FIC: No Fears

I wrote this fic tonight, after having the urge to write some F/S (when I'm supposed to be writing het!)
I just couldn't resist - it's unabashed smut - but I hope you will enjoy! :-)
TITLE: No Fears
AUTHOR: Igraine
PAIRING: F/S
RATING: NC-17 (probably E - not sure!)
SUMMARY: A restless night at Crickhollow. Frodo and Sam learn a way to keep their fears at bay.
DISCLAIMER: These characters belong to JRR Tolkien. I merely borrow them and promise to return them unharmed. I make no money from these stories.

NO FEARS

Frodo couldn’t sleep. No matter how long he lay in the warm, soft cavern of his bed, closing his eyes and breathing light and slow, his mind gave him no release. It seemed to grip him in open consciousness, tenacious and unrelenting. The evening’s revelations ran through his head, in the form of broken fragments of conversation jostling with the striking memory of Sam’s clear brown eyes shining and Merry determined face, set and stern, more earnest than he’d ever seen it before. When the memories ran their natural course, the fears began. He was plagued by the black vision of pale, screaming spectres with cold, sightless eyes, stooping and searching – sensing their prey, drawing close, touching him with the tail of their sliding shadows.
Frodo stared blindly around the darkened room, studying the strange juxtaposition of familiar objects retrieved from Bag End, which seemed both comforting and disquieting. When he felt the sweat cooling on his brow and the agitation in his body rising to fever, he sat up and, shivering, swung himself out of bed and pulled on his light dressing robe, placed conveniently close on the bedside chair. Then he walked out of the room and turned down the hallway, moving in and out of the veils of darkness cast by the overhanging beams. He felt light headed with sleeplessness and knew that he must be ready to rise early in the dawn, but he couldn’t face the bed and it’s demon bed fellows. He needed a cup of water and perhaps a breath of air.
He walked uncertainly into the kitchen, feeling his way by the pale moonlight that filtered through the shutters. It lay across the kitchen table and fell upon a wide bowl of apples that sat upon it, frosting them and making them mysterious. He walked up to the table and put out a hand to touch, as though he half expected them to vanish beneath the warm life of his hand, but he felt only coolness and moisture, waxy as lilies.
"I’m surprised you’ve room left, sir."
Frodo’s blood turned cold and he spun round wildly, his eyes wide with alarm.
"I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to fright…"
Sam moved out of the well of shadow close against the dull, red embers of the dying hearth. He was still wearing his travelling clothes - a homespun linen shirt and a pair of dark green breeches - but his waistcoat lay on the back of a chair and his braces hung loose around his hips. At his feet lay a crumpled heap of discarded blankets.
"Sam? Haven’t you somewhere more comfortable to rest?" Frodo asked, horrified that he had been stretched out in soft luxury whilst Sam was curled, cramped and stiff in an easy chair. "This might be our last night of comfort for some time – I don’t want you to spend a night in misery. Please, take my bed, I won’t be sleeping tonight."
Sam stared, absorbing his master’s pale, anxious face and darkly dilated eyes. "I don’t think I can sleep, neither, sir, if it’s all the same."
"Well, that’s no wonder, sleeping all squashed in that chair – please, go ahead, I’ve warmed it for you," Frodo replied, wandering over to the window and looking out over the moonlit waves of grass.
"It ain’t that, sir," Sam stammered, approaching Frodo from behind, a little tentatively. Frodo stood still and calm as a piece of shaped stone and Sam felt unsure and lingered in the darkness, running his fingers along the grain of the oak table.
"Go on, Sam. I am listening," Frodo said, softly, his back still turned towards him.
"To tell the truth, it’s the forest, sir. It makes me afeared. I’ve been having night terrors and I can’t seem to keep them at bay!"
The words poured out all in a rush and to hear them spoken aloud in the quiet, homely room, they seemed to Sam more terrible still, as though by speaking their names, he had called forth their spirits.
Frodo shivered visibly. "You too?" he whispered and turned to Sam, his face seeming soft and young and vulnerable.
"Aye," Sam replied, "It was seeing how Mr Fredegar’s face went white as ash – it scared me good and proper that did."
Frodo walked over to Sam and laid his hand on Sam’s shoulder. Sam looked up and for a moment, he allowed himself to fall into his master’s eyes.
"I know what it is you are doing for me, Sam, and I am profoundly grateful – but I will not have you sleeping in that chair and suffering for it tomorrow. Will you come to bed? It’s plenty big enough for two."
Sam’s mouth fell open and then he turned away, wiping his hands across his face as if he wanted to swipe away the doubt and fear that flickered over it. Frodo stood still and quiet, his expression soft and quizzical. "Sam?" he questioned, lifting the drooping curls out of Sam’s hidden gaze. Sam seemed to flinch at the touch and turned his face away.
"Sorry, so sorry…" Frodo started and recoiled, horrified and amazed at once.
Sam shook his head. "T’wouldn’t be right, sir," he whispered, almost inaudible.
Frodo watched Sam back away to his chair and slump down into it as if the effort of keeping on his feet was proving too much. Frodo’s heart was racing now and his breath quickened. Surely he had known what he was doing? Something in his mind had recalled where Sam could be found and had sought him out. Suddenly he felt the duel dragons of fear and desire battling for supremacy, holding him in the moment, running time slowly, weighting the silence with menace and thick, dark suspense. Sam was holding his head in his hands and looked as though he might be weeping and at the sight of him, something in Frodo’s heart shattered and melted. It could almost have been a shard of ice, or a cold, cold blade, but whatever it was, it had been released and it was all that Frodo could do not to whimper with the joy that had risen in its wake.
Frodo walked to Sam and, kneeling before him, laid the palms of his hands over the soft, golden feet squarely planted on the floor before him. Frodo ran his fingers up and down, over fine bones and long, strong toes, in a slow, intimate caress, his eyes urgently seeking approval from the shadowed mess of dark bronze curls that hung heavy over clouded eyes. Sam made a soft broken sound and Frodo threaded his fingers under the arches of Sam’s feet, smoothing circles with the lightest of touches, easing and coercing Sam into low groans until eventually, he threw his head back and cried, loud in the thick silence of the room. Then Frodo rose and raised Sam from the chair with a brief touch to his cheek, drawing him in as a moth to flame.
"Come to my bed," Frodo said and the dark wanting in his eyes stopped Sam’s heart and turned his legs to water.

