Peachy (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} aussiepeach) wrote in ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} hobbit_smut,@ 2004-10-24 19:22:00 |
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Name: Aussiepeach
Title: Samwise Gamgee’s Confession. With apologies to Robert Louis Stevenson.
Challenge: Hobbit Smut "In the Wardrobe! Under the Bed!" Challenge
Word Count: 2589
Rating: N17
Pairing/s: F/S
Summary: Sam is afraid of what his feelings might lead him to do, so he tries to separate ‘good’ from ‘bad’. Oops.
Notes: Thanks tocassiopeia3019 for being a beta-babe. Welcome new community authors! Rah!
I’m setting down this as a record, should I expire or be taken by madness again. Mr. Pippin Took says the fearingest thing he ever met was a pair of his gaffer’s unwashed breeches. But for me, there is something altogether fearsome and strange, and one day I know curiousity’ll be the end of me. For now you’ll have to hear from my pen, now that I have time to write it down, where it has led me so far.
I was born in the year 1380 to little fortune, but endowed with excellent parts (as you’ll later learn), inclined by nature to industry (and by industry to nature), fond of the respect of the wise and good among my fellow hobbits, and expecting an honourable future, tending the gardens of a Mr. Frodo Baggins.
I thought the worst of my faults was not listening proper to my Gaffer, and daydreaming and things of that sort. And maybe some pride in wanting to serve my master well. Mr. Frodo was so different from me: me with my dishwater-brown hair and tanned skin and plain face, while Frodo was dreamy-wise and spirited, he was like poetry made flesh. Able to roister and laugh and joke, but otherworldly too; something that was made to slip through your fingers. Yet as time passed in Mr. Frodo’s employ, I realised I, and not he, was a hobbit of two very different natures.
Many a hobbit would’ve boldly admitted such things as I was guilty of; but knowin’ the high views Mr. Frodo had of me, I hid them with a wretched sense of shame. For I was starting to feel the sap of youth rise in me at the wrong sort of times, like when I was in the market, or watching lasses’ skirts fly as they ran or danced, and I was sore afraid of what might happen to me if anyone noticed. No servant can do his proper duty while in the throes of desire, or so my Gaffer said. Just thinkin’ about those throes was enough to make me hot, and then I’d as likely lose myself. I didn’t want no adventures, just... I wanted to calm the monster in me.
Bein’ a gardener, I knew there was plants as could flame desire or damp it down, and there were herbs aplenty in the Bag End garden. I gathered a good few, then went to a healer and bought a rare ointment, said to be made from the bodily fluid of a very dark creature. This, she said, would be the main ingredient to send that baser nature packing.
Now I admit I hesitated long before I put this idea into practice. What if it made me ill, and not fit to care for my master? What if it so burned away my other self I would never father a child?
But no, the thoughts I was entertaining lately of my master, when his mere presence or smile could trip my heart, made the risk worth taking. This new kind of love was burning me from the inside, and if I had to suffer it, I needed at least to control it.
That night there was mist and the light of a sickle moon, which swung low like a grin. Alone in my room I mixed the stuff up like a stew . I watched it boil and smoke together, and then, with a big gulp, drank off the potion.
I was almost instantly filled with racking pains, a tingling in the loins, sweating, and an itch on my left thigh. The stuff curled through me like a vine, shooting and budding through every limb. I felt a heady recklessness, a stream of naughty images in my head, and an unknown but not innocent freedom.
I knew myself, at the first breath of this new life, to be more wicked, tenfold more wicked, than I’d ever have thought before. I stretched out my hands, and was suddenly aware I had gained in one part of my – parts. You may guess what had happened, dear reader. In the hope of ridding myself of wrongful thoughts, I’d inflamed them. The face I saw in the mirror was my own, but there was a new ruddiness in my cheeks and my mouth, my pupils were dilated, and my very hair seemed to stir with desire.
