This story was written for the hobbit_smut Livejournal Community "Birthday Candles Are HOT!" Challenge.
 

"I don't know what you're going on about, Merry, honestly," Pippin complains. "It's the perfect day for a walk."

Merry stands, stretches. He directs his gaze to the window then back to his younger cousin.

"Pippin," he says reasonably, "it's overcast and freezing out there. So cold, in fact that you have been demanding a fire in every room you try on for size in your never ending quest to make Bag End your own, personal holiday resort."

Pippin rolls his eyes. "Bother," is all he mutters. He stretches, long and languid, with a low, growling sigh, swings his legs over the arm of the chair before turning back to his book. His feet sway idly, toes stretching into the warmth of the fire.

Merry can't help the fond smile. "I'm going for some tea," he offers. "Shall I bring you some?"

"Oh, yes, please. Some chamomile would be lovely."

Merry grimaces. "Pippin, you know how I hate chamomile."

Pippin looks up, blinks. "Oh." He blinks some more, the corners of his mouth turning down. "All right, then. You pick."

Merry sighs as he exits the parlour. He knows full well that he will, of course, be picking chamomile.
 

Merry pauses outside the study door; it stands half-ajar with the dancing orange glow of a fire spreading its welcome out into the hallway. He and Pippin have been attempting to give Frodo and Sam at least a little privacy each day during their visit and he ponders by the door a little, wondering if he should disturb them to offer tea. The conversation he hears coming from inside the room, however, gives him reason for further pause.

"Sam," Frodo is saying, "I don't know why you're being so stubborn. It's the perfect day for a walk."

It is so much like the conversation Merry has just had with Pippin that Merry tilts his head a little and feels not a whit of guilt at eavesdropping. He steps a little closer to the door.

"It's cold and overcast, Mr. Frodo," Sam says. "You ought to know, as you're the one insists on a fire today."

The corner of Merry's mouth pulls up and he shakes his head. When he hears Frodo mutter, 'Bother,' and a rustle of vellum and fabric, he knows what he'll see when he swings the door open. He gives a brisk knock, pushes the door on silent hinges. Sure enough, Frodo reclines in the overstuffed chair by the fire, legs draped over the arm and feet stretching toward the hearth, a book in his lap. Merry's eyebrows lift a little. How is it possible that he's never noticed this before? He wonders exactly how much he's missed and decides to give his new revelation a little test. He clears his throat and the occupants of the room turn to him expectantly.

"I was going to make some tea," he offers. "Shall I bring you some?"

Sam puts aside the shirt he's been mending and stands. "I'll get it, Mr. Merry," he says.

Frodo nods approval. "That would be lovely, Sam." He stops there and Merry begins to think that perhaps his theory is flawed. Then Frodo speaks again and Merry has to cover a snort with a cough. "How about some chamomile?" Frodo says.

Merry is certain that Sam's lip curls a little as he approaches the door. Merry is absolutely fascinated.

"If that's what you'd like, sir," Sam responds.

"You don't like chamomile, Sam?"

"It don't matter, Mr. Frodo," Sam answers aloud but Merry catches the mutter of 'You know full well I don't, as I've told you time and again.' Merry coughs again.

"Oh," Frodo says and blinks. "You pick, then."

Merry spins and flees the room before his snorts can no longer be camouflaged by the coughing and before Frodo notices the coughing and decides to hold him down whilst Sam pours cold remedies down his throat. He makes his way to the kitchen and begins filling the kettle. Sam is right behind him, gives Merry a little nod then makes his way to the pantry and sorts through the tea tins before selecting one and pulling it from the shelf. Merry snickers when he notes that it's chamomile.

Frodo has often accused his cousins of allowing their minds to dwell a little too much on things best left to private chambers... which, to Merry's mind, is simply a toffee-nosed way of saying that they spend too much time thinking about sex. Pippin is always put out when Frodo makes this assertion but Merry has never argued over it. Why bother? First of all, one learns very early and very well that to argue with Frodo is very much akin to trying to herd mice. He has so many different arguments for the same points and peppers his opponent with them so effectively that anyone who has the stones to attempt a debate with him usually finds himself staring blankly into space for hours afterwards and nursing a blistering headache. That, plus the fact that, on this particular point at least, he is, of course, right. Merry and Pippin do think about sex - in very great detail and as often as they can. When they're not honing their skills at it, of course.

So, it's only natural that this morning's revelations lead Merry to wonder if Frodo and Pippin are as much alike in the bedroom as they are the rest of the time. Merry has always known that the two were somewhat alike; they looked similar enough to be brothers, after all, with that Took blood running so close to the surface in the both of them. And he's always known that both are opinionated, stubborn, domineering, perhaps a trifle arrogant... Merry stops himself there, or he might be here all day and he's already wandered too far from thoughts of sex for his liking. So, he again turns his thoughts to Pippin between the sheets and wonders if Sam suffers the same problem Merry once had to deal with - that is, the problem of getting his own way in the bedroom every once in a while.

