Fic: Taking The Matter In Hand, Frodo/Sam
Dec. 31st, 2004 04:16 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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empressaurelius
Title: Taking The Matter In Hand
Chapter: 1/1, complete
By: Dana
Summary: A night caught at Bag End, and what comes of it.
Characters: Frodo, Sam
Pairings: Frodo/Sam
Rating: NC17
Warnings: Slash, sexual content
Author's Notes: Written for empressaurelius (as a replacement story) for the Lord of the Rings FPS Secret Santa; she wanted Frodo/Sam, with a bit of dirty talk and/or kink, if it wasn't too much trouble, and I do hope she likes this little gift that is, uh, not exactly what she wanted, but close enough, I think.
I'd also like to thank Trilliah for the bunny that blossomed into this fic. Thank you, hon!
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.
The rain had come in a flash from the harsh November sky, falling hard, and cold, and soaking Sam through to the skin. Now, he sits in Bag End's front parlor, bundled in a thick quilt and one of Bilbo's fine old robes, and sitting right before the fire that crackles, bright and cheerful, on the hearth. He shivers – his fingers were still cold, and felt a bit numb. He'd only been halfway up the Hill when the storm had hit, and he had been closer to Bag End than he had been to Number Three, by far. It had only made sense that he would finish his trek, even if that took him through the storm, and left wet, and cold, at Bag End's front door. He hadn't even thought that Mister Frodo would think that he had presumed.
"Here Sam," Frodo says, and Sam accepts the offered teacup with clumsy, shy fingers, muttering his thanks as he does. "Are you feeling any better, Sam? Goodness, you could have froze out there, I think. I hope you haven't gone and caught a chill."
Sam smiles, but then he lowers his gaze. They are both sitting before the fire, though not in any chair. Sam feels that he is hidden, beneath a small mountain of thick blankets. Frodo sits, instead, with his feet to the fire, warming his toes.
"I'm feeling right as rain – " he laughs, then, as he cradles the teacup carefully, the base of the cup warm against his palm, and along the length of his fingers. He does not lift his gaze, focusing instead on the floral pattern that rings the rim of the teacup – pink and blue blossoms, all as pale and clear and as lovely as spring. Just like Mister Frodo, Sam thinks, and he feels a blush upon his cheeks, fire that heats.
"Pardon my choice of wording, sir, given the storm."
Frodo laughs. "No worries, Sam."
They sit a moment longer, Frodo taking a sip from his tea, Sam still cradling his teacup in one hand. Frodo is watching the fire, and it sets colour up high in his cheeks – rose-pink, a faint blush, and lovely as could be. "Are you enjoying your tea?" Frodo asks, though he doesn't turn to look at Sam, as though that has yet to cross his mind. "I hope you don't think it too sweet."
Sam blows at the steam that curls up from the dark surface of his tea, then sips at the hot liquid. He nods to his master, then, and offers him a smile, certain that his cheeks have rid themselves of their awful blush. "No, sir, it's not too sweet at all. In fact, it tastes quite fine. Thank you." He takes another long sip.
Frodo is looking at him, and smiling at him, too, a smile that warms Sam's stomach, and his heart, and his body all over, though that could be the fire, or even the tea: a slow sweet smile that is nothing more than a faint curving of Frodo's pale lips, but one that nonetheless shines brightly in clear, dark eyes. "Good. I wouldn't want anything to happen to you, now would I? And coming here, and in the rain – well, I appreciate the company, given that otherwise I'd have been stuck here without another soul to talk to, but still – "
"I know, Mister Frodo, I know. It wouldn't do me any good, if I were to catch a chill."
Frodo's smile is softer, and sweeter, if that is even possible. Sam hadn't thought that it could be, but it seems that he's been proven wrong. "Right, Sam."
"Well, sir, I was closer to Bag End, than I was to Bag Shot Row."
"Of course," Frodo replies, then sips at his tea. Sam takes a drink of his, letting it sit on his tongue, tasting of honey, and faintly of summer, before swallowing it, warmth spreading to his toes. Frodo's attention settles on the fire, as he drinks, and Sam's attention settles on Frodo. He is a lovely hobbit, the fairest that Sam knows, and Sam is lucky to have such a hobbit as his master – wise, and well-learned, and not queer at all, like he'd have thought a hobbit born of Buckland to be.
