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Aug. 9th, 2004 10:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
claudia603Hi. Some of you on my flist will probably disown me for this one. Har. I no longer question the muses. *flees to bed*
Title: Samwise the Healer 1/?
Author: Claudia
Pairing: Frodo/Sam
Rating: R
Summary: Frodo is devastated after his perceived failure at Mount Doom. Sam has an odd way of trying to help…
WARNING: mild BDSM, kink, etc.
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and make no money from them.
Frodo clamored over blistering rocks, and the chain that held the heavy gold weight that dangled from his neck dug into his neck with cruel teeth. It took all of his fading strength to hold his head up so that his forehead did not fall to the rocky wasteland. Malicious whispers echoed through his ears, and he had long stopped trying to block them out.
Mine, mine…all mine…
“Sam…” His throat was parched. He could not remember the last time he had drunk more than a dribble at a time of water. Sam staggered ahead of him, still on his feet, but it had been too long since he had turned to check whether Frodo was still with him.
A shadow fell on Frodo’s heart and seeped over to his shoulder, clutching it in icy claws. He cowered like a rabbit when a hawk soars above. The Eye probed the scarred land, and at any moment, the fiery ball would fall on him.
“Sam!” Again, his voice was too weak to carry and Sam continued to get farther ahead.
The Eye fixed on him.
Frodo woke gasping, tearing at the blankets, shielding his face from the cruel glare.
“Mr. Frodo!” Sam held his shoulders steady. “Mr. Frodo, look at me.” Frodo looked into his eyes, focusing on Sam’s clean face. His cheeks had rounded out in the weeks since they had reached Minas Tirith. The weight around his neck had been a phantom, and it was soft pillows, not the rocks of Mordor that cradled his head.
“Where were you?” Frodo cried, turning accusing eyes on Sam. “Why did you get so far ahead?” His voice sounded shamefully shrill in the clean and orderly room in the Houses of Healing. Clouds had cloaked the stone city in heavy darkness. Frodo hoped he had not awakened anyone but Sam. Outside, rain rattled against stone.
Sam lit the small lamp by the bed and crawled beside Frodo under the sheets. “You’ve been dreaming again, sir. I’ve been here all night, by your side.”
Frodo took several deep breaths. “I’m sorry, Sam. It’s always that last crawl...”
Sam answered by wrapping his arms around him. He brushed Frodo’s cheek with a gentle kiss, letting his lips linger a moment on soft skin.
“But perhaps it’s only proper I should suffer. It is better--”
Sam’s fingers dug into Frodo’s skin. “It’s best you don’t start that foolishness.” He kissed Frodo’s cheek again, and this time, Frodo shifted and opened his mouth, welcoming Sam’s probing tongue. Frodo’s trembling ceased, and his groin warmed. Sam groped under Frodo’s nightshirt, stroking and kneading. Frodo groaned, tilting his head back into his pillows.
“Now…Sam, will you…?”
“No, sir,” Sam said. “Not tonight.” And then his mouth fell over Frodo’s, working over his chilled lips.
***
Faramir and Eowyn had come to visit, and they had left a delightful basket of what they perceived to be hobbity foods. They had gone through such trouble and with such kindness that Frodo had not the heart to tell them that the mushrooms found in Minas Tirith had a foul flavor that caused him to gag, reminding him too sharply of Mordor’s foul air. He was relieved when his well-meaning friends left him in peace.
Faramir had claimed that, as far back as he could remember, there had never been such rainfall in Minas Tirith. The rain, which had drenched the city for three consecutive days, pooled over the stone pathways, filled the gutters, and made the walkways slick and flooded for those who had to venture out. The Anduin, now a bloated, silver snake, looked close to spilling over its banks.
Frodo sat on the edge of his bed and picked at the festering wound where his finger had once been. The merry laughter of children splashing in puddles carried from afar, but this did not raise his spirits. Each time his fingernail opened another scab, releasing raw pain and a bubble of blood and pus, he shuddered, feeling like a young lad after a firm whipping. He stared in grim fascination at the grotesque disfigurement.
Two sturdy hands fell upon his shoulders, massaging and kneading. Frodo startled, as he had not heard anyone enter the room, and he thrust his hands out of sight, sitting on them. Strong fingers dug into his shoulders.
“Mr. Frodo, what are you doing?”
Heat rushed up to Frodo’s cheeks. “I thought you were dining with Faramir and Eowyn,” he finally managed.
“Not this morning.” Sam’s voice grew sharp. “Now, what are you doing, sir?”
“Nothing.”
“Let me see your hands.”