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The bed was cool now, the sheets thrown back and the pillows chilled. As Frodo lay back, his black hair spilled over the glowing white linen and he watched Sam undressing slowly, taking his time. Frodo had already cast away his robe and lay in his best night shirt, cream cotton embroidered at the cuffs and along the neck, a fine thing that once belonged to his father. It lay soft over his body like a whisper of silk and clung provocatively to his rising flesh. Sam glanced across at Frodo as he tugged off his breeches and folded them neatly to place on the chair. When he had finished and sat clothed only in his under linens, he turned towards Frodo and looked at him with questioning eyes as though awaiting instruction. Frodo smiled encouragingly and held out his hands. Sam took a deep breath and then climbed onto the bed and settled himself in the crook of his master’s arm. At once he was enveloped in the sweet, forbidden fragrance of his master – old parchment and honey and the rosemary with which he had washed his hair. Sam rubbed his nose against the warmth of Frodo’s chest and the arm about him tightened.
"I’m glad you’re here, Sam," Frodo said, quietly and Sam crooked his neck to look up at him. The tender possession that he could see, written stark upon his master’s face, sent the low throbbing spark of flame that had been kindling deep inside his belly, into a sudden rush of fire that flared through hardened desire.
"Mr Frodo – what do you want me to do?" he whispered, his face pressed against the warm curve of Frodo’s shoulder, where his night shirt had slipped a little, revealing milk white skin, unflawed and silken, hot under his lips.
Frodo cupped Sam’s face in his hands and lifted it to meet his, until their faces were just a tremor apart.
"Just this, Sam," he said, "Just this…." And he covered Sam’s mouth with his own, shockingly warm and moving sweetly, cleverly, rocking a curled tongue against untrained lips until they yielded and parted, letting him slip within and stir Sam’s own tongue into response, tentatively at first, and then eager and strong, butting and raking against his own until their lips were wet and swollen and their teeth nudged together with a shock like sparks from flint. When they drew apart they were gasping and their eyes were locked, hands clutched in curls.
"Was that it?" Sam asked, "Is that how it should be?"
Frodo trailed a finger along Sam’s lips and Sam pulled it in and held it there, stroking it with his tongue.
"Yes, that’s it," Frodo said, his voice trembling and dark.
Sam closed his eyes and pulled Frodo closer against his body, thrilling to feel the hard promise against the softness of his thigh. He was glad of the darkness that enclosed them and he felt in a way that they had triumphed over it and dispelled all of its fear. Perhaps they could drive all the darkness out of the world. Sam pushed against Frodo and Frodo pushed back in response, harder and more deliberately, making Sam catch his breath.
"Yes, that’s it," Frodo murmured. "You do that…"
Sam tried again, but missed clumsily and butted against Frodo’s thigh. Then Frodo deftly raised his hips from the bed and drew off his night shirt, tugging it up slowly and revealing inch by inch, the beautiful, slender form that lay hidden beneath. Sam sat back on his heels and watched him breathlessly, suddenly conscious of his own, rounder form, not near so fine as this delicate, ethereal creature now spread before him like a feast for the senses. Once more, he was glad of the darkness as he tugged off his linens and crouched naked as the day he was born.
"My, sir, you’re beautiful!" he cried as he laid his eyes on the splendour of his lovely master.
Frodo lay back on the pillows, softly relaxed - his legs gently parted and his hands fallen at his sides, loose and lazy. A slow smile played about his lips and his bright eyes danced. He seemed to be waiting for Sam to make a move, but Sam was frozen, gazing in awe and unable to move an inch. Frodo looked at the boldness of him, his sturdy calves clenched, knees covering his belly, broad chest and strong, firm shoulders, all sun warmed and smelling of the grass and the secret earth, tensed and apprehensive, waiting for a command.
"Come here," Frodo said, his voice low. Sam shuffled forwards and knelt beside him, his eyes like saucers. Frodo watched Sam’s face as Frodo reached out a hand and took hold of him, running his fingers up and along warm, firm skin that strained beneath his touch. Sam jolted and his knees trembled beneath him, parting and sinking down onto the bed, until he was leaning into the touch, urging it to continue. Frodo did continue, more firmly now, rubbing with his thumb and then teasing him with caresses; whisper soft as the wind trembling over the meadow grass. Sam was so sensitive, the slightest touch made him quiver and spring to life. He seemed to be brimming over with it. Frodo delighted to watch the waves of painful joy moving restlessly across Sam’s face, crumpled and open mouthed, feeling Sam’s climax rising to the soft ministrations of his hand. When he felt that Sam would not last much longer, he eased slowly to a stop, still stroking lightly, but urging Sam back to lie with him, speaking gentle words and drawing him in with kisses and soft bites until he was lying beneath him and twisting his heart with the most honest expression of open love that Frodo had ever seen.
