Warnings: No sex, unless you count petty groping of Sam by Frodo. If either of these factors offends you, read no further.
Feedback: Of course.
Archive: Anywhere anyone is crazy enough to take it, as long as you let me know where and post the series in order so people can follow the storyline.
Disclaimer: The characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien; I am merely permitting you to glimpse what they do in my wicked dreams, not claiming that the Professor would approve.
Notes: Short and sweet. Tenth story (and counting!) in the series inspired by "Letters Over the Sea" on the Rescue Frodo web site.
Sam felt Frodo's arms tighten around his waist. He smiled to himself, shifting the reins to his left hand so he could cover Frodo's clasped hands with his right. The pony was ambling quite leisurely amidst woods ablaze with orange, red, and gold, and scarcely needed any guidance at all. Sam let his fingers stroke lightly along the backs of Frodo's hands, and he settled back against Frodo's leaning form.
"I surely do love you," Sam murmured. He felt one of Frodo's hands slip out and over his, caressing it in turn. Sam let his fingertips curl under Frodo's palm to trace gentle, circular paths along the sensitive skin. He could hear Frodo's sudden, sharp inhalation, and again he smiled a soft, secretive smile. "There's not much on you that don't like to be touched, is there," he quietly teased. In answer Frodo let his lower hand slide down and cup lightly against suddenly-firm flesh.
"You seem to be rather fond of being touched, yourself," he huskily rejoined.
"Frodo--" The word ended in a gasp as the press of Frodo's hand grew firmer. Sam gulped. "Frodo, not -- not now."
"Mmm. Why not?" Frodo pressed his body more snugly against Sam's.
"Somebody might see us," replied Sam, grasping Frodo's wrist and reluctantly moving his hand away.
"Who?" laughed Frodo, moving his hand back to Sam's crotch. "A wandering Elf? They've no interest in what we mortals do, least of all our lovemaking."
"A bounder," Sam retorted, again moving Frodo's hand to where it wouldn't distract him. "Or a Ranger, maybe." Sam felt Frodo jolt.
"Either over the border or nigh to it," he answered to Frodo's unspoken question. "So you'd best behave yourself, much as I'd rather you didn't, or we'll have the whole Shire a-gossip in no time."
There was a long silence, which Sam finally and uncertainly broke.
After a moment, Frodo said, "Yes?" His voice was distant, hushed.
"I -- I didn't mean to be harsh--"
"Oh, no, no, Sam," Frodo hastened to assure him. "It's not that. It's simply..." His voice faded into a sigh, and the sigh into
another long silence. Just then a small cluster of rounded turf-and-stone dwellings came into view, and a small, choked sound erupted from Frodo. "Hobbits," he whispered.
Tears sprang into Sam's eyes. Tightly he squeezed Frodo's hand.
"Welcome home," he murmured.