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Tell Me What You Want
Sam sat at the edge of the high bed, finding himself
sinking into the feather coverlet along with his heart in his
throat, in that curious mixture of awkwardness and fervent
anticipation to which he had become implausibly accustomed since the
previous night. The fact that he was entirely bare did not bolster
his confidence in the least.
If there was anything that helped keep him from bolting the room in
terror, it was that Frodo seemed, oddly enough, to be equally as
flustered. The waning afternoon sun was lighting his dark hair with
russet glints as he fussed with the fire, his face turned away from
Sam. To be sure, the fire was a necessity, even with the sun still
pouring through the window, since it was quite frosty out of doors,
with snow lying in thick dollops all about the landscape. But
despite the chill in the room, Frodo was equally uncovered, and Sam
couldn’t help but take the opportunity to drink in the sight of
those graceful pale limbs, as of yet so very unfamiliar to him.
Eventually, as it became clear to both of them that there was
absolutely nothing left to be done to the cheerily blazing fire,
Frodo straightened up and carefully placed the poker back on the
hook, his eyes still directed away from Sam. There was silence for
several long minutes, an eternity as far as Sam knew, and it did not
help that his attention was suddenly directed to the slow drone of
an insect somewhere in the room.
How on earth a mayfly, for the low buzzing drone that he heard could
only belong to that listless lumbering creature, had managed to
invade the master bedroom of Bag End, despite the fact that it was
really not quite spring, was suddenly the only thing he could think
of. Gratefully, his mind seized upon this puzzle, for the one thing
he did not want to be considering is why he sat where he did, in the
state that he did, and why Mr. Frodo, the name he unconsciously
reverted to in his anxiety, said nothing and did nothing and stared
into the fire.
Just when Sam was really beginning to seriously consider that the
wisest course of action would be to stand up, make some comment
about getting tea on, and exit as quickly as he could, if he could
only manage to retrieve his clothing in the process, Frodo cleared
his throat with distinct awkwardness and gave Sam a sudden rueful
smile. “Seemed a bit easier, last night, didn’t it?” he murmured,
and Sam’s heart gave a lurch at the sight of the unmistakable
shyness in those eyes. “I suppose it’s generally the sort of thing
one does in the dark, after all.”
“Mayhap,” Sam self-consciously got out, his mind flashing back to
his previous experiences, admittedly not all that many, but all of
which had occurred during the broad daylight hours. Generally in a
barn, too. Last night had been an exception, in so very many ways.
“But I’m afraid I’d not be able to stay out at night again, no how.”
“Oh, no, I entirely understand,” Frodo hastened to assure him, his
face flushing a bit, and his arms involuntarily crossing against his
chest. “I know that would really not do. Since you’re generally here
of an afternoon, it only makes sense…” and his voice trailed off
uncertainly, for there really was nothing about what was happening
here that made sense, and he knew it. He was desperately in love
with Sam, and he knew Sam returned his feelings, but why then were
they so awkwardly apart from each other, and why was he unable to
say the right thing, or do the right thing, that would bring them
back to where they had been just the previous night - tightly held
in each other’s arms and mad about each other’s touch? His own
previous encounters, prior to the night before, had not been at all
like this either. There had generally been little in the way of
conversation, and his emotions and preferences had never been
consulted at all in the matter, but that was not at all what he
wished for Sam and himself. It was just that he was at a loss as to
how to plot this new course, and it didn’t help in the least that he
felt that the whole thing, somehow, was resting on his shoulders,
and he didn’t have the faintest idea what the next step was. He
could always abruptly pounce on Sam, and wrestle him to the back
side of the mattress, and it was quite possible that Sam really
wouldn’t mind and in fact would rather enjoy that, but it wasn’t
what he wanted for them.
Yet the thought of turning to Sam, in the everyday quiet of a golden
afternoon in his own bedroom, and blurting out that he loved Sam
with all his heart, and wanted to explore every square inch of his
delectable body more than anything, terrified him, even if it was
absolutely true. What if a declaration like that would frighten Sam
off? What if Sam had decided that he loved Frodo, but this sort of
thing really wasn’t what he wanted? What if he was only here because
he knew Frodo wanted him to be? And why had this all been infinitely
easier the night before? Not really knowing what else to do, he
crossed the room over to where Sam perched at the edge of the bed,
and sat down next to him, but with his gaze far away and moody, and
his hands tangling anxiously together in his lap.
Sam sat quietly, waiting, but then dared to sneak a sideways glance
toward Frodo. It was the glimpse of those hands that did it, really.
