West of the Moon
A Tolkien Fanfiction Archive
Sam arrives at Tol Eressea. Sam needs to be healed. Frodo has a surprise for him.
The first of the
evening's mists curled above the silver-grey ocean. A pert
sea-breeze caressed the undulating ocean swell as it foamed
like the head of a good beer. Through the fine fog a large
white ship coasted to the pier that jutted out just beyond
the shell-encrusted pile of rocks. Frodo bit down on his
lip, a snatch of white teeth pressing on cold flesh. At his
side, Bilbo stirred.
"Ah, my boy, you've been waiting for this moment for a long time," he said. "And for more than one reason, I think."
Frodo cast an incredulous look at Bilbo's amused-looking face, then let out a breath from soft-parted lips. Why deny it any longer? "Yes, well, I wonder what Sam will say about it. I daresay he won't like it."
"Oh, you don't know that." Bilbo laid a hand on Frodo's shoulder. "Perhaps your memory of the Shire has been whittled away, but my memory's clear." Bilbo's dark curls were a little damp from the mist.
"I don't know what you mean," Frodo said stubbornly, glancing back to the approaching ship.
"Oh, Frodo!" Bilbo sighed. "You were always so intelligent about everything, except on one subject."
"And what would that be?" Frodo narrowed his eyes at the rolling sea.
"No, I'm not going to interfere," said Bilbo. "I didn't before, and I shan't now. If it happens, it happens. If it doesn't, well, I think many will be disappointed. Still, I don't think anybody should meddle with things of the heart."
A wave crashed to shore and licked their feet. The water was icy-cold. "Look, Frodo!" Bilbo pointed, an arc of outstretched arm. "The ship is almost docked. Let's go and greet him, shall we?"
Frodo's heart thudded hard, whump thump. "Yes, Uncle."
Frodo nibbled on a piece of buttered bread. Across from him sat Sam, now old and weathered, his hair all salty-grey, his hands splotched with age spots. But his eyes were still a sharp brown, still wondering at his surroundings, despite all he had seen.
"A proper hobbit-hole!" said Sam, looking around. "In elvish land! Never thought I'd see that."
"Bilbo and I built it when we arrived," offered Frodo, drinking a swallow of fiery red wine. "The elves helped, of course, but we designed it. It's an exact model of Bag End. We couldn't stand the thought of living in one of those elven houses, with their absurd heights. It wouldn't be proper."
"No," Sam mused, "I suppose it wouldn't."
Silence fell upon them. Bilbo sent Frodo a look and kicked him under the table. Frodo flushed rosy-bright and took another sip of wine.
"So, er, Sam," Frodo cleared his throat. "You can have the room next to mine, if you like. I -- I mean Bilbo and I furnished it when we heard you were coming. I hope you like it."
"It's fine, Mr. Frodo." Sam looked at Frodo shyly. "Thank you, sir."
"It was my pleasure." Frodo smiled. He could feel Bilbo's eyes boring holes into his skin, little knife-sharp daggers. "I missed you, Sam. The years seemed to pass slowly as I waited."
Sam's hands shook a bit as he held his wine glass. "Me too, sir. Though my Rose and children kept me busy. And Bag End's garden, too."
They ate the rest of the meal in silence. Bilbo had prepared a feast: mushrooms, meats, vegetables and breads, enough for five hobbits, not three. Soon they were all leaning back in their chairs, buttons popping, patting their stomachs with satisfaction. As Sam dabbed his mouth with a napkin, wiping a dot of chicken gravy, he caught Frodo staring at him; Frodo blushed and peered down into his lap where his hands were linked nervously.
The grey evening darkened to black. Stars began to sprinkle across the sky, poking through the dark. Frodo helped Bilbo clear the dishes as Sam went to unpack his belongings. As Frodo began to pump water into the sink, Bilbo ambushed him.
"Frodo!" Bilbo jabbed a finger into Frodo's chest. "You're going to have to tell him soon. It must be done tonight, or it won't be done at all." He stabbed Frodo again, hard. "Do you want me to do it, boy?"
Frodo's eyes widened. "No!" he gasped. "I'll -- I'll tell him now, all right?"
Bilbo looked vaguely satisfied. "All right. Go on, then."
Sam was unpacking his shirts and laying them into the solid oak chest Frodo had bought for him. He looked up and smiled with obvious pleasure as Frodo closed the door behind him. "Hullo, sir. Thought I'd unpack before I go to bed."
Frodo crossed the room and knelt beside Sam. The wine had not dulled the jittery feeling in his stomach; he felt ill. "Sam," he said quietly, "do you wonder why Bilbo and I look so young?"
"I don't know." Sam carefully folded up a soft, butter-coloured shirt. "Magic, I suppose. I even feel a bit better here already, less old you might reckon."
"Well, yes, I suppose you would call it magic." Frodo fingered the fine wine-dark velvet of one of Sam's weskits. It was very different from the weskits Sam used to wear before the quest, Frodo thought, his mind softly unwinding the long years past. "The Valinor air is rather invigorating, but it won't make you look or feel too much younger, I'm afraid. That involves a curious ceremony," Frodo continued, glancing at Sam and biting his lip. "And it must be done tonight."
Sam's fingers hesitated for a second as he smoothed down a shirt. "If you think it's best, sir." He yawned.
"I'm sorry, Sam," Frodo apologised, rising and sitting on the bed. "The elves are very strict about it all, I'm afraid. A mortal must undergo the first part of the ceremony the night he arrives at the Tol, or else it won't work."
"What if I don't do it?" asked Sam.
"Well..." Frodo looked at his hands folded neatly on his lap. Sam looked adorable when he put his hands on his hips and puffed out his chest. "Then you'll keep aging, you know, going greyer and more wrinkled, but you won't die. You'll just keep going and going -- like butter spread too thin over toast, if you like. The ceremony will take back your years and stop you aging. Of course, eventually you will die--" Frodo gulped; that was a horrible thought. "--Not for a long time, of course. And you'll be able to live at the Tol in complete comfort. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."
Sam sighed softly and shut the drawer with his knee. "All right, Mr. Frodo. The ceremony won't take long, will it?" He yawned again into his palm. "I'm a bit tired myself."
"Um." Frodo swallowed. "It can take a long time or a short time. Whatever you like." Long would be rather nice, Frodo thought, swallowing again deeply.
"Who else will be there, sir? Will I be meeting more elves?" Sam said, now looking a bit interested.
"No, only I will be there," Frodo answered. Luckily. "I've been, um, taught how to do it by the elves." Frodo played with the cuff of his shirt. "It's rather complicated. First you and I have to wear silken gowns and drink a sweet liquid the elves call tinnen -- it means 'sparkle water' in Sindarin. It's much better than your Gaffer's cold remedy drink, if I remember how it used to make me sick." Frodo smiled.
"Aye, it'd make anybody sick."
"And then we have to--" Frodo swept his hand with an elaborate gesture. "Lie together for a while."
"Oh." Sam brightened. "That don't seem too hard."
That may not be, but other things... "We don't just lie there, we have to...kiss."
There, Frodo had said it, the rest was up to Sam.
"Kiss?" Sam echoed.
"Kiss," Frodo repeated.
"On the lips?"
"That's generally the way it's done."
Sam hid a small, embarrassed smile. "I just...I didn't think the elves...you..."
"They do it quite a lot, actually," said Frodo. "As you'll see when you walk around the Tol." And not just kissing, either, my dear Sam.
"So, all we have to do is kiss a bit and I'll be younger?" Sam looked hopeful.
