Sword of Honor
Dec. 20th, 2010 10:19 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
claudia603Title: Sword of Honour
Pairing: Frodo/Sam
Rating: soft R
Summary: Frodo wants Sam. Sam is oblivious. Frodo finds a solution in an old book. Written for a waymeet challenge.
Bilbo and Frodo sat at the table, enjoying the leisurely last bits of a second breakfast. Frodo had eaten a bit of it all - freshly baked blueberry scones, sausage, bread and butter, scrambled eggs, and fried potatoes. His stomach was warm and full, and a fragrant breeze rustled the curtains, promising a lovely spring day, the first after a week of rain.
“Well, my boy,” Bilbo said. “How would you like to come on an adventure with me?”
“What sort of adventure?” Frodo asked, careful to feign a bit of boredom. If he acted too curious, Bilbo was likely to draw it out and it might be all day before Frodo got any information out of him.
“Indeed.” Bilbo smiled with the satisfaction of a tomcat that had made a fresh mouse kill. “I’m traveling past the borders of the Shire to meet with dwarves, some distant relations of Óin and Glóin. You remember them?”
“Oh, Bilbo, you know I can’t tell one dwarf from another, but I’m certain I must have met them some time or other.”
“You can’t fool me, lad,” Bilbo said, clapping with delight. “I see the eager light in your eyes. I knew there was a good deal of Took in you.”
“Where would we stay? Would we camp in the wild?”
“We’ll leave this Saturday at the break of dawn. We’ll likely not be back for several weeks, maybe a month’s time. Sam Gamgee will take care of the place while we’re gone. He’s a good lad.”
“Yes, indeed he is,” Frodo said. His cheeks heated. He did not remember the exact moment it had started, the pattering of his heart at the sight of Sam, his delight whenever Sam took time out of his chores to patiently explain to Frodo what he was doing in the garden, his sturdy hands grimy with filth, his voice soft and kind. For so long, he had only been Samwise Gamgee, the Gaffer’s son. But suddenly he had taken over the Gaffer’s duties and was now officially Bag End’s gardener, and Frodo could not take his eyes off him. When Sam was working at Bag End, Frodo could not keep himself from watching him, making as many excuses as he could to walk through the garden. He always found a reason, however trivial, to stop and talk to him, painfully aware that he lost all ability to think and speak coherently whenever Sam’s green eyes met his.
Sam acted years older than his age. He never took part with the local boys in stealing apples from the groves or pilfering mushrooms from the farmers. He never teased girls or got into fights. Frodo had never seen him lose his cool or act childish. He was ever sober and thoughtful. He was always courteous to Frodo. Maddeningly aloof, but always polite.
But a few weeks earlier, Frodo had encountered Lotho Sackville-Baggins and his cronies on the road. He had not meant to do so and always went out of his way to steer clear of them.
“Good morning,” he said, giving them a polite nod.
“Good morning,” Lotho mocked back. He spit, barely missing Frodo’s toes.
Frodo walked past, wishing to avoid further conversation.
“So, Brandybuck, did you hear the gossip about your gardener?” Lotho said, blocking Frodo’s way.
“No, and I do not care to,” Frodo said, stepping around him and continuing on.
Lotho followed him. “He was caught in the hayloft with his cousin last summer.”
“And?” Frodo said, continuing to walk and look straight forward. “That’s none of your affairs, nor is it of mine. Good day, fellows.”
“His male cousin,” Lotho said, smirking. “Poor Rose Cotton. A second choice at best.” He shook his head as if it were the saddest news he had ever encountered.
Frodo’s heart skipped, but he tried to keep his face as expressionless as possible. “I don’t care.”
“Aren’t you the type of lad who prefers other lads?” Lotho asked with a sneer.
“And aren’t you the type of lad who prefers goats?” Frodo asked and then took off into a sprint, something he had become very skilled at since coming to Hobbiton and making the acquaintance of Lotho.
