West of the Moon

A Tolkien Fanfiction Archive

 

 

Beware Hobbits Bearing Gifts
Frodo is rather too fond of getting his own way.
Author: Daffodil Bolger
Rating: NC-17

 

This story was written for the hobbit_smut Livejournal Community "Double Dare" Challenge.
 

A/N - I don't do this very often because... well, because I'm a selfish wench and I don't want anyone to try and steal my beta.  But the fact is that pretty much everything I write goes through the most excellent Shadow, prior to posting and, in most cases, this results in fixing various plot holes she has pointed out or hanging my head at one of her, 'What the hell is this angst doing in a humour fic?' comments.  She is a treasured friend, a fabulous beta and, as I recently told her, even on the rare occasion that one of my fics comes back from her with no changes, I don't consider any of them complete without her once-over.  Everything I do is better because of her and I thank her more sincerely than I can say.

And no, you can't have her!

* * *

"Sam, I swear by every star in the sky and every Valar I can name - and I warn you that I can name all of them, without looking them up--"

"It's daylight, me dear.  Ain't no stars in the sky."

"--that if you are not naked and in my bed in two minutes, I shall go and hunt down Boromir and get him to tumble me, if I have to get him spectacularly drunk to do it!"

"Frodo, we need to sleep and you know it.  We start at nightfall, for pity's sake and you need your rest."

"Manwë Súlimo.  Ulmo."  Frodo turned to Sam with the lift of an eyebrow.  "There are only fourteen, you know."

"We're going to your room and you'll rest when we get there," Sam insisted.  "'Sides, you couldn't get Mr. Boromir to tumble you."

"I don't need rest, I need sex and lots of it.  Aulë.  Oromë."  Frodo paused, turned with an indignant frown.  "What do you mean, I couldn't get Boromir to tumble me?"

Sam's eyes widened.  His jaw flapped before he closed it, cleared his throat, squared his shoulders.

"Erm...  Eh?"

"You just said I couldn't get Boromir to tumble me."

"I never said no such thing," Sam said evenly and tugged on Frodo's elbow to get him moving again.

Frodo came along but at a much slower pace than Sam seemed to prefer, if his rolled eyes and pulls and pokes were anything to go by. 

"You most certainly did and not five seconds ago," Frodo countered.  "You don't think I could persuade Boromir into a tumble?"

Sam stopped, rubbed at his brow.  "Frodo, love, I think you could persuade Tom Bombadil into a tumble, if you tried hard enough and you might even get him to bring Lady Goldberry along if you turned those eyes on him like you're looking at me now and did that thing with your oh mercy, stop doing that, will you, please?"

He un-plastered himself from the wall Frodo had plastered him to, batted a busy hand from his trouser buttons then turned them again in the direction of the room.  He clenched his jaw, set his teeth determinedly and tugged at Frodo.

Frodo wouldn't budge.  "Then why not Boromir?" he wanted to know, hands flitting about Sam's chest and groin and anywhere else left momentarily unprotected.

"He's too big," Sam stated, chasing those nimble hands with his own and batting at them whenever the opportunity presented itself.  "He'd be worritin' over breaking you in half."

"Not if I took top."  Frodo's smirk was annoyingly confident.

Sam took hold of Frodo's wrists, stilled those clever hands then blinked at him for a moment in thoughtful silence.  He shook his head. 

"I'm thinking Mr. Boromir is a top and no mistake on that."

Frodo was slightly put out.  "And you don't think I could sway him?"

"Well, you did mention as you were going to get him drunk and--"

"Mandos.  Lórien.  Tulkas."  Frodo yanked Sam into his room and shut the door behind him.  Knowing his advantage was in speed and surprise, he spun, dove at Sam and pinned him face-first to the wall.  "There are only seven left," he murmured into Sam's nape, throaty and low then pressed his hips into the swell of Sam's... mmm, very firm, round bottom.

"Mr. Frodo," Sam protested, though Frodo was gratified to hear a definite hitch in his breath, "you're not taking this near as serious as you ought.  It's dangerous business ahead and we start tonight and--"

"I assure you that I take it very seriously," Frodo told him whilst licking slow patterns up the side of his throat.  "I am in very serious need of a tumble and am very serious about getting one and if you don't seriously get out of those clothes and very soon--"

"Frodo, we can't--"

"Varda Elentári.  Yavanna Kementári."  Frodo pressed in tighter, rolled his hips and gave a small groan at the heat that bloomed in his belly.  "Buttons, Sam." 

Sam gave his own small whimper.  "There ain't no Valar named 'Buttons,' Frodo and you can't tell me there is."

Frodo moaned, managing to sound utterly exasperated, maddeningly frustrated and achingly, desperately horny all at once.  "Sam!" he growled and worked a determined hand between Sam's chest and the wall then immediately began popping shirt buttons.  Sam squirmed and Frodo growled some more. 

"You're working for the Nazgul, aren't you?  They didn't quite do the job on Weathertop, so you're just going to finish me off now and save them the trouble later."

