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Frodo lifted his head from that enticing indentation, just within Sam's collarbone, and panted, with an unmistakable note of annoyance, "What do you mean there is no butter, Sam? Surely there is some in the larder, at least. Really, there is always some butter, somewhere!"
Sam groaned, and his distress could not have been more obvious. "Oh, Frodo, I didna think, love, and there's Fatty to come this afternoon." He hadn't planned on being this low on butter, and really, there were a good many things about their current predicament on which he had not planned. Chiefly among them was the look Frodo had given him over his mug of ale at luncheon, and the unexpected but always alluring sensation of a certain set of toes creeping up his leg under the table. He did have to admit that he just might have stretched his leg out a bit in that direction, testing the waters, so to speak, but he really had not planned anything out much further than that. He was, after all, not that experienced at this seduction business.
The thought though, of insufficient buttered toast to set in front of Fatty, was quite alarming as well and nearly took his mind off of their current situation. It would have indeed, if it had not been for a certain part of his body that was insisting that proceedings continue, butter or no, and his awareness that Frodo was in a like condition. There were, of course, alternatives, so he tried a different tack, dexterously rolling Frodo to his side, and starting to kiss and nibble his way down Frodo's throat and chest, bound for nether regions.
Frodo, however, was having none of this. "No, Sam," he very nearly growled, slithering downward in the bed until he was face to face with a startled Sam. "I really, really want you. And butter." But then his face suddenly cleared, and he gave a merry crow, his eyes sparkling. "I should have remembered! My cousins were here just last week, and where you find them together, you will usually also find..." And abruptly scrambling to his feet, leaving a taken aback Sam in their bed, he was gone.
It was not, while Sam lay on the disheveled bedclothes, staring at the packed earthen ceiling and wondering what, in the name of all the stars above, Merry and Pippin had to do with this as he valiantly tried to disregard a certain aching and throbbing, long before Frodo burst back into the room, with a triumphant smile and something hidden in his hands. There was no mistaking, however, that sudden aroma and Sam's heart, among other personal items, sank.
"Lavender oil!" Frodo announced with delight, plopping the small stoppered flask on the bedside table and gleefully hopping onto the bed again next to Sam. "Who needs butter, really? This is every bit as slippery, and smells better, too."
Sam smiled weakly. Perhaps there were matters that he should have mentioned to Frodo a long while ago, but since the issue never seemed to come up, there had appeared to be no need. This, he was very sure, was not the right time. Frodo's smile was alluring beyond belief, with that hint of mischief that always promised marvels, and those clever hands of his were already busily at work. Sam therefore wrapped a greedy arm about Frodo's neck, found his mouth, and steadfastly resolved to not give in to doubts. After all, this was Frodo in his arms, and a very determined and ardent Frodo at that. What else could possibly be of importance compared to that?
If he had detected any momentary lapse of interest of Sam's part, Frodo gave no sign of it. Indeed, Sam gave him no opportunity to do so by immediately returning to the course of action that he had been pursuing, prior to Frodo having become distracted by the thought of an alternative to the missing butter. Frodo, this time, was more than delighted to allow Sam to continue along this vein, for at least awhile, as he closed his eyes and arched his back, his hands finding purchase in those familiar golden curls. He sighed in sheer bliss, as Sam's clever tongue found its rhythm, and for an instant, dreamily considered that it was hours before Fatty was to arrive, and really, that was more than enough time to allow themselves to indulge in any activity they wished, and that perhaps he should just encourage Sam's decision to continue along this course as long as he desired, because he knew he had passed the point where he could ever have stopped Sam, even on the remote likelihood that he had wanted to do so, for Sam's lips were beyond exceptional, and what his tongue was able to do was the most marvelous thing he had ever known, and it wouldn't be very long now, as much as he would try to cling to the edge, before he would be compelled to surrender to the bliss of love's fulfillment. And just as he moaned in ecstasy and felt himself achingly close to the brink, there was a sudden loud explosion and a sharp pain in what had been so exceedingly close to gratification, and Frodo gave an involuntary yowl as his eyes flew open in bewilderment.
"Pardon," came a slightly muffled response down below his waist and he sat up to see a rather rosy Sam energetically rubbing his nose.
Frodo glared down at him, unable to help but feel that that really could have waited just, oh, half a minute longer, and mentioned, with some asperity, "You didn't seem to be coming down with anything at lunch, Sam."
Sam sighed, and decided that the truth was, as usual, the best course of action. "It's the lavender, Frodo," he revealed, propping himself on his side with an elbow. "Makes me sneeze. Allus has."
"Ah," Frodo commented, suddenly enlightened on many fronts, the corner of his mouth beginning to tug up ever so slightly. "So that is why I'm always the one to straighten up the guest room after my cousins pay us a visit."
"Aye," Sam allowed, rather sheepishly, as the corners of his mouth began to answer Frodo's. "Sneeze something fierce when I try. Oh, I know there's naught better in the world than lavender for bees, no mistake, but 'tis the Cottons as must keep a patch o'it in these parts, I'm afraid." But he abruptly took on a distracted look, as he said that, and began rubbing his nose heartily again.
