West of the Moon
A Tolkien Fanfiction Archive
Magic and Mischief
Frodo and Sam conduct a private Yuletide celebration right under the noses of friends and kin.
Author: Bill The Pony
On the day before Yule, Samwise Gamgee had a
great deal to do. There was to be a Yule-night feast in the smial, with Mr.
Bilbo and Mr. Frodo's best friends and relations invited, and Sam was to help
tend the cooking and the carrying, though his sisters were to do the serving.
His Gaffer was to be about tending the yard, making the winter garden look as
spruce as it might and resetting a few flags on the path that had heaved in the
Sam's own task of the moment was to choose the wood for the Yule fire, including a Yule log of suitable size and vintage for Mr. Bilbo's fireplace-- one as was mayhap a little green, and would last the night through, but was seasoned enough to burn without making a smother of smoke. Oak was traditional for its properties in bringing strength and wisdom and healing, but Sam had half a mind to bring birch or willow-- though that last he wouldn't dare, for it was burned to bring about the achievement of the heart's desire. It wouldn't do for nobody to ask him what sort of things there might be to want, not when the table was laden to groaning with food, and mugs and glasses full of wine and ale, and a company were there, laughing and toasting each other hobbit's good health.
Pine was good for prosperity, but it wouldn't last, and they didn't have no beech, not none that suited Sam, for it was all bone-dry, left over from the last season, or else already split.
"Don't be dawdling all the day," the Gaffer spoke sudden-like over his shoulder. Sam reached out and found his hand upon a birch-log, new cut in early autumn, fat and round.
"We'll have this one," he said, and hoisted it on his shoulder, never mind a barrow. He and his old Dad set out up the Hill with the girls, for it was their last purchase of the day, all to be hauled to Bag End. The girls skipped on ahead as they left Bywater, and Hamfast was only lightly laden, so Sam found himself lagging behind under his burden, but he hardly had a care for that when he heard a patter of feet and a soft call behind him.
"That log looks too stout to carry, Sam."
"It's naught more'n I can handle, Mr. Frodo." Sam kept moving and Frodo fell in at his side.
"Birch for new beginnings," Frodo murmured, approval in his tone. "Will you twine it with juniper and rosemary?" Sam felt himself blush, remembering the sack he bore slung over his shoulder, some of its contents peeping out. Juniper and rosemary: love and protection, healing and a blessing.
"I thought I might," he allowed, a little gruff. "They'll make a sweet scent."
Frodo smiled, putting a hand up to steady the log as the path steepened, helping Sam keep it balanced. "Bilbo says the old traditions are more for comfort than for magic," he murmured. "But he wouldn't have Yule without them, even so."
"I've cut the holly boughs already," Sam nodded, breath coming a little short. "Daisy and May will weave them and drape them about before they start in to cooking tomorrow."
"I saw them in the market, but May wouldn't speak," Frodo chuckled. "Daisy says she's doing the holly spell."
Sam nodded with a nervous chuckle. "That she is. Since the Gaffer said we must cut the holly before going to market, she's stuck holding her tongue all the day, or it will spoil her working."
"Who does she think will visit her dreams?"
"That I'm not knowing; she won't say." Sam shifted the heavy log. "She's a quiet one, and isn't telling how she's set her cap, seemingly."
"Like yourself," Frodo responded, laughter in his voice, and Sam quieted, turning his eyes to his toes. "Though I saw your eyes linger on Rose Cotton a time or two this harvest past."
Sam bit his lip; Frodo wasn't one to tease, but the matter was a sore one, seeing as how Sam's own cap wasn't set where anyone guessed, least of all Frodo himself. "That's as may be," he said at length. "But admiring a lass ain't the same as coming to an agreement with her."
Frodo's brow wrinkled in a thoughtful frown. "May might want to think about making herself a little more clear." He gazed up the road, thoughtful. "It's hard for a suitor to work up his courage to speak if he doesn't know where his beloved's heart lies."
"That's the truth." Sam gave a rueful, labored chuckle.
"Rosie likes you well enough," Frodo said softly. "Her eyes followed you too, though you didn't see."