"That ain't funny!" Sam cried and made the mistake of straightening his spine in indignation, which allowed Frodo (with a small crow of triumph) to get his other hand on Sam's trouser buttons.  Sam twisted and let loose with a groan and a shudder.

"Nienna," Frodo whispered in his ear and pressed his palm to Sam's groin.  Sam wheezed in a breath, blew it out on a reedy gasp and Frodo slid his hand inside Sam's trousers.  Stone-hard heat against his palm, plump, round muscle at his groin and Frodo latched onto the tip of Sam's ear, sucked it slowly into his mouth and pushed his hips forward.  Sam's eyes closed and his head fell back to Frodo's shoulder.  Frodo smoothed a hand up Sam's chest, feathered his fingers over a nipple busily peaking beneath white linen and Sam rocked a little, leaned back into Frodo's chest.  Frodo smiled wickedly, dipped his mouth back to Sam's nape, let his breath flow moist against his skin in a heated, undulant caress.  "Estë the Gen--"

"Estëthegentlevairëvánanessa," Sam slurred and in a flash, he had turned, shaken Frodo off, taken him by the arm and hauled him to the bed.  Impatiently and perhaps a little roughly, if Frodo cared to take the time to get huffy about it - which he most certainly did not - Sam began pushing and shoving him up and onto the high, soft featherbed.  With a satisfied smile that he couldn't have wiped off if he'd tried, Frodo scrambled up eagerly then turned to give Sam a hand...

...only to find that Sam had turned and was rooting through the press -- and most definitely not the bed table, where the oil sat.  When Sam pulled out a nightshirt, it was the last straw.  Frodo narrowed his eyes, growled then sent a large, heavy pillow sailing at Sam's head.  There was a dull 'thwump' at contact and Sam's arms flew out, waving about to regain his balance.

"Hoy!"

"Hoy yourself," Frodo grumbled and did his best to look indignant and haughty whilst dangling off the high bed before slithering to the floor.  He made a point of brushing Sam's shoulder roughly with his own as he moved past him toward the door.

"Where are you going?" Sam wanted to know.

Frodo stopped, turned.  "To find Boromir," he answered coolly.

Sam looked him up and down critically for a moment before smiling a little uncertainly.  "No you ain't.  Stop teasing your Sam, now."

Frodo stared back, lifted his chin.  "I don't tease," he said, as if Sam didn't know that for the bald-faced lie it was, then he turned again for the door.

"You won't," Sam told him. 

"Watch me," Frodo replied.

Sam dropped the nightshirt and scuttled over to the door, nearly upending himself over the pillow on the floor.  He threw himself in front of it just as Frodo reached for the knob.

"Love," he began, trying very hard to keep his tone reasonable, "we both know you're not going to go shag Boromir, so stop--"

"Sam, have you ever known me to make idle threats?"

Sam blinked.  "All right, see, now you're just being stubborn."

"Move, Sam."

"You won't."

"Either move out of my way or take your clothes off."

"You wouldn't."

"And why wouldn't I?"

"Because..."  Because you love me too much, Sam thought.  Because I'm your one and only and we both know it, he might have said.  But he just couldn't quite believe that Frodo was the least bit serious about all of this nonsense and so, instead, what came out when he opened his mouth was, "Because I'm the best you'll ever have," and bugger all but had he actually smirked when he'd said it?  With the glare that Frodo shot him, he rather suspected he had.

"We'll just see about that," Frodo retorted and tried to push Sam from his stance in front of the door.

All right, enough was enough.  If Frodo was going to keep playing the spoiled, tantrum-throwing, get-shirty-when-he-don't-get-his-way prat, Sam was becoming inclined to let him.  In fact, he was becoming inclined to up the ante.

"Fine," Sam said and moved from the door, locking his gaze with Frodo's and sporting a cocky little grin.  "You go and find that Mr. Boromir."  He lifted an eyebrow, smirked again.  "In fact, I dare you."

Frodo paused just as his hand reached again for the doorknob.  He slowly lifted shocked eyes to Sam's.

"You..."  His jaw hung loose for a moment before he shook his head.  "You dare...  waitnowhat?"

Ha!  He hadn't expected that, had he?  Sam had him good, now.

"You heard me," Sam answered with all the cheek a Gamgee could muster.  "You want it so bad and you're so sure you can get it, I dare you."

Frodo frowned, tilted his head.  His gaze turned a little liquid and Sam steeled himself; he'd been caught more than once by that gaze and given in when he shouldn't have.

"Sam, if you would just--"

"I double dare you."

Frodo gasped and reared back.  His brow furrowed and he looked suddenly... no, he couldn't be genuinely hurt, for pity's sake.  Of course he knew Sam was just calling his bluff.  He'd back down.  Sam just had to be patient, was all.  And strong enough not to give in to that almost-convincing look of betrayal in Frodo's eyes.  Mercy but he was good at this, wasn't he, though?  If Sam weren't so confident, Frodo might actually have him believing Sam'd just ripped his heart out and dared him to go tumble a big ole man he'd just met a few weeks ago.