"Er, not exactly. The elves believe in a thing called the fëa, the spirit if you like, and the hröa, the physical body. The fëa must be coaxed slowly from the hröa and sent to the Halls for the healing to take place. The hröa and fëa become tangled irrevocably if it's done too quickly, I believe. The ceremonies have to be performed a day and a night apart, to release the fëa slowly. Three ceremonies must take place -- at least three, I should say. More ceremonies can be performed. You probably wouldn't want that, though." Frodo hurried a glance in Sam's direction; Sam was studying his shirt very seriously. Frodo went on breathlessly. "During the last ceremony the fëa travels to the Halls and this causes the hröa to become younger. You don't remember anything afterwards, at least I didn't. It's quite difficult to explain this in Common Speech -- the elves use an awful lot of untranslatable words; perhaps I shall teach you Quenya one day and you will understand it then. I'm afraid, for now, you will have to trust me."
"Oh, I do, Mr. Frodo," Sam replied earnestly.
Frodo squirmed uneasily. He wondered if Sam could possibly trust him. After all, it was he who insisted on performing this ceremony with Sam. Frodo had told himself he had volunteered because Sam would be more comfortable with him...but Frodo was quite aware that his feelings for Sam might have gotten a bit tangled with his inner reasoning as well.
"Good then, Sam," said Frodo, hollow-sounding to his ears.
Silence. Sam looked away, just folding up another shirt and placing it in a drawer. Frodo wished he could fill the quiet with more about the ceremony, but the thought that Sam would recoil or look upon him with disproval kept his mouth closed. Besides, it was very important that Sam take part in the ceremony; Frodo cared for Sam a great deal, and certainly didn't want Sam to become tired and old because of him. Perhaps delaying the explanation would make it easier.
Eventually Frodo said, "We probably should be going soon, or we'll be returning at the crack of dawn."
"Yes, sir," answered Sam. "Just give me a moment."
The evening was cool and shadowy around them, the fat moon rising above the distant mountaintops. Sam trotted beside Frodo, a little out of breath, but quiet as a mouse creeping around a food-filled kitchen. Frodo adjusted his weskit; he had quickly gotten himself ready before finding Sam looking shy and uncertain in the hallway. Bilbo had dipped Frodo a wink and patted Sam on the back, telling him to "have a good time." Honestly, Frodo was going to have to talk to Bilbo in the next few days.
Frodo subtly studied Sam as they navigated the tree-lined path. Sam looked every bit as lovely as Frodo had imagined. The years had softened his features and padded his belly, turned his golden hair to hoarfrost, but he was a handful of luscious hobbit all the same. Touching his neck briefly to feel the flutter of his pulse, Frodo felt a little dizzy. I've waited for this for so long, and now...
Sam looked up and their eyes met; Sam quickly looked down, warm brown eyes shutting off in a blink. A fierce joy lighted in Frodo's heart, and for the rest of the trip he repeated to himself: He came, he came, he came.
Soon they came upon a small home, painted a cool white colour. The door was perfectly round, with a gold doorknob in the exact centre. A pillar of smoke rose from the chimney. It had a small garden at the front, with clutches of tiny, fragrant flowers and huddles of bushes with moonlight-limned greyish foliage. The green curtains were drawn across the windows, and a soft yellow light permeated the gauzy material. A straight stone path drew a line from the road to the house; Frodo tipped his head for Sam to follow him.
Inside the house it was warm and cosy. The elves had done a wonderful job. A steaming footbath had been set in the entrance hall for washing, as well as a towel for drying and a comb for brushing. In the main room, that led off the hall, the fresh smell of clear water and sea-salt rode in the air, and some bread and honey had been laid out on the table before them. The fire had been coaxed to life, flickering yellow and orange flames in the fireplace, and a few glowing lamps had been lit. On the bed, which was layered with shell-pink sheets, were two packages, inside of them something silky and delicate.
"Oh!" said Sam, stepping in. "It's very homely, isn't it? Not like I imagined."
"I daresay not," muttered Frodo.
Sam circled the room, touching the surfaces of everything, sniffing the food, even testing the flex of the bed with a pointed finger. His brow was drawn into a web of lines. "What do we do during the second ceremony?" he said as he peered into the fireplace. The fire's blaze warmed Sam's face red.
Sighing, Frodo faced Sam slowly, hoping his heart didn't explode (it really wouldn't surprise him if it were to happen now) and turned to face Sam. "I--" Frodo cleared his throat. "I haven't told you everything about the ceremony, Sam."
Gentle firelight danced over Sam's worried face. "Don't we just come here for a few nights and lie on the bed and kiss a bit each night?"
"Yes and no," said Frodo slowly. "On the first night we lie in bed and kiss. The second time, we, um, lie together with our gowns on and 'release the fëa.'" Frodo coughed into his hand.
"'Release the fëa'?"
"It's not really releasing the fëa completely," Frodo acknowledged, blushing. "It's something the elves call it. They believe the fëa is released for a breath of time when it happens."
"When what happens?" Now Sam sounded suspicious.
"When people make love," Frodo said softly. There, he'd said it, let's get on with it.
"You and me...on the bed?" Sam swayed slightly; Frodo rushed forward to hold him steady.
"It was a shock to me, too, Sam. I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier, but...I didn't know what to say. I could fetch an elf lass if you want me to. I know you always liked them, but I thought you might be more comfortable if it was me. But maybe you wouldn't like me to do it with you." Frodo was babbling, he knew it, but he couldn't stop.
"Frodo, shhh." Sam licked his delicious lips with his pink tongue. Being apart from Sam for so long made Frodo want to suck on that tongue very badly. Very badly.
"I don't know who else I could...do it with," Sam began, lowering his eyes demurely. "Not Mr. Bilbo...and not one of those elves, either. They're a bit tall, aren't they?"
"A little." Frodo let out a flutter of air. He still had hold of Sam's shoulders, and my, they were still quite hard and muscled.
"Who did you have, sir?"
"Who released your fëa?"
"Oh!" Frodo laughed. "They found a rather short elf lass for me and Bilbo. It was very nice of her to volunteer, though she seemed happy enough with it all. It was a little funny, actually. I only came up to her chest!"
Sam chuckled. "Aye, I can imagine."
"It was a little fun," Frodo admitted. "But I didn't -- it's not the same when you love somebody, is it?" Shut up, shut up, shut up, Frodo Baggins!
"No." Suddenly Sam seemed very small and sad.
"Are you thinking of Rosie?"
"Aye." Sam brushed at his eyes. "She was a good, kind lass."
"Yes, she was. I'm sorry, Sam, if this is all too sudden, but the elves really insist it happen on the first night you're here. Otherwise I'd never dream of making you--"
"I know." Sam's eyes were dark in the candlelight. "Should we begin?"
Frodo nodded, reaching for a package. "Yes. Remember, you mustn't wear anything beneath your gown or...the healing won't work."
Frodo changed into his gown in the little room to the right side of the house. It had a round, silver mirror, a bath and sink for cleaning and bathing, and sweet, lavender-scented towels for drying. The gown was lovely and soft next to Frodo's skin, almost buttery, the colour of winter frost. It didn't have any sleeves, and the hem fell just below his knees. Frodo had felt shy about changing in front of Sam (Sam undoubtedly felt the same way), so Frodo had retired to the bathroom.
"Sam?" Frodo called. "Are you dressed?"
"Yes, sir," replied a thin voice.