Frodo’s heart fluttered a bit at the no nonsense tone of Sam’s voice, but he forced himself not to smile. He needed Sam’s stern voice, which still held him strong while everyone else tried to give him tenderness and soft words.
“Did you not hear me?” Sam asked. “Let me see your hands.”
Frodo met Sam’s hard gaze and thrust his shaking, bloody hands in front of him.
Sam took the wounded hand in his, caressing it. Frodo flinched when Sam ran his hands over the bleeding sores. Hard eyes met his.
“This wound’s been treated plenty of times. I’ve watched Strider myself.”
“I know,” Frodo said, casting his eyes down.
“You’ve been plucking at it,” Sam said, wetting a cloth in a bowl of water, cleansing it. Frodo clenched his jaw against a pain he well deserved.
“You’re not to pick at it again, sir,” Sam said, meeting his gaze. “Do you understand?”
Frodo nodded, though he knew he would pick at it again – as soon as it caked over.
“Now, did you take a bath this morning?” Sam asked. “Like we talked about yesterday?”
“I forgot.”
Sam shook his head. “Then you best climb out that window to the courtyard and wash your filthy self off.”
“Yes, Sam.” Already Frodo’s groin had warmed. Lately all it seemed to take was Sam’s voice.
Frodo climbed over the sill, holding his injured hand gingerly outward. He dropped into the courtyard, his feet squishing in the mud. The torrential rain soaked his clothing right through in seconds, and he gasped, laughing a bit. Too long had passed since he had enjoyed the ferocity of nature.
“Down on your knees,” Sam commanded from inside.
Frodo dropped to his knees and he sank into the cold mud, hiding a smile. He slipped his hand inside his breeches, brushing his fingers over himself.
“All right, sir,” Sam said with a nod. “That will do. Come on in now.” He helped Frodo climb back inside. “Look at you, all wet and dripping over the floor.”
“I’m sorry. What shall I do to make it up?”
The pulse of his arousal had grown nearly unbearable and he itched to slide his mud-splattered hands up and down its length.
“Get down on the floor on your hands and knees.”
“Shall I not undress first?” Frodo asked. He dripped over the floor, but he was not chilled. His cheeks were flushed. His injured hand continued to throb, but it seemed faint and far away compared to the buzz in his limbs and the heavy warmth between his legs.
“Just do as you’re told now.”
Frodo sank to his knees, steadying himself with both hands. The injured hand had stopped leaking blood, though it was tender to the touch. He looked behind him. “Will you…Will you take me now?”
Sam did not answer, but he crouched just over Frodo without touching him. He reached in the front of Frodo’s waist and unbuttoned his breeches. Frodo let in a quick hiss as one of Sam’s bulky hands bumped against his arousal. Sam did not seem to notice. He merely yanked Frodo’s breeches down until his bottom only could be seen.
“It is tempting,” Sam said thoughtfully. “I can’t deny it. Though, really, I ought to tan your hide for hurting yourself.” Still, he did not touch Frodo. Frodo shifted, letting out a weak groan.
“I’ll not…I’ll not do it again,” Frodo said, pressing his bottom upward like a cat yearning to be petted by a ready hand. “I’m ready. Please, Sam.”
But Sam only pulled Frodo’s breeches back up, this time with tender care. He buttoned them in the front again, careful not to allow his hands near the bulge in Frodo’s pants. He helped Frodo to his feet.
“I’m to meet Mr. Gandalf in just a bit.” Frodo had seen the unyielding look that was now in his eyes during their final push through Mordor. “But I should tell you this, sir. If I see you picking at that wound again, there’s going to be…consequences.”
After Sam left, Frodo removed his mud soaked breeches. He grasped himself, releasing a shuddering sigh, and sank down on the edge of his bed, not caring that he was getting the already blood-splattered sheets filthier with mud and rainwater that dripped from his shirt.
He invoked Sam’s stern voice in his head – commanding him to climb outside into the mud, making him get on all fours in his filthy breeches, threatening to tan his hide, mentioning consequences. Frodo groaned in quick hitches of breath as his hand thrust up and down his length with fresh vigor.
His hand tightened on his length as he imagined Sam climbing on top of him while he waited on all fours in his muddy breeches. Sam would thrust into him while ripping Frodo’s wet shirt over his shoulders so that he could plant moist kisses in the delicate skin of the back of his neck. Buttons would bounce over the floor, but they would pay them no heed when Sam squeezed his thick arms around Frodo’s chest and pressed him to the ground. His heat would fill him, pumping ever faster.
