West of the Moon

A Tolkien Fanfiction Archive



The Making of Samwise
A history of Samwise Gamgee's life as he grows into his destiny.
Author: Bill The Pony
Rating: NC-17


Never before has Sam woken in such a wonderfully warm bed and felt his arms full of another hobbit, all warm, bare living skin, velvety and pliant and buttery soft against him. He sighs, scenting salt and musk in the soft ruff of hair that tickles his nose, burrowing to nuzzle a kiss against Frodo's nape. He is sticky and a little sore, muscles and body protesting mildly, the note of weariness only deepening his contentment.

He squints against the light, glowing through the curtains they forgot to draw, in their haste. The wind outside is carrying flakes of snow across the grey curve of the land, drifting them in a dark bow against the windowsill. A sparrow alights there for a moment, flickering shadow across the room, peering inside with one black eye before flitting away.

Frodo sighs, a luxuriant breath that borders on a moan, and his hips nestle back against Sam, rapidly bringing one particular part of Sam back from the verge of sleep. Sam is so content he could all but purr, thrusting lazily against his master's hips. They are stuck together and both they and the bed are a dreadful mess; there will have to be fires lit and water warmed for baths, and the linens will have to be changed. Perhaps they will even bathe in the same tub, steam rising around them, skin sliding on skin, wet and slippery with soap....

Sam reaches forward and gently takes Frodo in hand, his master's cock awake just as his own is, a comfortable size and shape, filling his palm. He strokes, slow and lazy, and Frodo writhes just as slowly, a low groan on his lips.

"Morning, sir," Sam murmurs against skin that tastes both sweet and salt, like the best honey. He runs his tongue over Frodo's nape, making him shiver.

"Mmmmm...." It's almost articulate, the sound, but not quite. Frodo's legs shift and Sam slides between them, the change unexpected but exquisite, and after a moment of surprise he thrusts leisurely against the pressure of Frodo's slim thighs, rumbling soft approval. He tightens his grip on Frodo and pulls just a little faster.

Frodo moans again, but then his belly growls, and Sam's echoes it even louder. Frodo laughs, and the mood is spoiled; Sam feels laughter of his own bubbling up from his throat, sheer joy behind it. Why should they hurry? They've all the time anyone could ask for.

"Here, now, I'm being a bad valet, letting the master stay abed till he starves." Sam breathes in Frodo's ear, stroking its velvety rim with the tip of his nose. "Mayhap I'll be sacked." He takes his hand off Frodo and rolls away, chuckling.

Frodo groans a loud protest. "More likely you'll be sacked for letting him die of frustration," he says, but his tone is light. His stomach growls again, belying his words.

"Scones and honey for you then, quick as may be," Sam tells him sternly. "And while the fire readies, I'll be filling the copper for a bath."

"You do that, then, and I'll see to the kitchen fire." Frodo's tone is firm. "The faster we work, the faster we'll eat, and then...." He tilts his head to the side, and his curls fall across his throat, and he looks up at Sam through the fringe of his lashes. "I've a mind to laze about in bed all day, to rest after my journey."

"Then I'll have to see to it you don't lack for summat to think about while you rest," Sam tells him gravely. "I wouldn't want you to suffer for lack of aught."

Frodo laughs and dives for his dressing gown, a flash of pale sleek skin in the dim room. "Get wrapped up, or you'll die of chill," he tells Sam, and Sam darts across the frigid hall in to his own room, where a fire stands laid on the hearth, unlit. He hasn't got a nice tidy dressing gown like Mr. Frodo, so he shoulders into breeches and a shirt, and tops it off with a woolen weskit, teeth chattering. He scolds himself aloud as he dresses.

"Drat you for a ninnyhammer, Sam Gamgee; Bag End could come to rack and ruin for all of you thinking with your cock-robin and not your head. Here's the fires not banked and not laid, and the shutters not drawn neither. It'll take a day or more to get the smial cozy again, and what were you left behind for if not to keep such from happening?"