Merry assesses Sam, thinks about his social status, which was more than a bane to Frodo for so long and Merry is of the firm opinion that Sam will never really let go of thinking of himself as just slightly less equal than Frodo. And Merry would wager hard money that his natural deferential attitude toward Frodo leaches into their more intimate relations as well... and Merry would further wager that that's exactly the way Frodo likes it.

Merry decides: one more test when the opportunity arises and, if his theory is proven correct, he will help Sam... whether Sam likes it or not. Knowing Sam, he would never, ever even dream of the solution Merry came up with for Pippin, so it is going to be entirely up to Merry to do most of the work for him. Merry thinks about the look on Frodo's face and finds he doesn't mind doing most of the work. In fact, he thinks he'll rather enjoy it. And, of course, he knows Frodo and Sam will enjoy it... eventually, anyway.

Merry gives Sam a crafty little smile. Sam pauses, lifts an eyebrow and smiles back warily.
 

Merry is elated that he won't have to wait as long as he'd thought for the test. Frodo is playing along nicely, though that's only because he has no idea that he's playing at all. Nonetheless, the last test comes while Merry and Frodo are helping Sam prepare elevenses and it comes in the form of waistcoats... or weskits - apparently depending upon who your father is or what you do for a living or any number of equally unimportant factors that could boggle the mind of one easily boggled.

At any rate, the subject of waistcoats becomes a matter of discussion between Frodo and Sam and Merry listens attentively. He only hopes the aroma of the gravy that Frodo is preparing for the pasties does not draw Pippin in too soon, or the test will be corrupted and Merry will have to wait for another.

"Well, it's your waistcoat, of course," Frodo is saying as he whisks the lumps out of the gravy and adds a splash of wine. "I'm only saying that I don't think-- What did you call it? Pumpkin?"

"May calls it pumpkin, sir. I call it orange."

"Right. Well, I just don't think orange is your colour, Sam."

Merry, of course, knows that Sam would look just fine in orange, as does Frodo, most likely. The problem Frodo is really having is that he hates the colour. Always has. Merry props himself on the counter and leans back to watch.

"Why not a nice green?" Frodo continues, still whisking and now adding that magical mix of seasonings that, as far as Merry is concerned, makes his beef gravy the best in the world. Merry's mouth waters.

"Green, sir?"

"Oh, yes," Frodo responds with a little more enthusiasm than Merry thinks the subject of waistcoats deserves. "Green would bring out your eyes marvelously, Sam. And truly compliment your colouring."

Frodo doesn't see Sam roll his eyes a little but Merry does. "Can't say I'm worried about complimenting my colouring much, Mr. Frodo. Just wanting for a new weskit a'fore the last stitch unravels from this one. And May was kind enough to offer to make one less skirt from her orange-- pumpkin fabric and make me a weskit for me instead."

"Oh, well that settles it, then, Sam," Frodo says as he dips a spoon into the gravy, blows on it and offers a taste to Sam. "You can't possibly allow your sister to go with one less skirt!"

Sam tastes the gravy and nods his approval. "Can't be helped, sir," he says as he turns and begins pulling crockery and cutlery from the cabinets and piling it on the table. "It's all she's got and I need a new one."

"Well, let May make her skirt from the orange and I'll send up an old bolt of green wool that Bilbo left behind, how's that?"

And Merry knowsknowsknows that Frodo will be scurrying to market come sunrise to buy a bolt of green wool.

Sam shakes his head. "I couldn't let you do that, sir. The orange will do just fine and May's got plenty of skirts."

"Nonsense!" Frodo insists and Merry's not sure but he just might be gritting his teeth beneath that smile. "A lass can never have too many skirts and that fabric's been sitting in the storage room for years, being of no use to anyone. I'd rather see you have use of it than the moths."

Merry can't be entirely sure but Frodo's smile seems a little rigid and Merry's almost convinced that he can hear Frodo's teeth grinding all the way across the room. He makes a mental note to ask Frodo to show him the non-existent green wool in the storage room later, just to watch him squirm.

Sam is thoughtful for a few moments before nodding. Frodo has, after all, appealed to his practical side and Sam is nothing if not practical. Merry can't help but feel an amused sort of admiration for his cousin.

"All right, Mr. Frodo," Sam agrees. "If you're sure you won't never use that green, I'd be pleased to have it and May will be pleased at not having to give up a skirt."

Frodo smiles and the sound of teeth rubbing together fades. "Wonderful, Sam. I'll dig it out for you and have it to you tomorrow."