Caught this reckless state, flushed as I was with hope (and other things), I did not think of the simplest ways I could have dealt with the result. As I grabbed hold of the windowsill, breathing heavily, I thought only of finding someone I could share this new delight with. Yes, I jumped out of my window, ran towards Bag End, and crossed the yard. I passed through a sweet-swelling hedge of sleeping jasmine, and then stopped as if I’d run against an invisible wire. I backtracked through the grass to one dim round window, and peered through its panes.
He was there: all dark tumbled curls and white lustre, his pink peony lips parted as he breathed. It was a warm night and he wore nothing under a thin sheet, his form well outlined by the fabric. I tested the window; the latch was open and I found myself climbing in. The room was familiar to me with the scents of new books, ink and sandalwood from the clothes press. But in the darkness, it was very different. And there was he. Quivering with the effects of the potion, I walked up to his bed.
I bent down, inch by inch, the effects of the potion singing subtly through my veins, towards his upturned hand. I let my lips graze the heel of his palm. I pressed them tender-like against the blue veins of his inner wrist, soft as coney-skin. I kissed the fingertips, brushed over the knuckles, stroked my thumb over the heartline of the palm, and let the sleeping fingers curl around my own. The smooth curve between forefinger and thumb was made for lingering, the back of the wrist where hairs tickled my lips.
I meant to move away then, but my hand rebelled, caressing over the quilt covering the shape of Mr. Frodo’s hip. He did not move. I still knelt there, aching and shaking, wrung through with longing and desire.
Mr. Frodo’s breathing shortened. There was an awareness in the room, tangible and heavy and immediate.
“Sam?” he whispered.
The potion flickered in my blood, fuelled by his breath and his nearness. I stepped backwards a pace.
Mr. Frodo shifted the covers aside and stood up in the shadowy darkness.
He was aroused. So aroused my knees trembled and my member twitched at the sight. I could see it and smell it, and the potion-monster shrieked for it.
I stepped back into the reach of his arms, bold with yearning. I saw his eyelashes dip and his pretty mouth cross the space between us.
*I am kissing Frodo Baggins,* I thought. *This is what it is like.*
I will not shock my gentle reader with how my body responded to that, as his tongue met my tongue, but the beguiling bare skin against the soft worn fabric of my breeches was exquisite, and I rubbed up against him without control. He chuckled into my mouth, breath hot and sweeter than caramel, and kissed me as if he would dine off me, tilting back my head to taste me deeper. He explored me as if I was some rare Elvish text he would learn the meaning of, sounding out words and phrases and soaking in every fair sound. He took my hand and placed it upon his bosom, and begged me with panting breaths to touch him.
Our breath was loud and our thighs smeared with the evidence of our excitement. We fell back onto the bed with a clash of knees. I fumbled to rid myself of clothing. Cool air touched parts that didn’t get much air, and was glad when he pulled up the sheet to cover us. But the potion-monster surged up in me. I tried to find every place on his body that made him whimper and clutch and harden, watching him with his eyes closed and lips parted in ecstasy, until our backs slammed against the mattress.
“Oh Sam,” he said. “Oh Sam.”
I kissed him again, hard, but I could feel the potion wearing off and knew shy, dependable Samwise would soon return. “Thank you Frodo,” I whispered, and breathed in the blended scents of sweat and musk and Frodo before I snatched my clothes and fled.
I woke the next day angry at myself for leaving Mr. Frodo in that way, and wondering if he’d dismiss me or act fonder. The potion’s after-effects were minimal, so much that it felt like a dream. I went to Bag End and tried not to act other than usual. Mr. Frodo, to his credit, did the same. True, we didn’t touch or nothing, which might have been our undoing. And I didn’t clean the bedroom as carefully as I should have done, for fear of what I might find. Or smell. Or remember.
I tried to resist the potion the next night, but could not. Again I went to his bed, and again, and we were most adventurous. We indulged in sweet contrivances such as I would not shock a gentle reader with. Not two days passed but I tried it again, and each time received the same, almost wordless, welcome.
When I staggered back from these excursions, the blood still pounding in my ears, I was often in shock at my behaviour. That at night I could go to him and touch and tempt, and in the day be another, mild, subservient creature, increasingly longing for the night, another taste of potion, another wild hour or two that left my master with shadowed eyes in the morning, pink marks on his neck, and bewildered, shy sidelong smiles for me.
