Disclaimer: Kisses to Tolkien, who'd never refuse the creativity of his readers, particularly since I'm not making a dime off of this and write merely as an homage. Thank you Gabby, Ace beta-reader with a good eye for flow. How do you think it came out?
In the Eye of a Storm
The sheets were kicked to the bottom of the bed. They had lit a few candles, now burned low, just enough to spill some light in their room without adding too much to the summer heat. Frodo's hair was a dark puddle surrounding fair skin which had a sheen in any light, and was softer than silk, in Sam's opinion. Sam wondered what it would be like to do this outside, hoping vainly for another breeze from the open windows. Frodo was always a bit cooler than he, a balm on these muggy Gondor nights. He heaved himself off of Frodo with a huff, and flopped onto the pillows.
"Try it." Frodo urged, raising up on an elbow.
Sam shrugged, glancing up at him bashfully, and poured a little more oil in his hands. Frodo had been right, they had found many uses for it. This bottle of rosemary oil was going the way of the first. The scent of rosemary was going to put him in a mood forever after, Sam was certain.
His hands slid down Frodo's back to his cheeks and eased them apart. Other treasures were revealed in this view, a little lower between his legs, and Sam couldn't resist nuzzling them, taking them in his mouth soft, round; he loved the way they moved, escaping his tongue. He nibbled and then tickled the pearly thighs with his hair.
He wasn't disappointed - for all of Frodo's dignity and self-control outside the bedroom, he had none at all here, not when Sam did this. Especially caught off guard, one reason Sam loved to surprise him every chance he got. There was something delightful about, well, getting inside Frodo's reserve and watching it all come apart.
Frodo giggled and writhed with abandon, and Sam grinned down at him impishly. They laughed and slid apart, and Sam sat up to meet his master's admonishing look. Frodo's slender chest heaved with gasps and suppressed laughter.
"Hey now, that tickles! Sam, stop fooling around." He was also quite hard Sam noted, pleased. He felt well rewarded and relented.
"Okay, okay, Mr. Frodo.... here goes. But I make no promises, mind."
Frodo rolled back onto his stomach, watching Sam with amused suspicion. Sam scanned his nude form, approaching Frodo's idea as a technical problem, and he could see one issue already.
"You need to be a bit higher there," he commented as he thrust and nestled a pillow under Frodo's hips. Under such clinical examination Frodo griped.
"I feel like a piece of meat at the market."
"You are at that," Sam beamed, making motions diagramming the different parts on his body, "and a fine one. Here, see, this is a shoulder roast.. beef round.. and here we have a nice rump roast, bottom round, good and firm," Frodo laughed. "You're a bit pale for beef though, veal maybe.."
"Hm. Rosemary and now beef. Or veal. I suppose it's a lucky thing for me you're not hungry!" He looked up at him with an amused eye. Sam chuckled.
"Oh, I'm always hungry," and he mock-bit, nibbled and gnawed at his 'rump roast,' Frodo squirming deliciously under him. He could feel the laughter rumbling under his teeth. Frodo rolled over again, and regarded Sam with both eyes this time.
"Sam, if you don't want to do this..." Frodo's sudden intake of breath cut short the rest. Sam had answered, with a warm hand between his cheeks, teasing the little button there. It was small and delicate, and as tight as a rosebud, all closed up, Sam thought; there was no chance this was going to work.
Then Sam's eyebrows raised as Frodo melted under his hand, pliable and suddenly yielding, his eyes slowly shutting with a breath. Frodo's chest expanded as he lifted into Sam's hand, as responsive and graceful as a cat. Granted, no one had ever done this to Sam, so he hadn't known what to expect. He continued to tease, eagerly taking this in, blinking, and toying skillfully with the hair delicately, before returning. The button felt a little softer now, smoother.
Sam's face heated at Frodo's sensual response to his touch, feeling somewhat amazed as he often did, that his own coarse handling could cause this. His own reaction pressed up against Frodo's thigh. Frodo regarded him briefly under heavy-lidded eyes, then shifted to apply a little pressure there. Sam pressed into this gratefully. Nothing like a little understanding.