Frodo looked down at his toes, said not a word.  He turned slowly to the door, worked the knob then went out and quietly closed it behind him.

Sam smirked and crossed his arms over his chest.  He'd give him two minutes before he came barreling back in and demanded that Sam strip and post-haste.  And this time, Sam would.  In fact, he might as well get started now.  Frodo had already taken care of most of his buttons for him and Sam waiting naked beneath the sheets for him when he returned from his failed bluff would likely sooth any chagrin that might be left over.

Sam grinned and worked the remaining buttons on his shirt and trousers, stripping out of them then placing them neatly on the chair beside the big bed.  He rounded the foot then fished in the bedside table for the oil and slipped it beneath the pillows.  No sense in wasting time looking for it later.  He freshened the basin on the washstand with warm water from the kettle over the fire then checked to make sure there was a clean flannel at the ready before stepping onto the stool and clambering up onto the bed.  He fluffed the pillows, propped the ones on his side against the headboard then sat back to wait.

Any minute now, Frodo would come through that door with his head hanging and a sheepish smile at the corner of his mouth.  And Sam would resist the urge to rub it in; Sam was just the generous type that way.  It was all he could do not to reach around and pat himself on the back.

Yep, any minute now, Frodo would be coming through that door. 

Uh, huh. 

He nodded in satisfaction.

Any minute now.

Right through that door, there.

A-a-a-a-a-ny minute.

Sam squirmed a little, reached around and punched at his pillows then eyed the empty space on the other side of the bed.  It was taking just a little longer than he'd thought.  He certainly wasn't worried, of course.  He would have to think Frodo would actually go and hunt down the big soldier, in order for Sam to actually worry about it.  And Frodo wouldn't do such a thing.  Sure, Sam had never seen Frodo back down from a challenge in his entire life but that was no reason to think...

No.  He wasn't worried.  Frodo just wouldn't and that was that. 

Sam shook his head and had to smile at his own foolishness.  Of course he wouldn't.  Couldn't. 

Well...  Perhaps 'couldn't' wasn't the wisest choice of words.  There wasn't much Frodo couldn't do, if he had his head set on a thing.  Come to think of it, there wasn't much Frodo wouldn't do, neither, now that Sam stopped to really think about it.  He only had to consider the acrobatic feats Frodo made a regular habit of demonstrating in bed to realize that particular part of his argument was flawed.  Flexibility was a bit of an understatement; Frodo could bend like a willow-wand when the mood took him and the mood took him quite often, much to Sam's pleasure.

Sam had a sudden visitor making itself known, rising up and tenting the thin sheet as it did so.  He grinned and thought of a supple spine curling and flexing into contortions that could make a grown hobbit weep in gratitude to witness.

Yep.  Any minute now, Frodo would be shuffling through that door and Sam would happily pounce him and he wouldn't even make him apologize... what with him being the generous type and all.

Any minute now.

Sam was really looking forward to it now and beginning to wonder where his head had been to refuse Frodo in the first place.  Now his arguments about getting some rest before their long journey seemed to make less and less sense.  How often would they have a chance for play along the road, after all?  What had he been thinking?  Who in their right mind would refuse Frodo Baggins anything he asked?  Who would...  refuse... Frodo...

Hmph.

Now, there was a thought.

Who in their right mind would refuse Frodo Baggins anything he asked? 

Oh, bugger!

Sam bolted upright, smacked himself in the head.  Really hard.

Frodo?  Back down?  Was he insane?

"Please tell me I didn't send a stubborn hobbit, who backs down from nothing and gets everything he wants through sheer force of will, off to shag Boromir on a dare."

Sam cursed himself for twenty times a fool and vaulted out of the bed.  He was dressed in less than ten seconds flat, buttoning his shirt and shrugging on his braces all at once as he stormed to the door.

"I'll kill him," he muttered darkly, though he wasn't exactly sure if he meant Boromir or Frodo.

* * *

Sam returned to the room a bit more calmly than he'd left it.  The air here seemed to have that effect on a body and Sam was grateful for it.

Well, he'd done what he could and the rest was all just waiting.  And trusting, though that were the hard part and no mistake.  Not that Frodo was untrustworthy by any stretch, his inability to resist always getting the last word in and his infernal fondness for winning notwithstanding.  But Men, now...  Men were a puzzle and that Boromir...

Sam shook his head.  There was nothing he could do.  He just had to trust his instincts and wait for Frodo to come back.

He settled himself into the plump chair by the fire, picked up the book Frodo had left there and eyed the spine.

"Mel Glin." 

He furrowed his brow.  Mel.  He knew that one easy enough.  Mel meant love. 

"What does 'glin' mean, I wonder?"

He flipped open the book, paged through a bit before he stopped.  His eyebrows shot up.  He turned the book sideways and his eyebrows almost slid over the top of his head.

