what she'd been doing - to herself! - and Frodo has to clench his teeth to keep himself from going off before he's even out of his trousers. Oh, but he's hard, harder than he's ever been in his entire life and he's frantic now, hands shoving too many layers of skirts and petticoats out of the way, mouth latching on to a willing nipple and trying desperately to keep hold of himself long enough to see what that clever mouth of hers might have in store for him. But first, there is the pressing matter of investigating the results of her former labours and he probably should be more gentle, go more slowly but he simply cannot find it within himself to calm down. Finally the skirts are out of his way and he zeroes in on the silken heat beneath them. He takes no time for gentle play but plunges a finger in.

Maybell arches so hard her head thumps into the wall and she claws at his shoulders, wails in his ear. "Oh! More!"

If it's possible, Frodo grows harder still. "Oh, Maybell, so... oh, so hot."

"More!" she repeats and Frodo happily obliges, twisting his hand, flexing his wrist and curling his fingers and all the while his mouth enthusiastically licks and suckles at those fabulous breasts, even more accessible, now that Maybell's arching her back so accommodatingly. She is rocking wildly, one leg still wrapped possessively about his hips and the other pressing into his groin and Frodo can't help himself, needs more, needs...

"Maybell," he pants, "let me, please."

Maybell giggles breathlessly, takes hold of his hair and shakes his head. "Ass!" she laughs. "Let you? I've been throwing it at you since you tumbled in!"

She slips a hand down, works the buttons of his trousers - far too slowly to Frodo's addled mind - and then the ties of his underlinens and why, oh why do underclothes have to be so bloody difficult, ties and strings keeping people out when all you want to do is let them in and right now! He is just beginning to ponder the sense in burning every pair he owns when Maybell's hand snakes inside and oh! merciful heavens, she's cupping and stroking and... Frodo clenches his teeth and a whistle of breath flows harsh between them. If he wasn't propped against her the way he is, he is sure his legs would betray him and spill him unceremoniously onto the floor. Oh, the heat rolls right through him and it's almost too much and he thrusts himself into that eager grip, his head dropping back and lightning flaring up his spine.

He's close, too close and he wants to tell her to stop before it's too late but he can't make his mouth form anything but incoherent wheezing babble and he can't bring himself to pull out of her grip and he feels it coming, feels himself too close to the edge. But then Maybell stops, pulls her hand away and Frodo can't help the whimper this time. He's not sure if he's relieved or disappointed but he is most certainly by-bloody-damn happy that it isn't over just yet.

He takes a deep breath, calms himself just enough to form a semi-coherent stream of thought that is abruptly cut short as Maybell reaches above her head, hooks her fingers around two coat pegs and wraps both legs around his hips. She hauls him in, directs a smoky gaze that sears right through his skin then reaches down, takes hold of him, guides him.

"Now," she demands.

And oh, as if Frodo's going to argue with that. But then his mouth opens and he is frankly shocked to hear, "Is it safe?" come tumbling out of it and bugger all but why does the gentlehobbit-in-waiting within decide to start nattering now, of all times?

Maybell appears to have the same question. Her mouth drops open and she just stares at him for a good, solid minute before she blinks, rolls her eyes.

"Now? You ask me that now?" She smacks him in the head. Frodo almost protests but he really did deserve that one. "Idiot! Of course it's safe, or I wouldn't be here!" She renews her grip, strengthens her grasp, squeezes, kneads and oh, just bloody brilliant! That shuts his traitorous mouth well and good and Frodo follows her lead and...

Oh... sinks in, deep and slow.

There is nothing in the world like this feeling of being consumed in slick-wet fire, wanton conflagration from head to toe and loving every second of it. Frodo pushes in further, smiles breathlessly at the small moan he gets from Maybell then snaps his hips a little, smiles some more at her sharp intake of breath.

"Oh, yes, like that," she breathes and tightens her legs around him, pulls him deeper still. It's his turn to moan then and he wants to do this slowly, wants to lose himself in her groans and sharp little cries until they turn to shrieks and wails but his hips are already rocking with a mind of their own and he knows it won't be so very long before his other brain takes over completely. So, he takes advantage of his current - if vague - awareness, bends his neck and reapplies himself to that luscious bosom as he rolls his hips, pushes deep.