Once home, Frodo felt happier than he ever had after an encounter with Lotho. A restless excitement surged through him, and thereafter, he watched Sam with more desire than ever before. Lotho was correct in assuming that Frodo preferred other lads, but Frodo had previously closed his heart to the very idea that anyone, much less Sam, would share his kind of desires. But if Lotho was telling the truth -- and in fact he was generally too stupid to think of good falsehoods -- then a whole new world of possibility had opened and Frodo need only figure out a way to let Sam know that he was available and willing.
Frodo had never seduced anyone, and he had no idea how to attract Sam’s attention in that way or to let him know that he was interested. The more he contemplated it all, the more desirable and seemingly unattainable Sam became to him. At night, he stroked himself to sleep, imagining Sam’s rough, callused hands on him. He had vivid dreams in which Sam came to his bed, smiling, his kind eyes filled with desire. And oh the things dream Sam knew how to do with his dream mouth. During the day, Frodo tried to make himself known to him, so that at least once a day Sam was fully avail.
But confound it all, Bilbo always got in the way. Whenever Frodo stopped in the garden to talk to Sam, it was always such a delicate dance for him not to be too annoying and interrupt Sam’s concentration and yet not step away too soon. Sometimes it took a few moments for Sam to relax enough to meet Frodo’s eyes, to open up to him, and just as they would get to that point, Bilbo would step out and join the conversation or call Frodo in to help him with some chore.
So now Bilbo was planning this adventure to meet dwarves and Frodo was suddenly faced with a dilemma. He could go with Bilbo and experience stepping outside of the Shire for the first time. Or he could have Bag End -- and Sam -- all to himself for a month.
“I can’t go,” he blurted.
Bilbo startled. “Why ever not?”
“I just remembered. Merry sent word that he was coming for a visit in two weeks. I can’t not be here. I‘ve been looking forward to seeing him for months.”
“You didn’t tell me.” Bilbo looked disapproving.
“No, I’m sorry.” Frodo tried to look just the right combination of contrite and disappointed. “I forgot.”
“Oh, dear,” Bilbo said. He frowned. “I suppose then you must stay here. Well, that’s too bad, lad. There will be other times and other adventures.”
Bilbo left at daybreak on Saturday as planned, and Frodo was alone in Bag End. He no longer needed to worry about Bilbo interrupting him, but he still had no idea how people seduced one another. Surely Bilbo must have a book about it somewhere. Frodo regretted that his knowledge of Elvish was still so poor because he was certain that the best books on seduction must be in Elvish. He focused on books written in the Common Tongue. He pawed through scrolls and books of all shapes and sizes. Some were worn and yellow with age. Some were crisp, freshly inked. Most were history books and children’s tales and maps.
A book bound in black and inked in gold fell into his hands. The title immediately set his heart pounding.
The Art of Love in Ancient Numenor
He settled into his armchair and turned to the first page. The script was beautiful and flowing. Love is constant like the sea, violent and churning at times, placid and shimmering at other times, always filled with passion and new depths.
“Mr. Frodo.”
Frodo jumped, nearly dropping the book. Sam stood above him, looking courteous and sober as always.
“Yes, Sam,” Frodo said, certain that Sam could hear the drum of his heartbeat.
“I was wondering if you’d be needing anything for the rest of the day? The garden’s been tended.”
“I…uh.” Frodo felt a flutter of panic in his chest. Sam could not leave. “Have you trimmed the verge yet?”
Sam‘s eyes darkened with disappointment. “No sir, not yet. I did that last week. I’ll get to that right away then.”
Frodo could have kicked himself. There was no sense in keeping Sam if he did not wish to be here.
“Do you have somewhere you need to be?” Frodo asked.
Sam flushed. “Well, I promised young Rose Cotton I’d take her to the market this afternoon.”
“Oh,” he said. The heavy book in his lap suddenly felt like a burden. “I see.” He could not bear to meet Sam’s eyes. Maybe Lotho had been wrong. Maybe the fool had learned how to form a crafty falsehood.