"No wonder he was in such a mood," Sam muttered with a grin.  He settled in and turned the pages slowly. 

He'd almost made it halfway through the big book before Frodo stumbled through the door, disheveled and wild-eyed, gasping as he flung the door closed then propped himself against it, panting.  Sam just stared, frozen and struck mute at Frodo's appearance.

Shirt buttons were askew, hair was mussed and somehow, one brace was hanging loose about his hip, though his coat and waistcoat were both firmly over his shoulders.  No, that weren't true; the waistcoat was inside-out and Sam could see one of its buttons hanging useless by two thin threads.

"Frodo, what--"

"Sam," Frodo gasped and he clutched the doorknob - seemingly the only thing keeping him from sliding bonelessly to the floor.  "I need..."  He caught his breath, gasped again.  "I need..."

Sam vaulted across the room, took Frodo by his shoulders.  "What, love?" he cried.  "What do you need?  Tell your Sam!"

I need your arms around me, Sam, was of course, what Frodo would say.  I need you to hold me until I stop shaking.

Frodo hitched in a shaky breath, closed his eyes and swallowed.  "I need a disguise," he told Sam.  "And some money and possibly a very fast pony."

Sam's mouth snapped shut, his brows drew together.  "Eh?"

"I need to get away from here, Sam!  And quickly!" 

Sam's face grew grim, thunderclouds gathered at his brow.  "Did that Boromir hurt you, Frodo?  Tell your Sam.  Did you say him nay and he--"

"Boromir!" Frodo cried.  "Oh, poor Boromir!" 

Sam closed his eyes, gave his head a quick shake.  Poor Boromir?  Bugger all, why did Frodo never say what Sam expected him to?  Really, it was becoming more than a little bit irksome.

"What do you mean, 'poor Boromir'?  Frodo, you're not making any sense."

Like that was something new.

Frodo wrung his hands, nearly sobbed out a harsh breath.  "Sam, Boromir's in love with me!"

And again, with the not saying things Sam expected him to.  Right irritating, that.

"Boromir?  In love with you?"

Frodo, caught in the middle of a dramatic sigh, snapped a black scowl at Sam.  "And exactly what is that supposed to mean?"

Bugger.  Honestly, would he ever learn to clamp this flapping jaw of his?

"I'm sorry, love, I didn't mean it that way, honest."

Frodo eyed him suspiciously, apparently debating over whether or not to be mollified.  "That's the second time you've said--"

"And I didn't mean it neither time, Frodo, I swear."  Sam reached out, took up both of Frodo's hands in his own.  "Your hands are cold.  Come by the fire and tell your Sam all about it, eh?  Then we'll decide if a certain man is in need of a decisive arse-kicking."

Sam led Frodo across the room and to the fire.  Frodo sank to the rug gratefully, meekly allowing Sam to wrap an arm protectively over his shoulders and fold him close.  He settled into Sam's hold, blew out a long breath.

"Now," said Sam, "tell me what happened."

"It wasn't Boromir's fault," Frodo told him.  "I...  He...  Well, you see..."  He shifted, drew in a great breath.  "Well, I went and found him and I wouldn't have, Sam, but you were so... and then I started... and he was really very... but then I just couldn't, so I... but then he started... and and, 'I love you, Frodo, I have since I saw you, Frodo...' and his face is very scratchy, left marks on my neck, see?"

Frodo pulled his shirt collar to the side to display a red patch of skin where a man's stubbly chin had scraped against it.  But what drew Sam's eye was a blood-red mark just below Frodo's right ear and by-bloody-damn, Sam had not made that mark.

"It wasn't his fault," Frodo repeated.  "I shouldn't have done it, Sam, and I wouldn't have but... well, I was just so angry with you and you were, 'I dare you, Frodo,' and I couldn't believe you would... and and and then you were, 'I double dare you, Frodo,' and he was just so... but I couldn't, Sam, I just couldn't and he said... oh, he was actually not... but I couldn't, Sam and I'm so sorry, I never meant--"

"All right, love, I think that's enough now."  Sam drew him closer still, ran his hands up and down Frodo's back in long, soothing strokes.  "I'm sorry, too.  You've a hot head and no mistake and I shouldn't have goaded you as I did, when I know full well a challenge makes your brain boil and all your sense flies out your ears like so much steam."

Frodo was silent for a moment then, "I've no idea if I should kiss you or pull your stones up over your head."

Sam chuckled.  "Well, if I get a vote, I'm going for the kissing," he said.

Frodo nestled in close, rubbed his cheek against Sam's chest.  "Well, then why aren't you?"

Sam frowned.  Cor, did he ever make sense?

"Why aren't I, what?"

Frodo lifted his head, looked steadily at Sam and gave an exasperated sigh.  He said nothing, just continued to stare, with the occasional slow blink.

