"Frodo."

A whisper, a mouth softer and warmer than spring rain molding tenderly, wetly to his own. Frodo shifted and found himself on his own bed, Sam looming over, hand gentle upon his chest. Frodo groaned softly, pressed up into both Sam's kiss and his touch.

"None of that, now," Sam murmured gently, easing away. "Oh, but you slept sound. I was 'fraid you'd notice I slipped away to tend the cookin', but you didn't so much as stir. Are you hungry, sir?"

"Yes," Frodo whispered, opening his eyes with a smile.

Rather than press back over him, Sam took Frodo by the forearms and coaxed him to sit up. Frodo leaned with a soft noise of protest, lapping at the corner of Sam's mouth. Sam set a warning finger against Frodo's lips.

"Later. I've tired you enough for mornin' already, let alone th'afternoon considering..."

Sam fell silent and kissed him. Frodo nodded, understood. He did not protest any further as Sam tugged him off the bed almost playfully, pushed him the whole way to the dining room. Sam seated him with a nod of insistence. Frodo tried to rise, but he was held fast.

"I don't care if you started this meal off or no," Sam chided. "I'm here to feed you as well as anything else."

Frodo squirmed under the hand firm against his chest. "But you do everything."

"Aye, all that it's my place to, and that's all concernin' you. Sit tight, sir. I won't be but a minute."

Sam hadn't just finished cooking the stew. He had gone and, by all accounts, improved it, and made some kind of warm little sugar tarts filled with a few blueberries apiece. Frodo closed his eyes with relish, finishing off the last of them.

"Oh, Sam. Recipe of your mother's? These are...mmmmh!"

Sam blushed, cleared the plates quickly. "Just somethin' I thought up, sir."

"Think them up more often," Frodo breathed, brushing the crumbs from his lips.

"That I will, sir."

"Sam."

Frodo rose, caught him from behind. Sam stood patiently while Frodo kissed the back of his neck, even let a tremor threaten the dishes in his hands as Frodo's breath found his earlobe.

"If you hadn't any more work to finish..."

"Frodo, please," Sam whispered, shifting the dishes to cradle in one arm, tugging at Frodo's hands with his own free one.

Frodo let him go, stepping back with a frown and a crease in his brow. "All right."

They worked at the dishes in silence, until Frodo could no longer bear it. He set the towel aside and grabbed the second-to-last plate from Sam's hands, dropping it with a splash. Sam looked up, expression bordering on exasperated.

"Frodo, begging your pardon, but if it bothers you that--"

"It doesn't, but apparently it bothers you--"

"You know it ain't so," Sam said simply, taking the dish back up, scrubbing in gentle arcs till the glazed surface shone.

Frodo stepped back, chewing his lip. He'd pushed too far; the silence had proved it in the first place. Why hadn't he simply gritted his teeth on the spot and--

Sam's damp fingers under his chin, shimmering eyes not an inch from his own.

Frodo whimpered, able to keep neither straight face, nor silence any longer.

"I'll run home," Sam murmured, a tear sliding free. "I'll tell my Gaffer you've taken sick again, I'll get--for whatever, sir, whatever you like, of course--"

"Oh, Sam...Sam, you," Frodo whispered, wondering at hurt and trust, and how fragile--

"I suppose I'll see what you mean by that sooner'n not," Sam said gently, taking Frodo's face in his hands, kissing tenderly. "I'll be back right quick. I want you to remember..."

Frodo winced against his mouth. So honest, so sweet. "Yes?"

"It's all up to you, Frodo-love. I mean it."

Frodo nodded slowly, released Sam and watched him set the dishes to rights. "I couldn't deny you say, Sam."

Sam dried his hands and draped the towel over a chair. "I'll be happy just learnin', Frodo, no matter the lesson."

Frodo felt coldness, even though none was meant. "It's just some tutorial to you?"

Sam took Frodo in his arms almost angrily, pressed their foreheads together hard. "Never."

Frodo managed to find his breath again, high and hitching to match his heartbeat. He tangled his fingers in Sam's curls, crying softly. "I'm sorry...I'm sorry..."

