By: Dana
Summary: Pippin is having quite a day, and he's not even had breaskfast yet.
Characters: Pippin, Frodo, Sam
Pairings: Sam/Pippin (Frodo/Pippin, Merry/Pippin and Sam/Rosie mentioned)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Slash, a mention of het, sexual content
Author's Notes: Written for the hobbit_smut "My Birthday Suit Needs Pressing!" Challenge.
I started this wanting to write one thing, and then that turned into something else, so I wrote Sam/Pippin instead. This might seem kind of finished (actually, it kind of leaves one hanging, so don't ask me why I said that), but one day when I can write again I will come back and I will give this the ending that it properly deserves. There's probably a threesome somewhere in there that I really need to write, you know. There's actually a birthday, too, but I never got to that part of the story. So, it's a mention of a birthday that's about to happen. Better than nothing, I think.
Anyhow, Hyel took a look at this and thought it didn't suck, so I'm posting it because of her. If it does suck, blame me, not her. It's all my fault.
Disclaimer: The author makes no claim to owning the rights of anything to do with J.R.R. Tolkien or New Line Cinema. Any and all characters and situations that have been borrowed are for the author's personal use only, and for the entertainment of others.

Pippin wonders if he ever has seen Frodo really-truly mad – well, there was that thing he'd done with the tea cup and the pastry plate, and Frodo had laughed even if he had been annoyed, and for all that a pack of S-Bs can be an irritation, too, Pippin can't recall a time they'd made him real and truly mad (certainly, Lotho had come close on more than one occasion and Pippin's seen that for himself, but Frodo has a better hand with Lotho than many liked to think). Well, if he'd not ever seen Frodo really-truly mad before, now he has – now that Bag End's front door has slammed, and Pippin has been left all alone, on his bottom, splayed flat in the dirt.

Pippin hears the door-lock click loudly as it falls shut. He gulps down a fresh breath. Ah. He blinks. Well, not only has he been pushed out of Bag End, and onto his bottom, it seems that Frodo's gone and locked him out, too.

Brushing himself off, his arms and his legs and his backside, too, he stands up, and then he steps up to know on the door. He does, and calls out, "Frodo. Frodo? You've gone and locked me out. Frodo? Please, Frodo? Won't you let me back in?" He knocks once more, and then again, and he shivers all over when he notices the draft. Autumn's breath is brisk at his back, light and chill. Ah – yes. The blasted draft. He knocks again. Perhaps he ought to ask Frodo to throw out a dressing robe or a very long shirt, at the least, if Frodo's set on acting like a fool.

"Frodo, let me back in. It's the day before your birthday. You shouldn't be so mean."

Silence. Maybe he shouldn't have said – well, he'd thought it a very novel idea, and Frodo had been the one who had insisted that he undress, and it had been too long, hadn't it? Merry would understand that they couldn't wait for him, but Merry wasn't set to arrive until sometime after midday. So, Pippin can't think of anything he had done or said that would have warranted such a reaction from Frodo. But Frodo had flustered, bright-red like an apple, and he had pushed Pippin right out of his bedroom, and right down the front hall. Maybe Frodo had had something planned – really, Pippin hadn't known what to think when he'd found himself pinned back against the front door. But then Frodo had groped – and it wasn't a good sort of groping, not at all – and Pippin had tripped back, landing hard on the front path, on his poor abused bottom.

Frodo had stood at the front door, cheeks still red. "Pippin, I think you and I both need a breath of fresh air," he'd said. Good day."

Then he'd pulled the door in, and shut it, and Pippin had fallen back and onto his bottom. And that led him back to where he now stood, staring at the wood grain in Bag End's front door, and wondering at what he'd done or said that had put Frodo in such a state.

Pippin listens very closely. Had he heard Frodo laugh?

No, no. He couldn't have. Well. He sighs. He'd give Frodo a moment – no. He'd check on the kitchen door, and perhaps make himself a cup of tea. He rubs at his bare arms, and then at his equally bare torso. Well, what a day.

