CHAPTER 9
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For a time Sam didn't think of any other part of his master than his mouth, so irresistible was it, and so easily was kiss laid to kiss laid to kiss. How quick it was, getting used to the feel of that body in his arms, finding its dips and angles with his own. How easy, to disrupt that familiar breathing, make it catch, make it break. So many ways to touch, to hold, to taste, how easy to mislay your own composure in the middle of it all... There was the thinnest of boundaries, thinner than Frodo's most transparent skin, between the familiar and the un-dreamed of, and his fingers were laying everything bare. These silent, open-mouthed gasps, the sudden depth to the eyes; so much waiting under the surface to be touched. Dark eyelashes lusciously closing, trembling, in acceptance and abandonment - Sam could only witness in silence and give thanks by way of kisses. That this beautiful white throat should bare itself so desperately to him, Sam, was almost too much to be endured. Oh, Sam had dreamt this so many times, in glimpses, hardly admitting the wishes to himself, but now, in the making, the discoveries were all new. Nobody could have dreamt up the richness of this reality. Frodo had skin that satisfied his palms like nothing he had ever touched before, the sensation soaking into him like hot milk into sweet bread. There were treasures to be discovered one by one, in the most unexpected places (the taut curve of the hip bone, the slope below it where his thumb could sink into the soft supple skin, the hard twin sinews gliding under his fingers at the back of the knee). And Frodo's hands... Frodo had hands could cup to overflowing with such tenderness, and then spread on Sam, open palm smoothing gold onto his skin, making it shine, flicker, sparkle, and Sam felt perfect, felt so beautiful he had to gasp and close his eyes, as Frodo's fingers made him whole bit by bit. However, in his imagination he had never lain helpless on his back, knocked out by sensations. He had to grab his master, roll him over with the gentlest violence he was capable of; this would not do, there was only supposed to be one upper hand here - Sam's. He found however that unless he physically held Frodo down, it was hard to keep his mind on his purpose, on account of those hands of his. Even so, the helpless, ravished sounds that grew so insistent (Sam's mouth travelled up Frodo's warm, snowy, tense side to the almost untouchable place high up under the arm and Frodo's elbow locked around his neck as he gasped somewhere between too much and not enough), the twisting, the arching, the irregular breaths and the inadvertent contacts, these were distracting, and once or twice Sam found that he lost his way into those hands again, that mouth, giving himself up to the smell of fresh sweat and crushed grass and sun-baked skin, and to the utter sweetness of knowing whom those hands belonged to. His name was a searing, breathless whisper on Frodo's open mouth. 'I'm here,' he managed in a choked sigh, 'I'm here, Frodo... ' Frodo's leg tensed, braced against his side, and he smiled breathlessly, teasingly. 'Where?' he whispered. 'Here,' Sam said, moving with great daring. 'Oh...harder,,' Frodo whispered then, and his voice was both shy and heated, and Sam thought his heart might stop right there and then. He ground Frodo's grappling hand into the grass as he heard him ask again. Finally he had Frodo where he wanted him, and he was deaf and blind to everything else. Even now Frodo would not be denied, he reached, seeking to be allowed to undo Sam, even as his very life lay in Sam's hands. Sam was gentle, and then not so gentle, and the lovely curve under Frodo's ribcage rose beneath his taut skin like the back of a sleek fish diving deep in silky water. His fingers closed on Sam's arms until the knuckles whitened. So strong. Sam often forgot what reserves of tenacious and sinewy power was framed in Frodo's quiet, polite posture, but he was reminded now, because certain caresses, it seemed, made Frodo forget all restraint. It took everything Sam had to ride those waves; Frodo took all he had, of strength and tenderness both. Sam bit his lip and glanced at Frodo's face, watching pleasure drip and glide down his cheeks, like heavy syrup. Frodo's eyes were closed, his head thrown to the side. Sam felt afraid for a second, despite everything. 'Oi, you,' he whispered falteringly into Frodo's hair. 'Frodo... Stay with me. Don't leave me now.' Frodo's eyes found Sam's at once. He lifted his mouth to Sam's. 'I'm not going anywhere,' he breathed. 'Not without you. But please, Sam, I can't bear...' And Sam knew that it was all right, and he pressed his forehead to Frodo's and with Frodo's arms around his neck, he put all his tender strength, all his hot urgency and all the restraint he had left towards his purpose. Frodo soon cried out, in gorgeous, desperate want, and that strength again, against him, with him, and Sam couldn't breathe, in a sudden airless elevation to a level where there was nothing but his pulse in his ears, and Frodo's against his chest and mouth, and velvety heat spreading through each bursting vein. When his ears cleared he heard Frodo panting underneath his slick stomach, breathy begging, and he moved again, before his breath had time to slow, and again, until Frodo's body began to struggle convulsively under his weight, and Frodo cried out, hoarsely, raggedly, burying his face in the hot angle between Sam's neck and shoulder, lost, loved, and bereft of will and sight for what seemed like many minutes.