Sam's groan was rueful, but his mouth on Frodo's again was every bit as apologetic. "I love you so, oh, I meant it...whether you're burnin' mushrooms or no, I'll always step up and say it--just like this," Sam whispered, pressing his lips to Frodo's neck.

Frodo closed his eyes and gasped, clutching at Sam's shoulders. "Come back soon."

"Yes, sir." Sam murmured it into his hair, let go. He was gone in a moment, looking back only once.

Frodo held Sam's eyes for that instant, but he turned the moment Sam was out of sight. The were...they were going to...

Then.

Now.

Frodo wanted it, of course. More than anything; more than even he hated waiting. And suddenly, less than an hour's wait seemed more of an eternity than he had bargained for. It's all up to you, Sam had said. Ai Elbereth, but he was right. Frodo pursed his lips and pressed his hands together until he could hear himself think.

Frodo didn't want the bedroom, he decided first. He headed for a closet, rummaging on the middle shelf. Candles. Then, on to the linens cabinet. Blankets. Frodo deposited these things on the sofa, pausing to consider--pillows. As many as he could muster.

The resulting nest wasn't as entirely inviting as he had hoped. Frodo sat in the middle of it, shifting to get the feel of the floor. Still too hard, at least according to his tailbone and the backs of his thighs. Frodo winced. Who knew what position...

Frodo stood again and went in search of something he'd stained once and reasonably enough to earn it a place in a closet farther yet, amongst some truly abominable mathoms (though he had certainly never said he thought as much, at least not when Bilbo was within earshot). He tugged the old, clean down coverlet out of its corner on a side shelf. The tea stain stood out vague brown against the cream-pale fabric. Frodo's mouth twitched into a smile: he'd lived in mortal fear of ever taking tea to bed again for a good year after. Oh, how many years ago had that been? Sam would have--

"Mr. Frodo?" A flurry of distant knocking; Sam's muffled call. "I'm here now, sir..."

Frodo bundled the coverlet up in his arms hastily, dashing to the front of the smial. He deposited it carelessly atop the pillows and other blankets and arrived at the front door thoroughly out of breath. He didn't care that he hadn't had time to set up properly, or even that he might appear shaken. All that he wanted was...

"Oh, Frodo," Sam breathed, relief bare in his tone, gathering Frodo close no sooner than he'd stepped in the door. Frodo held on for long moments, realized that Sam had returned with nothing apparent on hand. Until they kissed and pressed closer with a sigh. Yes, in his pocket. Something.

Sam's hands stroked carefully down Frodo's back, eyes flicking briefly over Frodo's shoulder. "You didn't have to go runnin' all over," he whispered. "I thought, maybe a nice bath first, or..."

"That would be lovely," Frodo murmured, touching his lips light to Sam's cheek. "But perhaps we ought to consider it for...after..."

"Right you are," Sam said quietly, holding them profile to profile again for long moments. And Frodo could hardly believe it when Sam started to laugh.

"Sam? What--"

"Candles, Frodo. It's nowhere nigh on gettin' dark, and you've brought candles--"

"It was a thought," Frodo protested. "And if you're thinking any more clearly than I, I'd like to see you just--just--oh..."

"Just what?" Sam asked gently, his hand molding firmly against Frodo's belly for the second time that day. Gentle press of fingers: asking.

"Anything," Frodo murmured helplessly, and leaned for a feverish kiss.

"None...of that,--now," Sam gasped between kisses, catching Frodo, easily halting a backwards stumble. "We decided we'd do this right proper, and I'm holdin' you to that, sir."

"Don't 'sir' me," Frodo mumbled, busy lapping at a spot on Sam's neck that turned him near to jelly.

"Yes, sir."

"Sam!"

Frodo found himself swung up in Sam's strong arms. They both laughed breathlessly; Sam played at dropping Frodo no less than twice on the way to the blankets. And there, he was dropped, but gently, and from a height much less considerable. Frodo sank back with a sigh, tugging Sam over. If nothing else, he'd never tire of this, of Sam shielding him, warming him...

"You taste like blueberries," Sam sighed, alternating nibbles along Frodo's lower lip with light, damp kisses. After a moment, it was too much. Sam winced and wound his fingers in Frodo's hair, delving deeper, almost bruising.