"That's as may be," Sam repeated, uncomfortable. "But perhaps it isn't her I'm courting."
"Then you are courting a lass?" Frodo stepped closer, conspiratorial. "Who is she, Sam?"
"I ain't courting nobody nohow." Somehow the Road felt narrower than it had a moment before. "The one I'd court wouldn't have aught of a lout like me, not if I--" he flushed and fell silent, puffing with effort.
Frodo fell silent, watching Sam with thoughtful eyes as they negotiated the last steep part of the hill and went through the gate up to Bag End. The dining room fireplace was cold and swept bare, and Sam eased the log down on to the iron frame he'd made ready for it. Kneeling, conscious of Frodo's alert gaze, he unslung his sack and hoped he wouldn't have to continue the conversation, but Frodo didn't move, so he knew he was for it.
"Why wouldn't she, Sam? Has she already got a lad?" He sat down next to Sam, taking up a sprig of juniper from the sack.
"Not that I'm knowing," he let the truth be pulled from him, some fey part of him enjoying the reckless game. It was worse than foolish to play at hinting; Mr. Frodo wouldn't be put off with no explanation, and that was just what Sam didn't have to give, nohow! He pulled out the long, limber sprigs of rosemary and began to weave them together into a garland, tying the tips with just a bit of string.
"Doesn't she like you?" Frodo tilted his head, thoughtful.
"Likes me well enough, I'll warrant, though no better than he should," Sam felt his face burn at the half-intended slip, and scolded himself for a ninnyhammer, his heart pounding in his throat. He fumbled with the string, cutting neat lengths for tying, not trusting his shaking hands with the delicate herbs.
Frodo only nodded and looked thoughtful, tapping the juniper against his lips. "Then he's not fond of lads. Or you don't think he is."
Sam trembled, a little giddy, averting his gaze and wishing that he dared to flee-- but there was nowhere to go that Frodo mightn't follow. "I don't hear tell he likes lasses, either," he heard the words as though from afar. "But that don't mean he'd have the likes of me." Made shy by his own foolishness, he bit his lip to keep his pert tongue from betraying him. This weren't no way to keep Mr. Frodo from ferreting out his secret!
"Then you must think he's above your station," Frodo guessed, and Sam's fists closed in spite of himself; he pulled a thread hard and it broke off at the spool.
"Ah." Frodo sat back, drawing up his knee and leaning his chin on it. The juniper twirled between his fingertips. One frosty-blue berry fell, rolling nearly to Sam's calf. "That must be it, then." He watched Sam closely.
Sam flushed and made his trembling hands take up another piece of string. Suddenly this weren't fun at all. What Mr. Frodo must be thinking! Mayhap he thought Sam had a crush on Mr. Pippin. Master Peregrin Took was in the line of being Thain, a bit younger than Sam, but always in and out of Bag End, his eyes bright with mischief, making the halls of the smial and the Hill 'round about ring with laughter-- he wasn't a bit standoffish with the help. Or maybe Mr. Frodo thought Sam meant another of his friends. Maybe that Mr. Merry Brandybuck; he spent a fair bit of time in Hobbiton, and didn't scruple at being pleasant to the servants. Merry wasn't aught but a year different from Sam in age, and bid fair to be Master of Buckland one day.
"There ain't no point in fretting about it," he said when his fluttering stomach calmed enough to allow him words. "It won't change aught, and I'd rather not be found out, if it's all the same to you."
"I think it isn't," Frodo said softly, his tone no longer light but strangely intense, and Sam glanced up, alarmed, to find himself caught by Frodo's eyes. "It isn't the same to me at all."
That must mean he thought it was Mr. Merry, Sam thought desperately; Sam had often thought his master might have a bit of a liking for Meriadoc Brandybuck himself, what with them being kin and both from Buckland. They spent enough time together; that was certain. He'd best let Mr. Frodo know he wouldn't stand in his way!
"Now, Mr. Frodo, you know I ain't putting myself forward; I won't be a trouble to you, if that's what you're thinking. I wouldn't do such a--" Sam's torrent of words abruptly dried up as his master's hand fell on his knee. He blinked at it, startled; Mr. Frodo weren't standoffish neither, but he hadn't never touched Sam so.
