West of the Moon
A Tolkien Fanfiction Archive
Companion piece to Relativity. Frodo and Sam prove that age and experience don't exclude the occasional childish tease.
Sam decided that the best thing to be done about the little jar of sweetish, mint-smelling jelly that he'd found a week ago in Bag End's tool shed was to let it be. Like as not, Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin had forgotten it. It made sense enough, as their most recent visit had been punctuated by absences equated easily enough with their recent dalliance in the pantry. Sam was grateful that they had chosen to conduct themselves in locations outside Bag End. Judging by his responses during the handful of tumbles they had enjoyed in the rascals' absence, so was Mr. Frodo.
Sam eyed the jar on his way out of the shed with shovel in hand. He had tucked it away safely on a ledge reserved for flower pots and seed bags. Still lost in thoughts of the evening Merry and Pippin had been gone the longest, when he and Frodo had the pleasure of the tea parlor and its pile of decadent pillows to themselves, ah, yes... Sam decided something as he shut the creaking door behind him. Mint most certainly had nothing on Dame Maggot's best lily of the valley. The way it made the pale glow of Frodo's skin by candlelight absolutely shine...
The breath of July washed over Sam instantly, a humid reminder of the task at hand. He hadn't much mind to shovel trenches for transplanting the tray of pansies and bluebonnets that his Gaffer had sent, not when Frodo lay draped across those pillows. At least that was where Sam had left him after a wonderful afternoon tea consisting of honey oat-bread with apple butter, minced rabbit, and a bit of leftover pot pie filled with taters and cheese. And a few buckleberry jam-flavored kisses on his way out the door.
Sam rounded the curve of Bag End that concealed the stretch of bare earth running behind a bench he had recently repaired so that Frodo could enjoy his reading out-of-doors. He had cleared it the night before in preparation while Frodo sat reading some of Bilbo's translations aloud. Those verses never failed to bring back fond memories, not for either of them.
Sam halted in his tracks to see the image in his mind brought to life: Frodo sat on the bench with a book across his knees, pipe in hand, brow furrowed thoughtfully. Sam parted his lips, but Frodo looked up and smiled before he could speak.
"It would be a shame to waste such a day indoors. I thought I'd keep you company, Sam."
"No objections, sir, but begging your pardon--the sun's awful bright. You'll burn, and then what would I do with you redder'n a tomato?"
"What one does with tomatoes, perhaps?" Frodo countered softly, his brows raised in languid amusement.
Sam blushed, fit to match his own metaphor. "I'm afraid I haven't the time to pick you, Mr. Frodo, if you take my meaning. I've got these posies to tend."
"Then tend them. This vine is going nowhere." With a gleam in his eye, Frodo tucked his pipe between his teeth and returned to reading.
Sam took a deep breath and plunged the shovel into the dark, damp soil. It had rained lightly the day before, just sufficient to leave it perfect and the climate less than so. Sam noticed in sidelong glances that Frodo's hair fell limp and wavy over his forehead, which necessitated frequent and somewhat frustrated brushing back. Before he had even managed to complete half of the first row, Sam couldn't take it. He set the shovel aside the next time he observed Frodo's free arm tense and ready, closed the space between them in one stride, and brushed his hair back for him. Frodo looked up, eyes as luminous as they had been when he first looked away. Sam let his hand linger, continuing back in a slow caress, fingers catching in Frodo's curls. Frodo's gaze burned into him, sparked his cheeks more swiftly than before.
"It's...right muggy, isn't it, sir?" Sam murmured.
"Yes," Frodo replied, picking absently at Sam's damp shirt sleeve before proceeding to roll it up for him. Frodo reached for his other arm, and Sam silently obeyed. "No disagreement there, certainly."
"Well, then I'll be finishing this as quick as I can...then...sir."
One more glance like that from Frodo before he turned back to his reading, and Sam would be done for. He retrieved the shovel and set about digging, albeit a bit more fiercely than before. This did not become apparent until several minutes later, by which time Sam's shirt was soaked through, and abominably uncomfortable. Sam finished the stretch and let the shovel drop, panting. He swiped the back of his hand across his forehead, but stopped when he heard the unmistakable sound of Frodo's book snapping shut.
"You need water," Frodo said simply, and when Sam turned, he was gone.