Sam stared back, aware that he was supposed to be understanding something that, by his expression, Frodo seemed to think all too clear.  But then, this was also the hobbit who thought it was all too clear that strawberry jam was a perfectly suitable substitute for oil, when two hobbits happened to be in a desperate clinch on the kitchen table and unable to reach anything else.  Made for sticky patches in places that simply ought not be sticky, in Sam's personal opinion and, if nothing else, it served the very useful purpose of teaching him to make sure that a handy bottle of oil was never far from reach.

"Sam?"  Frodo was still staring at him and now his shoulders had taken on a decided slump.  He was managing to somehow look disappointed and expectant, all at once.

Oh, that's right - Sam was supposed to be trying to understand something.  Something about either kissing or having his stones pulled up over his head. 

Oh.

"Oh!"  Ninnyhammer.

Frodo rolled his eyes, shook his head.  "Never mind," he muttered and rolled to his feet.  "Never had to work so hard for a tumble in all my life," was the grim furtherance as he slouched over to the bed.

"Frodo!"  Sam sprang to his feet and followed quickly.  "I'm sorry, love."

"Bah," was all Frodo said then shrugged out of his coat, then his waistcoat and dropped them to the floor.  The shirt soon followed, leaving Sam in a dither as to whether to take hold of Frodo right this second and talk some sense into him before he managed to get hisself all worked up again, or pick up the clothes before they were rumpled beyond fixing.  When the trousers followed the coat, waistcoat and shirt, he decided to kill two birds with one stone and simply followed the trail, folding as he went.  He reached the bed just as Frodo, clad only in white underlinens, stepped onto the stool and lifted a knee to pull himself up onto the mattress, causing said underlinens to pull taut over a mouth-wateringly round bottom.  Suddenly wrinkles were entirely beside the point.

Sam dropped his armload, reached out, caught Frodo around the waist and pulled him back down.  "Where do you suppose you're going?" he hummed into Frodo's ear.

Frodo didn't move but his breathing took up speed.  "To bed," he told Sam.  "You wanted me to sleep and you're getting your way."

"Well, mayhap I've changed my mind."  This accompanied by a slow stroke of fingers down the side of Frodo's ribs.

Frodo twitched.  Sam felt his heart pick up pace. 

"You've made me weary," Frodo said.  "You were right; I should sleep." 

Sam resisted the urge to release his hold and go find a pen to mark the occasion; the words 'you were right' came out of Frodo's mouth so rarely that it was worth commemorating.  But he thought he'd maybe put Frodo through his paces enough for one day and there was warm bare skin against his palms, after all and he wasn't made of stone, for pity's sake.

Sam pushed forward, pressed Frodo against the side of the bed and himself into Frodo.  He rolled his hips, dipped his tongue to Frodo's ear.

"You're that tired, are you?"

Frodo took in a shaky breath, stifled a groan.  "I want to go to bed."

Sam smiled, ran his hand down Frodo's thigh and toyed with the hem of his drawers.  "That don't exactly answer my question."  He slid his fingers higher, pushing thin linen up Frodo's leg, stopping just short of where thigh became hip.

Frodo's head dropped to the side of the mattress and this time he let the groan loose.  "If I say I want a tumble," he began and pushed back into Sam, hands clenching at the sheets, "are you going to tell me 'no' and that I should go to sleep or go shag a big, sweaty soldier?"

"If you say you want a tumble," Sam murmured and he let his fingers slide up, skate soft and feathery over rising heat, "I'm going to reach up beneath that pillow there, get me that bottle of oil and take you hard, right up against this bed."

The sound that slid from Frodo's throat positively dripped with lust.  He reached a hand back, took a fistful of Sam's hair and pulled his mouth to suckle at the side of his throat, rubbing his back to Sam's front in a maddening flourish of undulating heat.  Oh, that were doing the trick and right nice; Sam felt a rolling rush of fire surge through his groin.  He moaned, sank his teeth into Frodo's shoulder and rocked his hips forward.

Honestly, Sam had to be completely and utterly daft to have refused this before.  He closed his eyes, savoured every slide of smooth muscle against him, every soft moan that rolled from Frodo's throat.  Not a soul alive had what Sam held, willing and warm and reacting to his every touch as though he held lightning in his fists.  Sam firmed his grip, cupped with one hand and slid the other up a rippling expanse of lean, hard muscle.

"Oil, Sam," Frodo moaned and he reached an arm toward the pillow, where it flopped heavily, twitched uselessly on the mattress.

Sam ran his tongue up the cords of Frodo's throat, noted the red mark just below his ear and that just wasn't going to do because it smacked too much of a claim of ownership to Sam's mind.  So, he covered it with his own mouth, sucked hard and Frodo jolted against him, breath coming ragged and pitched high and choppy.  He swore and his whole body quavered in a rich, sinuous, pulsating shiver, sending what blood wasn't pulsing hot between Sam's legs to roar between his ears.

"You didn't..." Sam managed to gasp into sweat-damp sable, "say... say you wanted..."