"Sam..." Mr. Frodo stared at his own hand. His tongue darted out, leaving his lips wet; Sam sat paralyzed, heart thumping with a mix of fear and sudden hope. "Sam..." Mr. Frodo seemed unable to find any other words for a moment. "...Please." His eyes rose to Sam's, sparking to blue fire. "Trouble me."
Sam blinked, struggling to understand how the conversation had arrived at the right conclusion so swiftly, but there could be no mistaking Frodo's meaning. "Oh, but Mr. Frodo," he faltered, both tempted and terrified. "I couldn't..."
"You can," Frodo breathed. "If you like. I would like you to. Very much."
The moment froze between them, heavy with possibility, and then shattered at the sound of Daisy's laughter; she was on her way down the hall towards the dining room, towing Marigold and May in her wake. "Watch out there, don't prickle me," Daisy all but shrieked, and the patter of their footsteps speeded up to a run.
Sam drew back, all of a dither; the spool escaped his fingers and went rolling under the table. Frodo followed its progress with his eyes and with half an attempt to catch it, but at the last moment he wavered, then caught Sam's hand and tugged him forward hastily.
Sam obeyed without thinking, falling forward on hands and knees and fleeing from his sisters. Frodo quickly resettled the thick white lawn while Sam picked up the spool, and the two of them looked at one another, merriment and heat in Frodo's eyes meeting startled joy in Sam's as Sam's sisters clattered in.
"Where's that Sam, I'd like to know! He's gone and left his job half-done," Daisy fussed.
Next to Sam, Frodo put a steadying hand out on his shoulder and gave a conspiratorial smile. Sam hesitantly answered with one of his own. Soft grey light filtered through the cloth, more than enough to see clearly.
"Probably following about after Himself like an unweaned pup, I'll warrant," Marigold said right pert, and they giggled-- except for May, who kept right quiet. Sam blushed, and Frodo squeezed his shoulder. The table was long enough to seat twelve hobbits, but there didn't seem to be enough room under it in spite of all that; he and Frodo were pressed up tight to keep from stirring the white lawn cloth that trailed all the way to the floor on either side.
"He does do that," Daisy allowed, "But I reckon he's wanted, if you take my meaning, though he hasn't the wit to see it."
Silent laughter rocked Frodo at that, even as Sam crimsoned to hear his sisters talk so bold. Frodo's hand touched Sam's knee again and squeezed, lightly-- and it was like he'd squeezed Sam's chest; all the breath rushed out of him, and he found himself gasping to get it back, eyes closing as Mr. Frodo's arm steadied him.
"Where will Mr. Bilbo want all this?"
"Around the candles on the mantel, and a nice centerpiece on the table with apples and ivy," Daisy said firmly. "We may as well be about it now, before Sam comes back and puts himself in our way." She pulled out one of the chairs and sat down in it; Sam and Mr. Frodo scrambled quickly and stealthily to be out of her way. Her toes poked under the tablecloth only a few handspans from Sam's leg, and he tucked it closer to Mr. Frodo, anxious-- they should never have hidden; what would his sisters say if they caught him?
Sam swallowed hard, pressing close to Frodo-- whose arm slipped around him. He could feel Mr. Frodo's lungs rising and falling with his breath, which was warm on Sam's neck, and--
Sam barely trapped a whimper in his throat; Mr. Frodo's lips were soft as silk and warm as summer. They brushed along his neck all the way up to his ear, making every inch of his skin prickle with delicious heat. His hair stood up all over as he shivered, and he felt Frodo smile against his pulse. Then something warm and wet touched his earlobe, and he gasped; Frodo's mouth was open and his tongue was wet, and he was licking Sam's ear, by the love of the Lady, he was--
Frodo's free hand gently covered and caressed Sam's mouth, palm firm against his open lips, and Sam remembered where they were, but Frodo didn't release him, nestling closer and beginning to suck softly at Sam's earlobe, his other hand sliding around to help steady Sam's face.