Merry just shakes his head and helps Sam to set the table.
 

Merry squirms impatiently, waiting for everyone to get through with elevenses. He has a theory to test, after all and it doesn't seem too much to ask that everyone choke down their meal so that he can get on with it. Of course, he can't very well actually come right out and say that, so he just sits and vibrates in his chair whilst his companions dally over their meal and then have the nerve to indulge in another cup of tea afterwards. Honestly, the whole lot of them are entirely too blasé today, to Merry's thinking.

Finally, everyone is finished with his tea and one by one, they begin to stretch in their chairs. Sam is the first to stand, reaching automatically to the empty dishes surrounding them and beginning the business of clearing the table. Merry bounces from his seat.

"Let Pip and I do that, Sam," he says, taking the plates from Sam's hands.

Sam looks a little uncomfortable. Pippin looks rather put out.

"I can do it, Mr. Merry," Sam insists, reaching again for the plates. Merry holds fast.

"No, Sam, we insist." Pippin opens his mouth, no doubt to protest that he does not, in fact, insist. Merry gives him no opportunity to voice that protest. "We've been here for almost a week now, encroaching on your privacy. It's only right that we should take care of the washing up and let you two have a some peace together for a little while."

Sam shakes his head and tugs again at the stack in Merry's hands. Merry is not surprised that Frodo cuts off Sam's protest.

"I think that's lovely of the both of you," he says with a soft smile. "How thoughtful."

Merry has to concentrate very hard in order to keep himself from rolling his eyes at Pippin's return smile. That Took would take credit for the sun shining, if he thought he could get away with it.

"You two go on, now," Pippin says sweetly. "Snuggle up by the fire and enjoy some time together."

Sam blushes but Frodo gets up and kisses both of his cousins on the brow. "Thank you, cousins," he says. "We're both very grateful." Then he slips an arm around Sam's waist and leads him down the hall. Merry waits for the 'snick' of the study door closing before launching into his test.

"So, Pippin," he begins. "I wondered if you'd come to town with me later. I noticed a lovely new blue linen in Miss Tunnelly's shop window and I'd like to have her make a new waistcoat for me."

Merry watches closely for the frown. Ah, there it was - covered quickly by a neutral expression as Pippin drops a stack of dishes by the washbasin.

"Yes, certainly," Pippin replies. "But I noticed that wonderful red wool she's got. Don't you think that would do much nicer?"

"Oh, I don't know," Merry says casually. "I rather think blue is a good colour for me." He regards Pippin out of the corner of his eye. "Don't you?"

Pippin's lips form a single thin line on his face. "Erm... yes, of course," he answers. "But I'm thinking that the red will be so nice for the fall and..." Merry waits for it... "it will truly compliment your colouring."

Merry chokes a little then coughs. There. The theory has been tested and proven and Merry knows what he wants to give Frodo and Sam for his birthday. He hadn't really planned on giving Sam anything (Sam always appears more embarrassed than grateful when receiving gifts from Frodo's cousins) and his birthday is almost a month away but this is just too good of an opportunity to let pass.

Besides, though Merry knows full well that there is no green wool in the storage room, he seems to remember there are several yards of red silk. And he knows the perfect use for at least a yard or two of it.

"All right," Merry tells Pippin. "Red it is," and Merry thinks only he would notice the slight relaxing of the shoulders and the small sigh of relief that escapes his younger cousin.

Merry snickers quietly to himself.

"In fact," he furthers, "why don't we let's make a night of it, shall we? We'll go when afternoon tea is done and take our packs with us. We can stop off at Miss Tunnelly's, place my order then have supper and some brew at the Dragon and spend the night there."

Pippin frowns. "Won't Frodo think us rude?"

"Don't be silly," Merry pish-poshes. "He'll probably appreciate having the smial to himself for a night. And," Merry moves in for the kill, "so will Sam, I'm sure."

"Oh!" Pippin nods slowly as understanding dawns on him. "Yes, you might be right," he agrees. He smiles. "It sounds like fun. And perhaps we'll run into Freddy."

See? Pippin could be made to see reason. And he could be persuaded to enjoy the benefits of that reason. And, considering how like he was to his elder cousin, it shouldn't be too much to expect that Frodo might, as well.

Merry suppresses a smirk. "Perhaps."
 

Merry puts the finishing touches on the pork roast before dropping the lid on the pan and sliding it into the oven over a low flame. He thinks it only fair that he arrange dinner for Frodo and Sam, seeing as how his own actions will make certain that dinner preparations are going to be the last things on either of their minds.