Frodo turned the doorknob and stepped out. Sam's hair was messed from his struggle with the gown, and he looked chagrined to be wearing what he would call "a lass's dress." Still, he looked as beautiful as... Frodo didn't have a name to compare him with. He just was. His belly was well-padded, and fine lines netted loose skin. The sleeveless dress -- gown -- showed off his tanned, muscled arms perfectly, the neckline diving slightly low to expose greying hairs curling on Sam's well-proportioned chest. And was the pale material hinting at a peaked nipple? Frodo wasn't sure -- he didn't want to stare for too long -- but he thought so.
"Should we start?" asked Frodo, plucking the tinnen phial from the table. Sam nodded.
Closing his eyes, Frodo held the phial solemnly to his breast and chanted a rhyme in Quenya, taking care to pronounce all the words correctly, and in the same intonation, as well. A steady, almost somnolent cadence of words filled the room. Sam stared with wide eyes. When Frodo had finished, he opened his eyes and tipped a little of the clear liquid onto his finger and carefully aimed it at Sam, making sure to not flick it into his eyes. With long, measured steps, Frodo walked in a circle around Sam, while throwing drops of tinnen onto Sam's hair and gown. Sam looked befuddled at first, but began to smile as Frodo trod around him. Little beads of moisture sparked in Sam's hair, and his gown became increasingly spotted with dark dots. A stray drop struck Sam's cheek and slid down into the darkness under his gown.
"All right," Frodo muttered, coming to a stop. "Now..." He poured a little of the tinnen onto his tongue; it tasted clean and fresh, as if it were flavoured with flowers and herbs and fresh rainwater. "Now you drink it all."
Sam took the phial and swallowed the sweet liquid. "Oh, it tastes...elvish!"
"I couldn't have put it better myself, Sam." Frodo busied himself with setting the phial on the table and adjusting his gown. His heart was pounding and his head felt like he'd been to one too many elvish parties.
It was Sam who rescued him. "Should I lie on the bed now, Mr. Frodo?"
"Yes, Sam," Frodo mumbled. He kept his back to Sam, listening as the bed sighed to take Sam's weight, and the crush of pillows and sheets as they cuddled Sam's skin.
When Frodo turned around Sam was stretching as lazily as a cat, a sleepy smile caressing his gentle features. Sam's toes curled contentedly, and the gown he wore hitched up to his strong, apricot-coloured thighs. Frodo spared a glance at the shadowy confines beneath Sam's gown, then bit down on his lip hard and tried to imagine Gandalf walking around uncloaked. The gowns hid nothing.
Slowly Frodo manoeuvred towards the bed, setting his bottom down on the silky sheets.
"Coming, Mr. Frodo?"
Oh yes, Frodo thought, and swung his legs up and lay next to Sam. Sam wriggled so he was lying on his side and looking straight at Frodo; Frodo did the same.
Please let this go right...
"Are you sure--?" Frodo began.
...don't let me do anything wrong.
Two fingers fell across Frodo's lips. "Yes."
Oh, he feels so lovely...I wish I could lick his fingers.
Sam's eyes sparkled.
I hope I'm a good kisser.
With a dreadful slowness, Sam's mouth fell to Frodo's. As Frodo watched Sam's slick, pink lips journey closer and closer, his mind shouted for joy: he is really going to do this, he wants me, he's not disgusted, oh my, I want him hard and fast.
Sam lips were soft and innocent, wet with the subtle flavour of tinnen and achingly unhurried as they pressed to Frodo's. Frodo slipped a hand behind Sam's head and lifted him closer, kindling the kiss and bringing a small whimper to his throat. A sweet velvety tongue nudged out of Sam's mouth and tasted Frodo's lower lip, and before Frodo could think he was sucking on that delicious flesh, sampling the incredible heat and smoothness, never wanting to let go. Sam arched his back and moaned, deep and hoarse in his throat, and Frodo felt himself harden exquisitely.
Frodo couldn't tell if Sam was aroused; they were still facing each other on their sides, dipping their heads forward to press their warm mouths together.
"Mr. Frodo," Sam whispered when they came up for air, "how long should we do this?"
"A little longer, Sam, if you like." Frodo's fingers still rested on the back of Sam's head.
"Aye," murmured Sam, tilting his head to offer more kisses. And Frodo didn't deny him, accepting Sam's silky mouth, burying his fingers in Sam's luxurious grey hair. Teasing and shy, they kissed a while longer, Sam bringing his hands up to cup Frodo's cheeks, holding him close. By this time, Frodo was feeling very aroused, his hips moving in small circles as Sam ravished his mouth.
Sam hummed quietly, tickling Frodo's mouth, pressing little butterfly kisses over Frodo's lips. Frodo nibbled on the plump flesh of Sam's lower lip, a tight knot of regret in his stomach. If he didn't stop now, he was going to roll onto Sam and do him hard and fast, and only Mandos would know where Sam's fëa would go.
Oh, but how could he stop, when Sam's mouth was hot and stirring on his, when Sam's breath whispered across his cheek, when Sam's hand was on his knee and making a very direct and quick journey to regions high above...
Touch me there.
"Sam!" Frodo broke away regretfully. "I -- don't -- we can't -- we have to stop. Otherwise I'll--" He flushed and turned away.
"Why, Mr. Frodo?" Eyelashes swept across Sam's cheek; that hand brushed the hem of Frodo's gown. "Is there something wrong?"
"No -- not at all," Frodo choked out.
"There doesn't seem to be nothing wrong." Sam paused, a faint flutter of the hand's fingers against Frodo's skin. "Nothing wrong at all. Something bothering you, sir?"
"No, no, not really. I don't think. It went quite well," Frodo offered weakly.
Neither of them moved. The hand made Frodo want to either die in shame or shout for joy. Either. What if Sam realised the state Frodo was in? Would he realise Frodo had his own naughty motives when he performed this ceremony? Combined with this, Frodo desperately wanted to know if Sam was hard. Was he wet and stiff like Frodo beneath his gown? Did he like kissing Frodo? Or was it just a rather queer elvish ritual to him? What did Sam's private parts look like? (All right, Frodo had seen Sam naked during the quest, but he hadn't seen him hard. Was that too much to ask?)
Frodo shifted on the bed; both he and Sam were breathing a little more softly now. Anyway, he was going to see Sam hard. Soon. But what if Sam didn't get hard? After experiencing a brief moment of panic, Frodo decided it was probably best not to think about the state of Sam's nether regions now.
Finally Sam sighed, took his hand from Frodo's thigh and covered his mouth, yawning. "We ought to get changed, Mr. Frodo. I'm tired."
"Yes, Sam," Frodo said quietly, rolling over, keeping his back to Sam and heading to the bathroom.
He leaned on the cool tiles for a while, then changed and gathered up his things, leaving the room without even checking if Sam was dressed.
Luckily (or unluckily) Sam was wearing his shirt and breeches, his gown folded neatly on the bed. Frodo deposited his gown next to Sam's. "We'll need them soon enough, so I'll just leave them here," he said.
Sam's neck and cheeks were warm and pink, perhaps from the cheery little fire. The room was hot. "Am I supposed to feel different now?" he asked Frodo, taking a slice of bread and breaking a piece off of it.
"I don't know," Frodo admitted. "I can't remember how I felt. It was a long time ago. How do you feel?"
"Happy." Sam stared at the bed, not blinking. His eyelashes were wet. "The happiest I felt in a long time, in fact."
"Well," Frodo swallowed, "the magic's probably working then."
"Probably," echoed Sam.
Frodo broke the long silence with forced cheer. "We should go now, Sam." He crossed the room, his legs feeling like jelly, and put his hand on the door knob.
