Under the Starlight, rated R, Frodo/Sam, 1-4
Porn part I. For you folk waiting for interspecies lovin', that's coming, too. ;-) (separate story) I'm VERY nervous about this. There are a lot of much better writers than I in this genre...
Previous chapters (all rated G):
1. Gossip
2. Fireworks
3. Silvery Light
Title: Under the Starlight
Author: Claudia
Rating: G through R (?)
Summary: A series of gap fillers throughout pre-quest, quest, and post-quest.
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and make no money from them.
A/N: This chapter has interhobbit slash in it!
The uproar over Bilbo’s disappearance has finally died down just a little. Everyone as had mathoms coming has collected and mercifully left. They all want to know more, poking and snooping into Bag End like they have the right, after the way they snubbed Bilbo and all. Frodo, always in that gentle but firm voice, tells them again and again with endless patience, “Bilbo has gone. As far as I know, for good.” Sam remembers the sad shock in his eyes the night of the party, just after Bilbo’s disappearance. Now it seems he has buried it under a smooth and polite mask. Sam wants some time alone with him in the garden, just to tell him that he saw, he noticed, and that it would be all right if Frodo opens his heart to him. He’d not stamp on it. He would never leave. Relatives and neighbors leave in a dissatisfied huff. Good riddance, Sam thinks to himself.
Bag End now sinks into a gloomy quiet. Sam can’t quite put his finger on just what it is, because Frodo does not mope or even seem to grieve at all, but all the same, he feels it. Frodo is too serene, too quietly content.
One rainy day only a few weeks after Bilbo’s departure, Frodo beckons Sam inside to help him oil the wooden floors in some of the back rooms that have not been used in years. Frodo has been cleaning nearly constantly since Bilbo’s departure -- anything to keep busy, to not think too much. Sam bites back his urge to grab Frodo’s shoulders and shake. Tell me what you really think, his heart cries. But he has no right.
Sam does not mind the task of oiling the floor, but he only wishes he could have gone home for a bit so he could take a quick bath. He is muddy from the rain, and his shirt is soiled. His ma will have something to say about that, he is sure, and it is all he can do to keep from dripping muddy water on the freshly oiled floors. He whistles a bit of a tune, just to break the heavy silence, breathing in the soothing pine scent of the oil. The tune lifts his heart, and the pine scent reminds him of picnics in the woods with his family.
“Sam.” Frodo’s low, husky voice startles him, and he jumps, nearly knocking into and spilling the bottle of oil. He did not hear Frodo approach. He feels caught off guard, though he is doing nothing wrong.
“Yes, sir,” Sam says, turning red. Lately he can’t seem to help it in Frodo’s presence. He gestures to the shiny wooden floor. “I hope this is how you wanted it done. I wasn’t sure.”
Frodo does not answer, but he walks to where Sam is kneeling and falls on his knees in front of him. Sam’s heart batters. Not that Sam hasn’t imagined this scene before, usually taking place in the garden. Yes, often, in the privacy of his room, he has stroked his length to relief, imagining Frodo falling before him in such a manner.
“Look at me,” Frodo says. Sam drops the cloth he has been using to rub oil into the floor and meets Frodo’s steady gaze. Frodo’s cheeks are pink and his breath comes out in short gasps.
“Are you all right, sir?” Sam asks, swallowing a nervous lump in his throat no less hard than that inside his breeches. He presses his thighs together, squirming uncomfortably. If Frodo looks down, then Sam supposes he’d never be able to come back, not ever.
“What would you think…” Frodo slides his hand up Sam’s thigh and casually runs it up and over his hip before letting it skim back to his thigh. Sam bites back a gasp as new warmth fills his groin. “What would you think of kissing me?”
Frodo does not flinch, but Sam’s whole face burns, and his eyes flicker from side to side. Before he’s able to help himself, a low moan escapes his lips. “Pardon me?” he finally manages, though he heard perfectly well. His hands tremble, and he clutches them together, digging his nails into his palms. It would never do to have Frodo see him shaking like a leaf, whether or no.
“There’s nobody around,” Frodo continues in that low and lyrical voice that has always sounded to Sam how he imagines Elvish music. “No prying eyes can see us here. The shades are drawn. Have you ever wondered what it would be like to kiss a lad?”
“Yes…no…I-Mr. Frodo…” Sam digs his nails in so deep that he knows there will be marks later. Why does he have to be such a bumbling ninny?
“I do not mean to make you uncomfortable,” Frodo says, at last looking away. “If you say no, do not feel that you cannot come back here. I shall never mention it again.”
Sam’s voice comes out in a croak. “Yes.” He is dizzy and his ears buzz. It all seems dream-like. He expects to wake up on the floor, covered with an embarrassing warm sticky wetness.