"Tell me I'm pretty," she pants at him. "Tell me you want me."

And this is important; he wants it to be perfect for her and he wants to say exactly the right thing. 'You're more than that,' he wants to tell her. 'You're all chestnut fire and moon-pale, silken flame,' and he scrapes together every single wit he has, harkens back to the book of poetry he's only just read a few days ago, takes a deep breath, forms the words very carefully, opens his mouth and says...

"Nguh! You're... nyah!"

"Oh, yes!" Maybell cries and Frodo is nothing, if not pleasantly staggered. Had he known incoherent babble was such a motivator, he'd have been honing his skills at it long-since, because now she is rocking into him and he's helpless to do anything but match her movements. He bucks wildly, clenching his teeth and grasping her hips hard enough to bruise. Sensation rockets through him, scrapes at his bones, spikes hot and sharp in his groin. Nothing but the hot, wet silk of her and the maddening pulse of their rhythm and Frodo drops his head to her shoulder, lightly sinks his teeth into smooth, fragrant skin. There is no control, not anymore, not even any pretense at control; they are both in a frenzy of movement, hips meeting, bodies rocking and mouths coming together in a clash of teeth and tongues.

This is more than bliss, more than desire - this is need, all fiery-hot and shamelessly demanding. Frodo pulls back then plunges in again and Maybell gasps, clutches at the coat pegs and arches her back yet more. Frodo does it again, harder this time and then again and Maybell is writhing and near keening. His hands on her hips are slick with sweat, his breath comes harsh and hot and he rocks harder, deeper.

Frodo is thrusting with abandon now, hard and fast and hoping she reaches her peak first because he knows that, selfish or no, he simply won't be able to hold out and wait for her much longer. Fire spreads through him, races in his veins and comes to a silver-sharp pinpoint in his groin. His awareness has narrowed to the vortex of pleasure he swirls in and it's only vaguely that he hears Maybell cry out, feels her pulse and ripple against him, around him and then the fire flares hot and bright behind his eyes, spreads lightning over his skin. He moves in a frantic flurry of thrusts 'til the holocaust consumes him completely and he jolts, seizes and shouts his release.

Every limb spasms and blessed liquid fire washes beneath his skin. His toes curl, his breath stops, save for the guttural groans that rumble long and hard from his chest. It takes him, casts him to spin among the stars for an eternity before releasing him, breathless and boneless and willing slave to sensation.

It feels like it must be weeks later and Frodo thinks his mind has actually left his body, his release was so profound. By degrees he becomes aware of warm breaths puffing into his throat and a soft hand curling and uncurling at his nape. He shivers and his knees give then they slither down the wall in a boneless tangle of skirts and various watery limbs. Little by little his brain begins firing signals at the rest of his body again and he realizes that his legs are curled uncomfortably beneath them both and his left hand is squashed between Maybell and the wall.

Rather than taking on the task of arranging them both into a more comfortable position, Frodo simply allows himself to fall back and brings Maybell along for the ride. They lay on the rough floor of the closet, collecting their wits and sharing soft, breathless kisses, laced with the occasional stroke of fingertips.

Maybell is the first to begin the business of making herself once again presentable. She stands and Frodo laments the renewed entrapment of that fabulous bosom but supposes there's nothing for it. He sighs as he stands himself and watches her tie the ribbon into a nice, neat bow at the top of the row of eyelets. He reluctantly begins tucking himself and his clothes back into their respective places.

"We oughtn't linger too long," he finally says. "Your father was looking for you earlier and I'm sure he suspects us."

"Bah!" Maybell puffs with a wave of her hand. "Him and those bloody footprints." She turns a scowl upon Frodo. "You really should leave Daddy's mushrooms alone, you know. You'll only make it harder for us to meet and he really will sic those dogs on you one day, don't you doubt it."

Frodo fastens the last of his waistcoat buttons and begins casting about for his frockcoat. Maybell turns it over to him in exchange for a kiss.

"The chance of being chased by dogs is well worth the reward, Maybell, my dear," Frodo answers as he drags on his coat and leans in for one last kiss. "I'll risk it."

Maybell looks down at her toes. "For mushrooms?"