Frodo couldn't keep back his laugh at that sight. "Oh, now, Sam, my love, that's hardly going to put you in the proper frame of mind. Very well, I'll put it back where it won't be vexing you any longer, and go take another look through the larder. Surely there must be another alternative."
Sam simply couldn't help it, however, as he gave an embarrassed glance in Frodo's direction, between rubs. He had never, ever, been able to resist a laughing Frodo. "Bugger my nose," he grumbled, as he made a sudden lunge for a startled Frodo.
"Well, it wasn't exactly your nose I had in mind," was all Frodo managed to get out, with a shriek of delight, before he was well and truly covered by Sam, and Sam's mouth suddenly was keeping his own very occupied indeed. The next several minutes were thereby taken up in the most delightful way, with Frodo finding, with great satisfaction, that whatever else about Sam that might be distracted by the fragrance, it certainly wasn't his tongue, which was frisky and clever indeed in meeting and teasing Frodo's own, even though it had to be withdrawn unexpectedly from time to time, as its owner was forced to quickly bury his face in the pillow next to Frodo's head and surrender to a quick and stealthy explosion. But Frodo had reached that silly state where he found Sam's predicament to be the most amusing dilemma ever, and oddly stimulating. And Sam, Frodo quickly found, as he drew himself tightly against Sam's body, was obviously resolved to pay such minor inconveniences no mind at all, when there were more pressing, and indeed, more enhanced matters awaiting completion.
Finally, after an especially heroic eruption, Frodo felt that, lovely as this was, there really wasn't any point in continuing their current activity, when there were such enticing alternatives, and it was more than manifest that Sam was in the same frame of mind. Reaching behind his head, he grabbed for a pillow to shove under his hips, but was slightly flummoxed when Sam quickly reversed their positions, with himself under Frodo. "Too distracted, dearie," he gasped with a grin, seeing Frodo's raised eyebrow. "But you go on, now, love, don't you be stoppin' any o'this."
Certainly, that was not an invitation he had to give Frodo more than once. After all, it didn't really matter to either one of them exactly which position in which they happened to end up on a given evening, or afternoon, in this case. With a fervent kiss, he signaled his assent to Sam's proposal, and reached for the bedside vial. "Oh, dearie, oh Frodo," Sam sighed happily as Frodo's oiled finger found him. His own hand sought and quickly located Frodo and most especially, the part of Frodo that ached for Sam's touch the most. "Oh, me darling, oh. . . my!" And it was with amazing speed that Sam grabbed behind his head for another pillow and managed to allow it to intercede between their faces just in time.
Frodo laughed again, but this time rather thoughtfully, if such a thing was possible. For he had discovered that a sneezing Sam had the most, erm, interesting contractions. This was, indeed, a discovery that warranted further study. So it was not long at all before he had progressed past the finger, and he found that, yes, this unexpectedly intermittent interruption of their normal rhythm was oddly appealing and stimulating. The last thing he wished, to be sure, that Sam should think that his sneezing was interfering in any way with their mutual pleasure, so he was ferocious indeed in his assault on Sam's mouth, throat, eartips, and generally any location that he knew gave Sam special gratification. And it wasn't long at all before he knew, by Sam's moans of ecstasy, the way he writhed under Frodo's attentions, and above all, the delectable feel of Sam in his voracious hand, that Sam was not far off from the point that he was blissfully at himself. Oddly enough, Sam's sneezes had also settled into a rhythm, so it was not at all unexpected when an especially hearty blast managed to culminate developments most satisfactorily all way around.
But they had barely a chance to lie, limp and panting, and in the case of one of the parties, still sneezing on occasion, before there was a natty tattoo pounded on the front door. "Fatty," they both breathed in unison, exchanging a glance of resigned amusement.
"Very well, Sam, love, I'll take this unfortunate bottle back down the hall, and you may as well air out the room a bit whilst I see to Fatty." Frodo quickly shrugged his clothing, which had been left in a heap, back on again and started out of the room. But just as a second verse was thumped on the door, with feeling, he turned back and flashed a mischievous smile at Sam. "And you might want to give your face a bit of a wash, my dear. It's slightly on the sticky side, you know. But absolutely adorable, nevertheless."
Fatty never knew why his innocent remark regarding the quality of the buttered toast sent the two residents of Bag End into gales of merriment, but then he had long ago admitted to himself there was a good deal about the two of them that was beyond his ken, even past the inexplicable refusal to see his beloved Lobelia for the bewitching creature she truly was. So when Sam got it into his head to pop down to Number Three, before they lost the last bit of evening light, to fetch some more butter, and that remark set Frodo into a fit of giggling once again, he merely shook his head tolerantly and gave them a serene smile in return. At least breakfast would be suitably plentiful tomorrow even if it was to be, he suspected, a trifle late.