"Oh..." Frodo breathed and his hands fisted in the sheets as his body stretched and pitched against Sam's, "I do, you know I do."  He rolled his head, pressed his face into Sam's throat and Sam thought the heat of his breath and the fiery slick of his tongue might be his undoing if he didn't make a serious effort to retrieve that oil and very soon.  "I want... ah, Sam, like that... oh... want..."

And Sam tightened his fist around Frodo, rocked his hips and stroked until want turned to stone-hard need.  Frodo's hips snapped forward, pushing himself hard into Sam's hand and he jerked, swore again and began to thrust.  And oh, that was lovely but it didn't solve the issue of the oil and since Sam's trousers hadn't so much as been unbuttoned yet, he thought it was well past time to see just how far his arm could reach without giving up contact with a single inch of the smouldering, pulsating body that twisted and curled against his own.

Oh, and weren't Sam the lucky one, though, because it turned out that he could reach it quite handily.  He dragged the bottle from beneath the pillow, left it to lie on the sheets while he quickly saw to his trousers and drawers, wrenching buttons and tearing at ties before impatiently pushing the lot from his hips.  And Frodo had been busy as well; his own underlinens were pooled around his ankles in a soft white heap.

Frodo peered at Sam over his shoulder and the look he shot to Sam was filled with such heat and hunger that Sam thought he might come right there, without a single touch to his aching arousal.  He forced his gaze away, looked to the bed, took up the bottle and uncorked it to tip a generous measure of oil into his hand.  When Frodo took the bottle from him, Sam smoothed the oil between his palms, slicked his hands then he pushed Frodo forward with one hand and, with the other, slipped a finger home.

Frodo arched, cried out and Sam reached around, once again took hold of rigid heat.  Frodo seemed torn, undecided as to which pressure to rock himself into and so he stilled, panting and trembling and gave control over to Sam.  Sam used it wisely; he stroked and pulled with one hand, flexed and curled the other and watched as Frodo shook and spasmed between them. 

Oh, and he was lovely, all rose-flushed ivory, damp and shivering and dark curls tumbling silken into a face soft with pleasure.  Sam loved him, simple and true and weren't nothing in the world could make it different, not big, sweaty soldiers, not temper tantrums, not stubborn refusal to do anything for his own good.  He was a contradiction, the reticent, spoiled pretension as much a contrast to the wide-open heart it cloaked as the sable silk atop his head was to the moon-pale skin beneath it.  Sam loved it all with everything in him and getting himself shagged stupid was only a small part of it all.  A very pleasant small part but still...

Sam growled, pumped faster, his own hips rocking futilely and Frodo shouted, arched and swayed between Sam's hands.  His eyes were closed tight, jet-black brows drawn together and rose-flushed lips parted in a vision of pure, glorious ecstasy.  Oh, Sam loved him and weren't no bigger love in all the world.

When Frodo's back began to bow and his breath began to hitch into a series of small, desperate cries, Sam could wait no longer; he slicked himself and plunged in.

Frodo yelled, collapsed against the side of the bed and Sam leaned into him, pressed his face into Frodo's shoulder and snapped his hips.  Frodo groaned, pushed back and Sam closed his eyes, smoothed his hands over ribs that rose and fell in a rhythm pitched high and sharp.  Sam let his fingertips feather soft and light over two peaked nipples and Frodo shuddered, dropped his head to the mattress and began to move.

Sam clenched his teeth at the first thrust, sank his fingers into bone and sinew.  He let Frodo drive the tempo, just standing there, grasping those hips as they bucked, watching the muscles in Frodo's back as they rippled and contracted beneath his skin.  He leaned forward, painted himself over Frodo's back and pressed his face into sweat-slick skin.

Ah, he could get lost in this feeling and willingly so.  Push and glide and light, real and pure, seeped from Frodo's skin and into Sam's own and he breathed it, tasted it, clean and smooth on his tongue.  It flashed white behind his eyes, spread through his chest and scorched itself into his soul.

Blood-hot heat and silver-thin cries; Sam sank himself deep, pulled back and sank in again.  Intense and fierce, the rhythm took him, laid him open, splayed his heart wide then filled him with the heady power of possession and the humility of being possessed.  Frodo rocked with him, bucked with a power of his own and Sam reached 'round, took him in oil-slick hands.  Frodo threw his head back, howled and Sam thrust himself deep in a driving tempo that shook his mind loose from his body.

"There, Sam, yes!" and Sam bit down into Frodo's shoulder.  Frodo arched, bucked furiously and wailed Sam's name.  His thrusts became erratic, his body tensed against Sam's and, "Sam!  I'm... oh, right..." and then, with a quick laugh and a hoarse shout, he was spilling hot into Sam's fists.

Sam's eyes squeezed shut, his muscles constricted.  His breath stumbled to a halt and then heat flared in his chest, shot to a narrow pinpoint in his groin and he keened his release into moon-pale flame.