"We know what May's wanting for a Yule mathom," Daisy said briskly. Greenery rustled as she arranged it. "What will you be wanting, Marigold?"
"A new frock, I suppose. This old one's about to burst right through at the knee."
Speaking of bursting, Sam felt like he was in need of new clothes of his own; there weren't quite enough room in what he had on, what with Mr. Frodo nipping at his ear and all. He shifted carefully, trying to relieve the pressure, listening to the pounding of his blood in his ears. Frodo sighed softly and moved with him. His clever fingers found the buttons of Sam's braces, and Sam watched round-eyed, unable to move or speak, as he slid the buttons through the buttonholes.
"What'll you be getting for Sam?" Marigold asked Daisy. "Lace to put in his hope chest?"
"A pouch of mandrake and orris, more likely. He'll be wanting love charms before he's needing lace bedjackets."
That sent all three girls into gales of titters, and Sam would have been more disturbed by their gaiety if Frodo's soft chuckle hadn't sent a tickle of warm breath into his ear. "You won't need either," Frodo murmured just for Sam's ear, and his gentle hands tugged at Sam's shirt, insistently teasing his shirttails out of the waist of his breeches.
Sam's mouth opened and he tried to speak, but all he could do was gasp, short stuttered blurts of breath that hitched and shook him from head to foot; Frodo's hands slid under his shirt and smoothed over his belly, working their way up to his chest. Frodo purred low in his ear, an appreciative sound that hummed through Sam and made his skin glow. Frodo's mouth was open on his skin, tongue moving wet and warm on Sam's throat.
Sam fumbled for Frodo's hand, catching it and pressing it tight against himself-- not so much to still it as to convince himself it was real. Frodo's teeth closed lightly on his skin, and he let his head tip back-- silent acquiescence, permission, a plea. His right hand fisted right around the spool he still held, its edges digging into his palm, the slight pain just enough to keep his wits in their place, so he wouldn't go moaning and get them caught-- by his own sisters, worse luck!-- with Mr. Frodo's hand up inside his shirt, and Mr. Frodo's mouth a-working at his throat.
"Good morning, girls." Mr. Bilbo's fruity tones snatched Sam's eyelids wide open and he near forgot Mr. Frodo's sweet mouth in his panic. "Where's that Samwise of ours gone to?"
"We thought he was off fetching for you or helping Mr. Frodo," Daisy answered, meek as a lamb.
"Oh, hm." Bilbo sounded taken aback. "Well, I can't find Frodo, either. If you see either of them, I need a bit of help in the back pantry." His footsteps sounded, but didn't recede; after a moment one of his toes stirred the tablecloth. Frodo lifted his mouth for a moment, and he and Sam held quite still.
"Perhaps they've gone out to the springhouse?" Marigold suggested, just a little pert.
"And left the fire half-laid," Bilbo clucked his tongue. "I might as well tell you, girls," his voice dropped conspiratorially. "I think my Frodo is a bad influence on your Samwise from time to time."
The girls fluttered earnest denials, but Frodo convulsed in silent mirth, burying his face against Sam's throat; his chest shook with laughter, and Sam covered his own mouth to keep the nervous chuckles inside himself, then forgot them-- in his dismay at Bilbo's arrival, he'd loosed Frodo's hand and it had begun to wander along a new path, headed downwards.
Sam's eyes fluttered shut and his mouth fell open; all sense left him other than the slow, steady progress of Frodo's hand. Sam sank his teeth in his lower lip as Frodo's fingertips played under his waistband, testing their welcome. Sam arched helplessly, straightening his body and giving the questing fingers a way under the well-worn cloth; they took it, dipping inside. Mr. Bilbo's foot shifted and Frodo pressed against Sam's body, turning him away from it.
Sam turned his head, his sisters and the master of the smial forgotten, longing to learn the taste of Frodo's mouth. Cloves and spices, a hint of bitter tea-- Sam felt Mr. Frodo's head tilt, and realized his own hands had done it. He twisted, pressing Frodo back with his body until they lay along the floor, curled together, mouths joined and legs recklessly tangled, threatening to push out from beneath the tablecloth.