"Wait!" cried out Sam. "One more thing, Mr. Frodo. What do we do the last time?"
Frodo concentrated on the tiny white flakes curling off the door. And the doorknob beneath his splayed fingers, shiny and golden. And the pretty red and blue flowers painted on the door. "We, er, have to do everything, dear Sam. No gowns allowed."
Frodo twisted the door knob and took a deep breath of cold, fragrant air. Sam followed him shortly after.
Bilbo was enjoying the end of a fine smoke when they arrived home. He looked at Frodo with raised eyebrows. Frodo gave him quick nod, muttered a good night to him and Sam and hurried to his bedroom. From the corner of his eye he saw Sam do the same.
Changing into his nightshirt, Frodo snuggled into bed and pinched the candle out. He relived his sweet kisses with Sam, tingling in every part of his body. Smiling, he remembered Sam's hands holding his cheeks, soft and reverent. Frodo wriggled, every part of his body aching exquisitely, demanding hasty caresses and sheathing palms. He touched a finger on his mouth in amazement, his lips still burning from the heat of Sam's mouth. Soon he would be making love to Sam. And following that... Ever since the innocent days in the Shire, when Frodo first noticed Sam had become a handsome lad, he had dreamed of touching Sam that way. He couldn't wait.
Frodo scrunched up his nightshirt and rubbed himself. He moaned.
Frodo rolled his hips. He tweaked a nipple with his finger.
Creak. A door swung open.
Sam's shadow hovered about the doorway.
"Yes, Sam?" Frodo choked out. His fingers slid over the sticky head of his erection.
"Is there anything I can do for you, sir?" Did Sam's voice sound slightly sultry? No, of course not.
"No, no thank you, Sam. I'm fine."
"I...I just wanted to know...uh...if there's anything I can do for you," Sam finished in a rush.
"No...I'm fine. Go to sleep. I -- I shall see you in the morning."
"Well..." Sam sounded reluctant. "G'night then."
Strange, thought Frodo as Sam softly shut the door. Poor dear probably feels a little homesick. Sighing, he turned over, mashed his head into the pillow and put his hand to work again.
Frodo didn't sleep much that night.
Frodo awoke early to find Sam pottering around the kitchen. "I was checking where everything was," Sam said sheepishly. "I wanted to do some cooking while I'm here."
"Do you still make a delicious apple pie?" Frodo asked, slipping the kettle onto the hob. Sam had built a fine fire, barely smoking at all.
"I could, sir, if you'd like one," Sam said, his smile shy, a hint of a tease on his lips.
"I think I would." Frodo sat in his chair, watching as Sam fetched a few small wheels of cheese from the cupboard and some tins of plain biscuits. He couldn't take his eyes off Sam's mouth; he thought Sam's lips still looked red with kisses.
"I could make a pie this afternoon." Sam stabbed at the wheel with a fork and withdrew a piece of crumbly cheese, popping it into his mouth. "Before the ceremony." Sam turned around, not before Frodo caught a glimpse of ash-grey eyelashes demure against Sam's cheek.
Dear, was Sam flirting with him? No, Frodo had an over-active imagination. He hadn't been...intimate with somebody since the elf lass sixty-one years ago, and he was merely excited about breaking his drought. Of course.
"You -- you want to do the ceremony tonight?" Frodo said slowly in amazement.
"Is that a problem?" Sam turned around with a cake tin in his hands.
"No, no, not at all," Frodo spat out in a hurry. "I thought maybe you'd like a rest..."
"'It's the job that's never started as takes longest to finish,' as my old gaffer used to say," said Sam. He took a knife and carved a slice of cake for Frodo. "Wouldn't you say?"
"Er, yes. But we have started, Sam."
He probably wants to get it over and done with. Don't get excited, Frodo-my-lad.
"Ah, but we ain't finished, and I reckon we ought not daydream about it for too long."
Frodo choked on his cake; Sam patted his back and offered him tea.
A while later Bilbo wandered in, looking tired as he sleepily sipped at his tea. Sam finished his breakfast and went to look around the garden in the bright sunshine, curious about the strange elven flowers and plants.
Bilbo waited till Sam had shut the kitchen door behind him to pursue the matter. "Well, did you?" he said.
"What?" Frodo blinked innocently.
"Kiss him, my smitten lad." Bilbo finished the dregs of his tea.
"Yes, of course. He didn't want to keep getting older and older."
Bilbo sat back and studied Frodo. "You just kissed? No words were spoken?"
"What do you expect, one kiss and Sam pours out a long sob story about how he's longed for me all these years?" Frodo riposted morosely.
"No, but..." Bilbo massaged his temple with his fingers. "We're going to live here a long time. I don't want it to be difficult."
"I have lived with Sam for a great deal of time, Bilbo," Frodo snapped. "I think I can control my feelings. To Sam this is all just an innocent elvish ritual. He hasn't said anything that leads me to believe he thinks of this as anything more than a ceremony. He's been perfectly willing to take part in the ceremony, but..." Sharp tears pricked behind Frodo's eyes. "I don't expect any more to come from it. I'll savour what I can."
"Oh, my dear boy," Bilbo sighed, patting Frodo's hand. "I thought this might happen. I should have fetched an elf maid to do the ceremony, instead of watching your heart break. But it's too late now; the ceremony must be performed with the same person. Why don't you have a bath and go for a walk? I'll see to Sam."
Frodo put down his forkful of cheese and nodded. Maybe a bath would cool his body down and clear his mind. Besides, he wanted to be clean and sweet-smelling when he took Sam to bed that night. It was the least he could do.
The day passed slowly. Sam cooked an apple pie, pressing a spoonful of the hot apples and crumbly pastry to Frodo's lips, looking pleased as Frodo proclaimed it the best pie he'd ever tasted. Sam and Frodo enjoyed a pleasant smoke in the parlour while Bilbo went to visit an elf friend, talking about the goings-on in the Shire and of Sam's family and of Frodo's life at the Tol. They skilfully avoided any mention of the night's ceremony, and Frodo was glad. Nervous butterflies were fluttering in his stomach as the sun sank below the land, so much that he barely touched his dinner. Sam barely touched his dinner, too, Frodo noticed as he carried his full plate to the sink.
After dinner there was a knock at the door. Frodo answered it while Sam and Bilbo cleaned the dishes.
A graceful, raven-haired elf stood at the door. Frodo remembered consulting this elf about the ceremony -- Arodhel was his name. "Greetings, Frodo Baggins," Arodhel murmured, bowing.
"Hullo." Frodo bowed. He noticed the elf's hands were filled with a phial and assorted packages.
"Is the ceremony going well?" asked the elf. "I am on my way to furnish the house again, as we are aware you are performing the next part of the ceremony tonight."
"Y-yes," Frodo stammered. "Very well. Thank you very much."
"Good." Arodhel looked pleased; his face glowed as if lit by candles. "Do you remember what must be done tonight? We don't wish for anything to go awry."
Frodo tried not to blush. He did anyway. "Yes, I remember." Because I think about it every day -- every moment.
"And the last time?" The elf peered at him with old, sea-coloured eyes.
"Uh, yes." Frodo shifted his weight to his other foot.
"Any requests for the final ceremony? Hithlain rope...a blindfold...oil?"
"Er -- plenty of oil," Frodo squeaked. "Um, yes, that will do." He glanced behind him; Sam and Bilbo could be heard chatting in the kitchen.
"Any particular flavour?" Arodhel asked, lips pursed.
"No, no. Any will be fine," Frodo assured hastily.
