Yet another birthday fic from Live Journal, this written for Beruscats (who, as you may guess, is also a fan of 24). Just silliness, R-rated for a little slashyness.
by Laura Mason
Frodo paced nervously beside the long oak table in the kitchen at Bag End.
"I'm afraid I still don't understand this. You want to record everything I do this day?"
"That's right. The story will be called Twenty-Four," and it will be doled out an hour at a time in honor of Beruscat's birthday." The strange big person, really the strangest big person Frodo had ever seen, knocked another teacup over into her own lap, adding to the many stains already on the odd, buttonless shirt she wore. "Shit! Oh, sorry, I mean ... Wait -- how do hobbits swear?"
"Swear?" Frodo asked, batting his eyes innocently and enjoying the sheer frustration in the big person's eyes.
"Curse? Complain? Surely if you dropped a basket of eggs, there's something you'd say besides sticklebats?"
Frodo merely wrinkled his eyebrows in confusion and her face went slack with lust. The drool, at least, didn't stain her shirt.
"Now about this observation you want to do here today," Frodo said, starting to clear the table.
"Yes." The big person shook herself and picked up her notebook. "We could begin right now, breakfast time in the Shire--"
"Second breakfast, actually," Frodo corrected. "I've been awake since six thirty."
"Really? But I thought you'd sleep later, having been awake all night poring over elvish books Bilbo left here."
"Elvish books? M'am, do you know what kind of things the elves write about? They're immortal, you know, and evidently after a few thousand years one gets bored enough to try all kinds of odd things."
"So Bilbo learned elvish to read ... pornography?"
"Filth, every word of it."
"I thought so!" she crowed happily. "So you're probably translating them for the hobbits..."
"Hobbits don't need such things translated. We know all about the birds and the bees, as should be obvious from the number of healthy hobbit children running around. Anyway, Bilbo took all his elvish manuscripts with him."
"Really?" She sounded terribly disappointed. "So the books in the study -- what are they?"
"Geneology, mostly. Annotated geneologies of the families. And farming books, instructions on fertilization and gardening." She drooled when she was bored, too.
"Oh. Well, back to Twenty Four. I'd begin by writing about you clearing up after breakfast, just like this. And when your friends begin arriving, I'll chronicle your adventures this day."
"Friends? I'm not expecting callers today. It's Saturday. No one in Hobbiton makes social calls on Saturday."
"But surely your cousins don't stand on ceremony. Won't Merry and Pippin be popping by for a picnic, or to invite you to try a new tavern? Perhaps some rambling in the Old Forest?" The big person looked far too excited about her imaginings.
"You have an abysmal lack of knowledge of Shire geography. My cousins don't live in this vicinity, or even close to each other. The Old Forest is beyond Buckland, not near Hobbiton. It would take days to get there. And if either Pippin or Merry were coming to visit, they'd have sent letters so I'd know. We don't just 'pop by' as you suggest -- what if I were away from home? How would I know to have enough provisions for two more mouths? And to have the smial tidy?"
"You seem a bit obsessive about housekeeping, Frodo, and that's not what I expect from you," the big person said sadly. "Here you are putting things away and washing up and wiping down the table. I thought you'd be too engrossed in your writing or reading, and leave all that to Sam."
"Sam? Sam has his own duties in the garden. He doesn't have time to clean up after me. He's my gardener, not my house servant, you know."
"Sam doesn't come in early every morning to start your fire, and open the curtains in your room, and wake you with tea?" Frodo's dumbfounded look was answer enough. "But... surely Sam will stop in today when his work is finished, perhaps to share a meal, and tell you some exciting news from the Green Dragon?"
"Sam doesn't work on Saturdays. Employees do have days off, you know," Frodo splashed a pot into the washtub before adding, "And don't usually get fed, nor encouraged to gossip."
"Well, since I'm on the wrong track, what are you planning today? Once you've finished those dishes, what will you do?"
"Well..." Frodo set the last clean plate to drain and turned, wiping his hands. "I have to dust the rest of the smial. Your unexpected visit has put me behind schedule on that. Then sweeping, and then I'll scrub the floors."
"Don't you need to go to the market, where you might run into your Sackville-Baggins cousins?"
"No. Did my marketing yesterday so I could clean without interruption."
"You're not going outside at all, on such a beautiful day?" Frodo shook his head. "But things will get more exciting once the cleaning is done, won't they."
"Well..." Frodo looked around thoughtfully. "I suppose I could wash the good tea set, and polish the silver."
"Mr. Baggins, this is not the type of story Beruscats deserves on her birthday. We want action, adventure, and insights into the daily life of a hobbit. We want a cast of many characters, some funny, some sinister, all leading to a dramatic conclusion tomorrow at this very time." The woman threw down her pen in disgust. "Not spring cleaning tales."
"You don't appear to know very much about hobbit culture or Middle Earth, M'am. I think you've come to the wrong place. Perhaps away to the south, where there are kingdoms of men, you might find something exciting like that. Battles and war, and treachery."
"Hmm. Beruscats is a member of Wenham Weekly," she mused. "Maybe a day of Faramir's life would be better. I wonder what's going on in Gondor at this time," she continued, standing and gathering her papers. "How old is Faramir right now?"
Without even a word of thanks for the second breakfast she'd consumed, the big person was out the door, mumbling to herself about dysfunctional royal families and someone's mother.
"At last." Frodo ran from the kitchen, then ran back in to bolt the door tightly. He left again, pounding down the hallway to the guest room.
"I'm sorry I was detained so long," he said as he knocked.
"Come in." Strider rolled over, dropping the book of elvish erotica he'd been reading, and smiled. The man was still nude, and already rising to the occasion. "Was it that dreadful Lobelia Sackville-Baggins?" he asked as Frodo ripped off his waistcoat and trousers.
"Even worse," he averred, climbing onto the oversized bed. "But we won't have to worry about her coming back here any time soon." The hobbit pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it behind him, then dived to kiss the Ranger's lips. "Mmm, you taste so wonderful."
"Better than scones?" he asked, big hands grasping Frodo's shoulder, then moving down his back, and stopping at his pert rump to squeeze gently.
"Better than anything," Frodo replied, doing some squeezing of his own that made the man groan. "For the next twenty-four hours, let's see how many times we can make love, Strider. I'll wager ... hmm, almost once an hour. Twenty times, and none of them the same." He kissed a brown nipple to punctuate the wager.
"You, insatiable one, are overestimating. I'll wager on thirteen, a baker's dozen, for we'll need time to sleep and eat, as well as pleasure each other." He gasped then as Frodo's mouth descended, traveling over his stomach long enough for a kiss to his belly button, then moving lower still.
Strider's hips bucked as he stammered "Perhaps ... we can ... do ... without ... sleep."
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