He finally had to breathe, lifting his head to fill his lungs; Frodo gazed up at him with hazy blue eyes. The sweetest smile curved his lips, pure and tender, and Sam couldn't breathe for the life of him, looking into those eyes and seeing his own heart mirrored there.
The ringing of a bell jarred him, dragging him up from the blue sea of Frodo's eyes and veritably holding him there by the scruff, sputtering.
"Who could that be?" Bilbo fussed, and pattered away. Frodo slid an arm about Sam's neck and turned them again, curling them small. "Meriadoc Brandybuck!" Bilbo's voice echoed faintly. "And Pippin Took? Come in, lads, come in. The Gamgee lasses could use a hand with the holly and the Yule log; that dratted boy has vanished and hauled off half the help."
"We're trapped," Sam mouthed against Frodo's collar, the words a mere breath.
"We'll make love right here while they feast," Frodo murmured, lips feather-brushing his ear. "I'll make a feast of you, if you like..."
Sam shuddered with sheer wanting, his lashes drooping nearly shut. He felt himself grow even more rigid against Frodo's thigh. "Oh, sir..." he never knew if Frodo heard the soft husk of his words or not, for his master's hands were busy again, working buttons and opening flaps, slipping inside his smallclothes and touching him.
Sam flung his arm across his mouth and bit his own wrist, smothering a cry as Frodo's fingers closed around him, coaxing his flesh to lie flat against his belly.
"Have you ever?" The words came on a soft, warm zephyr of breath, and Sam's very skin felt like the spring, as though it were blossoming and growing and straining towards the sun of Frodo's presence.
"No...." Frodo drank his soft answer, tongue darting inside Sam's lower lip.
"Good morning, ladies!" Pippin Took's voice nagged at Sam like a cock-crow breaking in upon a pleasant dream.
"Master Peregrin. Mr. Merry." Daisy greeted them warmly. "We're a bit behind, seeing as how our lout of a brother's taken himself off with the young Mr. Baggins and vanished. Begging your pardon, sir, but the dining room's hardly fitting for company just yet!"
"We've come to help," Merry announced, dragging out a chair and dropping his overcoat into its seat. Through the gap left in the tablecloth, Sam hazily made out his sister's skirts and Mr. Merry's well-brushed feet. "Such harsh thorns are unkind to a lady's skin, aren't they?"
Daisy giggled, sounding almost like Marigold, quite out of countenance. It covered Sam's whimper as Frodo's fingers tightened and he gave Sam a quick, firm stroke. Frodo lifted his mouth from Sam's and nuzzled at his ear, teeth delivering a quick, delicate bite to the lobe. "Mmmm, quiet," he reminded Sam, speaking very low. "Or this will be over before we've begun." His hand played along Sam's front, opening his buttons and spreading his shirt wide to bare his chest. His other thumb played over the head of Sam's stiffened shaft all the while, spreading the droplets of fluid that welled at the tip, teasing jagged jolts of pleasure along Sam's spine.
"So lovely," his whisper was thick with pleasure. "I want to taste all of you...." He began to make good on his word, sliding his warm, wet mouth down to nip at Sam's collarbone, then drifting his nose through the thatch of auburn curls on Sam's chest. Sam's head went back and struck the floor with a faint thump as Frodo's mouth sealed over his nipple, tongue flicking it between his pursed lips, cheeks hollowing as he sucked.
Sam nearly screamed at the bolt of sensation that shot through him-- he'd never had a mouth on him so, but Frodo knew just what he was doing, and his teeth closed around Sam's nipple, slicing him open with the razor-sharp line between agony and pleasure. Then Frodo's tongue pulsed bliss against the sensitive spot, a soft soothing that Sam felt as a wave of heat that flowed all the way to the tips of his toes. Then Frodo bit again, harder, and Sam clenched his teeth on his own arm to keep silent, the exquisite pain of it all curling tight around his shaft like Frodo's clever hand, almost bringing him off then and there. But Frodo's tongue returned and the suction gentled, and he glanced up at Sam, eyes dancing with mischief.
