Title: Sensory
Pairing: F/S
Rating: R
Warnings: Slash. PWP.
Disclaimer: I do not own any of this.
Feedback: Would be lovely.
Summary: When one is deprived of one sense, the others grow stronger.
This, my friends, is a blatant PWP, pure and simple. I had to get it out of my system. Enjoy or condemn as you will.
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"Open your eyes." A kiss softens the order, and Sam opens them. He blinks. "What do you see?" A warm whisper burns very close to his ear. He shivers.
"Nothing." Sam is confused. "I see darkness. What else would you expect me to see?" Sam's question is entirely appropriate, given the circumstances.
"Good," comes the reply, which is apropos of nothing. "Now, forget about seeing, and tell me what you hear." A mouth closes around the tip of Sam's ear and suckles gently. Too gently, for Sam's liking. He reaches out, searching for something, but suddenly it's no longer there. He grows further perplexed.
"Frodo, me dear, what's this all-?" Sam begins, but finds himself quite incapable of completing his query, as his mouth is being covered with another at the moment. Just as Sam finds his indignation dissipating, the mouth decides to draw away. Sam seeks for it blindly with his own. "Come back," he rasps.
"Tell me," the voice repeats, not teasingly, "what you hear." And now, Sam hears a stream of hushed words being breathed into his ear. He does not understand them, but they somehow remind him of things: of wind singing through the trees, rustling the leaves and sending the old, crisp ones scattering in spirals on the grass. He remembers how he and another would tumble with the leaves, too. He hears a slightly breathless laugh that resembles the one that's now misting over his throat. Sam marvels at how easily all these images can be bidden by that dearly loved voice.
Of course, the real challenge is how he'll manage to articulate them. For right now, as Frodo is whispering into the hollow of his throat, Sam suddenly finds that his own words are clumsy and foreign. He attempts to speak, but is reduced to choking whimpers as Frodo's words and caresses become more fervent, demanding an answer. Sam knows he must speak.
"Wind," he finally groans, "Wind and laughter and leaves and…oh!" Frodo is unbuttoning Sam's shirt, laving each newly exposed patch of his skin. He pauses, laughing softly over Sam's chest.
"So descriptive, Sam!" Sam swears he can hear Frodo's smirk. He reaches out and grabs a fistful of his hair, pulling gently.
"Oh, hush, you," he grumbles. "You try thinking while you've got someone doing such things to you."
"What sort of things, Sam?" Frodo asks innocently, and repeats the actions that he'd bestowed upon Sam's throat, adding an extra caress that makes Sam lose his wits momentarily.
"Um- ah- that!" he cries. "You know full well what sort of things, Frodo Baggins. You're horrible, tormenting me so."
"But you love me in spite of it, don't you?" Frodo's fingers lightly trace over Sam's nipple. "Or perhaps because of it." Oh, yes, there is definitely a devilish grin playing about Frodo's lips. To confirm this, Sam fumbles his hand over Frodo's face until he feels it for himself. He runs his fingers over Frodo's lips. Frodo hums contentedly, causing more shivers to cascade down Sam's spine. To make matters worse, Frodo hasn't stopped his careful ministrations. Sam's nerves are absurdly aware of every touch that burns across his skin.
"Aye, that I do, or I wouldn't let you carry on with these fool games of yours, " he responds with difficulty, starting a bit as Frodo pulls him up and slides Sam's shirt off of his shoulders, and (presumably) flings it off of the bed. When Frodo pushes him back down, Sam suddenly remembers that Frodo is still fully clothed, and that won't do at all. "Frodo, please let me-" touch you, see you, but Frodo promptly rolls off of him, causing Sam to nearly snarl in frustration.
"Be still, now," Frodo chides, the low tone of his voice prickling Sam's skin. "I'm not quite through with this 'game of mine' yet." Sam groans, already regretting his remark. "Relax, Sam. Don't worry about me. Just lie still and let me do for you." Sam smiles wryly at Frodo's mimicking, but jumps as Frodo's hand recklessly dips downward, teasing over the waistline of his breeches. "Now, Sam," Frodo whispers against Sam's mouth, "tell me what you feel." Sam has a very good idea of what he feels, but it's probably not the answer that Frodo is looking for. So he abandons himself to Frodo's touch, letting the sensation overtake him.
"That's right, love," Frodo breathes. "Just let go and feel." And slowly, carefully, Frodo unbuttons Sam's breeches, bestowing feather-light touches in between. As Frodo's touches circle lower and lower, Sam thinks he may burst from the intensity of whatever it is he's feeling. Although he's already blinded, Sam's eyes slide shut, and he feels.
He remembers this: a night not so long ago when, lo and behold, a shooting star blazed across the sky. He remembers that he reached up with his hand, trying to pluck it up, because it surely was the most dazzling thing he'd ever seen- save for one, of course. He reckons he must feel just like that star; white-hot, streaking, exploding with light and heat. Yes, he is that star, ready to burst and scatter flecks of light across the dark. And he will very soon, if Frodo doesn't stop doing that. He shudders as he feels his breeches being slid down his legs and off of him completely….
And then he feels nothing. Sam is sure that Frodo can see the question mark forming on his lips.
"You haven't answered me yet," comes the soft, matter-of-fact reprove. As if Frodo has all the time in the world to listen to Sam prattle on about incoherent thoughts, oh, why won't he get his confounded self back over here and-
"Bless you, Mr. Frodo, but I can't go on like this much longer," Sam pleads. "Please, sir, let me-"
"It seems, Master Gamgee," Frodo says, "that you're not enjoying this game. Perhaps we should stop? It's a shame, really, because we were just getting to the good part." Frodo sighs dramatically, and Sam can feel him getting off of the bed. He responds with what sounds like a strangled squeak.
"I feel like light, a ball of light that's fit to burst at any moment if it doesn't get to touch the water." And it's true, it is. Sam is going to combust. Perhaps Frodo can sense this, because in no time at all he's back on the bed and on top of Sam. But Sam has had enough with being the sole subject of this game, and wants Frodo to participate with him, so he wastes no time in pulling him down for a bruising kiss.
Taste. Like wine, he is, sweet with a tang of bitterness. Like hay, heady and sharp and strong. A hint of salt mixes in as Sam searches deeper to satisfy this insatiable sense. He will never taste anything else quite like this.
Touch. The feel of soft fabric sliding across his fingers as he clumsily tries to undress Frodo; the feel of cool, clever fingers assisting him along the way. Oh, and then the feeling of warm smoothness revealed as Frodo's clothing gives way. Clothing flows like water, trickling away as Sam touches this softness instead. He is that star, caressing the night sky. His fingers enclose around silken heat as fingers find his own. He hears wind and laughter and cries thundering through his ears; breathes in salt and spice; holds all that stimulates his senses close to him as they move together, letting the sensations overwhelm them both until Sam truly and finally bursts, sending waves of bright light across the otherwise dark sky that is before his eyes. He still cannot see, but that doesn't matter right now; sight suddenly seems to be highly overrated.
That is, until that which has obscured his vision is removed, and Sam is reminded why his sight is so precious to him. There, staring back at him with wide shining eyes, is Frodo- the one who floods all of his senses, and his heart; the one who is filled in turn by Sam.
But he's discovered that he doesn't need sight to confirm that anymore.