He has sent Pippin to the Dragon ahead of him, on the pretext of rounding someone up to send over to Bywater to get a message to Freddy to meet them there. Oh, but he'd had a bugger of a time convincing Pippin of that one but there was no other way to get around that one hole in his little plot. Pippin had truculently agreed in the end but only with Merry's promise that he would not lift a single eyebrow at Pippin's consumption this evening. Pippin is what one might politely call a 'sloppy drunk' and Merry normally tries to curtail his intake when he can. But, he supposes, one night of slurred innuendo in his ear and a languid Took draped over his shoulder in a puddle of ale and come-hither eyes is not too high a price to pay for...

Merry snickers to himself. The time he had convincing Pippin to go ahead without him is nothing compared to the time he had with Frodo. The guttural curses in what Merry is fairly certain was Dwarvish, interspersed with 'Bloody buggering Brandybuck!' and 'You'd best run like the wind, cousin-mine because if I ever get my hands on you again, I'm going to pull your stones up over your head, wrap them around your neck and stuff them in your ears!' are still ringing in his head. And he's fairly certain that he's going to be bruised in several places by tomorrow. Ah, the things he puts himself through for the sex lives of others. Maybe one day, someone will write a poem about him.

Merry pops two potatoes into the coals below the roasting pan before closing the oven door. He peers around the kitchen, satisfied then picks up his pack and heads for the door.
 

Sam is rather looking forward to this evening. His master had confided earlier that his cousins will be spending the evening in town and Sam had to restrain himself from doing a little jig. Not that he doesn't like Mr. Frodo's kin or any such. It's only that... well, Mr. Frodo is a little... erm... restrained of a night when his cousins are about and likely to hear the racket and Sam... Well, truth be told, Sam rather likes that racket.

He smiles a secret little smile and peers down at his trousers. More precisely, he peers down at the tent in his trousers. He is getting a little dreamy-eyed, just standing here and thinking about the evening ahead and so is more than startled and a bit chagrined to hear Mr. Merry hailing him from the gate.

"Sam!" Merry calls. "I'm so glad I caught you before I left." Merry approaches Sam and Sam quickly clasps the bucket in his hand to his front as Merry drapes an arm about his shoulders. "Listen," Merry tells him, "I've left you a little present."

Sam lifts his eyebrows. "A present, sir? For me?"

"Well," and here Merry smiles and it must be the faltering daylight because Sam can only describe that smile as a little lewd. "It's more like for you and Frodo but more for you, I'm thinking."

"Why would you--"

"I know what you're going to ask, Sam and I'll answer as best I can without giving away the surprise." Merry pauses here and ponders for a moment. "It has come to my attention that Frodo seems to get his way an awful lot."

Sam nods. "That's as it should be, Mr. Merry. He's Master, after all."

Merry actually pats Sam's head. "Yes, he is but..." He pauses, narrows his eyes. "You have more than a master/servant relationship with my cousin, Sam and I think it's high time you start acting like it."

What Sam thinks is that Merry is poking his nose where it doesn't belong. "Now, look here, sir," he begins but Merry holds up his hand.

"I know what you'll say, Sam and you're right: this is absolutely none of my business." Sam nods but he's fair certain that this admission is not going to stop the nosy Brandybuck from making it his business. His suspicion is, of course, confirmed when Merry furthers, "But I've been through this myself with Pippin and I know what it's like." He stops again, directs an even gaze to Sam. "And I know exactly what you need to do."

"Mr. Merry, I don't need to do--"

"Sam, tell me - how often do you get to do exactly what you want to do in the bedroom?"

Sam flushes to his roots. "Mr. Merry!" he cries.

"I'm betting that you start along a certain path and then Frodo... well, sort of takes over, for lack of a better term. Am I right?"

Sam sputters. Truth be told, Merry has hit a little too close to the mark for his comfort and he is now eternally grateful for his master's restraint when his cousins come to visit. As it is, he finds himself wondering if they'd been peeping in keyholes.

"Now, I haven't been peeping in keyholes or any such thing," Merry says and Sam flushes even deeper as he now finds himself wondering if his master's cousin can read minds. Oh, glory but wouldn't that put the skids on Sam's... erm... eagerness? "I'm speaking from experience, Sam," Merry goes on. "I've just today noticed how very much alike Frodo and Pippin are. Have you ever noticed that?"

Sam makes his mouth work. "Well, they do look sommat alike," he admits. "And they're both--" Sam chokes off what he nearly let spill from his big mouth and has to concentrate very hard in order to keep himself from dropping his bucket and clapping both hands over said big mouth.

Merry chuckles. "Yes, they are," he agrees. "And I know that, at least in Pippin's case, that translates into the bedroom as well."

"Mr. Merry, you really oughtn't be telling me--"

"And, knowing Frodo as I do," Merry goes on as though Sam hadn't spoken, "I'm willing to wager that it's the same for you two."