“But I can stay as long as you need me. I just thought that if you didn‘t need me, then--”
“No, it’s all right,” Frodo said with a decisive nod, still not looking at Sam. “Go on, Sam. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
Sam gave him a big smile. “Thank you, sir. I’ll be setting off then. See you tomorrow!” And off he went, leaving Bag End quiet and dark.
The hurt seeped deep into Frodo’s heart. He realized then just how badly he needed someone to love. It was not that he was without love. Bilbo loved him as much as he could, but his heart belonged first to the mountains and Elvish valleys. Merry and Pippin loved him, but they loved each other more. And now it seemed that Sam’s heart belonged to Rose Cotton.
Just once, Frodo wanted to know unconditional love.
He looked down at his book again. It seemed pointless to read it, but he had nothing better to do with his time.
Hours later, Frodo buzzed with new excitement. He had an idea. One of the ideas suggested in the book was that if you wished to catch a lover, you should allow yourself to get caught stroking your “sword of honour” to pleasure. Frodo did not know whether Sam truly wanted to court Rose Cotton or whether he did so out of obligation. It had been impossible to tell from his demeanor. If Frodo made sure that Sam walked in on him while pleasuring himself, then he should be able to tell right away. And the very idea of Sam walking in on him while doing that made him warm and uncomfortably tight in his trousers.
The next day, Sam arrived at his usual time in the morning.
“How was the market?” Frodo asked.
Sam was weeding the ground around the tomato plants. “Pardon me?”
“The market? Yesterday, with Rose?”
“Ah, yes, sir,” Sam said without looking up. “It was fine.”
“Sam, when you’re done today, will you please clean the tool shed?”
Sam paused, looking a bit puzzled. “Yes, sir.”
Frodo paced in the front room, looking out the window, trying to determine when Sam was looking to be nearly finished weeding. Already his cock was hard in anticipation. Finally, Sam stood up and wiped his hands together. Frodo climbed out a side window so that Sam would not see him and sneaked to the tool shed. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. It was pitch dark. He tried not to think about the bugs and mice that made their home in the shed. He settled on his knees and unbuttoned his trousers. He took his stiff cock (sword of honour, Frodo thought with a snicker) in hand and began to stroke. Sam could arrive at any second, and the mere thought of that almost brought him to the edge. He threw back his head and let out a loud groan.
A sharp needle prick pain on his stroking hand gave him a nasty fright. He released his cock and shook his hand. A tickling sensation ran up his arm. He batted at it, heart pounding with fear. It was most definitely a spider, and he hated spiders. He panicked a bit, lost his balance, and fell backward, knocking over several shovels, all this just as Sam opened the tool shed door.
“Mr. Frodo!” Sam said, his mouth open.
Frodo lay on his back, his trousers down over his hips, his cock fully erect, and he batted at what seemed to be invisible creepy-crawlies on his arm. His hand felt inflamed and itchy. This had not at all gone as planned.
“Mr. Frodo, are you all right?” Sam asked.
Frodo scrambled to pull his trousers up over his very noticeable arousal. “Something bit me,” he said.
Sam nodded and he masked his surprise with sober common sense, as if it was every day he found his master lying in the tool shed with his trousers down. “Come now, why don’t we come on back to the house and we’ll see about any bites.”
Frodo followed Sam back to Bag End, feeling like the worst kind of fool. Bilbo had only been gone a day and already he had made a fine mess of things. It wasn’t too late to catch up to Bilbo if he started the next morning. Yes, he could catch up to Bilbo and forget this whole miserable affair.
“Go on, sit down at the table and I’ll set some tea on.”
Frodo obeyed him with meek humility. His hand had swollen something dreadful already.
Sam put the kettle on and then turned his attention to Frodo. “Let’s just see where you got bit.” He sat down across from Frodo and took his hands in his larger, rougher hands. He examined the bite mark and looked concerned. Frodo felt a wave of dizziness.
“Oh, that’s bad one, Mr. Frodo. Are you feeling anything else?”
“I’m a bit dizzy,” Frodo said. Dizzy from the bite or Sam’s touch, he could not tell.