With that, Sam's lips parted in an 'o' as he felt the little bud open under his fingers. Maybe this was not such a bad idea after all. He probed, curious to see if it was open far enough, wondering as he did so how this felt. Frodo grew very still as he explored, breath coming quick and light. It was not nearly enough, but things began to look more promising.
The catch in Frodo's breath and a tightening warned him to go a bit slower, and Sam wanted more oil as he experimentally and gently moved in and out. For all the times Sam had accused himself of being slow-witted or a ninny, he caught the trick of this right off; he reached around the pillow and grasped his master with practiced hands. Frodo arched, pressed against him, hungering - oh yes, Mr. Frodo, you want something much larger now, don't you? Sam purred to himself; even half Sam's hand couldn't go deep enough.
Sam handed Frodo the oil, closing his eyes as his master's cool then hot hand slid down. A little whimper of complaint from his master brought him back to middle earth, and he began to knead again, if distractedly.
With a little more oil trickling hot between the curve of those cheeks, Sam found his distraction had cooled things off somewhat; Frodo had tightened up. That wouldn't do at all.
But Frodo had his own ideas. A warm arm dragged Sam down, startling a helpless yelp as Frodo's lips caught his and his surprisingly strong hand seized Sam firmly, pulling and dragging a low moan out from between his teeth. Parting with a breath Frodo gazed down at him, eyes dark and hazed with desire.
Sam rolled Frodo back onto the pillow, feeling uncommonly rough and intense, deciding to reward him with something else altogether. This would be a real surprise.
With a naughty smile, Sam tickled over the uncooperative pink button with his tongue, opening it now more easily, circling and dancing. Frodo's breath came in quick gasps, which turned to pleading moans. Frodo was completely his now, helpless.
Sam drew himself up, hips sliding nicely between Frodo's thighs as he pressed himself against Frodo, his hands running along silky cool hips. Frodo didn't yield to him, not yet, though he pressed back against Sam, his breaths heavy and low. Sam wanted this so, his hands trembled with frustration, and he could feel Frodo's tension and growing urgency and impatience beneath him.
Sam nibbled and roughly kissed the back of Frodo's neck, just where he liked, murmuring hoarse unintelligible nothings into his hair, hands seeking... over his back, shoulders, down ticklish sides - that was a mistake - then finding the delicate nipple, encircling it.
That worked. Frodo moaned, writhed, hand clutching as he bit and clawed the pillow, and he lifted, the tension easing with a breath.
Sam's blood surged and sang in his ears as he edged past the rim, the delicate tension that had barred him sent a shiver through Frodo, a ripple Sam felt to his core. Sam pushed slowly, gently, carefully, and then faster, held almost unbearably tight. A heat bloomed in him to his belly, and built, as Sam forgot himself, glorying. He heard Frodo's clear voice call his name in a gasp, and he lost himself inside him then and there, a sound on his lips he didn't recognize.
Sam shuddered, spent, collapsed onto Frodo's back, who still heaved with heavy breaths. Together they collected their wits, dazed, wrapped around each other in what they had shared.
"Well now, that.." he breathed finally into Frodo's hair, "that... didn't last very long." Sam felt Frodo's burst of laughter as he withdrew.
Frodo turned a brilliant and rather fierce smile on him, his answer wordless, passionate, as he drew Sam on top, nuzzling his flushed and embarrassed face. He kissed Sam's lips, his eyelids, and kissed the sweat off Sam's chest, breathing in his scent deeply, a heat still in his eyes, intense and happy. Sam beamed with pride at his accomplishment.
"Oh Sam, next time, I want to see you! I want to see what you look like when you do that!" Frodo's voice was hoarse, low as a purr. He kissed the top of Sam's head and tousled his hair, then comfortably settled Sam's hips atop his own.
"Today? Now?" Sam squeaked, "Mr. Frodo, I really don't think I can manage it, leastaways not right off."
"No, no - !" Frodo's laugh was music to Sam's ears, "but I will have to do something!" He indicated his own state. Sam's eyes burned into Frodo's as he moved his lips a little lower.