This time Sam can't make his mouth work. The truth is that Merry is only too right. Many is the time that Sam will begin a slow exploration, a leisurely release of buttons, a deliberate swipe of his tongue... and then Mr. Frodo's hands will begin to stroke and tease and Sam's intention to know every part of that body gets lost in a frenzy of bucking hips and sharp cries. Sam even tried holding on to Mr. Frodo's wrists once, which worked for a little while but then Sam's own hands weren't free and he got caught in those eyes and then that mouth moved on him and there came the bucking hips again and before he knew it, Sam was the one being pinned down and Mr. Frodo was the one having his way and there were even more bucking hips and--

"That's what I thought," Merry says and Sam is startled from his reverie. He's rather grateful because pretty soon he's going to be able to hold up this bucket without using his hands. "Sam, this present may seem to be a little extreme to you but you must not allow Frodo to talk you out of it. This is a gift from me to you and I insist you accept it, as given, without allowing Frodo to alter it in any way. And he'll try, Sam, I warn you now. But you must hold your ground, no matter how much he insists that you... well, no matter how he argues." Merry pauses, lays both hands to Sam's shoulders and holds Sam's gaze with his own. "I swear to you, Sam, that, if you use this gift to its full potential, Frodo will..." He pauses again, smirks a little. "Well, he'll thank you for it." He waggles his eyebrows. "In more ways than one."

Merry releases Sam, steps back. "Well, I've done what I can," he says. "The rest is up to you. It's waiting for you in the bedroom." He claps Sam on the back, grins then adjusts his pack on his shoulder and starts toward the road. He stops when he reaches the gate again, turns. "Hold your ground, Sam," he calls and then he's gone.

Sam stares after him for a little while, torn between scurrying up to Bag End to see exactly what this very intriguing gift can possibly be and taking himself to his da's and barring the door. Intriguing or no, this gift is from a Brandybuck, after all and Sam's not so sure what sort of predicament he ought to expect himself to fall into, should he accept it.

Sam sighs, shakes his head. Regardless of the past few moments, which have to be the oddest of his life, and his fear of what might await him in the bedroom of Bag End, Mr. Frodo needs feeding and there's also the promise of some unrestrained racket later on to think about. The latter is what decides him and he squares his shoulders and heads up the Hill.
 

The closed door is what gives Sam his first twist of real discomfort. Frodo never closes that door except for... well... And then, Sam's always on the other side of it. He can't remember ever being faced with having been closed out of this bedroom, in all his years at Bag End.

Sam ponders. Part of him knows that this is partly his bedroom, too. After all, he spends more nights in it than he does at his gaffer's. But there's always that little nattering voice inside him that likes to watch him blush and squirm by insisting that he's making free and putting on airs as he shouldn't. Frodo usually squashes that voice for him but Frodo is nowhere to be found right now, so it appears to be up to Sam. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and cautiously, quietly, turns the knob, pushes the door open for a peek.

And then things get a little surreal.

There's a fire in the hearth and that's normal. (Frodo always likes his room cosy.) And Frodo's sitting on the bed, propped up on pillows against the headboard and that's fairly normal, too. (Sometimes he naps before supper and it is, after all, before supper.) Frodo is scowling and, depending upon what transpired in the previous hour or so, that's pretty normal, as well. (Frodo has a tendency to brood to himself and sometimes Sam has to cheer him out of it.) But then Sam's gaze rises above Frodo's head and that's about where normal ends and surreal begins.

Above Frodo's head, fastened securely to the upper-most slat of the headboard is a great, festive, silken red bow. From this bow, trails one, single length of red silk. At the end of that length is a loop. And within that loop, knotted neatly and pulled tight, are Frodo's wrists. As Sam watches, those wrists twist within the loop. Then they tug. When neither of these maneuvers is effective, there is a small growl of frustration that comes from just below.

Sam blinks. His jaw drops. He steps back and silently pulls the door closed again.

Oh, mercy. Oh, stars.

Sam takes a long, deep breath and gives his head a quick shake.

Oh, this is bad. Oh, this is ten different kinds of bad. Oh, he's never seen... would never have... can't possibly...

Sam pushes the door open for another peek.

Oh, mercy.

Oh, this is... this is...

Well, maybe not entirely...

Hmmm...

All right, so if it's so bad then why are Sam's trousers tenting again? Sam peers down at himself then back into the room. He clamps his eyes shut. No - it has to be bad, regardless of what that tent thinks about it. Bad, Sam tells himself. Very, very bad.

He takes another peek. And feels drool running down his chin.

You stop this foolishness, Samwise Gamgee and go get your master out of that mess right now! This is bad and you know it - very, very bad!

Sam wipes his chin. Then he blinks. He looks down at his trousers and... smiles.