“What I don’t fully understand,” Sam said, meeting Frodo’s eyes, “is what you were doing.“ He looked embarrassed and glanced toward Frodo’s groin. “There’s plenty of privacy in Bag End, if you take my meaning. Why the shed?”
Frodo‘s cheeks heated. Sam stroked his hand with a soapy cloth with such tender care that he felt he might swoon.
“There’s something about the tool shed, I suppose. It’s sort of naughty,” he looked up at Sam, “like I might get caught.”
“Were you trying to get caught then?” Sam asked. Frodo saw neither disgust nor embarrassment in his gaze. Instead, he saw bright curiosity.
Frodo felt emboldened then. He curled his foot around Sam’s foot under the table and met his gaze full on. “I know a gardener who was planning to clean the tool shed.”
Sam’s face turned scarlet, but he did not look away, nor did he pull his foot free. “We can’t just let this bite fester. It might be poison, especially what with your dizzy feeling.”
“I don’t think it’s the spider that made me dizzy,” Frodo said, leaning forward. He felt Sam’s hot breath on his lips.
“Mr. Frodo,” Sam’s voice cracked. His breathing became jagged. “Me dear, I had thought, but didn’t know for sure--”
“Oh, Sam,” Frodo said. “Kiss me now.”
Sam grabbed Frodo’s shoulders and kissed Frodo with rough greed. His grimy hands tugged at Frodo’s sleeves, straining the material. Frodo grasped the front of Sam’s tunic, making sure that Sam could not pull away without great effort.
His tongue explored the inside of Sam’s mouth, and he thought back to the Numenorean book and about how lucky they were that they had a whole month in which they could explore the shimmering depths of new love. Besides, Frodo’s “sword of honour” was getting quite stiff again.
END
Pairing: Frodo/Sam
Rating: soft R
Summary: Frodo wants Sam. Sam is oblivious. Frodo finds a solution in an old book. Written for a waymeet challenge.
Bilbo and Frodo sat at the table, enjoying the leisurely last bits of a second breakfast. Frodo had eaten a bit of it all - freshly baked blueberry scones, sausage, bread and butter, scrambled eggs, and fried potatoes. His stomach was warm and full, and a fragrant breeze rustled the curtains, promising a lovely spring day, the first after a week of rain.
“Well, my boy,” Bilbo said. “How would you like to come on an adventure with me?”
“What sort of adventure?” Frodo asked, careful to feign a bit of boredom. If he acted too curious, Bilbo was likely to draw it out and it might be all day before Frodo got any information out of him.
“Indeed.” Bilbo smiled with the satisfaction of a tomcat that had made a fresh mouse kill. “I’m traveling past the borders of the Shire to meet with dwarves, some distant relations of Óin and Glóin. You remember them?”
“Oh, Bilbo, you know I can’t tell one dwarf from another, but I’m certain I must have met them some time or other.”
“You can’t fool me, lad,” Bilbo said, clapping with delight. “I see the eager light in your eyes. I knew there was a good deal of Took in you.”
“Where would we stay? Would we camp in the wild?”
“We’ll leave this Saturday at the break of dawn. We’ll likely not be back for several weeks, maybe a month’s time. Sam Gamgee will take care of the place while we’re gone. He’s a good lad.”
“Yes, indeed he is,” Frodo said. His cheeks heated. He did not remember the exact moment it had started, the pattering of his heart at the sight of Sam, his delight whenever Sam took time out of his chores to patiently explain to Frodo what he was doing in the garden, his sturdy hands grimy with filth, his voice soft and kind. For so long, he had only been Samwise Gamgee, the Gaffer’s son. But suddenly he had taken over the Gaffer’s duties and was now officially Bag End’s gardener, and Frodo could not take his eyes off him. When Sam was working at Bag End, Frodo could not keep himself from watching him, making as many excuses as he could to walk through the garden. He always found a reason, however trivial, to stop and talk to him, painfully aware that he lost all ability to think and speak coherently whenever Sam’s green eyes met his.