Sam could do naught but look back, head spinning dizzily; as Frodo lifted his head and nuzzled across to the other side, but this time when his teeth closed, they stayed there, tugging fiercely with each breath. His hand mirrored the rhythm with short, tight strokes around Sam, dragging out the unbearable balance until Sam thought he would die of the struggle to swallow his moans. Master Merry's feet were under the table now, right at the level of Sam's eyes, only inches away.
Frodo released him at last and Sam gasped for breath, trying to be quiet about it, desperate not to be discovered in such a state; Frodo's eyes were sparkling and his thumb pressed firmly against Sam's nipple, easing the sting. Sam's shaft strained against Frodo's belly, urgent and aching, and Sam bit his lip, torn between desire and fear of being caught, but Frodo seemed to share no such fears, licking and nipping his way down along Sam's stomach, following the thickening line of curly hair down, down....
"Daisy, have 'ee seen that Sam?" Gaffer Gamgee sounded cross, then quickly moderated his tone. "Begging your pardon, Mr. Bilbo, Mr. Brandybuck. Master Took."
"Frodo's absconded with him, we think," Pippin announced cheerfully. "But everything is in hand. The holly looks fine, doesn't it, Gaffer?"
"Quite fine, Master Took, but it'd look a sight better if I knew where my Sam was off to." Sam could hear the fret in his Gaffer's voice, and it would have made him wring his hands, except just at that moment, Mr. Frodo's tongue slid wet and hot and slick all the way from the root to the crown of him, and his hands closed in Mr. Frodo's hair instead, begging mutely.
"I wouldn't worry. Lads will be lads," Bilbo remarked expansively. "Do sit down, Gaffer, and I'll bring everyone a drop of ale. And cider for the girls."
The Gaffer's feet appeared under the table, mercifully further towards the end than Sam and Frodo's current position. "Thank you, Mr. Bilbo, sir. Daisy, give me some of that rosemary, and I'll just be tying the garland while I wait. No sense wasting time when I've got hands as can do a job."
"There's no thread. Sam's took the spool off with him and all," Marigold chirped, more pert than ever.
"Mind your tongue, lass," the Gaffer growled. "You ain't in your own parlour."
Sam wasn't either, but he was rapidly losing his capacity to care as Frodo's hot tongue dragged wet, warm circles around the tip of his aching shaft, and Frodo's sure, strong hand curled between his legs, lifting the softer weight that hung there. His hips bucked, heedless of the command of his mind, and Frodo's warm, sweet mouth simply slid over the tip of his urgent shaft and kept gliding down, closing Sam inside tight wet heat and merciless suction.
Sam's head struck the floor, louder this time.
"What was that?" Master Pippin asked, alert, just as Bilbo returned and set the tray of mugs on to the table.
"I don't know," Bilbo paused. "Perhaps I should check the fire in the parlour. Sometimes the logs roll off the grate. The floors are all tile, of course, but..." he bustled out.
Frodo dragged his mouth back up again, the tip of Sam's shaft breaching the wet circle of his lips, then plunged again-- and Sam's head struck the floor a second time, only the ache of the impact preventing him from bursting-- coming right inside Frodo's mouth, right on his very tongue.
"I heard it again! Maybe it's from outside. Come along, Merry, and we'll have a look 'round." Pippin left in a patter of feet.
Sam prudently left his head lying where it was this time, biting at the inside of his cheek-- he felt some sound swelling in him, aching in his lungs-- a shout or a wail or a scream building along with the heat at the base of his belly, the heat stoked by Frodo's delicate mobile lips and wicked tongue. He must either scream or come or burst from the struggle to hold it all inside himself; his head thrashed back and forth, sweat soaking him, his hips lifting helplessly into Frodo's mouth. Frodo rode him easily, sucking hard, his sure hands gently pressing and stroking.
"Why, I'll be the queen of the May," Marigold exclaimed. "There's the spool and the string and all, lying on the floor all this while."