"To welcome the master home properly, of course," Frodo tosses in as he passes through the hall. "Which you did, if you remember." His voice vanishes down the hall with the pat of his feet, and Sam can hear him clattering about in the kitchen.

He finishes struggling with his buttons and goes off to the wash-room, where he pumps up water enough to fill the copper and lights the fire he left ready-laid under it, then the fires in the hearths on the other three walls. He hauls the wash-tub near to the fire and sets towels out on a warming-rack, then puts up bathing-screens to channel and hold in the warm air as much as may be.

"Almost ready?" Frodo taps at the door. "The tea is on."

Sam twitches a towel straight and straightens his back. "Coming, sir." He trots out, to find that not only does Frodo have the teakettle over the fire, but he's cut slices from a fat round loaf of bread and laid them out on the toasting rack. His master is standing at the kitchen window, looking out at the soft white snow that blankets the Shire, pure and unspoiled as yet by cart-tracks and footprints, lying in a clean smooth veil across the yard and the Road. He opens the window as Sam watches and tosses out yesterday's crusts for the birds, which swoop down, chattering, to peck at them the moment he closes the window.

Sam smiles, nudging the butter-pot a little closer to the fire, and Frodo comes to him. Together, they brush melted butter over the bread for toast. "There's jam and sausages, if you don't want to wait for scones," he murmurs, stepping up behind Frodo's back.

Sam feels a sudden strange pang of shy uncertainty, but Frodo smiles and brushes against him lazily as he turns to pass Sam on his way to the pantry. "I think we'll make do with toast this morning, Sam. Is there milk in the cool pantry? Good; I'll bring us each a mug." He goes.

With that, Sam realizes what's troubling him: Mr. Frodo is doing Sam's own chores, and it don't feel right. Mr. Frodo ought to be abed while Sam sees to this.

He takes the mugs from Frodo and puts them on the table, turning to find Frodo staring at him with a faint line pinched between his brows.

"What's wrong?"

"Naught," Sam shifts his feet uncomfortably, aware that it's very nearly a lie. "Or rather, naught except you going about doing for yourself what I ought to be doing, by rights."

Frodo looks soberly at Sam. "You know I've never stood on ceremony, Sam, and I certainly won't start now."

"But you don't have to." Sam waves a hand helplessly, not knowing how to put his thought into proper words.

"But I will," Frodo says, serious, his eyes level and steady. "It wouldn't be right for me to lie about the whole day long letting you work for us both and never lifting a finger for myself. If nothing else, I'd grow as broad a bottom as my cousin Fredegar."

"And if you did," Sam says, equally steady, "I'd love you none the less for it."

"Sam!" Frodo laughs, sounding a little baffled. "That's beside the point. I'm not going to take your job from you and give you the job of warming my bed in its place. Still, I mean to have you for my lover, not my bed-and-body slave. I may," he lets a soft smile curl the corners of his mouth, "Even do for you, from time to time, as the fancy takes me." The words fall in a way that doesn't seem to mean mere kitchen-work.

"I'd like that," Sam says gruffly, meaning the words both ways, "But only if you let me do for you like I ought, seeing as it's been my joy since I was a lad, and my main reason for getting up in the morning for as long back as I like to remember."

Frodo steps forward and lays his hand against Sam's cheek; his fingers are trembling. "And the sight of your smile has been mine," he says, so soft Sam can hardly hear him.

Sam's heart melts and his belly warms; he can't think to keep arguing in the face of such sweetness. Mr. Frodo leans in, slow and hesitant, and Sam's lips part for him, but they've barely tasted each other when the kettle sputters and whistles for attention.

"I'll get it," Sam says, kissing Frodo's lips lightly before stepping back. "Sit down and ready your cup."

Frodo obeys, pulling the sugar bowl towards his place. Sam goes to the kettle, wraps the wire handle in a cloth, and pours the tea, setting the kettle on the table while Frodo mixes milk and a bit of sugar in his cup. Though their eyes don't meet, Sam feels the warm certainty that his Frodo loves him, even though they don't quite understand each other sometimes.