So, Sam smiles. "Well, when I'm feeling a bit more dry, sir, and if you still have the basket of potatoes that Marigold brought up to you this morning, then I could put us on a pot of taters, and stew, and we could have ourselves a hot meal."
"Mmm. That does sound rather charming, Sam."
"Good," Sam says back. He checks – his hair is all but dry, and it was sticking out, too, so he ran both his hands back through his hair, somehow trying to tame unruly curls. Frodo smiles at him, and Sam blushes, smiling back at him.
"Well, I could get to it, now."
Frodo shakes his head. "Not until you finish off your tea."
Sam does – and supper is fine, just as he'd hope, and afterwards, Frodo puts him in the best of the guestrooms, though Sam says that he needn't, and Frodo of course won't have it any other way. "I'll just be up a bit longer, Sam, but you get to sleep. We've both had long days, wouldn't you say?"
"Aye, sir," Sam says, and smiles, bobbing his head at Frodo as Frodo smiles back at him, and they say their goodnights, and then Frodo goes back out the bedroom door, closing it as he does. Sam is left there, in his own dry clothes, and moonlight pools at Sam's feet. He almost feels certain – there will be no sleep for him, tonight, as it almost seems that he is too aware, and too awake. Well, at least he can do is try. There is clothing laid out on the bed, a long old night shirt that had once been Bilbo's, before he'd gone away. Frodo must have all of Bilbo's things, in storage – certainly Frodo wouldn't have gone and given it away? Well, that's nothing to think on now, when Sam suddenly recalls his master's kindness. He smiles, and picks up the nightshirt. It would feel almost – odd, to go sleeping in something of Bilbo's, when it had been years and years now since Bilbo had been around. No, Sam thinks, shaking his head. He'd sleep in his own skin, if he weren't staying the night as a guest – his own clothing will do, though it might leave him crumpled. He feels crumpled, as is. It won't be much change.
He takes off his vest, at least, and folds it with Bilbo's nightshirt, setting them both at the chest pushed up against the foot of the bed. He pulls the covers back, then eyes the white sheets. Well, he really isn't as tired as he could be. He almost thinks – no. That's certainly not something you go doing, when you're staying as a guest.
Sam stands there a moment longer, listening to the night sounds that filter through the closed window, and smiles at the high sharp call of a night-flying bird. He can hear Frodo bustling about down the hall, and that has him smile, too. Well, he'll try at least, to sleep, and he crawls into the bed, pulling the covers up over him, and snuggling up under it, pressing his face to the thick pillow.
As he thought, he didn't quickly sleep. He didn't sleep at all, which really wouldn't do. It was as he'd thought, before – he feels too aware, too awake, too – too wanting, and his right palm itches, and his breeches are feeling a bit too tight. Sam doesn't know what it is – the good wine he'd drank, after supper, or maybe something more.
He'll ignore it. That'll teach his body a lesson.
Of course, it isn't all as easy as that.
He sits, the covers spilling off the bed, and works free the fastenings of his trousers, shoving his hand in and gripping his half-hard cock, the touch of his hand bringing him to something more like a rock-hard consistency. He sighs under that touch, groaning loudly – loudly, and he blushes, and wonders if in his rush, he had forgotten to wait for Frodo to go to sleep.
He couldn't have been so loud, though, for there is no sound but for his breath, as he tries to contain it, and the oh so gentle creak and moaning of the night. He bites his lip, then exhales, breathing back in. Yes, he moans, and thrusts his hips upwards to the embrace of his fist. Yes, yes, that's just what he wants.
Had it been Frodo, that had set his skin to such distraction? He wouldn't be so surprised. And fantasy, well, Sam knows fantasy is only that – there's no need for Frodo to know, or ever know, that this won't be the first time, that he has made Sam want so, has made Sam so hard.
He groans again, pushing into the grip of his fist, rubbing himself hard, wanting for his release, and the peace that will come. He will sleep, and he will dream, and he will wake again, in the morning.
But first – this.