He cautiously steps about the rose bushes (no good getting caught on something, now), and he even more cautiously steps over the chrysanthemums (Sam had given both him and Merry a scolding that time they'd used the flowerbed as a proper bed, and he wasn't looking for a repeat performance – not so early in the morning, and especially not when there was already a mess in which he had to deal), and goes around until he comes to the kitchen door. He rattles the door knob cheerfully and turns it around as far as it will go – which isn't very far – but the door sticks fast, much to Pippin's distress. He rattles it again, then knocks on the door. "Frodo? Frodo! Really now, cousin, I'm sorry if I've been a bother but it's cold out, and you've locked this door too, so could you please let me in?"

There's no answer. Well, no answer from Frodo, at least.

"Master Pippin, is that – ah. It is you, I see. I heard you all the way down at the row."

Pippin turns and scowls at Sam, crossing his arms over his chest as he does. His shirt is buttoned up but for the oh, top three or so and he is, all over, a very welcome sight. "Good morning to you, too. Frodo's in a state, Sam – if I were you, I'd go somewhere else in search of your morning tea. Oh. Must you be wearing all your clothes to get service at the Dragon? I really hope not, as you can see."

Sam gives him a Look: "Aye, sir, that I can see."

It must say something about Sam, or at least something about the company that Frodo tends to keep – but Pippin stands there, wearing nothing but – ah, nothing – and he turns and glares at the locked door, instead. Sam doesn't seem at all bothered, but then, Pippin can't see him now that he has his gaze on the door. "He's locked me out. Botherations. I really don't know what I could have done to set him off, but off he is and – ah. Botherations, Sam. This really is no good."

"Could it have something to do with your, ah, lacking state?"

Pippin turns to look at Sam, with a blank stare and then a – ah, ah, yes, that's what Sam means. He smiles, and then he laughs. "Oh, no, not at all. See, Frodo was the one who insisted I undress – not that you want to hear that, I'm sure, but there you have it. You'd think Frodo a better host, but he really isn't. I'm dreadfully cold, Sam. And I'm hungry, too."

"Well, if you'll stay here…" Sam starts.

Pippin shakes his head. "I'll not stay here. Frodo doesn't want me about, it seems. Do you think I could stay with you a bit at Number 3? Just until Frodo comes to his senses, of course."

"Well – I've work to do," Sam mutters. He does, Pippin sees – he has his tool belt about his waist, and his box of tools, too, sheering prunes sticking out over the wooden edge. But he's thinking, that Pippin knows, and then he nods, and says, "Still, I can't leave you out – and in such a – well, you know." He waves his arm and hand, and mutters again. "Why don't you sit here a while, and I can bring you something? A pair of trousers – a belt, too, as you've half my waist… and a shirt, as well. Nothing so fine as your own clothing, but I don't reckon you'll mind that…"

"Ah, yes. Not that I'd mind that, right now," Pippin says, but then he smiles. "Ah, I'd not want to put you out, Sam. Don't you worry about me. Frodo's the one who put me here, and it will be all on Frodo to make this right." He glares at the kitchen door, and kicks his foot back against it. "Frodo, did you hear that? You'll make me put your poor gardener out, if you don't stop with this foolishness, right now, and let me in."

"Now, you oughtn't… I, ah, I'll just… yes." Sam looks him up and down, once more, then mutters something Pippin can't hear and puts down his tools. He brushes his hands off on his trousers, and says, "You just sit here, Master Pippin – or not sit, if you want – and I'll be right back, with clothes for you, and something for you to eat as well. But stay here, please. I'd not want to think about the stir you'd make, and walking about…"

Sam is flustered now, and he wipes a hand across his brow. "Don't you move a muscle, Master Pippin," he says, then turns, and leaves.