As Frodo drinks his tea and cares for laying the table, Sam busies himself with the cooking-- sausages and eggs and bacon to go with the toast, which Frodo cut far too early to put on the fire right away, if they're to have aught else when they eat it. When the work is done, Sam turns to the table, and finds that Frodo has set their places-- Sam's across from his own, the head of the table standing empty. "Sit with me, Sam," Frodo smiles, and Sam comes over to serve up the food right on to their plates, then puts the pan in the sink and takes his seat.

They don't speak much during breakfast, eating in quiet contentment, passing the jam jar and butter dish back and forth between them until their plates are polished clean. Sam Frodo takes up a cloth and dries the dishes as Sam washes them.

"The water should be hot in the wash-room by now," Frodo says presently, stretching his shoulders.

"Aye." Sam smiles. "You first, and then I'll use the water."

"Neither of us first." Frodo's smile turns wicked. "Both at once will be much better, don't you think?"

Sam's knees go weak from the heat in Frodo's look; he reaches to steady himself at the sink. "Aye," he manages, through a throat suddenly dry with desire.

"Come along, then." Frodo starts down the hall and Sam trots obediently in his wake. The morning light filters dimly through the hall from the frost-glazed panes of the front door window, and Frodo seems almost a ghost in front of him, gliding rather than walking, insubstantial. Sam is seized by a moment's desire to dart forward and try to capture him, hold him there; for a moment he nearly believes the night before, and their morning of toast and sausages by the fire after, to be a phantom of his imagination, as beautiful as it is unreal.

And then they are inside the bathing room, and Frodo smiles shyly at Sam over his shoulder, his fair skin and dark curls kissed golden by firelight. All Sam can do in response is stand and watch, heart pounding, as Frodo unties the belt of his dressing-gown and lets it slide off his slender shoulders. Sam fills his mind with the slow glide of the cloth and the soft, glowing skin it reveals.

It takes an effort to start his feet moving and fetch pails of hot water to pour in to the tub, but he does it at length when Frodo turns his head away, a little smile dancing on his lips, a pink flush on his cheeks.

In a few minutes the tub is filled and Sam stands clumsily for a moment when he is done, waiting for his master to enter the water-- until he realizes Frodo is watching, waiting for the sight of him in turn. He feels his cheeks go crimson, but fair is fair, so he undresses shyly and climbs in at Frodo's gesture, a little abashed. The water is piping hot, meant for Frodo himself. He eases in gingerly, unaccustomed to such luxury on his own account.

Frodo follows him, and kneels between Sam's ankles, water plashing softly about his legs. Sam swallows hard, looking at his master. Water droplets gleam on Frodo's waist and thighs; the rising steam curls his hair in tendrils about his face and throat.

There isn't proper room for two to lie at ease in the tub, but Sam doesn't mind. The water is already soaking away aches he didn't even know he had, sinking into his muscles when Frodo's hands settle on his knees and slide upwards.

Frodo's hands find the washing-cloth and the bit of soap Sam has set out for them; without a word he soaps the cloth and begins at Sam's feet, lathering them gently and stroking them clean with the cloth.

Sam murmurs something that isn't quite a word-- neither protest nor approval; more a note of surprise and pleasure. Frodo looks up into Sam's face, his eyes gentle but simmering with a desire as pure and clear as his pale skin. "You're beautiful," he says, impossibly, and Sam colours, looking away, abashed.

"No," Frodo says, voice intense. "Look at me."

His voice draws Sam's eyes, and Sam watches as Frodo's hands slide along his calves, thumbs tracing the curve and channel of muscles and sinews to Sam's knee. "I've wanted to touch you this way ever since you were caught in the fire..." his voice trails away, and his hands move gently, fingers stroking the soft skin behind Sam's knees.