Dimly Sam realized his fist had opened, releasing the string; it must have rolled from under the table where Mr. Merry's feet had disarrayed the cloth. He saw her feet approach-- her skirts puddle-- her hand close on the spool, her very face as she bent, eyes intent on the floor, but his own vision was hazing; his chest aching with held breath; Frodo's mouth was devouring him alive! He couldn't-- couldn't--
"That's enough o'this dilly-dallying!" the Gaffer said, low, apparently satisfied that none of the gentry could hear him. It startled Sam, backing him off just a bit. "Girls, I want 'ee to go out and find that Sam, and get him back up here straight away. Scat now, and I'll make things aright with Mr. Bilbo."
They scampered, followed leisurely by the Gaffer's slower steps, and Sam sagged with exhaustion and relief, then arched desperately, his body bending into a bow as Frodo slid all! the way! down! and he exploded into Frodo's mouth without warning, choking his shout against the crook of his elbow, bucking into Frodo's throat and well nigh strangling him.
Frodo rose, a glistening trail of pearl staining his mouth and his chin, his cheeks flushed and his lips swollen. He wiped his mouth with his thumb, then sucked it into his mouth, licking away every drop, lashes closing sooty-velvet on his pale cheek. His pink tongue flickered out and he licked his lips carefully, with every evidence of pleasure.
Sam watched helplessly, gulping air, his body spent but twitching feebly at the sight nonetheless. Frodo's eyes fixed on him, dark and stormy blue, as he slid his hand inside his own breeches and brought himself out-- hard and thick, the tip peeking out of its loose folds of skin, all dark coral-rose and shiny from his urgency. He palmed himself efficiently, stroking hard and tight-- three strokes, five, ten-- hand blurring with motion and speeding, loosening as his strokes quickened, moving the thin skin with only the expert circle of thumb and forefinger until he gasped aloud and pearl-white arced from the tip, jetting into his waiting palm as he shuddered and Sam watched, his chest tight with need of breath.
Then it was done. Frodo smiled a bit shakily, lifting his hand to his mouth-- and incredibly, licked his palm, cleaning it, then bent over Sam to offer a kiss which was thick with bitter salt and musk.
Sam took the kiss greedily, then backed away for a moment, startled by the sharp, unfamiliar taste. But Frodo came back patiently and Sam gentled for him, accepting and then welcoming the taste of Frodo, offered on his master's own tongue. Frodo sighed, curling around him; with one hand he flicked the tablecloth from the leg of Merry's chair and it fell again, cocooning them in the dim.
Frodo ran his hand along Sam's sweat-soaked belly and closed it lightly around his spent shaft. "I want you inside me, Sam-love," he murmured, a low rumble in Sam's ear. "We won't finish feasting until long after midnight. Leave your pallet in the kitchen when you hear Bilbo begin to snore. I'll be waiting in my room for you."
"Promise me the rest of the household won't be waiting there too," Sam managed, "and I'll be right along with bells on."
Frodo chuckled. "Bells make too much noise, as you should know." He gave Sam a glance that mingled tenderness and amusement. "You'd best see to that rosemary garland before your Gaffer comes back." He rose to his knees, arranging his clothes, eyes never leaving Sam, who suddenly blushed, realizing his state of undress and disarray. He fumbled to cover himself, having a time of getting his buttons into their proper holes, until Frodo helped him, fingers nimble.
They crept out from under the table in the nick of time; Sam had barely taken up his thread and the sprigs of rosemary when Mr. Bilbo reappeared.
"There you are, lads," he exclaimed. "Samwise, your Gaffer is looking for you in the yard. Where in the wide world have the two of you been off to?"
Sam dithered, but Mr. Frodo rose to the occasion, mild as milk. "Why, Bilbo," he lifted clear and guileless eyes, "We were right here under your noses the whole time!" He tipped his head towards the table, mischief dancing in his eyes.
Bilbo stared at him in disbelief, then began to chuckle. "I said myself you were a bad influence on Samwise, lad. Hiding under the table? If you were Pippin's age, I'd warm your hide with the flat of my hand. Come along now and let Sam work."
"Yes, uncle." Frodo rose and followed Bilbo meekly, tipping Sam a wink as he stepped through the door. Sam chuckled with disbelief-- next time, it seemed, he'd best choose a different charm.
Perhaps buckthorn and chamomile, for luck.
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