Frodo smiles, and that sends the warmth seeping up from Sam’s groin into his stomach, where it darts and jumps like little tadpoles.
“Stand up.” Frodo helps Sam to his feet. There’s no use hiding how hard he is now. If Frodo has seen, it doesn’t matter now.
“I’m a mite dirty,” Sam mumbles, looking down at his muddy shirt in dismay. He still can’t believe it’s not a dream. But no, Frodo’s hot breath hitting his neck is real.
“I do not care.” Frodo closes his eyes and sways toward Sam. Awkwardly, Sam slips first one arm around Frodo’s waist, pulling him easily, and the other hand just behind Frodo’s head. He has never felt Frodo’s hair before, and he is amazed by the fine, silky strands that slide between his fingers. Braver now, he squeezes Frodo close, and now Frodo looks up, his eyes closed, deep pink lips open and ready.
Sam plunges, closing his eyes.
First he is aware of warm moist sweetness - more succulent than a ripe tomato. Next he is aware of Frodo’s nipples pressed against his chest and his thudding heart. Sam finds it hard to breathe.
Earlier he fretted about soiling Frodo’s fine linen shirt, but now the idea of Frodo needing him so badly that he doesn’t mind getting filthy sends curling, hot need into his belly. His length is full and hard, and he pivots, pressing Frodo against the nearest wall. He thrusts hard against Frodo, unable to bear the throbbing of his length. Pressing his hands and knees against the wall, he keeps Frodo pinned. His hardness through the rough cloth of his breeches crushes against Frodo’s, and he is unable to pry his lips from the swollen sweet of Frodo’s hungry lips. Frodo slips his tongue into his mouth, exploring with languid ease.
Sam pushes his hands from the wall down into the back of Frodo’s breeches. They slide easily over the silky smooth mounds of Frodo’s bottom. Frodo lets out sharp gasps and fumbles with the buttons to Sam’s shirt. Sam strokes Frodo’s slender hips and bottom, kneading, pulling Frodo up against him. Frodo’s gasps send short puffs of hot, tickling air into his ear. The throbbing becomes unbearable, and he bucks fiercely into Frodo.
Frodo gives up on the buttons to Sam’s shirt and works instead on his breeches. “Now…now…we must…now…”
Sam’s breeches slide down, and he steps out of them. He is vulnerable, free, and aching with the fiercest need he has known. His hands tremble as he helps Frodo with his breeches. Frodo’s crisp white shirt is indeed smeared with dirt, but Frodo neither notices nor cares. His lids are half shut, black lashes quivering at every gasp, and his swollen lips are still parted.
Sam pushes against him once again, and skin to skin, they meet. The tip of his length tickles and spasms as it glances against Frodo’s. Oh, how he longs to enter Frodo’s dark heat, but it is not meant to be, not this time. Sam shudders against Frodo, capturing his lips with frantic violence. He thrusts so hard that he thinks surely he will hurt Frodo, but Frodo grunts with need, clutching Sam closer, thrusting back with equal violence. Spasm after glorious heated spasm takes him - he’s never felt anything like it, not in any of the fantasies he has had in his bed, not in any dreams, certainly never in reality with another hobbit. Frodo shudders in his arms and bites Sam’s bottom lip.
Truly spent, they slide to the floor, leaning against the wall. The sticky warmth that pools in their abdomens and trickles down their inner thighs cools quickly, but Sam is reluctant to move, reluctant to break the spell. Perhaps this is it. Frodo was curious and now he’s had his fun. Perhaps from now on, he will be cold and distant, perhaps a little embarrassed. Maybe he will dismiss Sam.
Don’t be a fool, Samwise, he says to himself. At least you had one chance. Now you know. Even if he is done with you, well, there’s not much you can do about it, can you?
Frodo rests his head against the wall, eyes still closed. Finally, he smiles and turns to Sam. “So, Sam. What did you think?”
“It was better than anything, sir,” Sam says honestly, unable to keep his voice from wavering. “I only wish-“ He clamps his mouth shut. He doesn’t have the right to say anything more.
“What? You only wish what?” Frodo no longer looks sleepy and content. His eyes are bright with intelligence and concern.
“Oh, never mind.”
“Tell me.” His eyes are wide and intense - there is nothing playful there. He will not laugh.
“I…I only wish it would not be the last time.” Sam cannot meet Frodo’s eyes yet. There is a heavy silence in which Sam can hear the distant ticking of the grandfather clock, squabbling birds outside, and a distant neighbor calling a cheery greeting to another.
“Goodness,” Frodo finally says, slipping his cool hand into Sam’s. “I should hope not. Bag End must be brought to new life again. Some time soon I hope we shall finish what we started.”
