West of the Moon
A Tolkien Fanfiction Archive
Response to the Rivendell morning challenge. Moody breakfast, anyone?
If Sam had been in the mood for humor--or if he'd had the faculties to command it, for that matter--he might have supposed that there are far more convenient ways of waking on the morning of a secret council that one plans on attending unnoticed than with Frodo Baggins looming over on all fours and kissing down the curve of his neck.
"You'll be late," Sam murmured thickly, shivering under Frodo's soft hum of a laugh. "You won't have time for breakf--"
Frodo stopped and lifted his head, studying Sam intently. Sam blinked several times, but whether it was lingering sleep or the tousled loveliness hovering just inches from his nose, he couldn't rightly tell.
That it wasn't a question was bad enough; that there was laughter in Frodo's voice, well, that just added flusterment to chagrin, and Sam knew there was no way of preventing the blush that Frodo had set seeping into his breeze-brushed cheeks anyway.
"Weren't no harm in it," Sam protested, reaching up to cradle Frodo's face in his palms, half in pleading and half in adoration. "I've my reasons for not letting that Gandalf out of hearin' range when I can help it, sir, and you ought to know--"
Frodo was laughing. Hard.
"Oh, dear Sam, for all that you do know, surely you realize--"
Sam let his hands slide down and found smooth collarbones, and from there slid his arms around Frodo's neck. "If he let me hear, I reckon he knows it's his own..."
Frodo's mouth was making moist little shapes against Sam's cheek. "Yes, yes. He's made his own bed; let him lie in it. I'm far more concerned with you in mine, so long as I have even a little..."
Sam groaned and gently pushed Frodo away. "Like as not it'll take a couple of hours. You've got to eat--"
"So have you, especially if you plan on attending." Frodo's mouth was right back on Sam's cheek; he could feel Frodo's smile.
Sam whimpered in protest, succeeding at a mere nudge against Frodo's shoulders. "But you--you're--it's--official and all, I'm just--"
Frodo rolled away from Sam and kicked back the covers, and Sam found himself wide awake indeed, what with Frodo stretched out full length in the pale glimmer of morning from the window overhead. Sam rolled to face Frodo, propped himself clumsily on one elbow. Frodo's fine, clear eyes were sinking through Sam's own, smothering his resolve with warmth and wanting thicker than honey.
"As of this moment," Frodo said softly, fingers slipping up deftly beneath the chain at his throat, "I am not official. Not until I'm ready, and not Elrond himself could--"
Sam meant to cut Frodo off with some sort of protest, but it emerged a strangled gasp as Frodo set the chain and its burden off to one side, letting it slither to the table with a whisper and a clink. It wasn't so much this act of disowning as the fact that Frodo's other hand had wandered that had made Sam gasp, but the former was a startling gesture all the same. Sam closed his eyes and concentrated on the gentle thumb rubbing circles over his nipple, but not before catching a glimpse of an important matter yet unresolved.
"Mmm...they've left something...over...on the..."
"As they do every morning," Frodo murmured, his voice close to Sam's ear, sounding as if nothing mattered so much as adding a second set of fingers to the job.
Sam squirmed; now he tingled on both sides, and Frodo decided his neck needed kissing again, and--oh--there, Frodo's fingers were gone and warm palms lay still in their places and that meant Sam had to squirm some more if he expected...
"But...then...uhm, promise...you'll takeatleast...something!"
Frodo bit at Sam's neck briefly and withdrew his touch. "If you insist, then, I suppose..."
Sam whimpered again and opened his eyes. He'd felt the mattress shift; sure enough, there was Frodo halfway across the room, only his pale back and bottom and riotous curls offered for Sam's viewing. Sam sat up and watched Frodo contemplate the contents of the tray left on a chair once occupied by Gandalf. Oh, just comparing those days ago to now--
"Lie down, Sam," Frodo murmured, reaching for something, but Sam couldn't tell what.
Sam fell back, let his eyes drift to a close. The sound of Frodo's approach was reassuring, and whatever was coming promised to be most pleasant, whether it made them late or not. Sam sighed as the mattress sagged, fully expecting Frodo's mouth hot and hungry on his own, ripe with the taste of some Elven jelly, or perhaps his hands slippery with it...
Nothing. Just the feel of more shifting and a hum of content from Frodo, though not because he was touching Sam. More noises of satisfaction, then, the sound of lapping and chewing. Sam opened his eyes wide. Frodo sat cross-legged on the sheets, apparently enjoying some delicately glazed pastry. Sam shifted to face him again, reaching out with a grunt of disapproval.
"You're right. I'm starved."
Sam grimaced and let his creeping hand settle on Frodo's ankle for temporary purchase, stroking up Frodo's calf restlessly. Frodo took another bite and regarded Sam thoughtfully, tugging his hand away patiently.
"I'm not finished."
"Me neither, on account that you ain't finishin' what you started," Sam pointed out, pushing the sheets down below his waist, kicking them awkwardly away. If Frodo's eyes widened with any hunger other than that which was obvious, he was quick to hide it, and went right on chewing. Sam scooted closer.
"We'll be late for certain, if you take my meaning."
Frodo snorted through a new bite and laughed, scattering a few crumbs. "Sam, you're not even supposed to--"
"Neither are you," Sam whispered huskily, letting his hand slide back up Frodo's leg, or at least as much as he could reach. "Me dear..."
Frodo's eyes closed tightly as he swallowed another bite.
Sam's chest tightened. "I'm sorry, it weren't my--"
"No, I understand." Frodo let his hands fall to his lap, what remained of the pastry still held firm in his right.
Sam stroked Frodo's thigh, murmured gently, "Just you forget that I said..."
"I can't, Sam."
Sam bit his lip. He had to fix this, had to ease it out with words fit enough for apology, but they wouldn't come. His hands, though--
"I haven't rightly tasted..."
Frodo sighed, gave Sam a half smile. "Would you like to?"
Frodo crawled forward and leaned over Sam as before. "Here," he said softly, setting the remainder of the pastry against Sam's parted lips. He watched for a moment as Sam let the sweetness melt a few seconds before taking the flaky bit in with a sigh, chewing slowly. Frodo leaned expectantly; Sam felt Frodo's body unwind and settle down slowly alongside his own. And as was only right and proper, Sam made his move then, and pulled Frodo down tight, and gave that sweetness right back in slow, melting kisses. He felt words pushing up in his chest, and wondered if he dared say them, wondered if he dared break away when Frodo was squirming over him with soft gasps and pants for breaths whenever they paused, and the words only bubbled up stronger, and this time, Frodo's breath took longer--
"Oh," Sam breathed, and feathered his fingers across Frodo's cheek, guiding him back. "Don't you fret over--"
"I am," Frodo insisted, breath coming much faster against Sam's lips.
"So'm I," Sam murmured, and rubbed his way down Frodo's back until the slighter hobbit pushed down impatiently at the gentle pressure on his backside. "Are you still--"
"Starved," Frodo winced.
And it was nothing for Sam to bundle him close, to roll them around a bit until they lay just right and Frodo was warm and damp and pleading at both Sam's ear and his belly. And it was something, oh, always something when the aching heat finally bloomed and spilled beneath tasting and touch, and when Frodo cried out against Sam's shoulder--oh, that, that was everything.
Even if it made them late.
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