West of the Moon

A Tolkien Fanfiction Archive



Sam comforts Frodo in Minas Tirith after the quest.
Author: Bill The Pony
Rating: NC-17


Minas Tirith wasn't made for hobbits, and that was Sam's final word on the subject. He propped his feet on the rung of the tall chair where he sat, cradling a mug of beer-- not a patch on what he was used to, but good enough. More than enough for those who'd come near enough to never tasting a bite of bread or a sup of ale again.

Frodo slept nearby, resting uneasy in the wide tall bed where he lay-- it took climbing a footstool to get into it, but it was the best Minas Tirith had to offer, and that was saying something. Still, Mr. Frodo wasn't comfortable here, and that was Sam's main concern.

Frodo was healed in body, for the most part; they'd stayed a long time on the Field of Cormallen as Aragorn readied himself to enter his city. But Frodo wasn't quite right yet-- not to Sam's mind, anyway. Like he didn't want to go back to normal now that it was all over, or like he couldn't.

Sam sighed. It had been easier to comfort Frodo on the Field; in their tent he could just pull his pallet up next to Frodo's and reach out to him as though they were still out in the wilds, sleeping curled up close, sharing the warmth of their cloaks. Here in this City of Men, it felt all formal-like, what with the bedposts carved like trees, only out of white stone, and the mugs all wrought of silver, and fine-woven rugs on the floors and all. It felt like he ought to go to his own bed, just to be proper, but it stood across the room from Frodo's.

Frodo whimpered and the bedclothes rustled; it was all Sam could stand plus just a bit more. "Just you rest easy, Mr. Frodo." He put the mug on the table and pattered over to the edge of the bed, scrambling up onto the stool. Frodo's face shone with sweat; his brow furrowed and he struggled against the twisted sheets in the torment of his dream.

Sam hesitated, torn between speed and yearning, still strangely shy when it came to the sticking point of climbing into bed with Frodo-- as though being here in this fancy place meant his master didn't need Sam's comfort!

"Don't be a fool," he muttered to himself, shrugging out of the sweater and overshirt he wore and letting them fall, hastily sliding under the coverlet next to Frodo.

Frodo curled around him instantly, burrowing his face into Sam's neck, and Sam was ashamed of his delay. Frodo sighed deeply, his breath tickling at Sam's skin. Without hesitating, Sam slipped his arms round Frodo's body. "Your Sam's here," he breathed. "You can sleep easy now." He petted Frodo's hair softly, nuzzling into the top of his head.

Frodo sighed again, nestling against him, and Sam felt the flutter of lashes against his chest-- he was awake, then. Sam stilled but did not draw back. "Would you like a bite or a sup?" he murmured. "There's good beer and fresh milk and new bread, with just a few of last summer's apples."

"No, Sam." Frodo lay still, but his head tilted back and he looked up at Sam's face. Sam gazed down into his eyes, worrying about the bruised circles on the pale skin in the hollows below them.

"Then maybe you can rest now that I'm here," Sam muttered awkwardly, and Frodo's lips curved into a smile. Sam felt his eyes sting; that expression hadn't been on Frodo's face often enough since they set out from the shire a year and a lifetime ago.

"Yes," Frodo murmured. "Though if you would rather not stay--"

"Rather not stay?" Sam hugged Frodo as fiercely as he dared. "Don't be silly, Mr. Frodo."

Frodo's hand stroked his back; Sam felt the absence of the missing finger against his skin, and his eyes stung again, but he firmed his jaw-- he would not add to his master's burden of grief and hurt.

"You always believed we would win through, didn't you, Sam?" Frodo murmured. "What would you have, now that the long dark is past?"

Sam swallowed hard, and gave the easy answer; he wasn't the sort to put himself forward. "Things as they were in the good old days, Mr. Frodo. Us back in the Shire, with me taking care of your bit of garden. The two of us going down to the Green Dragon for a mug of ale and wandering back late, without worrying what's out and about in the night."

Frodo shifted; his nightshirt was open and his bare chest touched Sam's. Sam felt as though his skin crackled at the contact; he gasped a little and bit his lip to keep quiet.

"Rosie Cotton will be glad to see you come back again," Frodo murmured, voice thoughtful.

Sam flushed; talk of Rosie was the last thing he wanted with Frodo in his arms. "Like as not she's taken up with Ted Sandyman while I was away."

Frodo frowned. "We shall see."

"I guess we will, at that." Sam smiled. Nothing could dim his pleasure in the thought of returning to the Shire.