Harder. Faster. He's almost there, and – yes – almost there, almost there –
Even given his state, Sam still hears the loud creaking of the door. Lifting his gaze seems like a heavy burden, but he manages it, blood pounding weakly in his ears, hand wrapped around a length of hard flesh, where it has stilled in its pace. The rushing of his blood is the sounding of a storm, at the sight of Mister Frodo, standing there, candlelight all about him, lighting his curls, and with such a look on his face, that Sam is surprised that he does not, right there, come.
"Sir – " he gasps, a strangled, twisted sound. "It ain't what you're thinking – "
"Sam," Frodo replies, and his voice his even, almost amused, "I think it is."
Sam shrinks back, but for the traitorous length of flesh between his legs, hard and bold. His words seems stuck in his throat, and Frodo steps full into the room, closing the door behind him. Sam swallows a lump, yet still those words are frozen, cold and hard and unwieldy as ice, and Frodo is at the bed now, and he sets the candle at the bedside table.
"Goodness, Sam, it'll be over in no time if you keep going at it like that."
Sam almost chokes, then coughs. He shifts, and settles back on the bed, reaching out for the cover. "Tsk," sounds Frodo, and Sam seems to freeze, too, like his words, hand out-stretched, fingers curling at the quilt. "Here, Sam, let me show you how it's done."
The words fall free of Sam's mouth, in a sharp burst, leaving naught but empty air, and longing, behind. "Isn't that the point of it, sir? To get it done, and as quick as you can?"
Frodo's smile is soft-sweet, like it had been, in the parlour. "There's more to wanking them you'd suppose, Sam. Ah, but then, you have the impatience of youth." He makes another sound, a soft-yet-sharp tsk, and he sits himself at the edge of the bed.
"May I?" he asks.
Sam nods, though his throat is dry, and his skin seems hot. "Aye."
Certainly, he thinks, as Frodo's hand reaches for him, this must be a dream. It must be, given that Frodo's fingers are strong, and smooth, and they wrap about him, bold as they will. Then Frodo speaks, though Sam can hardly hear, for the pounding of his blood and the thundering of his heart, and even the straining of the air, now thick and heavy, as it hangs itself in his ears.
"See now, Sam? Good support is the key."
"Aye," Sam gasps. His eyes begin to close, sudden and not at all slow – but then, Frodo's voice sounds, commanding Sam's attention. Sam gives it to him, as much as he can.
"No, Sam. You need to keep your eyes open. You need to watch."
What a chore that is, opening his eyes fully, looking at Frodo, the curve of his cheek. Sam is blushing, yes, as bold as Frodo's hand is, his palm resting so that Sam's cock is fully supported in its curve. He hadn't ever thought of Frodo's hands as strong, but he reconsiders, as Frodo's grip constricts him, squeezing him, and the pressure of it almost makes Sam pop. "Sir – "
"See, I could bring you up, right here, quick and hard. It'd feel good, I know, but there are ways that you can make it feel better. Do I have your attention, Sam?"
Sam nods – a slight bobbing of his head – and his throat is constricted, almost painfully so. "Aye, sir, you do."
"Good," Frodo says, and then there's that smile again, and pressure that seems feather light traces up the length that is currently the center of all Sam's attention. His thumb rubs at the head, and Sam gives out a loud moan, feeling pressure building in his chest and under his skin, beneath the slow moving weight of Frodo's touch. It is amazing that he hasn't burst from it, yet, to have Frodo's hand on him, and to hear Frodo's voice, speaking in such a matter-of-fact tone.
"See? Slow, but steady. Can't you feel it building up?"
Sam can barely speak. "I can."
"Good. Now," and he leans in close, close enough that dark curls are dusting against Sam's cheek, close enough that when he breathes in, Frodo's scent is softly floral, and tickles the back of his nose. "You must keep a constant, Sam. No good will come of dawdling, as they say. But not too quick, or else you'll miss a very fine ride. See? Like that. I know you can feel it, Sam."
He can. He can. He groans, loudly, unable to resist. He'd have finished with himself, if he'd been left to his own devices, and he'd have crawled under the covers, tired and almost aching, and alone. But here, with Frodo's hand on him, with Frodo's breath against his cheek; Sam swallows, and pictures Frodo's face, his closed eyes, his parted lips, and his own soft moaning – Frodo is too fine, to grunt and to groan. The build up is rather dizzying, then, and Sam does grunt, crying out loudly, Frodo's name, and an unintelligible slur. The blood is pounding in his ears, and Frodo's face – oh, the face that Frodo has turned upon him, is rather distraught.