Twisted together on Frodo’s rather bony knees, the nails bitten to
the quick, and Sam suddenly, unaccountably, thought of Frodo
wandering through Bag End, quite alone, and the long nights that
must have passed since Mr. Bilbo had gone. It was that sudden image
that reached, all at once, Sam’s heart, empathetic and so very ready
to commit itself irretrievably to love, and allowed him the courage
to surmount the difference in age, the difference in class, and
anything else that set them apart, and reach out to Frodo. Silently,
he let his hand, acting nearly like a creature in and of itself,
touch Frodo’s, and then wrap itself firmly around both of Frodo’s
clasped ones.
Startled, Frodo gave Sam a sideways glance, but the worry that had
been etched on his face vanished as he grasped Sam’s hand tightly in
both his own. Emboldened by this response, Sam murmured, nearly
inaudibly, “What are we t‘do now, then?” The corner of his mouth
crooked up in a shy smile that caused an answering one to creep
across Frodo’s features.
“What do you want, Sam?” he asked quietly, his gaze not leaving
Sam’s face. “Tell me what you want.”
Well, that was the hard part, now, wasn‘t it? Sam knew very well
what he wanted; the difficulty lay in putting the matter into words.
But, since words never came out right, from his mouth, he gently
withdrew his hand from Frodo’s grasp and reached out, touching Frodo
lightly, almost hesitantly, on his lips. “These,” he breathed, his
heart suddenly racing and his pulse quickened. “These’ll do for
starters, me dear.”
“Ahh,” Frodo sighed in relief, his eyes not leaving Sam’s. “Well,
they’re yours, my dearest, and no one else’s.” In the merest of
seconds, he was matching deed to word, as he turned to Sam, and
wrapping his arms tightly around him, found Sam’s waiting mouth with
his own.
This, at least, was not new to either of them, but still was a state
that was fresh and filled with wonder. The soft press of their lips,
the mouths that opened hungrily to each other, the tongues that
joined and explored; these were all part of a connection between the
both of them that was beginning to become familiar, in the way they
fit comfortably and unconsciously twined together in their embrace,
and yet there was still much that was surprising, and unexpected,
and caused one to give a stifled gasp of delight, and the other a
smothered chuckle.
“Sam!” Frodo breathed with a captivated smile, when the need for
more air had become too pressing to ignore, and they had to
separate. He raised his hand to the side of Sam’s face and cupped it
tenderly. “This is a splendid idea. You do pick up on this amazingly
well, you know.”
“You’re alus good at that what you like doin’, seems t’me,” Sam
answered his smile, his closest arm reaching around Frodo’s torso as
they still sat side by side.
“No, I think it’s more a matter of some having a natural talent for
certain things,” Frodo’s voice was deepening and his mouth grazed
lightly down the side of Sam’s neck, touched by golden curls and so
very alluringly close by. “But tell me what else you want, my own
dearest Sam.”
Sam couldn’t help at giving an involuntary shiver of want at the
effect of Frodo’s actions, and suddenly threw all last vestiges of
uncertainty to the wind. If Frodo was asking, then it was up to him
to be telling. “Your hands a’over me, Frodo,” he blurted out
frankly, closing his eyes so shyness wouldn’t give him second
thoughts. “You, next t’me, over me, on me, touchin’ me everywhere.
You in my arms, and me in yours, and naught, not even a breath,
between us.” And in emphasis to this declaration, his hand slid
further down behind Frodo’s side until it was firmly and boldly
cupping his backside, drawing him still closer, if that were
possible.
“Oh, I can’t think of anything at all that I would rather do,” Frodo
sighed in bliss, mentally releasing the worries that had held him
back. Young though he might be, Sam was obviously a hobbit who knew
his mind. Turning toward Sam, into his embrace, he gently laid them
back, facing each other, into the pillowed softness of the down
coverlet. Lovingly he reached up a hand, tucking a few of those
burnished curls, glinting golden in the afternoon sunlight, behind
the slightly tipped ear. He had already found that Sam’s unguarded
eyes, a changeable mixture of green and hazel, seemed to reflect the
nature of his heart; frank, trusting, and open to such depths of
love that were still hard for him to judge and understand. But he
knew, as Sam’s hand drew tantalizingly back up his bare side, that
if he had ever yearned for love, he had found it, and it would never
be Sam who let him go. “My dearest, oh, Sam, I love you so,” he
gasped in the wonder of knowing how very much he meant that, and
leaning over Sam, hungrily found his mouth again.
Sam gave that deep hum of blissful pleasure, which Frodo had come to
recognize and eagerly anticipate, and one of his arms wrapped
tightly around Frodo’s back as his free hand, with its curious
mixture of slight roughness and infinite tenderness, continued to
slowly travel back down Frodo’s side, greedily exploring every
curve. Frodo’s eyes had closed and he suddenly found himself aware
of everything; the delicious mouth under his, the strong arm around
him, the searching touch of his lover that sent shivers of delight
through him, the comforting warmth of sunlight on his bare back, the
homely aroma of the fire, and not the least of all, the
consciousness of the awakened desire of both Sam and himself.