Bad! Sam's mind tells him and he swats it down. No, no, he answers it back, this could be very, very, good.

Sam grins and pushes the door open.

Frodo turns when he hears Sam enter and he smiles in relief. "Oh, Sam, thank goodness you're here! Get this off me, will you? I'm going to head to the Dragon and wrap Merry's... Sam?"

Sam only lifts an eyebrow, widens his grin. Frodo swallows.

"Um... Sam?"

Sam says nothing, just grins and takes a step toward the bed. Frodo looks less angry and more nervous now.

"Sam, were you in on this?"

Sam shakes his head. "No, I sure wasn't," he answers. "But I'm thinking it were a right good idea, now that I'm here."

Frodo looks shocked. "A right good-- Sam, are you insane? Get this off me right now!"

Sam shakes his head again. "This is my birthday gift from Mr. Merry and he was very clear that I were to use it exactly as he'd given it."

"Well, if you don't want your arse kicked from here to Buckland along with Merry's, I suggest you help me out of this."

Sam smiles, leans over Frodo and nuzzles at his neck. "I'm thinking," he murmurs, "that an arse-kicking might be a price I'm willing to pay."

Frodo's head tilts to the side and his eyes drift closed. "It's um... you're... mmm, that's nice," then he shakes his head, growls and glares at Sam. "Sam," he promises, "I'll make you pay for this, you know. You and Merry both. I mean it."

But Sam notes that Frodo's trousers are doing some tenting of their own, so he smirks a little, runs his fingertips along Frodo's jaw. Frodo squirms, tugs at the silk around his wrists. Sam is pleased to note that while it doesn't appear to be tight enough to hurt, it's certainly doing the job of restraining those busy hands, which would probably have Sam writhing and screaming Frodo's name by now, under different circumstances. Well, Sam figures, he'd like to hear his own name, caught spiraling on a cry and if this is the way to have it so...

Bless Mr. Merry, Sam thinks then he pulls himself up onto the bed, straddles Frodo's hips. "Sam what are you--" and Sam cuts that right off with a kiss because what he wants is a whole lot of moaning and very little talking. Except for the screaming his name part.

Deliberate and commanding, he takes possession of Frodo's mouth, covers it and swipes his tongue over Frodo's lips. Frodo balks for a moment, trying to be stubborn, Sam guesses but Sam pushes a little with his hips and then there's a small gasp and Frodo's mouth opens wide. Deep and careful and oh, so slow, Sam sinks into Frodo's mouth and pushes again with his hips.

His hands shake a little as he lifts them to the buttons on Frodo's shirt. One by one, he sets them loose then bit by aching bit he pulls the shirt wide. He skims his fingertips over skin lit warm and gilded by firelight, rippling over sleek muscle with every move Frodo makes. Sam pauses at a nipple, teases at it with the callous on the side of his thumb and Frodo groans, rolls his hips beneath him.

Sam finally pulls out of the kiss because there are explorations to be made and he wants to make sure he gets to every one of them before sense leaves him. He lets his mouth travel over to the tip of a pointed ear, sucks it gently into his mouth. A sharp intake of breath and Frodo yanks at the silken restraint.

Oh, Sam has never got such a useful birthday gift, not in his whole life.

He moves his mouth down further, dawdles just below Frodo's ear, right where his jaw meets his neck and when Frodo moans a little and begins to roll his hips in a slow, smooth rhythm, Sam wanders further down. He pauses at the collarbone, only for a moment then progresses to the dusky rose of a peaked nipple. He swipes at it with his tongue first, savoring the sharp intake of breath that this elicits then takes it firm and slow between his lips, sucks it into his mouth and swirls his tongue. Frodo bucks and gasps and 'Sam, set me loose, please!' and Sam smiles a little, swirls his tongue again.

Frodo growls, yanks again at his silken bonds and then Sam is unbuttoning his trousers and Frodo stills, panting. The buttons on the braces are next and when they've been loosed, Sam slowly stands and draws Frodo's trousers, complete with underlinens, from his hips, down his legs and off. He resists the urge to fold them neatly and place them on the chair and instead, flings them across the room. Frodo's still got his shirt on and Sam spares a lament that he is denied the sight of that lithe body in the altogether, glimmering low with the gloaming and the fire chasing shadows over ivory. But there's nothing for it; he can either set Frodo loose or cut the shirt from him and Sam mulishly balks at the first and silently endures that nattering voice's outraged yammering at the second.

Frodo is compliant now, watching Sam's every move with rapt attention, breathing hard and eyes glittering. "Now you, Sam," he wheezes and this is one order Sam is willing to follow this evening.