"Oh, Sam, goodness me. I found myself so caught up in showing you, I didn't think to let you finish you off yourself. Forgive me, please – "
Sam gulps down fresh air. "There's no need for forgiving, sir, none at all," he gasps. "Gracious, Mister Frodo. No need for forgiving, at all."
Frodo smiles, rather bemused. "If you're quite certain, Sam. It was rather awful of me, I admit, but if you're thinking that I needn't beg for your forgiveness – well, then I simply won't."
Sam supposes that it could be many things – the sensation of skin that lingers, faintly, or Frodo's presence, or Frodo's warm, sweet scent. Perhaps it's all of that – or nothing, or something else, like the rapid beating of his heart, quite erratic, frantic like thunder, or lightning, the uncontrolled, intense build up of a storm. Sam twitches – or, more exactly, his spent cock twitches, and then Sam, quite boldly, seizes Frodo by the wrist.
"But I was – well, sir, it ain't more than a thought, but I have it in my head, and I – "
"What is it, Sam?"
"Well, goodness." It must be the heat, then, and Sam feels that his head is swimming, dizzy, and the world is distant, warm and hazy, somehow incomplete. "Well, sir, I could have a go at having a practice on you."
Frodo's expression is momentarily blank, but then he smiles, that absent, sweet smile, a smile that seems to encompass all of Frodo's Baggins charm. Sam smiles back at him, feeling less-lightheaded, less-dizzy, and yet still as bold.
"Goodness, Sam, you're a marvel," Frodo laughs. "What a fine idea – I should have thought of it myself."
empressaureliusTitle: Taking The Matter In Hand
Chapter: 1/1, complete
By: Dana
Summary: A night caught at Bag End, and what comes of it.
Characters: Frodo, Sam
Pairings: Frodo/Sam
Rating: NC17
Warnings: Slash, sexual content
Author's Notes: Written for empressaurelius (as a replacement story) for the Lord of the Rings FPS Secret Santa; she wanted Frodo/Sam, with a bit of dirty talk and/or kink, if it wasn't too much trouble, and I do hope she likes this little gift that is, uh, not exactly what she wanted, but close enough, I think.
I'd also like to thank Trilliah for the bunny that blossomed into this fic. Thank you, hon!
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.
The rain had come in a flash from the harsh November sky, falling hard, and cold, and soaking Sam through to the skin. Now, he sits in Bag End's front parlor, bundled in a thick quilt and one of Bilbo's fine old robes, and sitting right before the fire that crackles, bright and cheerful, on the hearth. He shivers – his fingers were still cold, and felt a bit numb. He'd only been halfway up the Hill when the storm had hit, and he had been closer to Bag End than he had been to Number Three, by far. It had only made sense that he would finish his trek, even if that took him through the storm, and left wet, and cold, at Bag End's front door. He hadn't even thought that Mister Frodo would think that he had presumed.
"Here Sam," Frodo says, and Sam accepts the offered teacup with clumsy, shy fingers, muttering his thanks as he does. "Are you feeling any better, Sam? Goodness, you could have froze out there, I think. I hope you haven't gone and caught a chill."
Sam smiles, but then he lowers his gaze. They are both sitting before the fire, though not in any chair. Sam feels that he is hidden, beneath a small mountain of thick blankets. Frodo sits, instead, with his feet to the fire, warming his toes.
"I'm feeling right as rain – " he laughs, then, as he cradles the teacup carefully, the base of the cup warm against his palm, and along the length of his fingers. He does not lift his gaze, focusing instead on the floral pattern that rings the rim of the teacup – pink and blue blossoms, all as pale and clear and as lovely as spring. Just like Mister Frodo, Sam thinks, and he feels a blush upon his cheeks, fire that heats.
"Pardon my choice of wording, sir, given the storm."
Frodo laughs. "No worries, Sam."