I started to fear that if this was dragged out, the balance of my nature might be overthrown, the power of changing by choice be lost. I was led to believe I was slowly losing hold of my original and better self, and becoming slowly entwined with my second and worse.
But even as I told myself I would never go again to Mr. Frodo’s bed, I was seized again with those indescribable feelings, and I had but time to run to a sheltering wall before I was yet again raging and freezing with desire. All hours of the day and night, I would be taken with it, above all if I slept or even dozed for a moment, it was always with the ache of longing that I woke.
Under the strain of this doom and by the sleeplessness I was struggling with, I became a creature eaten up and emptied by fever, weak in body and mind, and occupied by one thought: my master. But his touch to me was wondrous, and more and more I longed for him, until I was staring impatiently at the shadows cast by the trees, telling me the day was drawing to its end.
Between these two natures I now felt I had to choose. To cast my passion away was to die a thousand deaths. But while I would suffer smartingly in the fires of abstinence, my master would recover, for it was my wicked influence that had drawn him into these adventures.
“One last night,” I told myself. “One last night.”
The night was that of a thunderstorm, and lightning sparked white flashes in the sky as I poured the potion onto my tongue.
Instantly the spirit of lust awoke in me and raged. In a joyous rush I sped down the land, towards the smial and the room where my Frodo waited on his bed. Plunged into fire, I took him as I had not dared before. I ravished the unresisting and compliant body of my beloved until he screamed out my name in pleasure, tasting delight from every inch; and it was not till weariness took me that I suddenly, the top fit of my fever, was struck through the heart by a cold thrill of terror.
A mist melted away; I saw myself full in what I had done; and fled the scene, at once glorying and trembling, my lust gratified, my shame over all else. I ran to Bagshot Row and destroyed the potion I had created; then I lay down in my bed and wept, a wretched creature indeed.
I woke the next day with odd sensations. My sisters were visiting relations and my Gaffer gone out early to dig out his taters, so the place was unusually quiet. However all seemed familiar to me and I had all but dropped back into a comfortable morning doze, when my eyes fell upon my hand. Now, the hand of Samwise Gamgee was clearly marked in shape and size. But the hand which I now saw, clearly in the yellow light of morning, lying on the bedclothes, was fair, white and comely.
It was the hand of Frodo Baggins.
I must have stared upon it for near half a minute, sunk as I was in stupidity, before terror woke up in my breast. I had gone to bed alone. I had awakened with Mr. Frodo. How was this to be explained? I asked myself; and then, with another bound of terror – how was it to be remedied? It was well on in the morning. I was sickened, ashamed, and deadly afraid.
And then Mr. Frodo woke up.
“Mr. Frodo,” I said, trembling.
He rested his thigh against mine.
“I couldn’t find you,” he said. “I woke wanting you and you weren’t there.”
I felt myself stir against his grip – a more potent thing than any potion.
He leaned backwards, putting his weight on his hands either side of me. His lips traced a beguiling pattern on my forehead, and I felt myself shiver in surrender.
“I cannot bear not to have you wake with me. You’ll never be rid of me, Samwise Gamgee,” he whispered. He put his mouth to my ear, a caress of warm breath. “Just as I will never be rid of you.”
Should the throes of desire take me in the act of writing this, it will probably be crumpled to ruin upon my bed; but if some time shall have elapsed after I have laid it by, Frodo’s wonderful selflessness and care will probably save it once again. Half an hour from now, when I shall again and forever rediscover that personality, I know how I shall sit shuddering and gasping in my chair, or continue, with ecstasy, to find new ways of tormenting him to pleasure. Will I take him on the carpet? or will I find courage to release myself at the last moment? Mercy knows; I am careless; this is my true hour of certainty, and what is to follow concerns another than myself.
Here then, as I lay down the pen and proceed to seal up my confession, I bring the life of Samwise Gamgee to a new beginning. Frodo is calling to me. I bid farewell to the Sam who would not dream of touching and tasting his master; for he has gone, and the new Sam, full of love and acquainted with carnal joy and tenderness, has replaced the old Sam with his beloved.