Frodo moves forward, his narrow wet body fitting between Sam's calves, and his hands gently journey along Sam's thighs, soaping and rinsing. Sam watches Frodo's face, caught and held by the beat of his pulse in his throat. Frodo doesn't hurry, hands exploring methodically, and Sam's blush darkens as Frodo's hands move to his waist and bathe him with thorough care, one part at a time.

His master's lips part in a soft-eyed expression of pleasure, and Sam can barely contain the joy that soars through him at the absorbed look of wonder on Frodo's face as he handles Sam so very tenderly. Sam feels himself fill and swell in Frodo's hands, and sits back, letting that part of him speak his feelings with its glad response. The slide of the soap and the rough scratch of the cloth on him are wonderful; the hot water soaks a blissful melting languor into his bones.

Frodo moves forward, between Sam's knees and his thighs; he reaches around and soaps Sam's back and his hips as carefully as the rest of him, moving with slow deliberation. Sam slides his arms around Frodo's narrow body, feeling how his master's skin is pebbled with chill from the water drying off its exposed surface. He frowns and moves to clasp Frodo close, using arms and hands to sluice hot water down his master's spine. Frodo murmurs with pleasure, his lean chest resting against Sam's, and his hands travel across Sam's back, soap and cloth in turn.

Sam nuzzles at Frodo's throat, unable to help himself, tasting sweat in the hollow of his collarbone, licking to follow its traces up to the lobe of Frodo's ear.

His master is persistent, soaping and rinsing Sam's arms and his throat, pushing himself back far enough to do so. Sam rumbles a low protest at the loss of Frodo's skin, but Frodo only smiles at him and pulls away, then hands Sam the cloth and the soap and turns his body, nestling between Sam's legs, sliding back until his shoulders touch Sam's chest.

Sam understands the silent request and lathers the cloth slowly, feeling Frodo settle against him. The weight of his head rests against Sam's neck and shoulder, curls tickling Sam's wet skin. He inhales and exhales, his warm, living presence filling Sam's arms. Sam buries his face against Frodo's curls, fierce tenderness filling him. He brushes the cloth against Frodo's body, feeling somehow that Frodo is like a living sculpture in his arms-- a poem made flesh, a perfect work of the maker's art.

Words of love flow from his lips as he slides the cloth over Frodo's body-- ribs and slim arms, soft belly and blushing nipples. Narrow hips and thighs. He tends Frodo very carefully all over, rinsing away the sweat of their lovemaking until he glows all over like mother-of-pearl. Then, at last, he returns to Frodo's belly and the beautiful swell of flesh at its base, which has hardened and pushed through the surface of the water, awaiting Sam's hand.

Frodo moans, very soft and vibrant, and Sam closes his hand around that part of his master, stroking slowly. He gathers Frodo up in both hands, pressing soft, reverent kisses against his his shoulder and throat, humbled anew by the pure and simple trust of this, of Frodo's bare body nestled against him.

Frodo's hips lift, restless, and Sam curls one arm around his belly to steady him. "There now, me dear." He flushes at the clumsiness of the endearment, but it is the only speech he knows, unfit though it is to say what he feels.

Frodo moans in answer, and Sam slides one thumb across the rosy tip of his flesh. Frodo shudders in his arms, straining, and Sam smiles, giving him long, slow strokes, tightening his hand firmly, for the hard calluses of his palms are eased by the soap. Frodo squirms, mouth open, the curve of his pink lips gleaming wet when his tongue darts out to lick them. Sam strokes faster, making sure to touch the sweet spot just below the crown of it, which makes Frodo gasp.

His muscles are taut, his body almost wiry in Sam's arms, stronger than the looks of its fragile porcelain skin would ever tell. Sam tightens his hand again and Frodo keens, his body straining against Sam's arm as he struggles to thrust into Sam's grasp. Sam obliges him, speeding again, moving quickly now, the heel of his hand making a rustle and splash in the water with each stroke.