They sit a moment longer, Frodo taking a sip from his tea, Sam still cradling his teacup in one hand. Frodo is watching the fire, and it sets colour up high in his cheeks – rose-pink, a faint blush, and lovely as could be. "Are you enjoying your tea?" Frodo asks, though he doesn't turn to look at Sam, as though that has yet to cross his mind. "I hope you don't think it too sweet."
Sam blows at the steam that curls up from the dark surface of his tea, then sips at the hot liquid. He nods to his master, then, and offers him a smile, certain that his cheeks have rid themselves of their awful blush. "No, sir, it's not too sweet at all. In fact, it tastes quite fine. Thank you." He takes another long sip.
Frodo is looking at him, and smiling at him, too, a smile that warms Sam's stomach, and his heart, and his body all over, though that could be the fire, or even the tea: a slow sweet smile that is nothing more than a faint curving of Frodo's pale lips, but one that nonetheless shines brightly in clear, dark eyes. "Good. I wouldn't want anything to happen to you, now would I? And coming here, and in the rain – well, I appreciate the company, given that otherwise I'd have been stuck here without another soul to talk to, but still – "
"I know, Mister Frodo, I know. It wouldn't do me any good, if I were to catch a chill."
Frodo's smile is softer, and sweeter, if that is even possible. Sam hadn't thought that it could be, but it seems that he's been proven wrong. "Right, Sam."
"Well, sir, I was closer to Bag End, than I was to Bag Shot Row."
"Of course," Frodo replies, then sips at his tea. Sam takes a drink of his, letting it sit on his tongue, tasting of honey, and faintly of summer, before swallowing it, warmth spreading to his toes. Frodo's attention settles on the fire, as he drinks, and Sam's attention settles on Frodo. He is a lovely hobbit, the fairest that Sam knows, and Sam is lucky to have such a hobbit as his master – wise, and well-learned, and not queer at all, like he'd have thought a hobbit born of Buckland to be.
So, Sam smiles. "Well, when I'm feeling a bit more dry, sir, and if you still have the basket of potatoes that Marigold brought up to you this morning, then I could put us on a pot of taters, and stew, and we could have ourselves a hot meal."
"Mmm. That does sound rather charming, Sam."
"Good," Sam says back. He checks – his hair is all but dry, and it was sticking out, too, so he ran both his hands back through his hair, somehow trying to tame unruly curls. Frodo smiles at him, and Sam blushes, smiling back at him.
"Well, I could get to it, now."
Frodo shakes his head. "Not until you finish off your tea."
Sam does – and supper is fine, just as he'd hope, and afterwards, Frodo puts him in the best of the guestrooms, though Sam says that he needn't, and Frodo of course won't have it any other way. "I'll just be up a bit longer, Sam, but you get to sleep. We've both had long days, wouldn't you say?"
"Aye, sir," Sam says, and smiles, bobbing his head at Frodo as Frodo smiles back at him, and they say their goodnights, and then Frodo goes back out the bedroom door, closing it as he does. Sam is left there, in his own dry clothes, and moonlight pools at Sam's feet. He almost feels certain – there will be no sleep for him, tonight, as it almost seems that he is too aware, and too awake. Well, at least he can do is try. There is clothing laid out on the bed, a long old night shirt that had once been Bilbo's, before he'd gone away. Frodo must have all of Bilbo's things, in storage – certainly Frodo wouldn't have gone and given it away? Well, that's nothing to think on now, when Sam suddenly recalls his master's kindness. He smiles, and picks up the nightshirt. It would feel almost – odd, to go sleeping in something of Bilbo's, when it had been years and years now since Bilbo had been around. No, Sam thinks, shaking his head. He'd sleep in his own skin, if he weren't staying the night as a guest – his own clothing will do, though it might leave him crumpled. He feels crumpled, as is. It won't be much change.
He takes off his vest, at least, and folds it with Bilbo's nightshirt, setting them both at the chest pushed up against the foot of the bed. He pulls the covers back, then eyes the white sheets. Well, he really isn't as tired as he could be. He almost thinks – no. That's certainly not something you go doing, when you're staying as a guest.
Sam stands there a moment longer, listening to the night sounds that filter through the closed window, and smiles at the high sharp call of a night-flying bird. He can hear Frodo bustling about down the hall, and that has him smile, too. Well, he'll try at least, to sleep, and he crawls into the bed, pulling the covers up over him, and snuggling up under it, pressing his face to the thick pillow.