Arodhel bowed. "Very well. Enjoy the ceremony tonight. Goodbye, Frodo Baggins."
The elf turned and began walking down the path. It was then that Frodo observed that Arodhel was not alone. An elf lass draped in a long apricot gown carried satiny pillows and sheets, and a golden-haired elf bore a large wicker basket. All three disappeared into the cool evening a few moments later.
Nudging the door shut with his shoulder, Frodo bit his lip. He'd better tell Sam that they ought to be leaving soon.
Sam and Frodo walked to the house in silence, soft footfalls punctuating the quiet evening air. Clouds had rolled in after dinner, shading the moon's light, so Frodo carried a glowing lantern in his outstretched hand, painting the path ahead in a low orange light.
The house was furnished as it had been the night before: the fire was crackling, food and a filled bottle of tinnen were neatly placed on the table, and pretty lamps lit up the room. Sam examined a painting of the shoreline of the Tol hanging on the wall: tall, rocky cliffs, pounding waves and white sand.
"I think we should get changed," Frodo said, his mouth dry. Sam turned around slowly and moved to pick up his gown from the bed.
After changing as before, Frodo met Sam back in the room a few minutes later, excited and nervous and desperately trying to pluck at his gown to hide the half-erection that had pestered him most of the day. Frodo performed the same ceremony, chanting elvish in a high, sober voice, flicking drops of tinnen onto Sam while carefully stepping in a circle around him. Then he sipped some of the tinnen; the clear liquid was wet and cool in Frodo's parched mouth, and he swallowed hard as Sam put the phial to his lips and drank it all up.
After Sam had deposited the empty bottle onto the table, they just looked at each other. "Sam," Frodo started, feeling a fool, "we don't have to make love if you don't want to. I'll understand if you want to take your time with this...we can just lie next to each other, if you like. Maybe kiss, if you feel like it. Perhaps hug. Or touch. Touching's nice. My hot skin against yours...lips melting together..."
Steady on, Frodo-lad.
Sam mumbled something and crawled onto the bed. He lay back expectantly, his gown dotted with drops of liquid, his smile timid. "Are you going to release my fëa, Mr. Frodo?" Sam breathed, squirming on the bed in a very inviting way.
Frodo frowned for the tiniest of moments (don't be silly, Frodo, it's just for the ceremony), then slid over his lovely friend lying on the bed. Sam was supple and sumptuous beneath him, all silk cloth and strong muscles and vivid heat. They kissed long, lips and tongues tangling, hands lost in each other's hair.
Pulling away from Sam's embrace, Frodo searched Sam's face. Brown eyes were moist and half-closed, cheeks ruddy, grey hair in a fair state of disarray. "Sam," Frodo said, his finger for some reason strumming Sam's nipple through the gown. "We shall stop if you want to."
Sam appeared nonchalant, gave a shrug. "Seems silly to stop since we've started, don't you think?"
"Ah," Frodo heard himself say. "Economical."
Sam was always good with the accounts back in the Shire.
"You could say that," said Sam.
"That's very sm--mmmpphhh!" Sam's mouth relieved Frodo's of having to finish that sentence. They kissed long.
See, efficient again! Frodo thought, slightly woozy, as he caught a gulp of air. He looked fondly down at Sam, who was breathing quite fast. At that moment, everything seemed to be clear, like a dense fog suddenly revealing the running undulations of green hills and a bright blue sky. Could he possibly -- oh, but am I dreaming? Sam ran his knuckles down Frodo's cheek, over the swell of Frodo's chin, touching a rough but gentle thumb to Frodo's lips. Sam looked happy. A wave of hot elation washed through Frodo.
Oh, he must, mustn't he, if he looks so joyful!
Frodo buried his nose in Sam's curls, letting tufts of sweet-smelling hair caress his lips. "Sam..." he murmured. "Oh, you're beautiful, you know that?"
"Reckon I know from what's pressing onto my hip, Mr. Frodo," came the amusement-laced reply.
Frodo growled at his treacherous flesh, then continued to plunder Sam's mouth with quick licks and gentle nips, till Sam began to whimper and sigh.
"Fëa...release...soon..." groaned Sam, as Frodo kissed the delicate skin on Sam's neck, a hasty pulse thrumming beneath his lips.
"Can I touch you there, Sam?" Frodo whispered in Sam's ear. "If you want me to...I think that's allowed."
Sam let out a hum "yes", and Frodo crushed their mouths together while his hand searched for the rich, delicious flesh he'd ached to touch most of his life.
"Oh, you're very hard," said Frodo admiringly, kneading Sam's arousal through the gown. "I suppose the want doesn't lessen when you become old."
"No," gasped Sam, bucking into Frodo's hand. "Not one bit. Sir!" he added as Frodo gave him a gentle squeeze.
"I think," Frodo said as he nuzzled Sam's earlobe, "we've passed the point where you still call me 'sir.'"
"What should...should I call...mmm...you then, s-- oh!"
"Well..." Frodo was breathing fast, pushing his desperate arousal into Sam's thigh. "Fro-- Frodo, I suppose. Sam, if you stop moaning like that I'm going to die."
"OH, FRODO!" Sam moaned extra loud. "Like that?"
"Perfect." Frodo dabbed a kiss onto Sam's hot mouth. "Now let's be quiet and finish this off."
The bedsheets crumpled beneath them as they thrust together, heat to heat. Sam was melting under Frodo, clutching at Frodo's gown and crying weakly, twisting and stealing kisses on Frodo's mouth, while his other hand twined in Frodo's hair, tugging gently. Frodo was overwhelmed by the heat of the moment, embarrassed and delighted that he knew he would be coming faster than he ever had before in his life. He was moist and swollen, rubbing himself against Sam's gown, sighing every time sweet contact with Sam's erection was made. The friction was lovely.
Does he feel the same?
"Sam!" Frodo gasped as he burst, seeping through his gown. Dazzling pinpricks of glorious light flooded his vision as he came in wave after wave of pure joy. Sam followed quickly after, lingering under Frodo and closing his eyes. Eventually Frodo rolled off and snuggled into the crook of Sam's neck, satiated. He let out a long, contented sigh.
"Frodo?" Sam said softly, breaking Frodo's pleasure-induced haze. "Should we be going now?"
"Don't you want to stay here all night?" Frodo said sleepily, mouth on Sam's skin.
"It wouldn't be proper, would it?"
Frodo froze and slowly disentangled himself from Sam. He sat up on the bed, heedless of the large splotch staining his gown. "Not proper?" he repeated.
"I -- I mean--" Sam hesitated. "It's just a ceremony, right?"
See, it's just a ceremony, you stupid Baggins.
"Of course," Frodo said smoothly, jumping off the bed. His head began to pound. "I'll go and get changed and we'll go back home." He turned to the bathroom.
"Have I done something wrong, sir -- Frodo?" Sam asked in a hurt voice. Disappointment clouded his face.
"No, Sam," Frodo sighed. "I'm just a fool."
Frodo lay in bed long into the night, staring at the ceiling. While he and Sam had walked home, he had recounted the tale of how Bilbo once got so drunk at an elven party he made rather suggestive comments to Lady Celebrían, causing poor Elrond to sulk in the corner for the rest of the evening. Frodo was pleased to see Sam chuckling at the story, the night's awkwardness forgotten -- for a brief moment at least.
Frodo had stalked straight to bed as soon as they reached the darkened smial. Luckily Bilbo was asleep; Frodo didn't want Bilbo pestering him with questions. He hated to admit it, but Bilbo had been right.