He opened his eyes to cool sunlight streaming in through the great window and absently guessed it was closing on noon.  He was just in the process of attempting a stumbling calculation as to how much sleep they still might be able to catch when Frodo chuckled breathlessly, shook his head against the mattress.  The chuckles turned to a hiss as Sam pulled back then quickly morphed again into snickers when they both slid to the floor.

Sam landed on his back, Frodo turning to his side to drop an arm lazily across his chest, still snickering.

"What's funny?" Sam wanted to know.

"Nothing."  Frodo smiled languidly, leaned in for a slow, deep kiss.  "I could just tell that you were thinking about how much time we have left to sleep."  His smile turned to a smirk.

"And what if I was?" Sam retorted.  "One of us should have some sense, you know."

"Well, that's a good point," Frodo answered.  "Tell me, Sam; how much sense do you suppose it made to have a quickie up against a nice, soft bed, rather than in it?"

Sam had no answer to that, so he just cuffed Frodo upside his head.  "Didn't hear you complainin'."

Frodo grinned wide.  "No.  Certainly no complaints here."  His grin turned wicked.  "Though, you will recall that I had wanted top and you know how I am when I don't get what I want."  He pulled himself up to his hands and knees, leaned in and laid his brow to Sam's, looked him in the eye, still grinning.  "I wouldn't plan on getting much sleep, if I were you." 

* * *

Sam waited until Frodo went to make his goodbyes to Mr. Bilbo before approaching the man.  It was dark enough that Frodo wouldn't be able to tell, if he happened to peer over his shoulder to see what Sam was up to. 

Boromir stood off to one side, several paces from any others in the Company and that's exactly what Sam had been hoping for.  There were a few words he needed to exchange with the man.

He stalked over, lifted his chin, looked the man straight in the eye.  "Sir?"

Boromir peered first right then left.  When he was satisfied that no one was close enough to listen in, he smiled wide at Sam. 

"Have you got it?"

Sam reached into his pocket and withdrew a lumpy bundle, wrapped in a fine, linen napkin.  He handed it over to Boromir.

"That there's Mr. Bilbo's own apple turnover recipe," he confided.  "The elves make it special for him."

Boromir lifted the bundle to his nose, inhaled deeply.  "Smells heavenly," he grinned.

"We're square, then, sir?"

"Mmmm," Boromir replied.

Sam smiled, shook his head.  He turned, intending to check over the buckles and straps of Bill's saddlebags once more.  Then he stopped, turned back to the man with a lift of an eyebrow.

"You love him?"

"Hmm?"  Boromir tore his attention away from the treasure in his hand.  "Eh?"

"You told Mr. Frodo you were in love with him?"

Boromir blinked at him for a moment, his face blank, before light sparked in his eyes.  "Oh, yes!"  He cleared his throat, flushed.  "Well, it got the results you wanted, didn't it?  He came running back?"

"Oh, aye," Sam agreed with a sly grin.  "That it most certainly did."

Boromir gave Sam a genuine smile.  "Good!  So, you got plenty of sleep, then?"

"Not a wink," was the cheeky riposte.  When Boromir just stared blankly at him, Sam furthered, "I'm right grateful we're walking and not riding, if you catch me."  He winked and gave a lewd little smile.

Boromir's face pinched and he rolled his eyes.  "Thank you sincerely, Master Samwise, for far more information than I really wanted."

Sam just chuckled then turned again to go.  Boromir was still rolling his eyes and shaking his head when Sam halted again, turned slowly and there was no smile on his face this time. 

"I wasn't best pleased to see that mark on my master's neck," he told the man sternly.  "You'd best watch that sort of thing, I'll tell you clear."

"Mark..." Boromir furrowed his brow, looked thoughtful then peered cautiously at Sam.  He rubbed at his chin.  "Yes, I'm afraid my whiskers might have--"

"Now, don't be trying to pull the wool over on me, Mr. Boromir, sir.  That were a love-bite and we never talked about anything like that."

"Love-bite."  Boromir chewed his lip.  "Well, no..." he ventured warily.  "But you wanted me to... let's see, how did you put it?  'Put a scare into him,' were your words, were they not?"

"Aye and it worked but I'm not entirely happy with your methods, if you follow me."  Sam's eyes were narrowed and his voice was stern.  "You'd best keep them big paws to yourself from now on.  And your whiskers.  And your mouth, while you're at it, else you'll be waking up with one less useful thing in your trousers, come tomorrow."

Boromir stared.  "Erm...  Right, well..."  He cleared his throat.  "But I didn't make the mark with my mouth, I assure you."  He seemed a little more confident now.  "I made it with my fingers," he said then demonstrated several times with his thumb and forefinger.  "You know - pinching?"

"And Mr. Frodo let you pinch at his neck with your fingers?"  Sam's tone was suspicious.  "He didn't think that just a little bit odd?"

"Well, it's a Man thing, you know.  A show of affection."  Boromir stood tall, gaze steady and unblinking, shoulders squared.

Sam eyed him dubiously.  "And that's the story you're sticking with?" he asked.

"Until my dying breath," the man answered.