Frodo smiles, lifts her chin. "For you, love."

Maybell returns his smile suspiciously then rolls her eyes and pushes him away. "You're a daft one, Frodo Baggins, and a terrible liar." She takes up the candle, grasps the doorknob then reaches up to kiss the tip of his nose. "But I'll meet you in a closet any old time."

"And what about the barn?" Frodo wants to know as he adjusts his collar. "I like the barn. And that grove down by your father's pond in the springtime. And that shed down along the path to the river and--"

"Daft!" Maybell crows as she swings the door open. Her laughter suddenly dies and she lets out a little shriek, darts behind Frodo. Frodo turns slowly to the open door, his heart in his throat. He is somewhat relieved to find, not Farmer Maggot and his pitchfork, but Bilbo Baggins and his knowing smirk.

There comes a time in every hobbit's life when he must decide whether to own up to his behaviour or lie his way through to the other side. Frodo squares his shoulders, clears his throat and does what any sensible hobbit would do: he ignores both options and smiles at his cousin.

"Hullo, Bilbo."


"Leaving already?"

"I left my pipe in my coat."

"Ah. Have you been waiting long?"

"Long enough."

"My apologies, sir."

"Well, you were rather busy."

"Ahem. Right. Yours is the one with the blue piping, yes?"

"That's the one."

"Here you are, then."

"Thank you, lad."

"Certainly, sir."

Bilbo turns, chuckles as he starts down the hall. He shakes his head, still chuckling.

Frodo lets out a sigh of relief, blessing his astonishing luck and good fortune. Maybell wilts a little into his back.

"Frodo?" Bilbo calls over his shoulder.

Frodo stiffens and Maybell's fingers dig into his arm. "Yes, sir?"

"How old are you now, lad?"

"I've just turned eighteen, sir."

Bilbo turns with a twinkle. "Old enough, I should think. Although..." He narrows his eyes at his young cousin. "Still a little young, it seems. Youth can be a dangerous thing, when one dabbles in grown-up..." He coughs. "Activities."

Frodo tries very hard not to shuffle beneath his cousin's too-sharp regard, veiled in merry banter. "Aunt Esme tells me I'm older than my years, sir," he says and it feels too close to a defense for his comfort. "I do an adult's day's work and have my share of adult responsibilities." He lifts his chin. "I manage."

"Yes, I can see that you do." Bilbo's gaze sharpens further. He tilts his head, eyes narrowing a little more but the smile never falters. "I think it's time you and I started getting to know one another better," he says. "Why not plan a visit to Hobbiton sometime during Afteryule? That is," he pauses, lifts an eyebrow, "if Miss Maggot can spare you?"

Maybell's fingers tighten on Frodo's arm for a second before they loosen and she steps out from behind him, back straight, head held high. Frodo finds he admires even the hectic flush of her cheeks as she meets Bilbo's gaze steadily.

"Yes, sir," is all she says - not exactly an answer to his question but Frodo smiles proudly anyway.

"There it is, then," Bilbo returns with an answering smile. "Write me with a date, lad," he says and then he's off, whistling down the hall.

Frodo and Maybell both loose relieved sighs and Frodo leans heavily against the doorjamb. He opens his mouth to tell Maybell how very much he admires her when a high, clear voice drifts down the tunnel through which Bilbo has just disappeared.

"Frodo, aren't you done playing in the closet yet?"

Frodo looks at Maybell, Maybell looks at Frodo and they both laugh then start back to the party. Frodo stops her almost at the door.

"Save a dance for me?"

Maybell lifts an eyebrow. "You really are one for pushing your luck, aren't you?"

"Is that a yes?" Frodo asks with the smallest of smirks.

"Let me put it this way," Maybell returns and holds the candle out to him. "Why don't you just take this, set yourself on fire now and spare yourself the pain of Daddy killing you later?"

She leans up, lays a quick, soft kiss to his mouth. She pats his cheek then laughs, turns and heads into the party.

Frodo just stands there, grinning dreamily after her until Merry unfolds himself from where he's been waiting in the doorway. He crosses his arms over his chest with a glare that Frodo is finding somewhat familiar.

Merry grimaces, rolls his eyes. "Lilac says to tell you that you're hungry."




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