“This,” he suddenly found himself thinking, “this is what happiness
truly is.”
With a surge of joy, he lifted himself on his elbows, and cradling
Sam’s face with one hand, ran the other slowly down the side of
Sam’s cheek, down the side of his neck, down his shoulder, further
down his chest, and let it disappear between the two of them. It was
only then he released Sam from his kiss, and murmured with a smile,
“Is this what you fancied, dearest?”
“Ahh,” Sam breathed, as Frodo’s hand came to rest on him, causing
him to arch his back up and close his eyes in ecstasy. “As much as
you care t’give, love.” His hands both swept up and caught Frodo’s
shoulders in their grasp. “ ‘Tis all I ever wanted, t’be sure.”
“Not all, Sam dear, not all,” Frodo’s voice was slightly ragged, as
he began to find his breathing strangely impeded. Unconsciously, he
had started to move against the body under his, as his mouth
traveled down to that perfect point at the base of Sam’s throat. “I
suspect there’s a bit more you’d like,” he murmured, his lips
leaving the perfect flesh and his forehead coming to rest on Sam’s
collarbone as he lifted himself slightly, matching his movements to
those of Sam below him. “I certainly know I would.”
“Ah, aye,” Sam gasped out, clutching Frodo’s shoulders more tightly
and pushing himself up against Frodo’s skillful hand. “”I’d not be
sayin’ you nay, me dearie.”
“I don’t think I could bear it if you did, Sam love,” Frodo’s voice
was beginning to fade to a whisper as he drove the two of them into
the sinuous, pulsing rhythm of love, but he heard the last faint
ghost of a chuckle from Sam, whose breathing had also been reduced
to short pants for air.
“I’d be daft if ever I did,” and then Frodo was locked into the
glory of the light behind his tightly closed eyes and the bliss of
that utter surrender.
It was the return of the slow drone of the mayfly that finally
attracted Sam’s attention, and he cracked an eye open with a certain
amount of irritation. If it weren’t for that annoying reminder of a
world outside of Frodo’s arms, he might have been able to abandon
himself a little longer to that delicious warm haven. Instead, there
was the window directly within his line of sight, and there was the
lowering reddened sun, in the very process of fading below the row
of beeches on the far end of the side garden.
He ruefully considered closing his eyes quite firmly shut, and
trying to drift back off again, but the thought of having to explain
a late homecoming to the gaffer, after being gone the entire night
before, was a thought he did not wish to contemplate. Not to mention
the thought of Daisy’s expression, for there was no doubt at all in
his mind that she knew exactly what was transpiring up on the Hill,
well, that was possibly even worse.
So it was with great reluctance that he carefully pushed a sleepy
Frodo, not without several apologetic kisses, to the side of the
bed, and slowly sat up. Swinging his legs to the side of the bed, a
sudden thought hit him. “I never got your tea, m’dear,” he exclaimed
contritely, with a quick touch to Frodo’s cheek. “And you’ll be
wantin’ dinner soon enough, no mistake.”
“Tea’s not what I need,” Frodo growled crossly, sitting up as well,
but immediately reaching over and catching Sam in a contrite
embrace. “I’m sorry, my dearest, it’s just that I so hate you to
go.”
Sam caught up Frodo’s arms tightly, and looking back at him over his
shoulder, caught his gaze in a mute plea. “I know, Sam, love,”
Frodo’s voice softened, “it’s better so, at least for now. And there
will be tomorrow, and the day after that, as well.” He lightly
kissed the side of Sam’s neck, nuzzling his ear just the tiniest
bit, and sought to lighten the tone. “And did you get everything you
wanted, dear?”
Sam smiled, and leaning back into his embrace, drew Frodo’s mouth to
his and answered with a firm kiss. It wasn’t until he had dressed
and had reached the door that he turned back to look at Frodo one
last time. “Well, now, there’d be one more thing I’d be wanting,” he
said softly, his eyes dark in the deepening shadows. “I’d want to
not be leaving you, not ever.”
Frodo was at his side in a moment, seizing him so closely he nearly
knocked the breath out of both of them. “I promise you, Sam,” he
whispered, fiercely and passionately, “it will not be this way
forever. As soon as it can be managed, my beloved Sam, this will be
your home, your bed, and you’ll not be leaving it again. You have my
word on it.”
Sam swallowed abruptly and blinked suspiciously bright eyes as he
let his head rest briefly on Frodo’s shoulder. “Then I’m not likely
to ask for naught else, not ever again,” he lifted his head and let
his hand cradle Frodo’s face, searching Frodo's eyes intently. "For
the sun and the stars would be dust and rubbish, compared t'that."
And then he was gone, and the fire died quite away to embers before
Frodo left his room for dinner.
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