Tonight Frodo's body ached again, but now it just plain hurt, a steady, pounding, throbbing in his head and his toes and all the spaces in between. He had been playing a dangerous game with his heart, listening to less reliable portions of his anatomy, and he had lost. At least Sam didn't know how he felt. What had Frodo said? He had called Sam beautiful. Not something you'd usually tell a friend, but, well, maybe Sam would think Frodo was only trying to get him in the mood.
Frodo pulled the pillow from under his head and wedged it between his legs.
It's not fair.
Yes, Frodo was only thrust playing his part in an important elvish thrust ceremony. He didn't want to sleep thrust with Sam any more after it was thrust finished. He was doing what any good pump friend would do. Nothing more pump in it than pump, pump that.
Frodo crushed his face into the bedsheets, spurting hot seed into the pillow.
I don't wish for him...no...I don't...
Now he was lying to himself.
Frodo rose well
after elevenses. He pulled his dressing gown on and helped
himself to lukewarm coffee and a couple of oat biscuits.
Peeping out of the kitchen window, he could see neither Sam
nor Bilbo, so he decided to step out into the clear sunshine
and mope for a bit.
Munching on the biscuits and finishing the last of his coffee, Frodo followed the path around the garden. It was filled with the same plants as were at Bag End, and in the same places, too. A few native Tol plants were added here and there, and the elves had built a birdbath in the centre of the garden to attract brightly-coloured birds. Still, there was something missing from the garden, and it hadn't taken Frodo long to realise what, or rather who, was missing.
Sam on his knees, sweaty in the summer sun, pulling out weeds. Sam gently tipping water from a can onto freshly-planted seedlings. Sam stretching his strong arms in the late afternoon, his shirt stuck to his chest, nipples so rosy and pebble-taut Frodo wanted to soothe them with his tongue.
"Oh, Sam," Frodo murmured.
"Yes, sir -- Frodo?" replied a voice.
Frodo stepped back in surprise as Sam came crawling out from beneath a bush. Sam was blushing, brushing leaves from his shirt and adjusting his breeches.
"I saw a little animal scoot under there," Sam explained. "I wanted to have a look."
"It was probably what the elves call a celvahalda," Frodo said. "They're terribly shy creatures. I've only caught a glimpse of one or two while I've been here. You're lucky to have seen one."
"I'm lucky to be here," Sam said quietly. "With you."
"Yes, well... Look, you have a leaf in your hair." Frodo plucked a crinkled brown leaf from Sam's curls and tossed it into the garden. "Shall we go for a walk?"
They meandered down the path, Sam stopping to sniff at an exotic flower sometimes, or Frodo pronouncing a plant's name in Quenya while being encouraged by an admiring Sam. Frodo thought Sam looked splendid in the crisp morning sunshine, with sunlight glittering in his grey hair and skin a pale brown colour, almost the shade of new honey.
I don't wish for him, I don't...
Frodo was so busy repeating that to himself that he almost tripped over an elf pile writhing on the grass before him. A tall, golden-haired elf was in a preoccupied tangle with another silver-haired elf, their tunics half-off, mouths stuck together, hands in places Frodo'd rather not notice.
"Er," said Frodo, "hullo Glorfindel."
"Oh!" Glorfindel extricated himself from his lover's embrace, and stood up, brushing shoots of grass from his breeches. "Good day to you, Frodo Baggins. We didn't see you, did we, Ilwë dear?" Ilwë shook his head, rose from the ground and watched the hobbits with a passive face. He did not seem fazed that he'd been caught, and neither did Glorfindel. Frodo was not surprised; it was not the first time he'd found an elven heap in his front garden, though he did worry about poor shy Sam. Frodo couldn't even look at Sam at that moment.
"Allow me to introduce my present lover," said Glorfindel. "Ilwë from Avallónë." Sam and Frodo bowed; Ilwë returned the gesture, silent. "He doesn't speak Common Speech, though I'm teaching it to him, for he knows of both of your deeds and wishes to speak with you one day." Glorfindel let out a huge sigh. "Unfortunately, we keep getting distracted by each other. Ah, but I mustn't complain." He smiled a radiant smile at Sam. "Well met, Samwise Gamgee!"
"Mr. Glorfindel!" said Sam, taking the elf's slender hands in delight. "I'm glad to see you again."
"And you too, Master Gamgee," Glorfindel laughed musically, kneeling down to the hobbits' level. "I've come to the Tol from Valimar to visit my uncle and heard you had just arrived. I'm glad you have been allowed to rest in comfort here at the Undying Lands."
"I am too," Sam said, glancing at Frodo. "Though it's not been what I expected, Mr. Glorfindel. I thought I knew a bit about elves, but I was wrong, seemingly."
"Oh?" Glorfindel's slim eyebrows rose and he pierced Frodo with his deep grey eyes. "I suppose you are talking about the ceremony you are undertaking? Frodo discussed it with me, and we both thought it would be best if Frodo was a part of it. Were we wrong?"
"No, sir," said Sam. "I just didn't expect it, is all."
"And how is the ceremony proceeding?" Glorfindel asked Frodo. "Everything going to plan?" He tossed a surreptitious wink at Frodo.
"Y--" Frodo cleared his throat. "Yes, perfectly. We've performed the first two ceremonies already."
"You're not taking your time, are you?" Glorfindel was smiling too widely for Frodo's liking. "Are you two in a hurry, perhaps? Enjoying it a little too much?" He laughed. "I shall come and visit in a few weeks. That should give you enough time." Patting Frodo on the head like a pet dog, the strange elf walked away, followed by a nimble Ilwë.
"Some elves are queerer than others," Sam said, shaking his head. "I suppose I will have to get used to it."
"You will," said Frodo. "It takes some adjusting, but you will be fine. They're a great deal more pleasant than Sandyman, anyway." He let out a clumsy laugh at long ago memories. Sam looked thoughtful.
They watched Glorfindel and Ilwë share a minute-long, lip-squashing kiss, then duck around the corner. "What do you think he meant," Sam asked, "about giving us enough time?"
Frodo studied the faint sweep of the horizon. "You'll have to excuse the elves, Sam. They can be quite...wicked sometimes."
Sam's shoulder brushed Frodo's. "Wicked how?"
Frodo smiled grimly. "Well, they happen to...think about sex an awful lot...do it an awful lot as well. They think it applies to hobbits as well. You might stumble across more...elf piles, I'm afraid. I'm sorry..."
"Didn't mind seeing them," Sam mumbled. "Quite liked it, actually." He rushed on, "Don't you think about it a lot, Frodo?"
Only with you, Sam.
"No! I mean, sometimes. It's just...back in the Shire it wasn't spoken of in proper company...and...and..." Frodo's tongue appeared to have grown two sizes too big for his mouth.
"We're not in the Shire no more, Frodo." Sam's voice was very rough.
"No, we're not," Frodo admitted. Don't say it, Frodo Baggins, don't you dare. "Yes, I -- I think about it." Why did Sam's eyes have to be so brown? "All -- all of the time. Every night. But...but mostly I think about it with a certain person in my mind." His gaze clung to Sam's. Getting air into his lungs was proving to be awfully difficult at that moment.
Sam? Say something!
Don't let me stand here...
"I think about it a lot, Frodo-dear. Wish I was as lucky as Glorfindel."
"Please tell me it's me," Sam breathed, his voice hopeful. "Please tell me it wasn't just a ceremony to you."
"Of course it's you, my dearest of hobbits." Frodo fought back salty tears. "I've wanted to for a long time. I am a selfish hobbit. I envy Glorfindel and Ilwë."