Frodo slid his tongue searchingly past Sam's lips; mmm, no, he wouldn't ever tire of this, either. Sam bore down with his thigh just enough to be a tease, and Frodo hooked one leg behind Sam's with a delighted whimper. Not so different, this, not yet. But, oh...

Frodo wanted different. The hard thing had been not knowing how to ask, not until it nearly happened, and not until his lover's want was greater than his own. Frodo shuddered with the realization, tugging Sam closer, closer, until he landed flush against Frodo with a stifled moan, his fingers creeping from Frodo's hair down the back of his neck to his shoulders, tugging at his shirt...

"Undress me," Frodo whispered, feeling himself flush to the core at Sam's intake of breath. Frodo had done things like that before--unexpected words, unexpected wishes. And, as before, Sam's reaction was both dizzying and immediate.

Sam sat up, tugging Frodo into his lap. Mm, this was usual, too, and Sam's hands unfastening his braces with practiced ease, stroking his waist intently before tugging Frodo's shirt free, taking longer moments still to span with fingers and palms what he was forever calling things from beautiful to so lovely, Frodo, so pale...

Frodo caught Sam's gaze, and Sam returned it intently, his hands still on Frodo's hips, steadying him. Frodo parted his lips to speak--to try--but found nothing, only the taste of nervous breath, and, if he leaned forward again, the known, dear taste of Sam's own. The balance tipped; Sam went slowly at the urging of Frodo's hands, walked sure and gentle up his chest, palm over fingertips.

"Undress me from here," Frodo said, leaning to bite Sam's lower lip harder than Sam had done to his, pulling a whimper from Sam.

Sam's hands were at his buttons immediately--not struggling, but not so steady. Frodo watched through half-lidded eyes: the turn of Sam's fingers, the brush of fabric along his fingertips, the tendrils of air creeping in the wake of his touch as Frodo's shirt gave way, at last parted with deliberate sweeps at his waist, Sam's hands pinning the garment back.

"Never was anything so beautiful, not anywhere," Sam whispered, and Frodo closed his eyes, tilting his head with a cry for no reason other than Sam's hands warm and gentle up his back, kneading and brushing, and in a few moments his shirt was gone, tugged from him with deliberate care. Frodo felt Sam squeeze at his sides, and he blinked down to find Sam's face flushed and eyes wide, pleading.

"Sam?"

Sam seemed to pale rather than pinken; his lips parted, and he licked them hesitantly. Frodo leaned and licked them, too, begging with soft yes? and please--

"Undress me," Sam gasped, eyes closing tight against the plea, as if he hadn't felt it proper, as if from his own lips it sounded wrong.

Frodo responded with a strangled cry--ah he'd wanted to hear it, oh, like Sam couldn't imagine. Frodo freed his buttons one by one, carelessly, realizing he'd forgotten Sam's braces, sidetracked himself to tend to them, and then finished off the buttons. The look in Sam's eyes had him trembling, that glance so wide and hungering--

"Don't stop there," Sam murmured, feverish, taking Frodo's wrists gently but insistently, urging them lower.

Frodo let his own eyes widen, caught his lip between his teeth in dazed concentration as he did Sam's bidding, but not before stroking over him a few times, using the fabric to his advantage, watching Sam's head tilt and his eyes close in time with small, breathy cries. Frodo had discovered this tease early on; even if Sam expected it, he relished it all the more. Frodo leaned and kissed his chin, and had mercy.

"A--ah," Sam breathed as Frodo worked his fingers around the warm, hardening flesh, working his thumb roughly up the underside. Sam squirmed, panting Frodo's name. "Don't do...that overmuch, oh," he begged, tugging at Frodo's wrist gently. "I'll never last for you...Frodo!--"

Frodo drew back a fraction, breathing hard. "Last for..."

Sam opened his eyes, eased his grip on Frodo's wrist, stroking the back of Frodo's hand till his breath calmed a bit. "Frodo," Sam murmured, raising Frodo's hand gently to his lips, breathing on Frodo's fingertips. "Oh, please trust your Sam, even if...I don't know...not any more'n you...than I've heard--"

"I do," Frodo said softly, and for the first time since waking, found his breath. With quiet resolve, Frodo slid off of Sam, earning a whimper of protest. "Trust me," he said, finishing Sam's trouser buttons, tugging the garment away.