As he thought, he didn't quickly sleep. He didn't sleep at all, which really wouldn't do. It was as he'd thought, before – he feels too aware, too awake, too – too wanting, and his right palm itches, and his breeches are feeling a bit too tight. Sam doesn't know what it is – the good wine he'd drank, after supper, or maybe something more.
He'll ignore it. That'll teach his body a lesson.
Of course, it isn't all as easy as that.
He sits, the covers spilling off the bed, and works free the fastenings of his trousers, shoving his hand in and gripping his half-hard cock, the touch of his hand bringing him to something more like a rock-hard consistency. He sighs under that touch, groaning loudly – loudly, and he blushes, and wonders if in his rush, he had forgotten to wait for Frodo to go to sleep.
He couldn't have been so loud, though, for there is no sound but for his breath, as he tries to contain it, and the oh so gentle creak and moaning of the night. He bites his lip, then exhales, breathing back in. Yes, he moans, and thrusts his hips upwards to the embrace of his fist. Yes, yes, that's just what he wants.
Had it been Frodo, that had set his skin to such distraction? He wouldn't be so surprised. And fantasy, well, Sam knows fantasy is only that – there's no need for Frodo to know, or ever know, that this won't be the first time, that he has made Sam want so, has made Sam so hard.
He groans again, pushing into the grip of his fist, rubbing himself hard, wanting for his release, and the peace that will come. He will sleep, and he will dream, and he will wake again, in the morning.
But first – this.
Harder. Faster. He's almost there, and – yes – almost there, almost there –
Even given his state, Sam still hears the loud creaking of the door. Lifting his gaze seems like a heavy burden, but he manages it, blood pounding weakly in his ears, hand wrapped around a length of hard flesh, where it has stilled in its pace. The rushing of his blood is the sounding of a storm, at the sight of Mister Frodo, standing there, candlelight all about him, lighting his curls, and with such a look on his face, that Sam is surprised that he does not, right there, come.
"Sir – " he gasps, a strangled, twisted sound. "It ain't what you're thinking – "
"Sam," Frodo replies, and his voice his even, almost amused, "I think it is."
Sam shrinks back, but for the traitorous length of flesh between his legs, hard and bold. His words seems stuck in his throat, and Frodo steps full into the room, closing the door behind him. Sam swallows a lump, yet still those words are frozen, cold and hard and unwieldy as ice, and Frodo is at the bed now, and he sets the candle at the bedside table.
"Goodness, Sam, it'll be over in no time if you keep going at it like that."
Sam almost chokes, then coughs. He shifts, and settles back on the bed, reaching out for the cover. "Tsk," sounds Frodo, and Sam seems to freeze, too, like his words, hand out-stretched, fingers curling at the quilt. "Here, Sam, let me show you how it's done."
The words fall free of Sam's mouth, in a sharp burst, leaving naught but empty air, and longing, behind. "Isn't that the point of it, sir? To get it done, and as quick as you can?"
Frodo's smile is soft-sweet, like it had been, in the parlour. "There's more to wanking them you'd suppose, Sam. Ah, but then, you have the impatience of youth." He makes another sound, a soft-yet-sharp tsk, and he sits himself at the edge of the bed.
"May I?" he asks.
Sam nods, though his throat is dry, and his skin seems hot. "Aye."
Certainly, he thinks, as Frodo's hand reaches for him, this must be a dream. It must be, given that Frodo's fingers are strong, and smooth, and they wrap about him, bold as they will. Then Frodo speaks, though Sam can hardly hear, for the pounding of his blood and the thundering of his heart, and even the straining of the air, now thick and heavy, as it hangs itself in his ears.
"See now, Sam? Good support is the key."
"Aye," Sam gasps. His eyes begin to close, sudden and not at all slow – but then, Frodo's voice sounds, commanding Sam's attention. Sam gives it to him, as much as he can.
"No, Sam. You need to keep your eyes open. You need to watch."