They lay quiet and long minutes crept by; Frodo had not moved away, and Sam savored the moment of contact while he could, accepting it as all Frodo would offer him. "It's late, Mr. Frodo. See if you can't sleep a bit," he offered at last, and slid his hands down to wrap around Frodo's back.

Frodo sighed, his lashes closing. "Bilbo's mithril coat was cold through all the nights of our journey, Sam, but you were always warm."

Sam flushed, he didn't know how to answer this kind of talk, and he almost felt like he was glowing. "You're not too warm now, are you, Mr. Frodo?"

"No, Sam." Frodo tucked his head against Sam, and when he smiled, Sam could feel the softness of Frodo's lips moving against his neck. It sent a shiver of pleasure down his spine. "Are you cold?"

"No," he sounded hoarse, and he cleared his throat. "Not if you're not, that is, begging your pardon."

"No," Frodo sighed, a warm gust that made Sam's skin prickle, not unpleasantly.

"What would you ask for, now that it's all over?" Sam tried to distract himself from the glowing warmth that lapped him, and stoutly denied his pleasure in Frodo's touch-- it wasn't his place to dishonor his master and risk making Frodo push him away. He couldn't bear it if his weakness and need cost Frodo his only source of comfort. "I mean, not that just going home with you wouldn't be better than all the songs ever sung, if you follow me."

Frodo lay silent for a long time, his breath misting Sam's skin. Sam lay very still, certain that Frodo had not fallen asleep. "I follow you," Frodo spoke very quietly. "And I would ask for nothing more than I have in this moment." He lifted his head and kissed Sam's face, his mouth warm and soft, then laid his cheek over the spot.

"Frodo, me dear," Sam muttered thickly, and bit his lip, but the words had already escaped him; Frodo lifted his head. His eyes were shining, glossy and deep, and Sam could not break away from them as Frodo slowly leaned in, head sinking till his breath caressed Sam's lips. He searched Sam's eyes for a long moment without moving, unwilling or unable to cross the final distance that separated them. The moment stretched delicately, like a thread of honey, refusing to break as it lengthened.

"I can't bear it," Sam finally gasped, and lifted his chin, bringing their mouths together with a whimper of surrender.

Fragile and brief, the kiss brushed lightly between them. Their lips parted and then touched again, clinging... and then Frodo opened to him like a flower, his mouth velvety and sweet.

Sam felt bliss closing over his head like the waters of Anduin, and he drowned with a will in the soft heat of Frodo's kiss-- not knowing how to swim, but tumbled away in the current, clumsy strokes of lip and tongue moving him deeper.

Frodo moaned, his hands wandering over Sam's back, and after a time Sam blinked, wondering how his master came to be underneath him. He pulled back and looked down into Frodo's eyes, suddenly confused and shy, but Frodo's gaze was clear and his mouth, though dark and swollen, was smiling.

"Sam." Frodo's voice caressed the words, trembling. "My own Sam."

Words failed Sam; he could not speak, and he leaned in, trembling, to brush his lips against the curve of Frodo's jaw. His mouth spoke for him without speech, tasting Frodo's skin with mute adoration-- along his jaw and up the line of his throat to his ear, across his brow and then down his neck to the hollow of his throat. He tasted salt there, and lapped softly along Frodo's collarbone for more, trembling, his heart filled to bursting, not sure if the salt on his lips came from Frodo's skin or from his own tears.

Frodo sighed, arms clutching at Sam's shoulders, holding him close. Sam blinked fiercely against tears, and saw beneath his lips the scar Frodo bore from Weathertop. Anger filled him, and tenderness too great to be supported; he leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to the scar-- cold under his lips, a long white crease of chill in Frodo's skin. He licked his warm tongue along the spot to ease it.

Frodo's fingers crept into his curls, easing him away and down, and Sam's mouth closed next over Frodo's nipple, flat and brown on his pale skin. Frodo arched with a low cry, encouraging Sam, so he suckled gently, age old instinct taking over where knowledge failed. He kissed and licked there for long gentle moments as Frodo's skin grew slippery under his hands and Sam drew back, checking Frodo's face again.

His eyes were closed and his lips open, his head pressed deeply into the soft pillow, and he moved restlessly under Sam, a crease forming on his brow. Hastily Sam moved to the other nipple and lovingly ministered to it as well, feeling it tighten under his tongue. He shivered, a tide of heat rising to flood through him at Frodo's response, Frodo's pleasure dearer to him than his own.

He abandoned it at last, reluctantly, and kissed along Frodo's narrow chest. The scars from the ring mail driven into his flesh by the troll's spear in Moria made a rough spot in the silky skin. They were not cold, like the mark of the wraith's knife, but he soothed them anyway, wishing that he wore them himself, instead of his beloved.