He slides deft hands over his own buttons and, much more quickly than he'd done Frodo's, said buttons are set loose and every stitch is scattered about the floor. Sam squares his shoulders, stands erect... in more ways than one. Then he is climbing onto the high bed once more and allowing his mouth to continue its business where it left off.

His tongue flicks out and over lean muscle, slides over the rise and fall of ribs and traces a path from breastbone to navel. Sam pauses to dip his tongue and Frodo is... oh, stars in their heavens above but he's writhing! Writhing! Sam clenches his hands into fists, speaks sternly to his own arousal, commands it to just behave and be patient. He'll get there. Right now, he has other business.

He slithers lower, tongue trailing all the way and Frodo knows what he's about now; Sam can tell because his moans are sounding desperate and he's arching his hips, grinding himself into Sam's chest. Sam would like to chuckle and tease and just generally drive Frodo insane with the wanting and waiting but matters are a little more pressing than they were only a few moments ago and Sam doesn't think it wise to test his own resolve. He knows he doesn't have any, not really, and that, if it weren't for that strip of silk around Frodo's wrists, those slender hands would've had Sam going off like a firecracker a long time ago. What he's working with now is borrowed resolve and he only hopes it lasts until he's done at least most of what he's wanting to do.

And what he wants to do right now is make Frodo scream. Not just any scream; not those jagged cries he shrieks into Sam's shoulder often enough and not those watery chuckles he lets loose into Sam's thigh on occasion. No - Sam wants it long and guttural and feral and wild and gnashing of teeth and flailing of limbs and... All right, so he got a little carried away. But he thinks he'll stick with the long and wild part and be quite content, thank you very much.

Sam dips his head, swipes his tongue along solid heat, hard as stone and rigid in his hands. Frodo gasps, stills and Sam feels a tremor vibrate beneath his hands. He smiles a little, gives another swipe then takes Frodo into his mouth.

Frodo does scream then, pulls up his knees and bucks himself up. Sam is a little caught out and has to move fast to keep from swallowing Frodo whole. He takes hold of Frodo's hips and presses them to the bed. Frodo moans and rocks and sobs and Sam thinks he hears a rasping demand to let him loose, let him loose, right now! But, even if Sam wanted to, he thinks Frodo just might tear Sam's head off with just his legs, if Sam were to stop what he's doing just now. So, Sam ignores that particular order, as he has so many this evening and instead he curls his tongue and sets to bobbing his head.

Oh, and there's that scream he was looking for and Sam almost feels bad for his Frodo because he's fair certain he's going to need to be pouring some tea down a sore throat later on. But he doesn't let that stop him from coaxing another with a flicker and flutter of his tongue and then a rippling quiver that near makes Frodo judder himself right off the mattress. Lucky Sam is there to keep those hips pinned right where he wants them.

Sam always knew that if he ever got the chance to do as he would, without Frodo distracting him with those clever hands, that it would be nothing less than spectacular. And now that it's actually happening, Sam decides that he knew his business all along and makes a note to follow his own advice every now and again... and to thank Mr. Merry. Often.

Oh, he's loving the feel of that body vibrating beneath his touch and the sounds coming harsh and shivering from that cunning mouth but he thinks it might just be about time that he let his own bits join the party. Sam stops, pulls back and there is a growl so deep and resonating that Sam finds himself even more grateful for that bit of silk twined about his master's hands.

He lets loose Frodo's hips and they begin to roll and buck all of their own and oh, if that doesn't set Sam's skin to humming and every other important bit singing along in harmony. Frodo can't seem to stop moving and Sam can't seem to stop watching him do it and now that thought bounces around in his head for a bit and he wonders what it would be like to watch Frodo touch himself. He pushes it aside quickly and saves it for another time because right now, Sam has no intention of setting Frodo's hands free, even for such a noble cause as all that. He shakes himself loose from the thought then reaches over to the bedside table, opens the drawer and pulls out the bottle of oil.

Frodo takes one look at the bottle and his eyes roll to the back of his head and his head falls back against the headboard. He moans, low and needy and those hips move some more and Sam has to close his eyes and think about his old Aunt Essie in her underlinens for a minute to prevent himself from exploding into a great big shower of tiny little Sam-pieces. He bites his lip. Very hard. Then he pinches the inside of his thigh. That one near brings tears to his eyes and he thinks it's safe now to open them.

He does but he dare not spare a glance to Frodo, or he'll have to chew on his lip some more and assault the other thigh as well and his lip really hurts. Instead, he concentrates on what his hands are doing.

He pours a dollop of oil into his palm, smoothes it over himself and only then does he allow his eyes to meet Frodo's. Those eyes are just as dark as Sam thought they'd be and Frodo's chest is surging with each pounding breath he takes and Sam smiles a little, trails a slick finger from Frodo's up-raised knee and down his thigh. Frodo releases what Sam believes to be a whimper and then he closes his eyes, breathes, 'Sam,' all feather-light and billowy. And Sam can't possibly be expected to hold against that.