A strong hand clasped Frodo's. "I wanted to for a long time too, Frodo. I loved my Rose, and I don't regret my life with her, but it was always you I loved the most. Always. I -- I liked kissing and touching you. Loved it, in fact. I tried to get you to say something...do something...when I went into your room...I heard you moan and I guessed what you were doing..."
"I thought you were homesick..." murmured Frodo.
"Touching your thigh when I noticed how aroused you were..."
"Thought you didn't mean it..." Frodo supplied feebly.
"Wanting to do the second ceremony the next day..."
"Thought you wanted to get it over with..." Frodo uttered weakly.
"And last night when I said it was just a ceremony...I wanted to see if you felt the same...but seemingly you didn't...I didn't think you wanted me after that...but I had to be sure..."
"I thought you thought it was just a ceremony." Frodo buried his head in his hands, groaning. "I'm an idiot, Sam. I never realised...I was convinced you'd never feel that way towards me...you must think me silly..."
"Never, me dear," murmured an awed voice. "Even though I was practically throwing myself at you." The last sentence was finished with a breathy chuckle.
Frodo peeked between his splayed fingers. He grinned.
Sam was looking at him, expectant and abashed, eyes simmering with a want Frodo had never seen before. A rush of pure liquid heat shot to his groin. Sam wants me. Oh, my... "Sam," Frodo desperately tried to keep his voice under control, "at any other time I would take you to my bedroom and make love to you till cried out in bliss, but it's not allowed."
"Not allowed?" Sam's lips curved up, so delightfully Frodo wanted to kiss them forever.
"You can't make love between the ceremonies; you must wait a day and a night. Not that I don't wish...want very much to..." Frodo's tongue tangled. He burst out laughing. "You know what I mean, my lovely Samwise."
"Not even a kiss?" Sam sounded very hoarse and very loveable.
"Not even a kiss."
Sam raised an eyebrow. "So, do you think we ought to perform the third part of the ceremony tonight?" he asked, giving Frodo a sly sideways look.
Frodo nodded seriously, his heart and head in a desperate fighting match, debating whether or not to pull Sam against him and make fast love to Sam's mouth. "I -- I think we should," he stammered. "We don't have to do everything, if you're not ready -- after all, we are supposed to be releasing the fëa slowly. Anything, I think, would be lovely."
"Think?" Sam's voice was barely a whisper. Oh, he was teasing now.
"We could postpone it for a few weeks," mused Frodo, trying not to laugh. "Maybe even a year or two. I'll have to check with Elrond to-- Ghngghh!"
Somehow Sam's hand had managed to cover the front of Frodo's trousers and give a good squeeze to the flesh down there. "Then what are we going to do now, Frodo-love?" Sam asked breathlessly.
Die with frustration, most likely.
"Play checkers?" Frodo suggested. "Tell stories? Bake a cake? Imagine how incredibly lovely it will be to make love to my dearest?"
"I've had a few saucy dreams myself," Sam admitted, laughing.
Saucy? Dreams? Do tell!
Sam shrugged. "I might show you some time."
"You better," Frodo growled. "And I'll show you the one I've had where you're blindfolded and tied to the bed."
Sam looked shocked, though he was grinning. "I never thought you would think of such things, Mr. Frodo."
"Oh, I've thought of a lot of things," Frodo assured him. "Come on, let's bake a cake before I think on those ideas of mine too much."
The rest of the day travelled at a snail's pace. Sam and Frodo baked a rich chocolate cake, giggling and sneakily pinching flesh, and making rather lewd remarks to each other, like a brace of besotted tweeners. Frodo itched to touch Sam, to brush the flour from Sam's cheek, to lick the icing from Sam's lips, to pull Sam onto the bench and kiss him breathless. Alas, it wasn't allowed. Stupid elvish ceremony.
Bilbo arrived a little before dinner, a basket full of seashells hooked over his elbow. It was a hobby of his to collect shells and lay them around the smial like useless mathoms. Sam and Frodo were in the parlour, lightly touching each other as they sat on the couch, perusing an old tome.
Framed at the doorway, Bilbo looked suspiciously at them. "How are you, lads? Is dinner cooked?"
"A roast chicken and potatoes are in the oven," said Frodo. "They will be ready soon." He stopped. "I think it's going to be hot and spicy tonight, don't you, Sam?"
Sam gasped and smothered a giggle with his hand. His eyes watered. "That's right, Mr. Bilbo!" he spluttered. "Sure to melt in my mouth."
Frodo snorted into his arm. My, we are wicked.
Bilbo's eyes darted from Sam to Frodo, wary. His eyes narrowed. "I'm going to rest in my room for a while. Call me when dinner's ready."
Frodo nodded, and when Bilbo had shut his bedroom door, he and Sam burst into peals of laughter. "Oh, my," Frodo wiped his eyes. "We ought to be sitting on the bench at the front of the smial making snide remarks about the youngsters of today, not spouting suggestive comments to my uncle, of all people."
"I guess it's because we can't do nothing about how we feel," Sam smiled, soft desire flickering in his eyes.
Frodo fell back into the sofa, groaning. "Isn't it awful? Here I've been, silently pining for you my whole life, and now that I know you feel the same way, I can't do anything about it."
"Reckon we ought to take care of things by ourselves," Sam said slyly.
"Why, Sam!" Frodo chuckled, giving Sam's thigh a squeeze. "Aren't you a naughty old hobbit? Anyway, we can remember what happened last night, can't we?"
"But that's not the same," Sam pointed out. "We didn't know how each other felt. I only thought you were doing it because of the ceremony."
"I was only doing it because of the ceremony," Frodo said. "But that doesn't mean I didn't enjoy it a great deal. But tonight, I think, will be very special."
"Oh, aye," grinned Sam, licking his lips. "I still wouldn't mind seeing you touch yourself."
Frodo blushed hot, staring at Sam in astonishment. When did Samwise Gamgee become so bold...and so unbelievably attractive? "You've grown up a lot," Frodo said, swallowing. "But I rather like it."
"I've been through a bit, with my Rosie and children. Reckon you get over it all when you have to explain the birds and bees thirteen times." Sam's hand was quietly stroking Frodo's arm.
"Let's wait until tonight," Frodo said heavily. "And it will be special."
Sam looked disappointed, but put his fingers to his lips and pressed them to Frodo's. Frodo melted at the delicious Sam-ness and the loving gesture, sinking into the sofa again and cursing the elves.
It wasn't really the elves' fault, Frodo thought as he and Sam walked to the house. They were holding hands, shyly stealing looks at each other in the silky glow of the moon. If it wasn't for the elves, they might have never gotten together in the first place. He really ought to be thanking the elves, not cursing their fair name. But the impatient part of Frodo's anatomy beneath his belly button was an altogether irrational being.
"What did you think," Frodo asked, stepping over a rock, "when I told you we had to make love?"
"Scared," said Sam. "Scared to death in fact. But excited all the same."
"I told the elves I should perform the ceremony with you," Frodo allowed. "They wanted an elvish lass, but I said you'd be more comfortable with me. But I really wanted to make love to you. Don't think poorly of me," he added quickly.
"I would have done the same," Sam said, gripping Frodo's hand tightly. "Wouldn't miss a chance to tumble with Frodo Baggins for all of the world."
The house became visible in the distance; even from where he was Frodo could see the fires glowing at the windows. "How do you feel now, Sam?" he asked in a low voice.