With a very heavy sigh, Pippin watches him go, leaning back against the closed door as he does. What a very uncomfortable day. "Frodo, I really don't know what you're on about, but I'll find out…"

And then, when Sam is gone, he pushes his hands flat against the door and then pushes off from it, propelling himself into motion after Sam, intent on following him. He really doesn't feel like standing outside Bag End, not anymore. He jogs to catch up with Sam and, by the time he reaches him, Sam turns and notice that he's been followed – and with Pippin standing in the out and open on the road, and almost to the row, he gives a great start. "Master Pippin, have you cracked? You're bare as birth, you bloody Took – get back to Bag End!"

Pippin only shrugs. "Oh, bother that, Sam. I'd really rather not."

"I am – oh," Sam mutters, flustered still and with the corner of his mouth twitching, and then grabs hold of Pippin. "Forgive me, sir, but you asked for this. You probably asked for the rest of it, too." He clamps one hand down on Pippin's mouth when Pippin opens his mouth to protest, wraps his arm about Pippin's shoulders and drags him back up the road to Bag End. Pippin mutters his protests against Sam's hand and tries to break free of Sam's hold – blasted Gamgee, too strong for his own good. Pippin kicks helplessly and looks at the deep tracks he's left behind in the dirt. Then he pushes down with his feet, toes dragging through earth.

"Sam!" he protests, when Sam lets him go. They're back behind the rose bushes, with the chrysanthemums on one side, and Bag End on the other. "That really is going to far. I say, Frodo deserves whatever mischief I might get up to, given that it's his fault that I – oh," not paying attention to where he is or where he's going, he trips back again, falling backwards, and mutters a curse with he lands hard on the ground. "Oh, that's it. I'm sick and tired and – ah hah. That's it, I think." He tilts his head back, and looks at Sam – and Sam, spooked, takes a step back and runs right into the rose bushes, cursing like Pippin's never heard him curse when he startles blood-red blossoms and dark-green leaf.

"Sam, oh, I have the most marvelous plan."

Sam's look says he doesn't like Pippin's look – least of all, that he might something on to what Pippin's thinking – and then he tugs hard on his shirt where it's still caught by thorns, and cries out in dismay when he hears it rip.

"Come now, Sam," Pippin says, sitting up on his knees. "You've sisters, they'll see that stitched. Now, if you were to give me a minute, or three, or perhaps more, I promise you we'll have Frodo's attention – ah – and this will all be worked out. Please?" He's sitting close enough that all he has to do is reach out and loop his fingers through a belt loop, which is just what he does, and then he tugs. He smiles up at Sam. "You can consider it compensation for getting Rosie to dance with you back at the Spring Faire. Please?"

Sam opens and closes his mouth, gaping like a fish. His cheeks are red, red like Frodo's had been, and he sputters inconsistently, incoherently. "Please, ah, I don't… know… reckon this would be a very good… ah… idea!" Pippin tugs on his trousers, and Sam's knees give out beneath him and then he falls right to the ground. He's almost too close, and Pippin smiles at him, puts his free hand at Sam's shoulder. Sam grunts, almost pushes him away, but then he shakes his head, and lets out a deep breath, instead.

So Pippin says, "Please? I'll make it up to you, somehow – and it would be a great help, it would. Please?"

Sam opens and closes his mouth, and then again. Then, as if he's relenting – his body relaxes, and he lets out a small breath, he says, "Well, at least you're asking nicely," and Pippin chuckles and lets out his own small breath. And then he presses his mouth hard against Sam's, lets Sam feel his tongue, and when Sam does, Sam opens his mouth and lets him in.

Sam's been up long enough that he's had first and second breakfast already, and Pippin guesses that Marigold had made those marvelous blueberry scones of hers – oh, they really are very good, and he can taste them on Sam's tongue, taste them all about his mouth. Sam groans and Pippin clenches hold of his trousers, shifting against him – pressing up into the v-shape that has been left between Sam's spread opened legs. "Thank you, Sam," he mutters, drawing back so his lips are almost touching Sam's. "This should work, and right like a charm."