Sam sighed, shielding his eyes against the glare. Frodo was right; he had worked up an inordinate sweat. And he knew full well why. For teasing him like that, Mr. Frodo deserved...
A bit of his own mischief, Sam decided, and let his hand
drop to his collar, where the other rose to meet it.
* * *
Frodo paused just inside his front door, gratefully drinking in the cooler air of the smial. He allowed himself a moment to take a few long puffs Old Toby, eyes closed as tightly as his lips wrapped around the stem of his pipe. He ran his damp palms down the side seams of his breeches, exhaling the smoke in amorphous clouds. Eru, but that tease after tea had left him craving more than just jam on--
Sam. He had offered to fetch water for Sam, and had meant it. Frodo opened his eyes and strode purposefully into the kitchen. He extinguished his pipe and set it on the table before searching out a suitable glass and filling it to the brim from a pitcher Sam had filled that morning from the spring. And he had filled it every morning without fail, even if it meant pulling himself from Frodo's warm sheets and determined arms after nights--
Frodo set the pitcher down much harder than he intended to. Frodo had managed to chip enough dinnerware in his time to know that it sustained damage. A few seconds later, a damp spreading on the counter confirmed this. Agitated, Frodo dropped it in the dish basin and made his hasty way back to the front door. Sam's touch still burned on his forehead, hotter than any sun, and he'd be damned if that tease went unrequited, pansies or no pansies. In fact, Frodo thought as he pushed the round door shut behind him and continued across the grass, water sloshing, I intend to show--
Sam. Busy shoveling with his back turned to Frodo. His naked back. Shirt and braces dangling carelessly about his hips, breeches clinging all-too-appealingly to his even more appealing backside. Frodo sucked in his breath to speak, but he only succeeded in staring. After long moments, Sam seemed to sense Frodo's captivated stare. He stopped and turned around slowly, leaning forward on the shovel.
"You're right, Mr. Frodo. Seemingly, I'm losing water quicker than you can bring it, begging your pardon," Sam panted, running two fingers over his glistening chest with a rueful shake of his head. He glanced back at Frodo expectantly.
Frodo couldn't remember how to breathe. "I...yes...Sam," he managed, clearing his throat, "you are, and begging your pardon, but the pitcher's no better off than you are." Frodo approached him and offered the glass with as steady a hand as he could muster.
Sam stared at it for a moment, frowning. "Sir, if I put a crack in--"
Frodo shook his head. "No, Sam. You know better than that. It's my doing. Enough of this nonsense, drink."
And drink he did, without hesitation. Frodo envied the rim of the glass its claim on Sam's mouth, the water its claim on his greedy swallows. Frodo couldn't take it. He'd fight, all right, he'd--
Frodo blinked. Sam held the glass out to him in offer, eyes bright and earnest. Frodo's hands dropped from their wavering path down his thighs. "Thank you..."
He allowed Sam to tip the glass to his lips, just so. Frodo tilted his chin forward, rather than tip his head back, and Sam tilted the glass accordingly. He drank slowly, never once losing contact. Neither of them blinked. As Sam finally eased the glass away, a droplet of water coursed its way down from the corner of Frodo's mouth. He forgot his lungs again as something in those hazel-brown pools before him seemed to snap. Sam set the glass aside on the bench, still holding Frodo captive.
"I'm still thirsty, sir," Sam murmured almost shyly.
Frodo's head jerked forward, a terse, mute nod. Sam had most certainly won the prize of his asking. Frodo leaned towards him, not at all shyly.
Their lips brushed and clung for a few wincing, hungry seconds before Sam pulled away a fraction and whispered, "Sir, the Row. There've been passers-by all morning. Someone's bound to see--"
"Just as someone's bound to see you," Frodo countered, pressing one palm boldly to Sam's chest, allowing his fingertips to rub minute circles.
"Sir, that's for you," Sam protested, a quaver in his voice.
"Yes," Frodo whispered, stepping up close, "and I for your eyes only, at that, but how shall we ever solve this? Consequences, consequences..."
Frodo kissed Sam as if he, too, wore one last drop of water. Sam trembled as Frodo's arms closed around him, his whimpers of protest in complete contradiction to the eagerness returned in his own dips of lip and tongue. After long heated moments, their bodies were pressed together entirely and Sam mumbled something unintelligible to Frodo, but that sounded like a plea nonetheless.