Title: Samwise Gamgee’s Confession. With apologies to Robert Louis Stevenson.
Challenge: Hobbit Smut "In the Wardrobe! Under the Bed!" Challenge
Word Count: 2589
Rating: N17
Pairing/s: F/S
Summary: Sam is afraid of what his feelings might lead him to do, so he tries to separate ‘good’ from ‘bad’. Oops.
Notes: Thanks to
cassiopeia3019 for being a beta-babe. Welcome new community authors! Rah!I’m setting down this as a record, should I expire or be taken by madness again. Mr. Pippin Took says the fearingest thing he ever met was a pair of his gaffer’s unwashed breeches. But for me, there is something altogether fearsome and strange, and one day I know curiousity’ll be the end of me. For now you’ll have to hear from my pen, now that I have time to write it down, where it has led me so far.
I was born in the year 1380 to little fortune, but endowed with excellent parts (as you’ll later learn), inclined by nature to industry (and by industry to nature), fond of the respect of the wise and good among my fellow hobbits, and expecting an honourable future, tending the gardens of a Mr. Frodo Baggins.
I thought the worst of my faults was not listening proper to my Gaffer, and daydreaming and things of that sort. And maybe some pride in wanting to serve my master well. Mr. Frodo was so different from me: me with my dishwater-brown hair and tanned skin and plain face, while Frodo was dreamy-wise and spirited, he was like poetry made flesh. Able to roister and laugh and joke, but otherworldly too; something that was made to slip through your fingers. Yet as time passed in Mr. Frodo’s employ, I realised I, and not he, was a hobbit of two very different natures.
Many a hobbit would’ve boldly admitted such things as I was guilty of; but knowin’ the high views Mr. Frodo had of me, I hid them with a wretched sense of shame. For I was starting to feel the sap of youth rise in me at the wrong sort of times, like when I was in the market, or watching lasses’ skirts fly as they ran or danced, and I was sore afraid of what might happen to me if anyone noticed. No servant can do his proper duty while in the throes of desire, or so my Gaffer said. Just thinkin’ about those throes was enough to make me hot, and then I’d as likely lose myself. I didn’t want no adventures, just... I wanted to calm the monster in me.
Bein’ a gardener, I knew there was plants as could flame desire or damp it down, and there were herbs aplenty in the Bag End garden. I gathered a good few, then went to a healer and bought a rare ointment, said to be made from the bodily fluid of a very dark creature. This, she said, would be the main ingredient to send that baser nature packing.
Now I admit I hesitated long before I put this idea into practice. What if it made me ill, and not fit to care for my master? What if it so burned away my other self I would never father a child?
But no, the thoughts I was entertaining lately of my master, when his mere presence or smile could trip my heart, made the risk worth taking. This new kind of love was burning me from the inside, and if I had to suffer it, I needed at least to control it.
That night there was mist and the light of a sickle moon, which swung low like a grin. Alone in my room I mixed the stuff up like a stew . I watched it boil and smoke together, and then, with a big gulp, drank off the potion.
I was almost instantly filled with racking pains, a tingling in the loins, sweating, and an itch on my left thigh. The stuff curled through me like a vine, shooting and budding through every limb. I felt a heady recklessness, a stream of naughty images in my head, and an unknown but not innocent freedom.
I knew myself, at the first breath of this new life, to be more wicked, tenfold more wicked, than I’d ever have thought before. I stretched out my hands, and was suddenly aware I had gained in one part of my – parts. You may guess what had happened, dear reader. In the hope of ridding myself of wrongful thoughts, I’d inflamed them. The face I saw in the mirror was my own, but there was a new ruddiness in my cheeks and my mouth, my pupils were dilated, and my very hair seemed to stir with desire.
Caught this reckless state, flushed as I was with hope (and other things), I did not think of the simplest ways I could have dealt with the result. As I grabbed hold of the windowsill, breathing heavily, I thought only of finding someone I could share this new delight with. Yes, I jumped out of my window, ran towards Bag End, and crossed the yard. I passed through a sweet-swelling hedge of sleeping jasmine, and then stopped as if I’d run against an invisible wire. I backtracked through the grass to one dim round window, and peered through its panes.