'Sam.' 'Mmhm.' Sam lifted his head lazily and looked down at Frodo. There was a deep flush to his normally so pale skin that Sam had never seen before, and at some point, something had left a wet streak on his cheekbone. It glinted in the warm, somnolent light. 'Sam, I never knew...' Sam kissed his bruised mouth. 'Oh me. Oh heavens.' Frodo sounded distracted, wriggling a little under Sam. Sam lifted himself on his arms, but Frodo pulled him back down again, lazy warm arm around his neck. 'Samwise.' Frodo lifted his head a fraction, so that he could hold his mouth on Sam's and trail a slow lick along his lower lip. Sam was sure that Frodo felt how his stomach muscles tensed, and they both laughed, against each other's mouths. 'I can't believe I can do that,' Frodo whispered, smiling. 'You. Me. Here, like this. That's not what I expected to happen to me today.' He pressed the slowest, gentlest kiss just in front of Sam's ear. When he lay back again, Sam had the opportunity to observe something new in his eyes, in the way his arm was flung on the grass, something loose and easy and open. Some barrier inside him, some reserve, had been broken down, and something had been released. It meant, among other things, that there was no need for Sam to ask whether it had been a pleasant surprise, for all that it had been unexpected. As for Sam himself, although the Frodo that had lived in that dim parlour of his imagination had been alluring, it was nothing compared to the meltingly erotic hold that this real, live, languid creature had over him. Sam was utterly, utterly taken over, body, soul and mind, from this day onward, and he knew it. 'Oh, you are something, you are,' Sam whispered. 'Likewise...' Frodo laughed a little. 'I feel so dense, Sam.' 'Don't be silly.' 'No.' Frodo cleared his throat. 'There is something I could say here, Sam, involving "best ever" and "never before" and "anyone else", but it would be a bit crude, under the circumstances.' 'Crude? You, sir? Never.' Sam kissed him again, on the forehead and cheeks and chin. He knew what Frodo was trying to say, and he was strangely touched. As far as he was concerned, it didn't need saying, or perhaps it had already been said, somehow. 'Given your recent - ' 'Shhh.' Sam smiled, and instead of saying anything, shifted his weight a little. They looked at each other for a few seconds. Frodo's hand came to Sam's cheek, very gently. 'All right, then,' he whispered, exhaling, and Sam couldn't not kiss him for that, for understanding so effortlessly. He hid his face at Frodo's shoulder, letting his fingers trace little circles on Frodo's skin to fill the silence that followed. Frodo was quiet for so long that Sam wondered if he had fallen asleep, but when he lifted his head to check Frodo met his eyes. He smiled. 'What a day, eh.' He let his fingers drift through Sam's hair from ear to nape. 'All's well that ends well,' Sam said. 'Speaking of which, I suppose we ought to be getting back, Mr Frodo. The sun doesn't have far to go.' Sam would have moved, but Frodo closed his hand on his arm and looked at him. 'Do you know, you've been calling me that all my life, and suddenly it sounds completely different. Like an endearment.'