Frodo grunted loudly as he spilled into his hand and over the already dirty sheets.
TBC
Title: Samwise the Healer 1/?
Author: Claudia
Pairing: Frodo/Sam
Rating: R
Summary: Frodo is devastated after his perceived failure at Mount Doom. Sam has an odd way of trying to help…
WARNING: mild BDSM, kink, etc.
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and make no money from them.
Frodo clamored over blistering rocks, and the chain that held the heavy gold weight that dangled from his neck dug into his neck with cruel teeth. It took all of his fading strength to hold his head up so that his forehead did not fall to the rocky wasteland. Malicious whispers echoed through his ears, and he had long stopped trying to block them out.
Mine, mine…all mine…
“Sam…” His throat was parched. He could not remember the last time he had drunk more than a dribble at a time of water. Sam staggered ahead of him, still on his feet, but it had been too long since he had turned to check whether Frodo was still with him.
A shadow fell on Frodo’s heart and seeped over to his shoulder, clutching it in icy claws. He cowered like a rabbit when a hawk soars above. The Eye probed the scarred land, and at any moment, the fiery ball would fall on him.
“Sam!” Again, his voice was too weak to carry and Sam continued to get farther ahead.
The Eye fixed on him.
Frodo woke gasping, tearing at the blankets, shielding his face from the cruel glare.
“Mr. Frodo!” Sam held his shoulders steady. “Mr. Frodo, look at me.” Frodo looked into his eyes, focusing on Sam’s clean face. His cheeks had rounded out in the weeks since they had reached Minas Tirith. The weight around his neck had been a phantom, and it was soft pillows, not the rocks of Mordor that cradled his head.
“Where were you?” Frodo cried, turning accusing eyes on Sam. “Why did you get so far ahead?” His voice sounded shamefully shrill in the clean and orderly room in the Houses of Healing. Clouds had cloaked the stone city in heavy darkness. Frodo hoped he had not awakened anyone but Sam. Outside, rain rattled against stone.
Sam lit the small lamp by the bed and crawled beside Frodo under the sheets. “You’ve been dreaming again, sir. I’ve been here all night, by your side.”
Frodo took several deep breaths. “I’m sorry, Sam. It’s always that last crawl...”
Sam answered by wrapping his arms around him. He brushed Frodo’s cheek with a gentle kiss, letting his lips linger a moment on soft skin.
“But perhaps it’s only proper I should suffer. It is better--”
Sam’s fingers dug into Frodo’s skin. “It’s best you don’t start that foolishness.” He kissed Frodo’s cheek again, and this time, Frodo shifted and opened his mouth, welcoming Sam’s probing tongue. Frodo’s trembling ceased, and his groin warmed. Sam groped under Frodo’s nightshirt, stroking and kneading. Frodo groaned, tilting his head back into his pillows.
“Now…Sam, will you…?”
“No, sir,” Sam said. “Not tonight.” And then his mouth fell over Frodo’s, working over his chilled lips.
***
Faramir and Eowyn had come to visit, and they had left a delightful basket of what they perceived to be hobbity foods. They had gone through such trouble and with such kindness that Frodo had not the heart to tell them that the mushrooms found in Minas Tirith had a foul flavor that caused him to gag, reminding him too sharply of Mordor’s foul air. He was relieved when his well-meaning friends left him in peace.
Faramir had claimed that, as far back as he could remember, there had never been such rainfall in Minas Tirith. The rain, which had drenched the city for three consecutive days, pooled over the stone pathways, filled the gutters, and made the walkways slick and flooded for those who had to venture out. The Anduin, now a bloated, silver snake, looked close to spilling over its banks.
Frodo sat on the edge of his bed and picked at the festering wound where his finger had once been. The merry laughter of children splashing in puddles carried from afar, but this did not raise his spirits. Each time his fingernail opened another scab, releasing raw pain and a bubble of blood and pus, he shuddered, feeling like a young lad after a firm whipping. He stared in grim fascination at the grotesque disfigurement.
Two sturdy hands fell upon his shoulders, massaging and kneading. Frodo startled, as he had not heard anyone enter the room, and he thrust his hands out of sight, sitting on them. Strong fingers dug into his shoulders.
“Mr. Frodo, what are you doing?”
Heat rushed up to Frodo’s cheeks. “I thought you were dining with Faramir and Eowyn,” he finally managed.
“Not this morning.” Sam’s voice grew sharp. “Now, what are you doing, sir?”
“Nothing.”
“Let me see your hands.”