He straightens Frodo's legs, turns him over and lifts his hips. Frodo groans, takes hold of the headboard, pushes back against Sam. Sam clenches his teeth then slides his hands over Frodo's arms, down his back and over his hips, cursing that blasted shirt all the way, and then he smoothly, gently slips into blinding pressure and blistering heat.

All of Sam's senses abandon him, all but the sense of feel and what he feels right now is so completely beyond description that he doesn't even bother turning it over in his head. He is content to just be and exist and to just disappear into the knowledge that he has every single thing he has ever wanted, right now, here, in his hands.

Then Frodo begins to rock and the heat explodes inside Sam's skull, sending a shower of sparks to flutter in his belly and Sam moans, drapes himself over Frodo's back and begins to thrust. The effect on Frodo is overwhelming, stunning and Sam wonders at the wild creature he now holds to himself. Frodo is growling and rocking and shouting for more and Sam feels sweat and searing heat against his palms. He can feel the thump of his heart against his ribs, every twitch of Frodo's body surrounding him and Sam thinks he just might die from all the sensation, hammering into his skin from every angle and all at once.

He thrusts himself deeper and Frodo howls, shouts out his name and demands yet harder. Sam pulls back then heaves himself in again and feels himself sinking deep and deeper still and Frodo is sobbing now, begging, 'Oh, Sam more, now!' and Sam can only concur, so he sets his mind loose and lets the driving rhythm take him. Fast and pounding and he can feel every single hair on his body stand up as he moves his hand between Frodo's legs and begins to stroke.

Frodo was in a frenzy before but now there's no word in Sam's vocabulary to describe the untamed grace that rocks and moans and twists beneath him. It's only seconds before Frodo's back arches and his hands clench on the headboard and he is screaming release. It's more than Sam can take, more than he can bear and he lets loose a throat-ripping shout as stars dance before his eyes, his muscles turn to white-hot fire and he spills himself, crying out Frodo's name.
 

Everything has gone black and Sam's head is spinning as he gulps much-needed air into his aching lungs. Frodo seems to be in about the same condition and it's all Sam can do to lift a hand and give a slow, shaky stroke down the side of his ribs.

"Mmph," Frodo says and twitches a little, loosens his fingers from their death-grip on the headboard.

Sam chuckles and begins the business of reminding his limbs that they are, in fact, supposed to obey his will. He lifts himself - slowly because otherwise, he's likely to wobble himself right off the bed. He peels himself from Frodo's back and Frodo gives a small whimper at the loss of heat and contact. Sam chuckles again then forces his feet onto the floor and starts off to scare up a flannel and some warm water.

"Sam?" comes a soft mumble from the bed and Sam pauses at the door.

"Yes, love?"

"Do you think," Frodo asks politely, "that I might have my hands back now?"
 

"Have you seen Merry?" Pippin asks as Frodo plops himself into his chair and Sam hands him a steaming mug of tea.

Frodo appears to think the question over thoroughly before answering, "Recently? No." Sam notes that his master does not meet Master Pippin's eyes when he answers but says nothing.

"Oh, bother," Pippin mutters. "I haven't seen him since first breakfast and we're supposed to pick up his new waistcoat from Miss Tunnelly's."

Oh," Frodo responds casually, "I've no doubt he'll turn up in all his glory eventually."

Pippin frowns, gives a small 'Hmph,' before wandering out of the study. Sam eyes his master steadily.

"Don't suppose you know where Mr. Merry might have got off to?" Sam asks with a lift of an eyebrow.

"Hmm?" Frodo turns wide eyes on him and blinks innocently. "Why should I know?"

That decides Sam. "All right," he says. "What have you done with your cousin?"

Frodo looks Sam steadily in the eye and says, "Nothing he didn't deserve." He takes a sip from his mug and furthers, "Besides, I'm sure one of the Cotton lads will find him soon enough."

Oh, no. "Mr. Frodo, you wouldn't... I mean, you didn't..."

He trails off as Frodo slants a look to him out of the corner of his eye then deliberately and with the slightest of smirks, takes a red, silk handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his brow with it. Then he pulls what appears to be a pair of black velvet breeches from beneath the cushion of his chair. If Sam is not very much mistaken, the last time he'd seen those particular breeches, they'd been slung low about Mr. Merry's hips.

Sam's eyes go wide. "Mr. Frodo! Is that...?"

"Not to worry, Sam," Frodo snorts. "I didn't really mean it when I said 'in all his glory.'" Frodo sets his mug on the table, flips open his book. "I left him his underlinens."