Sam’s heart floats inside him, and butterflies flap about in his ears. He grins, squeezing Frodo’s hand. A vista of brighter days spreads out before him.
END
Previous chapters (all rated G):
1. Gossip
2. Fireworks
3. Silvery Light
Title: Under the Starlight
Author: Claudia
Rating: G through R (?)
Summary: A series of gap fillers throughout pre-quest, quest, and post-quest.
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and make no money from them.
A/N: This chapter has interhobbit slash in it!
The uproar over Bilbo’s disappearance has finally died down just a little. Everyone as had mathoms coming has collected and mercifully left. They all want to know more, poking and snooping into Bag End like they have the right, after the way they snubbed Bilbo and all. Frodo, always in that gentle but firm voice, tells them again and again with endless patience, “Bilbo has gone. As far as I know, for good.” Sam remembers the sad shock in his eyes the night of the party, just after Bilbo’s disappearance. Now it seems he has buried it under a smooth and polite mask. Sam wants some time alone with him in the garden, just to tell him that he saw, he noticed, and that it would be all right if Frodo opens his heart to him. He’d not stamp on it. He would never leave. Relatives and neighbors leave in a dissatisfied huff. Good riddance, Sam thinks to himself.
Bag End now sinks into a gloomy quiet. Sam can’t quite put his finger on just what it is, because Frodo does not mope or even seem to grieve at all, but all the same, he feels it. Frodo is too serene, too quietly content.
One rainy day only a few weeks after Bilbo’s departure, Frodo beckons Sam inside to help him oil the wooden floors in some of the back rooms that have not been used in years. Frodo has been cleaning nearly constantly since Bilbo’s departure -- anything to keep busy, to not think too much. Sam bites back his urge to grab Frodo’s shoulders and shake. Tell me what you really think, his heart cries. But he has no right.
Sam does not mind the task of oiling the floor, but he only wishes he could have gone home for a bit so he could take a quick bath. He is muddy from the rain, and his shirt is soiled. His ma will have something to say about that, he is sure, and it is all he can do to keep from dripping muddy water on the freshly oiled floors. He whistles a bit of a tune, just to break the heavy silence, breathing in the soothing pine scent of the oil. The tune lifts his heart, and the pine scent reminds him of picnics in the woods with his family.
“Sam.” Frodo’s low, husky voice startles him, and he jumps, nearly knocking into and spilling the bottle of oil. He did not hear Frodo approach. He feels caught off guard, though he is doing nothing wrong.
“Yes, sir,” Sam says, turning red. Lately he can’t seem to help it in Frodo’s presence. He gestures to the shiny wooden floor. “I hope this is how you wanted it done. I wasn’t sure.”
Frodo does not answer, but he walks to where Sam is kneeling and falls on his knees in front of him. Sam’s heart batters. Not that Sam hasn’t imagined this scene before, usually taking place in the garden. Yes, often, in the privacy of his room, he has stroked his length to relief, imagining Frodo falling before him in such a manner.
“Look at me,” Frodo says. Sam drops the cloth he has been using to rub oil into the floor and meets Frodo’s steady gaze. Frodo’s cheeks are pink and his breath comes out in short gasps.
“Are you all right, sir?” Sam asks, swallowing a nervous lump in his throat no less hard than that inside his breeches. He presses his thighs together, squirming uncomfortably. If Frodo looks down, then Sam supposes he’d never be able to come back, not ever.
“What would you think…” Frodo slides his hand up Sam’s thigh and casually runs it up and over his hip before letting it skim back to his thigh. Sam bites back a gasp as new warmth fills his groin. “What would you think of kissing me?”
Frodo does not flinch, but Sam’s whole face burns, and his eyes flicker from side to side. Before he’s able to help himself, a low moan escapes his lips. “Pardon me?” he finally manages, though he heard perfectly well. His hands tremble, and he clutches them together, digging his nails into his palms. It would never do to have Frodo see him shaking like a leaf, whether or no.
“There’s nobody around,” Frodo continues in that low and lyrical voice that has always sounded to Sam how he imagines Elvish music. “No prying eyes can see us here. The shades are drawn. Have you ever wondered what it would be like to kiss a lad?”
“Yes…no…I-Mr. Frodo…” Sam digs his nails in so deep that he knows there will be marks later. Why does he have to be such a bumbling ninny?
“I do not mean to make you uncomfortable,” Frodo says, at last looking away. “If you say no, do not feel that you cannot come back here. I shall never mention it again.”
Sam’s voice comes out in a croak. “Yes.” He is dizzy and his ears buzz. It all seems dream-like. He expects to wake up on the floor, covered with an embarrassing warm sticky wetness.
Frodo smiles, and that sends the warmth seeping up from Sam’s groin into his stomach, where it darts and jumps like little tadpoles.