Frodo shifted his hips and Sam smiled, feeling heat and pressure low against his chest; he already knew Frodo's body intimately from the time he'd spent tending him in Rivendell-- he had cared for his unconscious master like a babe, grudging anyone else the chance to touch him, and nothing about Frodo frightened or repelled him, neither then nor now.

He pulled away and set his hand against Frodo's breeches, glancing up to be sure of his welcome. Frodo whimpered, teeth sinking into his lower lip, and lifted against Sam's strong palm.

"Just you lie easy, Mr. Frodo, and let your Sam take care of you," Sam murmured huskily, fingers working the drawstrings, clumsy in his haste.

Frodo's hand caught his, unexpected and strong; looking up Sam saw worry on his face. "Sam..." Frodo licked his lips, tongue flickering out nervously. "You don't have to..."

"No," Sam agreed. "I want to." He met Frodo's gaze steadily, trying to pour everything he felt into his eyes-- the long years he'd spent loving Frodo and yearning for him, the tenderness and passion, his hope and his need and his adoration, all the things for which words had never served him-- only deeds.

Frodo's gaze searched his for long moments, filled with fading doubt, then he gentled, sinking back and loosing Sam's hand to roam as it wanted.

Sam opened the lacings and half-lifted Frodo, carefully-- he was still too light, an easy weight in Sam's arms. He bared his master with reverence, lower lip caught between his teeth, and Frodo let him, passive and trusting. His eyes followed Sam as he ran his callused hands back up along Frodo's thighs. Sam took a slow breath and set his hand between Frodo's legs, and Frodo sighed, his eyes closing with contentment.

"That's it." Sam mumbled, a little gruffly, and he stroked Frodo. His hand knew its job there even if he was out of his depth elsewhere, moving sure and tender on his master. He nestled up against Frodo, mouthing softly at the curve of his ear. "Just you let go. I've got you."

Sam watched in wonder as Frodo obeyed; his face tightened, his mouth opening on a low, desperate cry, his features twisting as though he were in pain-- but he was not, whimpering and gasping under Sam's gentle hand, pressing upward for more touching. Sam buried his face in Frodo's neck and inhaled the clean scent of him, feeling Frodo quiver, fine tremors wracking him over and over.

Sam wondered idly if anyone had ever touched Frodo as he was; his master had always held himself aloof, buried in books or tucked up in Bag End with Bilbo and maybe even Gandalf. Frodo danced at parties and sang with his friends at the Green Dragon, but no hobbit lass had ever caught his fancy, at least not to Sam's keen eye, and Sam groaned deep in his throat, humbled and aroused by the thought that he might be the first to touch Frodo, as Frodo was his first.

The needy sound seemed to waken Frodo, who caught his arm and urged it away firmly; Frodo's eyes were hot and a little wild when he opened them, and he flipped Sam onto his back with startling ease, almost frenzied as he attacked Sam's breeches, which still separated them.

Sam gasped and lay back, staring wide-eyed at Frodo, who knelt over him. His curls were tousled and his nightshirt hanging open; he was beautiful and half-feral, his lower lip pink and swollen where he had bitten it as Sam touched him. "Oh, Mr. Frodo!" Sam gasped as Frodo's hand curled around him, and he bucked into Frodo's grip in spite of himself.

Then Frodo was against him, bare flesh on bare flesh, and Sam whimpered, seeking Frodo's mouth, which was freely given to him. Sam's legs parted to receive Frodo's slight weight, and Frodo clutched his shoulders, catching his gaze and holding it as he pressed himself down.

Sam surged up in answer, his hands sliding down to Frodo's waist; his body knew how to do this, too, and he cried out gladly as Frodo slid against him. All things that had separated them were set aside; Frodo was hot and sweet and living against him, happy in the moment, his cries like elf-song in Sam's ears as they took pleasure from one another-- small in comparison to what they had suffered, and yet all of Sam's desire.

All too soon it was finished; Frodo cried out and quivered in his arms, and Sam thrust upward a last time, mumbling incoherent endearments into his master's ear. Frodo stilled, his heart slowing gradually, and Sam turned them onto their sides. Frodo tangled their limbs and laid his head on Sam's arm near the shoulder, breathing out a long sigh that left him languid and sated. His lips nuzzled at Sam's skin for a moment, then his breaths evened as peaceful sleep took him. After a time Sam's own lids fell shut.

"Mr. Frodo, me own heart's love," he breathed, and joined him.

Together the ringbearers slept, comforted.


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