Sam acted years older than his age. He never took part with the local boys in stealing apples from the groves or pilfering mushrooms from the farmers. He never teased girls or got into fights. Frodo had never seen him lose his cool or act childish. He was ever sober and thoughtful. He was always courteous to Frodo. Maddeningly aloof, but always polite.
But a few weeks earlier, Frodo had encountered Lotho Sackville-Baggins and his cronies on the road. He had not meant to do so and always went out of his way to steer clear of them.
“Good morning,” he said, giving them a polite nod.
“Good morning,” Lotho mocked back. He spit, barely missing Frodo’s toes.
Frodo walked past, wishing to avoid further conversation.
“So, Brandybuck, did you hear the gossip about your gardener?” Lotho said, blocking Frodo’s way.
“No, and I do not care to,” Frodo said, stepping around him and continuing on.
Lotho followed him. “He was caught in the hayloft with his cousin last summer.”
“And?” Frodo said, continuing to walk and look straight forward. “That’s none of your affairs, nor is it of mine. Good day, fellows.”
“His male cousin,” Lotho said, smirking. “Poor Rose Cotton. A second choice at best.” He shook his head as if it were the saddest news he had ever encountered.
Frodo’s heart skipped, but he tried to keep his face as expressionless as possible. “I don’t care.”
“Aren’t you the type of lad who prefers other lads?” Lotho asked with a sneer.
“And aren’t you the type of lad who prefers goats?” Frodo asked and then took off into a sprint, something he had become very skilled at since coming to Hobbiton and making the acquaintance of Lotho.
Once home, Frodo felt happier than he ever had after an encounter with Lotho. A restless excitement surged through him, and thereafter, he watched Sam with more desire than ever before. Lotho was correct in assuming that Frodo preferred other lads, but Frodo had previously closed his heart to the very idea that anyone, much less Sam, would share his kind of desires. But if Lotho was telling the truth -- and in fact he was generally too stupid to think of good falsehoods -- then a whole new world of possibility had opened and Frodo need only figure out a way to let Sam know that he was available and willing.
Frodo had never seduced anyone, and he had no idea how to attract Sam’s attention in that way or to let him know that he was interested. The more he contemplated it all, the more desirable and seemingly unattainable Sam became to him. At night, he stroked himself to sleep, imagining Sam’s rough, callused hands on him. He had vivid dreams in which Sam came to his bed, smiling, his kind eyes filled with desire. And oh the things dream Sam knew how to do with his dream mouth. During the day, Frodo tried to make himself known to him, so that at least once a day Sam was fully avail.
But confound it all, Bilbo always got in the way. Whenever Frodo stopped in the garden to talk to Sam, it was always such a delicate dance for him not to be too annoying and interrupt Sam’s concentration and yet not step away too soon. Sometimes it took a few moments for Sam to relax enough to meet Frodo’s eyes, to open up to him, and just as they would get to that point, Bilbo would step out and join the conversation or call Frodo in to help him with some chore.
So now Bilbo was planning this adventure to meet dwarves and Frodo was suddenly faced with a dilemma. He could go with Bilbo and experience stepping outside of the Shire for the first time. Or he could have Bag End -- and Sam -- all to himself for a month.
“I can’t go,” he blurted.
Bilbo startled. “Why ever not?”
“I just remembered. Merry sent word that he was coming for a visit in two weeks. I can’t not be here. I‘ve been looking forward to seeing him for months.”
“You didn’t tell me.” Bilbo looked disapproving.
“No, I’m sorry.” Frodo tried to look just the right combination of contrite and disappointed. “I forgot.”
“Oh, dear,” Bilbo said. He frowned. “I suppose then you must stay here. Well, that’s too bad, lad. There will be other times and other adventures.”
Bilbo left at daybreak on Saturday as planned, and Frodo was alone in Bag End. He no longer needed to worry about Bilbo interrupting him, but he still had no idea how people seduced one another. Surely Bilbo must have a book about it somewhere. Frodo regretted that his knowledge of Elvish was still so poor because he was certain that the best books on seduction must be in Elvish. He focused on books written in the Common Tongue. He pawed through scrolls and books of all shapes and sizes. Some were worn and yellow with age. Some were crisp, freshly inked. Most were history books and children’s tales and maps.