"I don’t want you to come with me on this journey, Sam," Frodo said, suddenly, his voice quavering a little but with firm resolution beneath. "I won’t lead you into darkness."
Sam’s eyes shone with tears. "I’m coming, sir, whether you want me or no, I couldn’t leave you now!"
"Because of this?" Frodo asked, his body shaking as he raised his weight on his elbows and looked down at him.
"No," Sam replied. "Because of how my life is serving you and loving you and wanting to do right by you and there is nowt else but that!"
Frodo laid his lips lightly across Sam’s and kissed the ghosts of the words that had passed. "Then I shall treasure you," Frodo replied, "and think myself truly blessed."
"And you will let me come?" Sam asked, broken and yearning.
"I will," Frodo conceded, even though it tore his heart to let them pass.
Sam sobbed and reached up to clasp his hands behind Frodo’s neck and pull him into a deep, searching kiss that was filled with tenderness, fear and devotion and within it was the taint of tears. After a while, they grew restless once more and hands sought out soft hollows and rough curls and the ache of hard flesh that pressed between. Sam tugged Frodo down so that they lay pressed face to face and he kissed every inch of flesh that was in reach of his mouth with rough excitement, whilst Frodo closed his eyes and strained to cleave their bodies together, slick with the heat of passion. Sam panted Frodo’s name against his shoulder and Frodo’s eyes flickered open.
"Mr Frodo," he stammered, "Should I be…I mean…is this…I don’t know!"
"Sam," Frodo gasped, "this is…fine, this is…"
"It’s just that I’ve heard things and I don’t know if I ought to be…"
"There are no rules, Sam, do what feels good, please, don’t stop…."
So Sam bent his head once more and suckled Frodo’s throat, making Frodo squirm and feeling his groan reverberating in the muscles beneath his lips. Encouraged, he lifted Frodo and tasted the smooth, slightly salty skin of his chest, dipping his tongue into soft crevices and over hard nubs, trailing a line of fire down his belly, inching down the bed until he came nose to nose with soft, downy hair, curling dark around flushed, aching skin. Although unpracticed and uncertain, he allowed his tongue to softly taste and then circle until he felt the quiver in Frodo’s belly and the rising of his flesh. He closed his eyes and drew him in slowly, easing a little, testing, making Frodo buck and cry out. Then he began in earnest, putting all of his devotion into the task until the doing of it nearly sent him over the edge as he felt Frodo’s feet brushing against him softly, teasingly, making him lose concentration and tip over onto his side.
Frodo sat up, gasping and pulled Sam into his lap, astride his thighs, kissing him deep and hard, whilst raking his hands along hard sinew and over rounded buttocks, easing them apart as he ran the tip of his tongue over the sensitive inner side of Sam’s top lip. Sam shivered and thrust against him once more, holding tighter, as Frodo ran moist fingers down and between, rubbing and softening, seeking. Sam moaned and thrust again, in acceptance and as Frodo slipped between, he closed his eyes and keened, thrusting blindly until something erupted inside him and shook him to the core, bringing Frodo with him, who froze and trembled, pulling Sam tighter against himself as he gasped his love into the crown of Sam’s hair.


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"Do you think they heard anything?" Sam asked, as he lay in Frodo’s arms, gently stroking and kissing Frodo’s chest, which had settled now into quiet breaths.
"I sincerely doubt it – Fatty was done in and Merry and Pippin have probably talked themselves into a stupor – no I don’t think we shall have any worries on that score."
"Good," said Sam, "for I wouldn’t like there to be any gossiping."
"No," Frodo agreed, kissing Sam lightly on the brow, "that wouldn’t do at all!"
"No fears!" said Sam.
"No fears," Frodo replied and curling around Sam he finally found the rest that he had been seeking.
Gradually his dreams returned but they were different dreams and held no terror. They unfolded slowly, a vision of pure light, shored by the distant rhythm of the long, white waves of the sea. It held a secret at its heart, like a pearl in the oyster’s shell but no matter how hard he tried, Frodo could not hear the answer to the riddle it contained.
Never mind, he thought, it can wait.

THE END