Frodo’s heart fluttered a bit at the no nonsense tone of Sam’s voice, but he forced himself not to smile. He needed Sam’s stern voice, which still held him strong while everyone else tried to give him tenderness and soft words.
“Did you not hear me?” Sam asked. “Let me see your hands.”
Frodo met Sam’s hard gaze and thrust his shaking, bloody hands in front of him.
Sam took the wounded hand in his, caressing it. Frodo flinched when Sam ran his hands over the bleeding sores. Hard eyes met his.
“This wound’s been treated plenty of times. I’ve watched Strider myself.”
“I know,” Frodo said, casting his eyes down.
“You’ve been plucking at it,” Sam said, wetting a cloth in a bowl of water, cleansing it. Frodo clenched his jaw against a pain he well deserved.
“You’re not to pick at it again, sir,” Sam said, meeting his gaze. “Do you understand?”
Frodo nodded, though he knew he would pick at it again – as soon as it caked over.
“Now, did you take a bath this morning?” Sam asked. “Like we talked about yesterday?”
“I forgot.”
Sam shook his head. “Then you best climb out that window to the courtyard and wash your filthy self off.”
“Yes, Sam.” Already Frodo’s groin had warmed. Lately all it seemed to take was Sam’s voice.
Frodo climbed over the sill, holding his injured hand gingerly outward. He dropped into the courtyard, his feet squishing in the mud. The torrential rain soaked his clothing right through in seconds, and he gasped, laughing a bit. Too long had passed since he had enjoyed the ferocity of nature.
“Down on your knees,” Sam commanded from inside.
Frodo dropped to his knees and he sank into the cold mud, hiding a smile. He slipped his hand inside his breeches, brushing his fingers over himself.
“All right, sir,” Sam said with a nod. “That will do. Come on in now.” He helped Frodo climb back inside. “Look at you, all wet and dripping over the floor.”
“I’m sorry. What shall I do to make it up?”
The pulse of his arousal had grown nearly unbearable and he itched to slide his mud-splattered hands up and down its length.
“Get down on the floor on your hands and knees.”
“Shall I not undress first?” Frodo asked. He dripped over the floor, but he was not chilled. His cheeks were flushed. His injured hand continued to throb, but it seemed faint and far away compared to the buzz in his limbs and the heavy warmth between his legs.
“Just do as you’re told now.”
Frodo sank to his knees, steadying himself with both hands. The injured hand had stopped leaking blood, though it was tender to the touch. He looked behind him. “Will you…Will you take me now?”
Sam did not answer, but he crouched just over Frodo without touching him. He reached in the front of Frodo’s waist and unbuttoned his breeches. Frodo let in a quick hiss as one of Sam’s bulky hands bumped against his arousal. Sam did not seem to notice. He merely yanked Frodo’s breeches down until his bottom only could be seen.
“It is tempting,” Sam said thoughtfully. “I can’t deny it. Though, really, I ought to tan your hide for hurting yourself.” Still, he did not touch Frodo. Frodo shifted, letting out a weak groan.
“I’ll not…I’ll not do it again,” Frodo said, pressing his bottom upward like a cat yearning to be petted by a ready hand. “I’m ready. Please, Sam.”
But Sam only pulled Frodo’s breeches back up, this time with tender care. He buttoned them in the front again, careful not to allow his hands near the bulge in Frodo’s pants. He helped Frodo to his feet.
“I’m to meet Mr. Gandalf in just a bit.” Frodo had seen the unyielding look that was now in his eyes during their final push through Mordor. “But I should tell you this, sir. If I see you picking at that wound again, there’s going to be…consequences.”
After Sam left, Frodo removed his mud soaked breeches. He grasped himself, releasing a shuddering sigh, and sank down on the edge of his bed, not caring that he was getting the already blood-splattered sheets filthier with mud and rainwater that dripped from his shirt.
He invoked Sam’s stern voice in his head – commanding him to climb outside into the mud, making him get on all fours in his filthy breeches, threatening to tan his hide, mentioning consequences. Frodo groaned in quick hitches of breath as his hand thrust up and down his length with fresh vigor.
His hand tightened on his length as he imagined Sam climbing on top of him while he waited on all fours in his muddy breeches. Sam would thrust into him while ripping Frodo’s wet shirt over his shoulders so that he could plant moist kisses in the delicate skin of the back of his neck. Buttons would bounce over the floor, but they would pay them no heed when Sam squeezed his thick arms around Frodo’s chest and pressed him to the ground. His heat would fill him, pumping ever faster.
Frodo grunted loudly as he spilled into his hand and over the already dirty sheets.
TBC