A book bound in black and inked in gold fell into his hands. The title immediately set his heart pounding.
The Art of Love in Ancient Numenor
He settled into his armchair and turned to the first page. The script was beautiful and flowing. Love is constant like the sea, violent and churning at times, placid and shimmering at other times, always filled with passion and new depths.
“Mr. Frodo.”
Frodo jumped, nearly dropping the book. Sam stood above him, looking courteous and sober as always.
“Yes, Sam,” Frodo said, certain that Sam could hear the drum of his heartbeat.
“I was wondering if you’d be needing anything for the rest of the day? The garden’s been tended.”
“I…uh.” Frodo felt a flutter of panic in his chest. Sam could not leave. “Have you trimmed the verge yet?”
Sam‘s eyes darkened with disappointment. “No sir, not yet. I did that last week. I’ll get to that right away then.”
Frodo could have kicked himself. There was no sense in keeping Sam if he did not wish to be here.
“Do you have somewhere you need to be?” Frodo asked.
Sam flushed. “Well, I promised young Rose Cotton I’d take her to the market this afternoon.”
“Oh,” he said. The heavy book in his lap suddenly felt like a burden. “I see.” He could not bear to meet Sam’s eyes. Maybe Lotho had been wrong. Maybe the fool had learned how to form a crafty falsehood.
“But I can stay as long as you need me. I just thought that if you didn‘t need me, then--”
“No, it’s all right,” Frodo said with a decisive nod, still not looking at Sam. “Go on, Sam. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
Sam gave him a big smile. “Thank you, sir. I’ll be setting off then. See you tomorrow!” And off he went, leaving Bag End quiet and dark.
The hurt seeped deep into Frodo’s heart. He realized then just how badly he needed someone to love. It was not that he was without love. Bilbo loved him as much as he could, but his heart belonged first to the mountains and Elvish valleys. Merry and Pippin loved him, but they loved each other more. And now it seemed that Sam’s heart belonged to Rose Cotton.
Just once, Frodo wanted to know unconditional love.
He looked down at his book again. It seemed pointless to read it, but he had nothing better to do with his time.
Hours later, Frodo buzzed with new excitement. He had an idea. One of the ideas suggested in the book was that if you wished to catch a lover, you should allow yourself to get caught stroking your “sword of honour” to pleasure. Frodo did not know whether Sam truly wanted to court Rose Cotton or whether he did so out of obligation. It had been impossible to tell from his demeanor. If Frodo made sure that Sam walked in on him while pleasuring himself, then he should be able to tell right away. And the very idea of Sam walking in on him while doing that made him warm and uncomfortably tight in his trousers.
The next day, Sam arrived at his usual time in the morning.
“How was the market?” Frodo asked.
Sam was weeding the ground around the tomato plants. “Pardon me?”
“The market? Yesterday, with Rose?”
“Ah, yes, sir,” Sam said without looking up. “It was fine.”
“Sam, when you’re done today, will you please clean the tool shed?”
Sam paused, looking a bit puzzled. “Yes, sir.”
Frodo paced in the front room, looking out the window, trying to determine when Sam was looking to be nearly finished weeding. Already his cock was hard in anticipation. Finally, Sam stood up and wiped his hands together. Frodo climbed out a side window so that Sam would not see him and sneaked to the tool shed. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. It was pitch dark. He tried not to think about the bugs and mice that made their home in the shed. He settled on his knees and unbuttoned his trousers. He took his stiff cock (sword of honour, Frodo thought with a snicker) in hand and began to stroke. Sam could arrive at any second, and the mere thought of that almost brought him to the edge. He threw back his head and let out a loud groan.