They washed quickly in the stream, handfuls of water, cool against still-hot skin. Sam's eyes lingered on Frodo, lifting cupped hands to his face, the very last sunshine glittering on his forearms and thighs, and the world seemed to slow down, as if to allow him time to memorise the endless fall of each clear glinting drop, how it caught the light, how the rings spread. Back in their clothes, they were first a little awkward. Sam hoisted his pack onto his shoulders and nearly got his arm stuck in the straps, feeling as if he had never performed that particular gesture in front of Frodo before. 'Ready?' 'Ready.' But they walked side by side, and the path was narrow, and soon their hands were touching. Sam could still not quite grasp the change in his master; that elusive smoulder and sparkle that he had never seen before yet knew like his own palm. Only the day before, Frodo had been as distant as the stars, and here he was, not two feet away and looking for all the world the same as he had always done, and yet, and *yet*, Sam now knew differently. Oh, the things he knew. Impulsively, he reached out and grabbed Frodo's hand and gave it a squeeze. Frodo turned his head and smiled. 'Sam.' 'Frodo.' Sam smiled, blushing at the very sound of their voices. Frodo smiled back, and he tugged on Sam's hand until Sam stopped. 'Samwise, why are you blushing?' Sam blushed even worse, but he knew what he knew now, and nothing was ever going to be the same again. He rested a hand on Frodo's waist and leaned in close to Frodo's ear. 'You know why, sir.' 'Oh, Sam, don't say "sir" like that,' Frodo said in a low, delighted, ashamed voice, and just as Sam had intended, his cheeks grew pink. After that, the walk was frequently interrupted by kisses, and by sudden recollections prompted by how their clothes stuck to them in certain places, and how their hands still smelled, and how their bodies glowed, some such memories private and some shared across a kiss, and by the time they saw the firelight from the camp brazier it was as if they had been sharing that sort of hot whispers and intimate touches all their lives. Frodo grabbed Sam's hand and pulled him behind the last substantial tree, yanking him close. 'Quickly...' 'Oh, you.' They shared one last urgent kiss, and one more, and again, Frodo's hand slipping down low behind Sam, before they rejoined the path and entered the clearing. The gloaming had long since turned into dusky blue darkness. Sam fell into step behind Frodo as they approached the little circle of their chatting, eating companions. The firelight danced across their faces, making the surrounding night seem even deeper. Sam looked at them as if he had not seen them for months. When he looked up, eyes met his from under a dark brow, and Sam's heart jumped. Strider, never missing a thing. Sam stopped. 'Hello, Frodo, you've been gone awfully long,' he heard Pippin say with his mouth full. 'Close your mouth while you chew, Pip,' Merry chided. 'Who are you, my mum?' 'Shut up. Where's Sam?' Sam, in the dark outside the fire-lit circle, met the ranger's gaze steadily. He waited for his cheeks to warm under that expressionless gaze that hid so much. But it was as if his ability to blush had been taken away from him, and he stood still, as the seconds passed, one by one. The man's eyes flicked over to Frodo, already sitting down near the fire and reaching for the bread, unaware, and back to Sam, who returned the gaze with a strange calm. Then the man nodded, almost imperceptibly, and without knowing how, across the fire, Sam returned the nod. He felt somehow relieved, then, as if a responsibility, or a debt, had been lifted from his shoulders. Walking past the fire, Sam found his sleeping place. I must remember to ask Legolas what the name of that tree is in Elvish, he thought to himself. He took his pack off and undid the straps around his bedroll, and very carefully, he shook it out and spread it next to the mussed one that was already there. Home again, he thought. Or was it, home at last? Sam stood for a moment with his back to the firelight, looking down at the two bedrolls, before joining the others. Wehey, you made it to the end!
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