May I request Sam/Frodo for the kiss prompts? Number 8?
8. Laying a gentle kiss to the back of the other’s hand.
(Kiss prompts are still open!)
He opened his eyes to darkness. The world was black, now, when it wasn’t dim and grey and miserable, illuminated only by something gleaming red over his shoulder like the low-hanging summer sun. His throat burned when he tried to breathe, and his skin burned where the chain cut through like it meant to saw him open to the bone, and his shoulders burned from the heat of whatever was behind him, but for all that he could still see nothing.
The sound of his heartbeat deafened him, throbbing in his ears, edged with whispers and promises. I have to move, he thought, but someone laughed at him, loud enough to drown out all else, until he was pressing himself into the dirt that filled his throat, shielding his head with his right arm and his shoulder (cold, even now, the one cold part of himself, touched by ice threading through his veins) with the rest of his body. He was skin and bones and dead eyes, and he knew it.
I can’t do this, he thought, and now there was no laughter, only agreement, only a chorus of voices demanding he give up.
It would be easier to die, he agreed, and then it was there, before him, in the black, molten gold turning on itself, letters he could not read blazing in the darkness -
There was a hand on his shoulder, and it was rough and calloused and firm, pulling him from the dust until he was resting against worn fabric and an arm that was somehow not robbed of all its softness. There was a voice in his ear, and it was gentle and the vowels had all smoothed out in a Hobbiton accent. There were lips on his hand, kissing it again and again.
“I’ve got you,” Sam murmured, low and careful and rock-solid, and the world bled out into brown, for a brief and blissful moment.
4 notes · View notes