He was there: all dark tumbled curls and white lustre, his pink peony lips parted as he breathed. It was a warm night and he wore nothing under a thin sheet, his form well outlined by the fabric. I tested the window; the latch was open and I found myself climbing in. The room was familiar to me with the scents of new books, ink and sandalwood from the clothes press. But in the darkness, it was very different. And there was he. Quivering with the effects of the potion, I walked up to his bed.
I bent down, inch by inch, the effects of the potion singing subtly through my veins, towards his upturned hand. I let my lips graze the heel of his palm. I pressed them tender-like against the blue veins of his inner wrist, soft as coney-skin. I kissed the fingertips, brushed over the knuckles, stroked my thumb over the heartline of the palm, and let the sleeping fingers curl around my own. The smooth curve between forefinger and thumb was made for lingering, the back of the wrist where hairs tickled my lips.
I meant to move away then, but my hand rebelled, caressing over the quilt covering the shape of Mr. Frodo’s hip. He did not move. I still knelt there, aching and shaking, wrung through with longing and desire.
Mr. Frodo’s breathing shortened. There was an awareness in the room, tangible and heavy and immediate.
“Sam?” he whispered.
The potion flickered in my blood, fuelled by his breath and his nearness. I stepped backwards a pace.
Mr. Frodo shifted the covers aside and stood up in the shadowy darkness.
He was aroused. So aroused my knees trembled and my member twitched at the sight. I could see it and smell it, and the potion-monster shrieked for it.
I stepped back into the reach of his arms, bold with yearning. I saw his eyelashes dip and his pretty mouth cross the space between us.
*I am kissing Frodo Baggins,* I thought. *This is what it is like.*
I will not shock my gentle reader with how my body responded to that, as his tongue met my tongue, but the beguiling bare skin against the soft worn fabric of my breeches was exquisite, and I rubbed up against him without control. He chuckled into my mouth, breath hot and sweeter than caramel, and kissed me as if he would dine off me, tilting back my head to taste me deeper. He explored me as if I was some rare Elvish text he would learn the meaning of, sounding out words and phrases and soaking in every fair sound. He took my hand and placed it upon his bosom, and begged me with panting breaths to touch him.
Our breath was loud and our thighs smeared with the evidence of our excitement. We fell back onto the bed with a clash of knees. I fumbled to rid myself of clothing. Cool air touched parts that didn’t get much air, and was glad when he pulled up the sheet to cover us. But the potion-monster surged up in me. I tried to find every place on his body that made him whimper and clutch and harden, watching him with his eyes closed and lips parted in ecstasy, until our backs slammed against the mattress.
“Oh Sam,” he said. “Oh Sam.”
I kissed him again, hard, but I could feel the potion wearing off and knew shy, dependable Samwise would soon return. “Thank you Frodo,” I whispered, and breathed in the blended scents of sweat and musk and Frodo before I snatched my clothes and fled.
I woke the next day angry at myself for leaving Mr. Frodo in that way, and wondering if he’d dismiss me or act fonder. The potion’s after-effects were minimal, so much that it felt like a dream. I went to Bag End and tried not to act other than usual. Mr. Frodo, to his credit, did the same. True, we didn’t touch or nothing, which might have been our undoing. And I didn’t clean the bedroom as carefully as I should have done, for fear of what I might find. Or smell. Or remember.
I tried to resist the potion the next night, but could not. Again I went to his bed, and again, and we were most adventurous. We indulged in sweet contrivances such as I would not shock a gentle reader with. Not two days passed but I tried it again, and each time received the same, almost wordless, welcome.
When I staggered back from these excursions, the blood still pounding in my ears, I was often in shock at my behaviour. That at night I could go to him and touch and tempt, and in the day be another, mild, subservient creature, increasingly longing for the night, another taste of potion, another wild hour or two that left my master with shadowed eyes in the morning, pink marks on his neck, and bewildered, shy sidelong smiles for me.