Sam lay breathing shallowly, and Frodo couldn't resist sliding a hand up his thigh, his hip, his side, then up and over Sam's strong chest, his stronger heartbeat. "So beautiful," Frodo breathed, "oh, don't ever say you aren't. And don't say you haven't, either. Mm, good..."

And then Sam was sitting, and reaching between them with a soft, strange glow in his eyes. He shrugged out of his shirt, leaving one hand and then the other firm on Frodo by turns. Frodo closed his eyes and got through one set of his own trouser buttons before Sam decided he oughtn't do that for himself, either, and finished the job in a hurry.

"Ah, Sam," Frodo whispered, and rather than let Sam pull him close again, bring them skin to skin, he crawled backwards and fished quickly in the discarded pile that was Sam's breeches. He found the small corked glass bottle, sat holding it for a moment, staring. He felt Sam move up behind him, slipping both arms low about his waist, one hand curling to cup Frodo, the other dealing caresses so light that Frodo shuddered and melted back against Sam, breathing heavily, letting the bottle slip back to the pile of clothing.

"Lavender," Sam said quietly, working at Frodo with a few longer, firmer strokes. "Like Mr. Bilbo's favorite soap. I remember, I'd smell it on you as you passed and I'd think--"

Frodo groaned, pushing against Sam's ever-more-attentive hands. Sam pressed what sounded a soft growl to his ear, stilling his hands save for a single tight squeeze. Frodo's mouth rounded on a fierce, soundless gasp.

Sam's breath turned short and nervous against his ear. "Open it."

Frodo moaned and reached for the bottle, fumbling with it. Sam held him all the tighter. Frodo managed to pry the cork free. He panted dizzily, croaked here, not even caring where the stopper had rolled off to; all that mattered was--

"Sam!" Frodo cried, squirming around, desperate. Sam had let go of him, sprawled back, watching with those same overbright eyes. Frodo bit his lip in frustration; well, then...

"I may not be an expert, but I think," Frodo said softly, clearly, "I know where--this--" he paused, pouring a generous amount of oil into one palm and setting the bottle aside--"ought to go..."

Frodo caught Sam's gaze, held it purposefully. He swirled the fragrant liquid gently in his palm with his index finger, looking down for one moment, curious, to test the consistency between thumb and fingertips. A groan brought him back to his senses; Sam was edging forward, biting his lip something fierce. Frodo leaned forward impulsively, spilling half of his handful in the endeavor, but most of it landed squarely where he intended. He closed his fist with a soft hiss; Sam's mouth crushed against his own in ecstatic shock, Sam's hands gasping at his hips as Frodo slicked him with long, even strokes. When Sam cried out a bit too keenly, Frodo eased his hand away, breath hitching. This meant that--

"You, you now," Sam panted, taking up the bottle, catching Frodo abruptly about the waist.

Frodo yelped in surprize, found himself pulled back against Sam; he could feel slick heat shifting with Sam's movements at the small of his back. An exquisite shudder gripped Frodo, and Sam leaned into it, moaning breathlessly into Frodo's hair as his own filled palm slid up from beneath, claiming...

There was no more time for thought, as dearly as Frodo wanted--

"Sam?--"

No longer touching him, no longer holding him. Sam had turned away, but he held tight to Frodo's wrist, tugging. Frodo crawled after him with a soft moan of dismay, wanting more of his touch, wanting--

"You...you don't--"

Sam pulled on Frodo's wrist fiercely; with a gasp he nestled up behind Sam, the only place left to go. Sam's back was exquisitely warm and smooth against Frodo, and it took nothing to let instinct wash over, to wrap his legs tight about Sam from behind and press forward, simply loving the solid contact, the way Sam twitched and cried out against Frodo's still-oiled fingers circling his nipples in parallel circles.

"Oh, I do," Sam gasped, reaching back awkwardly, finding Frodo's hips again, clasping them tight against himself.

Frodo froze, his lips stilling at the base of Sam's neck. "Sam--I thought--"

Sam trembled, tightened his fingers for a moment before withdrawing them, as grasping at such an angle was no guarantee for comfort. "Frodo...please."

