Notes: I am delighted that the lovely Sunquistadora asked to podfic this story. Her wonderful reading of it can be found here: http://www.audiofic.jinjurly.com/lbiloverauthor
Every lad in Hobbiton and beyond was gagging to get inside Frodo Baggins's brown velvet trousers - and with Mr. Frodo still wearing them, too.
Or leastways, that's how it seemed to Samwise Gamgee.
Ever since Mr. Frodo came of age and inherited Bag End, Sam couldn't walk two feet through the garden or turn around inside the smial without bumping into a lovesick swain clutching a bouquet of flowers and wearing a besotted expression. It fair made Sam sick to witness, and that was a fact.
Not that Mr. Frodo encouraged a single one of 'em. Too wrapped up in his writing and reading and translating Elvish and whatnot he was, with them shiny round spectacles perched on the end of his pert nose and his disgraceful forefinger with the raggedy cuticles and black ink-stains shoving them up the bridge time and again as if trying to drive all around him to distraction.
'Oh, ah, hmm, ah thank you,' Mr. Frodo would murmur distantly, and push up his spectacles so that them great blue eyes looked even larger and bluer and tuck a stray wisp of conker-coloured hair behind his pale pointy ear, and then he'd hand the lovesick swain's floral offering to Sam and say vaguely, 'Ah, Samwise, do something with this, will you?'
His gaffer might tut at the waste, but Mr. Frodo only owned so many vases, after all, and as Sam kept them nicely filled with flowers already, there was no choice but to dump the bouquets in the trash. Sometimes they were so large it was hard to squash them down so they'd fit into the rubbish bin and he had to stomp on them with his feet. Pity that.
And seemingly every hobbit who came sniffing round thought the answer was to give Mr. Frodo a bigger bouquet than his rivals and most of 'em in such poor taste, too, filled with showy hothouse flowers like the alstroemeria Bingo Boffin had brought that very afternoon that made the hobbit look like a walking, talking plant, for all that could be seen of him were his green wool trousers' legs and his feet.
Fools, the lot of 'em, Sam thought scornfully. Mr. Frodo weren't no gaudy beauty, but fine and rare, and what suited him best were wildflowers like lilies of the valley and harebells and hedge-roses: delicate and sweetly perfumed and a little shy, but sturdy withal, able to withstand a late snow or early frost or summer drought.
Well, if them prating, preening fools who aspired to be Mr. Frodo's lover didn't know no better, Sam Gamgee certainly wasn't going to enlighten them.
That night in the master bedroom, Sam plucked a blush-pink wild rose from the vase on the nightstand and bent over Frodo's naked body. Oh aye, he thought, trailing the rose along the snowy expanse of his lover's chest, watching the hot blood rush up in its wake, oh aye, they were fools right enough, thinking any hothouse flower suited Frodo Baggins better than this.
He swirled the velvety petals around first one coral-coloured nipple and then the other until they were budded tight and Frodo was whimpering and panting and fisting his ink-stained hands in the blankets. Then he stroked the flower down Frodo's ribs, tickling him lightly which only made him whimper and pant the more, and teased at his belly button, dipping the rose in and out. He passed quickly over the gently rounded belly, instead of lingering as he'd have liked, because what curved gracefully over it, pulsing and dripping tiny pearls of the sweetest nectar, demanded his attention.
Around and around Frodo's shaft Sam twirled the rose, sometimes slow, sometimes fast, interspersing the strokes with little love pats on the leaking crown. Frodo was writhing now, his head tossing back and forth on the pillow, his hips moving, pushing, demanding, needing more than the feather-light touches he was getting.
'Sam,' Frodo panted. 'Samwise, my love, please...'
Well, how could Sam refuse when Frodo asked so politely? He cast the rose aside and considered Frodo. His face was full-flushed, bedewed with sweat, and his spectacles were perilously close to sliding right off his pert nose. So Sam unhooked them from behind Frodo's ears and set them carefully on the nightstand. Frodo didn't need to see, only feel, and what Sam had in mind to do to him might result in the spectacles getting crushed and broken underneath the both of them in the heat of the moment. It had happened before.
And Sam had no intention of enlightening Mr. Frodo's suitors about that either.