A sharp needle prick pain on his stroking hand gave him a nasty fright. He released his cock and shook his hand. A tickling sensation ran up his arm. He batted at it, heart pounding with fear. It was most definitely a spider, and he hated spiders. He panicked a bit, lost his balance, and fell backward, knocking over several shovels, all this just as Sam opened the tool shed door.
“Mr. Frodo!” Sam said, his mouth open.
Frodo lay on his back, his trousers down over his hips, his cock fully erect, and he batted at what seemed to be invisible creepy-crawlies on his arm. His hand felt inflamed and itchy. This had not at all gone as planned.
“Mr. Frodo, are you all right?” Sam asked.
Frodo scrambled to pull his trousers up over his very noticeable arousal. “Something bit me,” he said.
Sam nodded and he masked his surprise with sober common sense, as if it was every day he found his master lying in the tool shed with his trousers down. “Come now, why don’t we come on back to the house and we’ll see about any bites.”
Frodo followed Sam back to Bag End, feeling like the worst kind of fool. Bilbo had only been gone a day and already he had made a fine mess of things. It wasn’t too late to catch up to Bilbo if he started the next morning. Yes, he could catch up to Bilbo and forget this whole miserable affair.
“Go on, sit down at the table and I’ll set some tea on.”
Frodo obeyed him with meek humility. His hand had swollen something dreadful already.
Sam put the kettle on and then turned his attention to Frodo. “Let’s just see where you got bit.” He sat down across from Frodo and took his hands in his larger, rougher hands. He examined the bite mark and looked concerned. Frodo felt a wave of dizziness.
“Oh, that’s bad one, Mr. Frodo. Are you feeling anything else?”
“I’m a bit dizzy,” Frodo said. Dizzy from the bite or Sam’s touch, he could not tell.
“What I don’t fully understand,” Sam said, meeting Frodo’s eyes, “is what you were doing.“ He looked embarrassed and glanced toward Frodo’s groin. “There’s plenty of privacy in Bag End, if you take my meaning. Why the shed?”
Frodo‘s cheeks heated. Sam stroked his hand with a soapy cloth with such tender care that he felt he might swoon.
“There’s something about the tool shed, I suppose. It’s sort of naughty,” he looked up at Sam, “like I might get caught.”
“Were you trying to get caught then?” Sam asked. Frodo saw neither disgust nor embarrassment in his gaze. Instead, he saw bright curiosity.
Frodo felt emboldened then. He curled his foot around Sam’s foot under the table and met his gaze full on. “I know a gardener who was planning to clean the tool shed.”
Sam’s face turned scarlet, but he did not look away, nor did he pull his foot free. “We can’t just let this bite fester. It might be poison, especially what with your dizzy feeling.”
“I don’t think it’s the spider that made me dizzy,” Frodo said, leaning forward. He felt Sam’s hot breath on his lips.
“Mr. Frodo,” Sam’s voice cracked. His breathing became jagged. “Me dear, I had thought, but didn’t know for sure--”
“Oh, Sam,” Frodo said. “Kiss me now.”
Sam grabbed Frodo’s shoulders and kissed Frodo with rough greed. His grimy hands tugged at Frodo’s sleeves, straining the material. Frodo grasped the front of Sam’s tunic, making sure that Sam could not pull away without great effort.
His tongue explored the inside of Sam’s mouth, and he thought back to the Numenorean book and about how lucky they were that they had a whole month in which they could explore the shimmering depths of new love. Besides, Frodo’s “sword of honour” was getting quite stiff again.
END
no subject
Date: 2013-06-10 01:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-06-10 01:14 pm (UTC)(And I see from the recs, etc. on tol_eressea that I've been remiss on checking my dreamwidth again lately! Will do that later when I'm not somewhere with a crappy connection like right now, LOl)
Hiya
Date: 2013-06-10 02:46 am (UTC)Re: Hiya
Date: 2013-06-10 01:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-06-10 06:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-02 10:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-06-15 08:09 pm (UTC)“And aren’t you the type of lad who prefers goats?” Lol! Perfect for Lotho.
Oh, here by
no subject
Date: 2013-07-02 10:23 pm (UTC)