Frodo gasped as he pulled back from the kiss, parted their mouths just enough to speak. "Shade? Did you say--"
"Shed," Sam repeated boldly under his breath, tugging at Frodo, "and yes, that's the point, too, if you like."
Frodo bit Sam's lower lip playfully, panting a bit. "If I like, Sam Gamgee? Whatever am I in for?"
"Not enough, sir, I'm sure."
"That tongue of yours is sharp."
"You don't seem to mind."
Frodo kissed him harder and moaned.
* * *
Truth be told, Sam hadn't planned on this. Not there, not then, but somehow those pansies just didn't matter so much when his master's soft but slim body was crushed against his own, sending shivers enough through him to turn the summer to steam. Sam tore away this time, lips tingling, taking Frodo by the wrist, leading him. He wasn't entirely certain of the what and how, but the who and why sufficed as they ever and always would.
They stepped trembling into the semidarkness of the shed, fell shaking against each other no sooner than the door was latched. Sam leaned for a kiss, which came before he even got there, fumbling with his master's buttons. He pushed the fine weskit back and away, down those arms finer still. Frodo grunted approval, grasping Sam's hands and guiding them immediately to his waist.
"Shirt can wait, oh, believe me," Frodo murmured against Sam's still-parted lips, swiping with an eager tongue, drawing a deep moan of approval from him. Sam unfastened Frodo's breeches and let them fall. His master lurched forward, just one stumbling step--
One trembling leg around him, pinning him. Two deft hands between them, freeing him. Sam bit back a cry at the brush of Frodo's fingers, at the brush of his heat. Sam crushed them together again, and Frodo swayed and clung.
"Oh, now," he gasped, nuzzling Sam's cheek eagerly.
And Sam couldn't think, couldn't speak. His first thought wasn't
of the jar--it was of wanting to be snugly inside Frodo, which led to thoughts
of the jar. And how abstractly, perfectly placed it was, and how he
couldn't have done better in the first place even if he had tried. Except if it
had been lily of the valley by candlelight, but that, they had already
* * *
"Just you wait a moment, Frodo dear."
Frodo tugged him back indignantly. "Why on--"
His wits went skittering in goosebumps down his back as Sam pinned him against the wall. "Just do, if you please, sir. Close those eyes."
Frodo widened them, pleading. The wet, smoldering press of Sam's mouth was enough to snap them shut again. Sam left him so fevered that by the time it occurred to him to open them, Sam's hand was on him, slick with something that felt familiar and smelled strangely and wonderfully and nearly made him burst--
"Sam, stop, stop! I'll--"
"I should hope so, sir."
And with that, the world tilted. Frodo felt himself lifted, lifted from beneath by strong hands, stronger arms. Lifting him as if he were a crate, but infinitely gentler, bracing him to the wall. Frodo opened his eyes, found them blurred for all the overwhelming thrill: Sam's fingers alternately grasping and shifting, his right hand, fingers, managing to find and coax--
"You can't be--"
Samwise all through him. One thrust, then a second, then yes. Frodo's jaw dropped on a silent scream. Sam groaning with the effort of holding. Thrusting, so steady, so steady--
Frodo clawed at the wood with one hand, wound his other in Sam's hair, pleaded and sobbed for sheer shock, for sheer--
"This," Sam breathed shakily, mouth pressed to Frodo's collarbone, "is--bliss--"
Frodo groaned in reply, gasping. Trapped under his shirt, against himself, between them both. He couldn't--
Simply spoken, simply taken. Frodo spilled then, bucking and
gasping. Sam trembling, choking his name, knees giving way. They didn't land
hard. Sam had them. Held them.
* * *
They shifted, slid apart, shook together again. Frodo burrowed against Sam, curled in the curve of his body, whimpering soft, strange words every other breath. Sam gathered his master close, stroked his back soothingly with shaking hands.
"Frodo... Mr. Frodo, I didn--mmm--"
The kiss was enough to silence him, and just enough. Frodo's hands were on his own back, sliding, fingers spreading. The touch felt nothing short of a blessing.
"Oh, you meant to," Frodo panted between kisses. There was laughter in his voice.
Sam slid his tongue over Frodo's tenderly, nodding and chuckling. Mint left something to be desired indeed.
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