"Your Sam can take care of that."
Frodo threw his arm over his eyes in disbelief, "Sam, you are tireless! I don't deserve this! Or you."
Sam grew suddenly serious and he leaned over Frodo, fists denting the pillow to either side.
"I don't ever want to hear you say that. Not again. Nor ever." he said huskily, " 'cause it ain't so!" And he kissed Frodo with the passionate fury of trying to convince him. The kiss swiftly became something else.
Sam's garden was awash in a sunlight that filtered through high clouds, bright but indistinct, casting few shadows. Not a breath stirred. The air felt heavy, listless, like a storm was due, and about time Sam thought. The garden, well-loved and tended, was in a lull. No rain had meant no weeding to do, it was too early to harvest anything but the spicy nasturtiums, and it was too late to do any planting.
Sam wandered over to lean on the back of Frodo's chair, peering over his shoulder to see if this book was in letters he could read. Well, more or less read. It never ceased to impress him, all the different languages and scripts Frodo knew - elvish even! - though Frodo insisted he was hardly fluent, certainly not like Bilbo. Hovering about Bilbo like this had learned Sam his letters when he was young, and Frodo knew all kinds of interesting things. There were two elvish scripts for one thing, he'd learned that yesterday, though what they would need with more than one Sam couldn't imagine. Perhaps they had a lot to say.
Frodo didn't seem to paying much attention to his book, staring off into the distance, so Sam didn't really feel he was interrupting with his question. It had been on his mind all day. And half the night, for that matter.
"Mr. Frodo, last night," he said curiously, "What did that feel like? If you don't mind my asking."
"Why should I mind?" Frodo shut the book and put aside his reading glasses, looking up at Sam with clear eyes.
Frodo was silent a moment, thinking. "It felt like you."
Sam waited for him to continue, just like he would have with Bilbo, listening patiently, careful not to ask too many questions.
" 'There's earth under his feet, and clay under his fingers, wisdom, and both his eyes are open..' " Frodo quoted, "Tom Bombadil said that, about Farmer Maggot, but he could say it about you." Sam stared, but Frodo seemed quite serious.
"Eh, you've got the wrong hobbit. I'm just Sam Gamgee, a gardener." Frodo smiled at him warmly, and said nothing.
Frodo chewed his lip thoughtfully for a moment Sam noted with affection, in that familiar way he had when he was uncertain of something. Finally he continued.
"Sam.. I somehow feel that, whatever may pass, I at least get to keep some part of you." Frodo blushed, "I don't really mean from well, what we've been about. I never imagined.. nor ever dreamed.... anyways, I think it was meant to be. I'll accept every gift sent my way."
He smirked, "In fact, right at this moment I'm even grateful for those awful ballads about me and the ring!"
Sam chortled. "That won't last, not once you have to listen to 'em."
"No, I imagine not!" Frodo laughed, then he grew serious again.
"But I feel here and now, in this place, I am in the eye of a storm. The sun is shining and bright, the sky is blue; everything is perfect and at peace. And I want to stay here, Sam, as long as I possibly can. Because once I move, even an inch, everything will change." Sam stroked Frodo's hair idly.
"Everything changes, Mr. Frodo," he said looking past the mountains, "Even here."
Sam watched a line of dark blue gathering to the northwest, on the far side of snowy Mt. Mindolluin. His weather sense had been right. It seemed indeed a storm was brewing, though Sam, and his garden, welcomed the rain.
"But that rumbling don't mean no storm - or not necessarily. More like it's suppertime. And you're helping! Your Sam insists. Else you'll brood yourself into a tizzy, lovely day or no." Privately, Sam thought Frodo was the wisest hobbit he'd ever known, and likely right. But there was no use thinking of it now. He suddenly hefted a startled and protesting Frodo Baggins out of his chair, and swung him across his shoulders like a hobbit child. Frodo laughed, long and deeply, kicking his feet and clinging helplessly to Sam's back as Sam staggered, laughing under Frodo's weight, into the cottage.
The door gently shut as the first fat raindrops began to fall.
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