What a chore that is, opening his eyes fully, looking at Frodo, the curve of his cheek. Sam is blushing, yes, as bold as Frodo's hand is, his palm resting so that Sam's cock is fully supported in its curve. He hadn't ever thought of Frodo's hands as strong, but he reconsiders, as Frodo's grip constricts him, squeezing him, and the pressure of it almost makes Sam pop. "Sir – "
"See, I could bring you up, right here, quick and hard. It'd feel good, I know, but there are ways that you can make it feel better. Do I have your attention, Sam?"
Sam nods – a slight bobbing of his head – and his throat is constricted, almost painfully so. "Aye, sir, you do."
"Good," Frodo says, and then there's that smile again, and pressure that seems feather light traces up the length that is currently the center of all Sam's attention. His thumb rubs at the head, and Sam gives out a loud moan, feeling pressure building in his chest and under his skin, beneath the slow moving weight of Frodo's touch. It is amazing that he hasn't burst from it, yet, to have Frodo's hand on him, and to hear Frodo's voice, speaking in such a matter-of-fact tone.
"See? Slow, but steady. Can't you feel it building up?"
Sam can barely speak. "I can."
"Good. Now," and he leans in close, close enough that dark curls are dusting against Sam's cheek, close enough that when he breathes in, Frodo's scent is softly floral, and tickles the back of his nose. "You must keep a constant, Sam. No good will come of dawdling, as they say. But not too quick, or else you'll miss a very fine ride. See? Like that. I know you can feel it, Sam."
He can. He can. He groans, loudly, unable to resist. He'd have finished with himself, if he'd been left to his own devices, and he'd have crawled under the covers, tired and almost aching, and alone. But here, with Frodo's hand on him, with Frodo's breath against his cheek; Sam swallows, and pictures Frodo's face, his closed eyes, his parted lips, and his own soft moaning – Frodo is too fine, to grunt and to groan. The build up is rather dizzying, then, and Sam does grunt, crying out loudly, Frodo's name, and an unintelligible slur. The blood is pounding in his ears, and Frodo's face – oh, the face that Frodo has turned upon him, is rather distraught.
"Oh, Sam, goodness me. I found myself so caught up in showing you, I didn't think to let you finish you off yourself. Forgive me, please – "
Sam gulps down fresh air. "There's no need for forgiving, sir, none at all," he gasps. "Gracious, Mister Frodo. No need for forgiving, at all."
Frodo smiles, rather bemused. "If you're quite certain, Sam. It was rather awful of me, I admit, but if you're thinking that I needn't beg for your forgiveness – well, then I simply won't."
Sam supposes that it could be many things – the sensation of skin that lingers, faintly, or Frodo's presence, or Frodo's warm, sweet scent. Perhaps it's all of that – or nothing, or something else, like the rapid beating of his heart, quite erratic, frantic like thunder, or lightning, the uncontrolled, intense build up of a storm. Sam twitches – or, more exactly, his spent cock twitches, and then Sam, quite boldly, seizes Frodo by the wrist.
"But I was – well, sir, it ain't more than a thought, but I have it in my head, and I – "
"What is it, Sam?"
"Well, goodness." It must be the heat, then, and Sam feels that his head is swimming, dizzy, and the world is distant, warm and hazy, somehow incomplete. "Well, sir, I could have a go at having a practice on you."
Frodo's expression is momentarily blank, but then he smiles, that absent, sweet smile, a smile that seems to encompass all of Frodo's Baggins charm. Sam smiles back at him, feeling less-lightheaded, less-dizzy, and yet still as bold.
"Goodness, Sam, you're a marvel," Frodo laughs. "What a fine idea – I should have thought of it myself."
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Date: 2004-12-31 06:22 pm (UTC)This is the perfect hobbit smut fic. It's soft and warm and fuzzy and hobbit and still hot and sexy and makes me smile and want to wank all at the same time. I love this Frodo, and I love this Sam, and I love the sparks between them.
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Date: 2005-01-01 09:43 pm (UTC)Thank you, love. sohappy
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Date: 2004-12-31 06:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-01-01 09:44 pm (UTC)Maybe Frodo did know. Maybe he didn't. *grin* Glad you had love for this, though, which could almost go without saying. Thank you, and you're welcome, too! ♥
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Date: 2004-12-31 07:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-01-01 09:45 pm (UTC)