Frodo throttles little desperate sounds in his throat, seeming to try not to cry out, but can't quite stifle them, and Sam loves it-- loves the muffled noises he can draw from his master. He moves his hand just a little at the top of one stroke, and Frodo rewards him, lips parting in a cry; Sam does it again and Frodo's head falls back across his shoulder, his body shuddering as it tries to lift.

Sam loosens his grip on his master's shaft again and shortens his stroke, then reaches to take Frodo's nipple between his thumb and forefinger, twisting lightly. Frodo yelps and his thighs quiver; Sam moves faster still and tightens his fingertips sharp and quick on Frodo's nipple, reckoning Frodo needs just a little push to go over the edge. He gives a desperate shout, convulsing in Sam's arms, his whole body surging as he comes, spilling over Sam's hand and on to Sam's thigh.

He sinks back against Sam, trembling, his breath coming fast in his narrow chest, and Sam soothes him, murmuring nonsense into his ear. Sam reaches with one hand for a pail of rinse water he left near the tub, manages to fumble it up and spill the fresh, hot water in with them. Frodo sighs and shifts, half-turning so that his cheek is against Sam's chest. "So good to me," he murmurs. "And now I can be good to you, too...."

"You always are," Sam murmurs, but Frodo just shakes his head and turns around again, kneeling. He leans forward, palms on Sam's chest, and kisses him, gently nipping at Sam's lip, but not lingering there-- he works his way downward, licking and biting gently, pausing and sucking a pink mark on to Sam's skin at the place where his neck becomes his shoulder, his mouth so deft and clever Sam feels nothing but pleasure as the bruise forms there.

Then his mouth slides down to cover Sam's nipple, and Sam cries out, his body jerking so hard the water sloshes in the tub, threatening to go over the rim. Frodo doesn't back away, suckling harder, and bites down, making Sam gasp, the breath hissing between his teeth. It's a pretty vengeance, the sensation so sharp with pleasure it's nearly unbearable; it drives a spike of heat straight to Sam's cock, which juts against Frodo's belly, urgent and mindless. Frodo moves his mouth, seals it over Sam's nipple and bites again, and Sam yelps, hands closing to fists; his toes curl and he struggles not to buck Frodo right off him. Then Frodo licks his nipple, soothing it, his eyes bright with laughter as he gazes up into Sam's face.

Sam understands anew how far he is out of his depth here, with this beautiful creature he has captured-- blissfully, wonderfully so. He reaches, cradling Frodo's cheek in the hollow of his palm, and Frodo turns his face to press a kiss there, tongue darting against Sam's skin.

And then Frodo smiles, a glint in his eyes, and the water ripples as he slides back.

Sam holds his breath, guessing what Frodo means to do next; he bites his lip, the tightness in his chest near to choking him as he watches Frodo lower his head. His breath is cool on the tip of Sam's cock at first, but then his tongue is like a flame flickering around Sam, and his mouth is hot and tight as it slides down.

Sam gasps, sobbing for breath, his knuckles going white on the lip of the tub. Frodo's tongue moves on him, slick and skillful, its tip stroking just at the sweet spot below the crown; Sam's hips jerk helplessly and his breath rasps in his chest. Frodo's cheeks hollow, and the sensation is more than Sam can bear; he lets his head fall back against the tub and moans. Frodo hums softly, shivering pleasure all the way to Sam's spine; he slides his mouth lower, and Sam keeps expecting it to stop, but it doesn't, gliding down inch by inch until Sam is wholly sheathed.

Sam keens, struggling with himself-- his hips want to thrust hard and fast, as they did the previous night when he was buried inside his beautiful master, but he knows he mustn't. He forces his lids open and gazes down his body to where Frodo's eyes await him, warm and bright; the sight makes Sam's heart turn over with tenderness and passion.

Then Frodo moves-- back up along the shaft, so slow it's nearly an agony, and back down again all the way, fast. Sam clenches his teeth and bites back a reverent curse. His hands creep forward and knot in Frodo's hair; he tries not to use his grip to force Frodo, not wanting to hurt him but the sensations coursing through him are too much to be borne, and he knows he's clutching too tightly.