Sam nodded slowly with a clear look of warning then turned, made his way over to Bill.  He was just re-fastening the last strap when Frodo ambled over, looking a little sad and subdued.

"You all right, sir?"

Frodo smiled softly and nodded.  "You know how it is with goodbyes, Sam," he said and Sam reached over, gave his arm a comforting squeeze.

"I had a talk with that Boromir," he told Frodo.  "You don't need to be worritin' over him bothering you again."

Frodo's eyes widened a little.  "That's um... er, thank you, Sam."  He shuffled.  "What, um...  What did he say, exactly?"

"Just that he were going to leave you be, was all," Sam told him then leaned in a little closer, lowered his voice.  "I put a bit of a scare in him, if you want to know.  He'll steer clear, don't you fret." 

He smiled at Frodo.  Frodo jittered something back at him that looked more akin to a grimace than a smile.

"Yes, lovely," Frodo said. "That's lovely, just... it's um... lovely, yes."  He paused, clenched his teeth on an odd little grin.  "You know, I should go have a quick chat with him, as well."

"It's taken care of, Mr. Frodo," Sam assured him.  "No worries."

"Yes, I'm sure," Frodo agreed quickly with a small, twitchy smile.  "All the same, it wasn't really his fault and I'd hate to start out a long journey on the wrong foot, Sam.  Just a quick word.  I'll be right back."

Before Sam could object, Frodo scuttled over to where the man still stood by himself.  He approached warily.

"Hullo, Boromir."

"Ah, Frodo!  I was hoping you'd seek me out."

"Yes, well... erm..."

Boromir lifted his eyebrows expectantly.  "You have it?"

"Oh!"  Frodo patted at his pockets.  "Yes, of course."  He pulled a small bundle, wrapped in a fine linen napkin, from his coat pocket and handed it to Boromir.  "That's Bilbo's own sugar biscuit recipe," he told the man.  "The elves make it special for him."

Boromir grinned.  "I shall savour them, I assure you."

"Right," Frodo said.  "Good then."  He nodded.  "Well, I should--"

"You know," the man interrupted with a crafty glint in his eye, "since we're on such intimate terms, it seems I ought to have a pet name for you, or something."

Frodo stared.  "Intimate...?"

"Well, it seems I've made some sort of mark on your neck.  Or so Sam tells me, anyway."

"Oh!"  Frodo reached up, rubbed at the side of his throat, blushed a little then shrugged. 

"Frodo, we agreed that I would nuzzle a bit at your neck for the scratches but I never gave you any... I believe Sam called it a 'love-bite'."

Frodo blushed.  "I made it with my fingers," he told the man then demonstrated several times with his thumb and forefinger.  "You know - pinching?"

Boromir nodded slowly with a small, cheeky grin.  "Right.  And it would also appear that I am in love with you.  How ever will I be able to stand the long journey ahead without having you in my arms, Frodo?"

Frodo's mouth twisted and he glared.  "All right, so I went a little overboard," he admitted.

"You don't say," the man returned blandly.

"Well, I had to make it convincing, didn't I?  You said you'd go along with whatever I came up with."

"And I have and will continue to do so.  But your Samwise can be...  Well, let's just say that I have come to appreciate all of my appendages and would prefer they remain attached to my person.  You'll be sure not to further that particular pretense, won't you?"

Frodo ducked his head, hid a grin.  "I am sorry about that one, Boromir."  He looked up to the man with his very best apologetic face.  "Truly.  I did take it rather far and... well..."  He shrugged.

Boromir lifted an eyebrow.  "Apology accepted."  His gaze took on a sly spark and he furthered, "Still, two people on such intimate terms should have endearments for one another, don't you think?"

"See, now you're just being difficult."

"May I call you Frodo-kins?"

"Not unless you want a good, hard kick in the stones."

"And I don't."

"Right then."  Frodo nodded.  "So long as we're clear," and he turned abruptly and made his way back to Sam.

Boromir chuckled, took out a sugar biscuit and munched it.  His brows rose and he nodded approval.  He chuckled again and dropped the apple tart into the pouch at his belt. 

Who would believe such marvelous things could come from abetting a tumble between hobbits?  He idly wondered if there were more delights stowed in the hobbits' packs and whether he could expect them to make their way into his own pack, in exchange for... well, nothing, he supposed.  He hadn't really done anything, after all, had he? 

He grinned, took another bite of the biscuit and decided it was a fair enough exchange.  And, judging by the libidos he'd witnessed thus far, Boromir wouldn't be at all surprised if his waistline expanded an inch or two before he reached home.

Just to be safe, he slung his pack around and felt at its contents.  Ah, good - he'd brought along the codpiece, as he'd thought.  He hardly ever used it - the things chafed horribly - but one never knew when one might need one and the contents of his trousers had been threatened, after all.  He seriously considered making it a new habit to don it before sleep. 

He eyed his biscuit.  Yes, all in all, a fair trade.

He crunched the biscuit happily, shrugged and joined the others.

* * *

END

 

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