For a moment, Frodo blinked, stupefied. He hadn't expected to be--to--

"In--Inside you?"

Sam turned his head hesitantly, pressed a tremulous kiss to Frodo's cheek. "Yes, sir--"

"Stop that," Frodo whispered.

"All right...I..."

Frodo cried out softly, clinging tightly, trailing one hand to grasp Sam, earning a shudder and a deep, pleasured whimper. "I could hurt--Sam, I could take being hurt, but hurting y--"

"You stop, Frodo. I want...oh, Frodo...you said--you'd--"

Frodo exhaled, opening his eyes wide. "Ah...ah, I did...and you're...so brave--"

Sam shifted impatiently. "I'm thinkin' it's not so much that," he grunted, "as I'll go crazy if you don't--Frodo, Frodo..."

And there was no one to tell him how, or what felt best, or even what was easiest. Frodo pressed a trembling kiss to Sam's ear, did the only thing he could think of--urged Sam to settle on his side, leaned low and spread more kisses, ones as light as rain over Sam's shoulders as his hand stroked down a final time, drawing cries this time more broken. Another handful of lavender, a soft breath--nervous, Sam, I'm...--a shiver as Frodo slid his hand over himself; a taut gasp from Sam as the remainder of it glided the short space form the base of his spine, down, down to just there--

"It's tight," Frodo whispered thinly, lips breaking and sealing at Sam's shoulder, gasping over and again--oh, what if I can't, I'll surely...!--

Sam shifted, breathing hard, trying to relax. "I...just slow, Frodo...just...---Ah!"

Frodo blinked and pressed again, the giving-way a second time even less expected than the first. Sam panted and reached back, hand shaking with disbelief, another awkward stretch to tug Frodo, press him--

"Now?" Frodo whispered, shaking. Oh, he needed...he arched forward, sliding one leg up and over Sam, hooking ankles gently, rising in he slightest, till he brushed...

"Yes."

Frodo grasped at Sam's waist, hand sliding with more than oil--sweat, his own and Sam's, both trembling too much to keep any semblance of equilibrium. Frodo pressed up awkwardly, met with his own hand, slid his fingers out gently, felt Sam contract. He closed his eyes, groaning.

"Sam, I'll--"

"You promised."

Frodo breathed deeply, nuzzled the back of Sam's neck. Give in, let go; just press in--

"Oh!"

Sam gritted his teeth, dug his fingernails into the coverlet.

Frodo was beyond hesitation, beyond asking. Barely an inch, and then one, and then tight, hot dizziness gripped him from that throbbing core upwards, and even against Sam's near-scream, no stoping, only writhing and shifting forward and panting what he could remember of Sam's name until flame squeezed the breath from him and his hand clawed tight at the crease of Sam's thigh, dragging him backwards. And through all of Sam's sobbing and his own broken utterances, he somehow understood the words need and touch and slid his other shaking hand and grasped until flesh slid and had its own life in his hand, and Frodo held on--

Until he could only scream himself, and lock onto Sam's own shaking body and realize that his hand had been wet for long moments and Sam had been gasping pleasure for longer than pain, and his own body could scarce tell the difference for what had torn through it and left him seeping his own release in turn--inside--

"...Sam..."

Frodo's eyes had burned shut; his lips had gone dry. Sam still panted softly; one hand was curled tight around Frodo's, there where it still grasped between his thighs.

"Frodo-love, are you--"

"Sam." Frodo opened his eyes, breathed in a few great gulps. Sam's free hand had twisted back again, stroking soft at Frodo's thigh, plastered along the contour of Sam's own, fingertips finding out how.

Sam turned his head awkwardly. Frodo tilted his own to meet Sam's cheek, lips parting on a wince as he shifted back and slid away, so easily--

Sam sighed and rolled over with a wince of his own, but soon their mouths met and the need for words dissolved into silence, with lips and tongues all softness and searching. Frodo pressed them together with a murmur; Sam trembled a bit at his touch, but quieted when Frodo rubbed gently, almost contritely, yearning to soothe.

"Sam, if I...if..."

"Oh, Frodo-love. Hush."

Frodo pursed his lips, and knew by the look in Sam's eyes that the look in his own was enough.