Sam mutters something, nods, and tangles one hand in the hair at the back of Pippin's head. He tugs Pippin's mouth back to his, and kisses him once more. Well, Sam's certainly getting something out of this, Pippin thinks – but he'll make it up to him, still.

"Now," he says, feeling giddy, and with his blood pumping, and a pleasant warmth tingling through his body – ah, and oh, he feels nicely hard. "Just keep this in mind – what we need to do, my dear Sam, is make an awful lot of noise."

Sam blushes, then grins, and then he nods. "Ah. Yes, an awful lot of noise." He slides one hand from Pippin's shoulder, down his back, and gives Pippin's bottom a large-handed squeeze – Pippin yelps and Sam kisses him, once more, that same hand now fastened in its place. Well, he'd not thought – he yelps again, trips on Sam's tongue, and Sam chuckles. "Master Pippin, you're a squirming thing. Here, let me keep you in place."

Sam turns, and Pippin falls back – oh, inches, maybe, or more, head and back settling against grass and – ah, there's the parlour window, right overhead. He doesn't mean to groan, but it works well enough that he does, rough corduroy pressing against him, and in all the right places. "Sam, I'd not have thought…" he gasps. Well, it is a very pleasant surprise. Sam is hard and presses harder, and Pippin lets out a little gasping groan. He braces his hands back against something solid, pushes against Sam, who is something solid, too. "Ah, yes. You should do that again."

Sam does, fastening his mouth on Pippin's and kissing him until Pippin is wondering about the need to breathe – ah, but there his nose is, good old nose, and he breathes in hard and fast and Sam's hands run down his body, rubbing, squeezing. "You are a bothersome fool," Sam says, licking his lips. "Now, I'll let you make your noise. I should – ah. Here. Let me get a hand on you – " Pippin jerks and grabs at Sam's shoulders, crying out when Sam's hand wraps thick about him. "There now. Better now. And I'll leave your mouth free, so we can… yes." Pippin nods. Sam squeezes, strokes him slowly. Pippin shuts his eyes tight and gasps for breath, moaning out loud and bucking his hips against the too-slow stroking of Sam's callused hand.

"Sam – ah – Sam!" Pippin shouts. He opens his eyes and then shuts them again, wanting more but not able to get anything else than he already has. He wants to push harder – but Sam, with a talented hand, pushes back, and Pippin is left panting, and frustrated. Well, if it had been his own hand, he'd have come by now, but – oh. Sam teases with the a lightly dragging fingernail, and lets Pippin free. Pippin gasps for his breath, blinks against light that is suddenly too bright. "Oh – come now," he says, breathing hard. "Surely you're not – ah. Sam."

"It's been a while now," Sam says, and if this is after a while now, then Pippin would like to see him right after. "I might be a bit… rusty, you see." Pippin nods, only nods. He can hardly properly speak. With a weak-fingered hand, and him still too hard to be any good, he gives a jerky tug on Sam's trousers. Sam laughs, a very low and nice laugh, and he works himself free – pulls off his shirt, too, so he's left in his trousers, only. Pippin's hands – grabby now, and greedy – reach down and take him in hand, and Sam gives a start, and a long low groan.

"Ah. Look at that, now," he says, and pushes his hands up to the head, and then back against. Sam grumbles and growls and puts his arms about Pippin, squeezing him. Now Sam is stuck between Pippin's spread opened legs, and Pippin lets go of Sam if only in turn to wrap his arms back around him – and pulls him, tight as he can, flush.

"There now," he says, low. Sam is warm and hard and no, not just warm, hot. And all the air smells of late blooming autumn roses, and dirt, and sun, and Sam, and that must be what's best of all. "Come now. Move."

Sam does. His cock is trapped against or beside Pippin's, logistics that Pippin can't fathom, pinned and caught and holding on tight. Pippin moans, a delirious one that turns into a laughing groan. Sam's hands slide down, grab him by the bottom, and anchor him in place – and he's moving against him, and Pippin can feel him and he can feel what Sam is doing to his cock, moving against it and moving it and ah, yes, yes. He wants to wrap his legs around him, hold himself better, but he can't – his toes dig in dirt, and he lets out a moan so loud he must have shouted, and then he feels heat spill and he hears Sam's own grunting groan – and Sam comes, too, with an open-moaned moan.