I started to fear that if this was dragged out, the balance of my nature might be overthrown, the power of changing by choice be lost. I was led to believe I was slowly losing hold of my original and better self, and becoming slowly entwined with my second and worse.
But even as I told myself I would never go again to Mr. Frodo’s bed, I was seized again with those indescribable feelings, and I had but time to run to a sheltering wall before I was yet again raging and freezing with desire. All hours of the day and night, I would be taken with it, above all if I slept or even dozed for a moment, it was always with the ache of longing that I woke.
Under the strain of this doom and by the sleeplessness I was struggling with, I became a creature eaten up and emptied by fever, weak in body and mind, and occupied by one thought: my master. But his touch to me was wondrous, and more and more I longed for him, until I was staring impatiently at the shadows cast by the trees, telling me the day was drawing to its end.
Between these two natures I now felt I had to choose. To cast my passion away was to die a thousand deaths. But while I would suffer smartingly in the fires of abstinence, my master would recover, for it was my wicked influence that had drawn him into these adventures.
“One last night,” I told myself. “One last night.”
The night was that of a thunderstorm, and lightning sparked white flashes in the sky as I poured the potion onto my tongue.
Instantly the spirit of lust awoke in me and raged. In a joyous rush I sped down the land, towards the smial and the room where my Frodo waited on his bed. Plunged into fire, I took him as I had not dared before. I ravished the unresisting and compliant body of my beloved until he screamed out my name in pleasure, tasting delight from every inch; and it was not till weariness took me that I suddenly, the top fit of my fever, was struck through the heart by a cold thrill of terror.
A mist melted away; I saw myself full in what I had done; and fled the scene, at once glorying and trembling, my lust gratified, my shame over all else. I ran to Bagshot Row and destroyed the potion I had created; then I lay down in my bed and wept, a wretched creature indeed.
I woke the next day with odd sensations. My sisters were visiting relations and my Gaffer gone out early to dig out his taters, so the place was unusually quiet. However all seemed familiar to me and I had all but dropped back into a comfortable morning doze, when my eyes fell upon my hand. Now, the hand of Samwise Gamgee was clearly marked in shape and size. But the hand which I now saw, clearly in the yellow light of morning, lying on the bedclothes, was fair, white and comely.
It was the hand of Frodo Baggins.
I must have stared upon it for near half a minute, sunk as I was in stupidity, before terror woke up in my breast. I had gone to bed alone. I had awakened with Mr. Frodo. How was this to be explained? I asked myself; and then, with another bound of terror – how was it to be remedied? It was well on in the morning. I was sickened, ashamed, and deadly afraid.
And then Mr. Frodo woke up.
“Mr. Frodo,” I said, trembling.
He rested his thigh against mine.
“I couldn’t find you,” he said. “I woke wanting you and you weren’t there.”
I felt myself stir against his grip – a more potent thing than any potion.
He leaned backwards, putting his weight on his hands either side of me. His lips traced a beguiling pattern on my forehead, and I felt myself shiver in surrender.
“I cannot bear not to have you wake with me. You’ll never be rid of me, Samwise Gamgee,” he whispered. He put his mouth to my ear, a caress of warm breath. “Just as I will never be rid of you.”
Should the throes of desire take me in the act of writing this, it will probably be crumpled to ruin upon my bed; but if some time shall have elapsed after I have laid it by, Frodo’s wonderful selflessness and care will probably save it once again. Half an hour from now, when I shall again and forever rediscover that personality, I know how I shall sit shuddering and gasping in my chair, or continue, with ecstasy, to find new ways of tormenting him to pleasure. Will I take him on the carpet? or will I find courage to release myself at the last moment? Mercy knows; I am careless; this is my true hour of certainty, and what is to follow concerns another than myself.
Here then, as I lay down the pen and proceed to seal up my confession, I bring the life of Samwise Gamgee to a new beginning. Frodo is calling to me. I bid farewell to the Sam who would not dream of touching and tasting his master; for he has gone, and the new Sam, full of love and acquainted with carnal joy and tenderness, has replaced the old Sam with his beloved.