Frodo swallows around him, humming, and slides up again, his tongue ripples delightfully, wicked and skilled. Sam pushes up without thinking, and Frodo rides the motion, sinking back down. His lips are stretched taut around Sam's girth, coral-pink and shiny; his lashes lie against his cheeks now, two coal-dark fans. He pulls at Sam's hips, urging him to thrust, and Sam does, helpless not to; he fills Frodo's mouth and then his throat, pressing in.

Then he feels Frodo's finger teasing at him, and he gasps, his mouth falling open on a startled cry; Frodo's finger is soapy-slick and it is deep inside him before he can fully realize his startlement.

"Oh," Sam gasps, half raising his body with surprise, but Frodo has him firmly, and between finger and mouth, Sam is caught.

He feels Frodo's finger move inside him, crooking, touching something unexpected that fairly glows with pleasure. Sam whines, frantic, his hips twisting in the water. Frodo rises and falls, sucking hard, and his finger crooks again and inside Sam, igniting glowing fire-brands of pleasure that shoot through his whole body, burning themselves out in his fingertips and his toes.

Helpless, Sam shatters, wailing to the rafters, his whole body spasming so hard water splashes out of the tub and onto the stone flags.

When he opens his eyes at last, Frodo is kneeling over him, licking his smiling lips; his mouth is dark and curves upward with satisfaction. He crawls forward, settling against Sam's chest, and kisses Sam, his mouth rich and exotic with the strong hint of Sam's own taste. His cock is hard against Sam's belly, and Sam curls his hand lazily around it, amazed that Frodo found so much pleasure in sucking him.

He kisses Frodo again and again, sweeping his tongue through Frodo's mouth, fondling him with lazy strokes, loving the feel of silky-skinned warmth hard inside his palm. A jumble of passionate images tumble through his head-- half-formed dreams of things he wants to do to Frodo, and of things he wants Frodo to do to him.

He can see them lying here, positions reversed, him wiping his own mouth before straightening to kiss Frodo. Or mayhap they're lying on the parlour sofa before the fire, Frodo asleep with his head on Sam's knee. Or Frodo might be smiling at Sam through the kitchen window while Sam prunes the roses. Or Sam could steal a kiss while Frodo is writing letters, or even interrupt Frodo at his reading, setting the tea things down and darting under Frodo's desk in the library. Or Sam might serve Frodo breakfast in bed, or bath his brow when he is sick, or sit with him on a midsummer's day in quiet contentment, or spend a long winter's night kissing every inch of his slim body. Sam will make love to him in a thousand different ways, whether they be quick and urgent or warm and slow.

As he drowses, a million beautiful fragments of hope for the future dance in a mosaic in Sam's mind; Frodo's warm smile follows him through them all. In each one, Sam has his beautiful master there with him to love and care for, even after their hair has turned to silver, and after Frodo's face grows lined and worn, an image of wisdom and love in his mind's eye.

"We'll have to get out of here before we freeze," Sam murmurs presently, but his bones feel like they've turned to jelly, and even the cooling water around them isn't enough to move him yet. He squeezes Frodo lightly, and Frodo draws a slow, luxuriant breath, nestling against him.

"The bed will be warmer," he agrees, but they lie there in the tub for a while anyhow, cherishing the lassitude of aftermath, their warm bodies a shelter against the cooling water.

"And softer, I'll warrant," Sam murmurs at length, pinned against the lip of the tub by his own weight and Frodo's both. "I want you to show me how to do what you just did for me...." he says, lifting his hand to stroke Frodo's back, feeling his ribs and spine prominent underneath the velvet-soft skin. "Teach me to do that for you. Teach me everything."

"I will," Frodo murmurs, and nuzzles a kiss against Sam's throat. "And you'll teach me. But have patience." He raises laughing eyes to Sam, his sweet smile dazzling in its happiness. "We've a lifetime for the learning."

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