"Ah. Ah. Oh, Sam." He laughs a little. "You are a marvelous fellow, really. I should know you better than I do."

"Well, you know me a fair sight better, now," Sam says, laughing.

"Yes, yes, I do." Sam lets him go, and Pippin slides with little fanfare down to the ground. His legs are sore, and he's pleasantly warm all over. "Ah. I should… ah."

Sam sits back, looks at him. Pippin reaches out, and touches Sam's cheek. "There now. I'll make this up to you, I promise."

Sam laughs, and then he smiles, and he's not blushing near as much as he was before. "I'm looking forward to it, Master Pippin, I am."

They sit there for a while longer, and then Sam disentangles himself from Pippin – with a well, I've work to do, and Pippin knows he does, so he helps him redo his trousers, and set himself at straight.

Sam insists Pippin keep his shirt, though, and he does.

And then, buttoning it up and having to redo it twice over when he skips over buttons along the way, he steps about the rosebushes and heads back to Bag End's front door. After Pippin knocks, Frodo, just as Pippin had thought he would, unlocks and then opens the door, pushing it open wide.

"Hullo, cousin," he says. Frodo's cheeks are red again, and he grabs Pippin by the arm and jerks him into the front hall, pulling the door shut in turn. "Well, glad to see you too, Frodo," he laughs. He is still nicely warm, and Frodo's eyes are narrowed, and there's a twitching something at the corner of Frodo's mouth. Pippin turns to him, presses his mouth against Frodo's, and gives that twitching something a lick.

But Frodo's not laughing. Pippin's smile slips free and falls from his face.

"What now, cousin? Are you angry with me, still?"

"I – I – I heard you mishandling my gardener," Frodo hisses. He's blushing hot enough that Pippin thinks he might just burst into flame. "What is the meaning of this, now? I was just – oh."

"What do you mean by that, Frodo? Mishandling? All Sam did was let me borrow his shirt." He steps away from Frodo, and stretches. "Now, if you don't mind, cousin, I'm quite sticky this morning, and I really would like to have myself a bath."

Startled, Pippin stops and turns when he hears Frodo's laugh. "Oh, Pippin. And here Merry thought you needed a lesson taught after the, ah, entire incident with the goat and the feathers and the honey, last month."

Pippin blinks. And then he blushes. "Now, that was hardly my fault. Merry – wait, Merry? Is Merry about? Oh, he'd best come out, and I'll have words with him – I hardly wanted to spend my morning – ah. Hullo, Frodo."

"Hullo, Pip." Frodo laughs. Frodo's fingers tangles in the front of Sam's shirt, and pulls Pippin hard against him, close. "There now, settle down. Merry's still not set to arrive until after midday. But we've had this planned, you see. I'd thought a bit of modesty might do you well, but it seems that I was… well, wrong. Very wrong. Good that Sam had been around, to – ah, offer you his shirt."

"Yes," Pippin says, leaning into Frodo's arm. "He's a marvelous fellow, that Sam."

"Isn't he? Now, he is all that saw you, right? For all I know, you went out streaking through Hobbiton… what was I thinking? What was Merry thinking, really?"

"Perhaps you've not been thinking. Now, Frodo," and Pippin pushes up on his tiptoes, and kisses Frodo's cheek. "Would you like to share that bath of mine? You do still owe me for this morning, you know."

"I know, I know. And then breakfast, I presume."

"You're a marvelous fellow yourself, cousin," Pippin says, but Frodo snickers, then, grinning open mouthed as his hand drops to swat Pippin's behind. Pippin is laughing as he says, "Well then, this shall turn out to be a marvelous birthday, I think. Do you suppose we'll be able to invite Sam back?"