“Stand up.” Frodo helps Sam to his feet. There’s no use hiding how hard he is now. If Frodo has seen, it doesn’t matter now.
“I’m a mite dirty,” Sam mumbles, looking down at his muddy shirt in dismay. He still can’t believe it’s not a dream. But no, Frodo’s hot breath hitting his neck is real.
“I do not care.” Frodo closes his eyes and sways toward Sam. Awkwardly, Sam slips first one arm around Frodo’s waist, pulling him easily, and the other hand just behind Frodo’s head. He has never felt Frodo’s hair before, and he is amazed by the fine, silky strands that slide between his fingers. Braver now, he squeezes Frodo close, and now Frodo looks up, his eyes closed, deep pink lips open and ready.
Sam plunges, closing his eyes.
First he is aware of warm moist sweetness - more succulent than a ripe tomato. Next he is aware of Frodo’s nipples pressed against his chest and his thudding heart. Sam finds it hard to breathe.
Earlier he fretted about soiling Frodo’s fine linen shirt, but now the idea of Frodo needing him so badly that he doesn’t mind getting filthy sends curling, hot need into his belly. His length is full and hard, and he pivots, pressing Frodo against the nearest wall. He thrusts hard against Frodo, unable to bear the throbbing of his length. Pressing his hands and knees against the wall, he keeps Frodo pinned. His hardness through the rough cloth of his breeches crushes against Frodo’s, and he is unable to pry his lips from the swollen sweet of Frodo’s hungry lips. Frodo slips his tongue into his mouth, exploring with languid ease.
Sam pushes his hands from the wall down into the back of Frodo’s breeches. They slide easily over the silky smooth mounds of Frodo’s bottom. Frodo lets out sharp gasps and fumbles with the buttons to Sam’s shirt. Sam strokes Frodo’s slender hips and bottom, kneading, pulling Frodo up against him. Frodo’s gasps send short puffs of hot, tickling air into his ear. The throbbing becomes unbearable, and he bucks fiercely into Frodo.
Frodo gives up on the buttons to Sam’s shirt and works instead on his breeches. “Now…now…we must…now…”
Sam’s breeches slide down, and he steps out of them. He is vulnerable, free, and aching with the fiercest need he has known. His hands tremble as he helps Frodo with his breeches. Frodo’s crisp white shirt is indeed smeared with dirt, but Frodo neither notices nor cares. His lids are half shut, black lashes quivering at every gasp, and his swollen lips are still parted.
Sam pushes against him once again, and skin to skin, they meet. The tip of his length tickles and spasms as it glances against Frodo’s. Oh, how he longs to enter Frodo’s dark heat, but it is not meant to be, not this time. Sam shudders against Frodo, capturing his lips with frantic violence. He thrusts so hard that he thinks surely he will hurt Frodo, but Frodo grunts with need, clutching Sam closer, thrusting back with equal violence. Spasm after glorious heated spasm takes him - he’s never felt anything like it, not in any of the fantasies he has had in his bed, not in any dreams, certainly never in reality with another hobbit. Frodo shudders in his arms and bites Sam’s bottom lip.
Truly spent, they slide to the floor, leaning against the wall. The sticky warmth that pools in their abdomens and trickles down their inner thighs cools quickly, but Sam is reluctant to move, reluctant to break the spell. Perhaps this is it. Frodo was curious and now he’s had his fun. Perhaps from now on, he will be cold and distant, perhaps a little embarrassed. Maybe he will dismiss Sam.
Don’t be a fool, Samwise, he says to himself. At least you had one chance. Now you know. Even if he is done with you, well, there’s not much you can do about it, can you?
Frodo rests his head against the wall, eyes still closed. Finally, he smiles and turns to Sam. “So, Sam. What did you think?”
“It was better than anything, sir,” Sam says honestly, unable to keep his voice from wavering. “I only wish-“ He clamps his mouth shut. He doesn’t have the right to say anything more.
“What? You only wish what?” Frodo no longer looks sleepy and content. His eyes are bright with intelligence and concern.
“Oh, never mind.”
“Tell me.” His eyes are wide and intense - there is nothing playful there. He will not laugh.
“I…I only wish it would not be the last time.” Sam cannot meet Frodo’s eyes yet. There is a heavy silence in which Sam can hear the distant ticking of the grandfather clock, squabbling birds outside, and a distant neighbor calling a cheery greeting to another.
“Goodness,” Frodo finally says, slipping his cool hand into Sam’s. “I should hope not. Bag End must be brought to new life again. Some time soon I hope we shall finish what we started.”
Sam’s heart floats inside him, and butterflies flap about in his ears. He grins, squeezing Frodo’s hand. A vista of brighter days spreads out before him.
END