"More scared than I would be bumping into an angry orc," Sam said, breathing in sharply. "I don't want nothing to go wrong. But I want you something awful." Frodo's heart soared, and he lunged to tweak Sam's bottom. Sam swatted him away, clucking his tongue.
They entered the house for the third time, and yet again the food and tinnen were laid out on the table. But on the table was another yellow-glassed phial. It was labelled in sweeping Tengwar: Sunflower Oil.
Sam followed Frodo's gaze. "Could be handy," he murmured.
Frodo blushed. "We should get changed," he said, making towards the bathroom with his gown (freshly laundered after being stained the night before.)
"Wait!" Sam called out. "Perhaps you ought to change here," he said, low and tender.
"I'm--" Frodo began, considered the possibilities and nodded yes.
Frodo dropped the gown onto the bed, watching Sam bashfully as he began to unbutton his shirt. Sam imitated Frodo, fingers shaking a bit, and soon they had shucked their shirts to the floor.
Frodo flicked out a tongue to wet his dry lips. "Should I put the gown on now?"
Sam's eyes dipped low to rest upon Frodo's not-so-subtle erection. His mouth was open in a ravenous O. "Breeches first, I reckon."
Slowly, Frodo unfastened his breeches buttons, keeping the material together to hide himself. He was awfully hard now, panting under his breath with desire. Sam followed Frodo, eyes plunging down to Frodo's fingers.
They stared at each other.
"Reckon I'll die if I don't see what's under those breeches, Frodo-love," Sam said eventually, and Frodo smiled at the memory of similar words from last night. In one swift movement, he pulled down his breeches and kicked them to who-knows-where. He might never wear them again.
Sam didn't move for a moment, then stepped out of his breeches. The hem caught on Sam's big toe, and he grunted in irritation, eventually flicking them away with a well-timed snap of his foot. Tomorrow Frodo would discover the breeches landed on the doorknob.
Dear, you are a fine sight, Sam Gamgee.
Frodo's mouth watered, a ripple shuddering down his back. A crimson, eager length emerged from a nest of tiny curls; furred flesh dangled between Sam's legs. And, oh my, if Frodo didn't already guess from last night, Sam was rather well-endowed in that department.
"I have to say," said Sam in awe, eyes darting up and down Frodo, "that beats Lady Galadriel any day."
"Don't tell her that." Frodo lowered his voice, "She's a little vain about her looks."
Sam clapped a hand over his mouth, swallowing a chuckle. "I'm not going to tell nobody," he said. "I'm keeping you all to myself." He suddenly frowned. "You haven't done it with anybody since the elf lass all those years ago, have you? Those elves seem mighty lustful."
"No...all right, a little," Sam admitted, looking self-conscious.
"Don't worry, Sam, I haven't. Not even a kiss. I've been saving myself...for you. Though I was almost dragged to an elf orgy once..."
"Lor'." Sam's voice shook. "Can't believe nobody'd want to touch you."
Frodo shrugged, smiling. "As I said, I've had a few offers...but I only ever wanted you, my dear Sam."
Sam licked his lips. "Come'ere," he ground out, stepping forward.
Regretful, Frodo moved back. "The ceremony, Sam," Frodo reminded him.
Sam sighed, and they both pulled their gowns over their heads. "Hurry," Sam murmured, sketching a gesture to where his gown stuck out quite a bit.
Frodo grabbed the tinnen, and began dropping the liquid onto Sam, uttering the elvish poesy as fast as his tongue could allow, while hopping around Sam in a wonky, slightly drunken circle. His head was spinning. When that nuisance was done, Frodo drank some of the tinnen, shoved it in Sam's direction and waited hungrily as Sam drank every last drop.
"Finished!" Sam gasped, dumping the empty bottle on the table, and rucked up his gown, pulled it over his head and jumped onto the bed.
"Oh, Sam," Frodo murmured, a soft, warm glow heating his cheeks. "Aren't you eager?"
"I might not look it, but I'm younger than you," answered Sam.
"So impatient," said Frodo slowly, scrunching his gown up, making sure to hide himself in the right places.
"You learn patience in the Undying Lands," Frodo continued. "The soft flow of elvish time, unhurried like a long summer afternoon. Like the gentle dusting of snowflakes--"
"Frodo!" Sam burst out. "If you don't do me hard and fast, I might have to release my own fëa!"
"Yes, Sam-dear," whispered Frodo, whipping off his gown and swooping onto his edible friend squirming on the bed. They kissed, crushing and eager, gasping and crying out as flesh pressed on flesh. Their tongue-tips brushed, Sam's clever and remarkably agile, as lovely as rich, velvety wine, only hundreds of times better. Frodo was overwhelmed, wanting to press his fingers, his mouth, to every patch of skin on Sam, adore him. Sam was kneading Frodo's bottom, humming shallow in his throat, his eyes half closed, his mouth damp and sensual. Frodo was salivating at the sight.
"I can't wait to see you come, me dear," panted Sam.
"You saw me yesterday."
"Want...to see you...again."
Frodo was nearly panting. Sam, if you keep talking like that, the ceremony will be over in a breath. I think I shall have to...
"I have an idea, Sam," Frodo said bashfully, rolling off of Sam and swivelling around, positioning one hand on Sam's hipbone. Sam's thick erection stood high and proud, flushed and bobbing before Frodo's eyes with a keen readiness. Frodo quivered.
"Oh," muttered Sam. "That works well."
"Indeed." Frodo was still, his skin near searing, Sam's shaft invitingly jerking forward towards his lips.
"Lick it, Frodo, please," Sam pleaded.
Frodo drew up close, holding Sam steady with his hand, and wrapped his lips around Sam. Sam stirred, restless, but Frodo gentled him, applying soft pressure to Sam's hip, and tasted the delicate, musky flavour of Sam. His Sam, his charming Sam, letting him perform the most intimate of acts. For a few moments Frodo applied a little suction, cheeks hollowing, then backed away.
"Taste me, Sam-love," he murmured, husky with Sam's flavour tingling his tongue.
Sam's lips and mouth were uncertain, but soon warmed to the task, his tongue working wonders up and down Frodo's arousal, even taking little swipes at the heavy flesh beneath. He wrapped a hand around Frodo, holding him still, taking Frodo deep into himself.
The sensation was unlike anything Frodo had ever experienced. To be welcomed into the tender, caring mouth of his beloved, and at the same time have his lover's hardness resting on his tongue bettered any sordid fantasy he had imagined. Head light in an aroused fog, Frodo smeared a bead of liquid around the head of Sam's shaft with his tongue, mmm'ing with pleasure.
Sam was murmuring a quiet "hmm" in his throat, lost in the delectable moment, attending to Frodo as if it was the most important task he'd ever done. Frodo, in turn, wanted to give Sam everything. Fingers tightening on Sam's hip, Frodo relished Sam's private parts as if they were the most exquisite food in all of the world. And to Frodo they were.
Frodo didn't want to stop, didn't want anything else but Sam's miraculous mouth sheathing him, but through his foggy, Sam-aroused mind, he recalled the words "elvish ceremony" and "completed." A small whimper came from Sam as Frodo let him go, but Frodo kissed a tuft of Sam's grey curls in apology, easing himself from Sam's lips.
"The ceremony," he whispered, now straddled across Sam's hips, languidly pushing against him. Sam's tang was still setting fire to his mouth.
"Ah, me dear." Sam looked impossibly beautiful and content. "That was wonderful. You taste so good."
"Sam...we could do the third part of the ceremony now...if you want to...not that I'm forcing you to...I'd never do that...maybe you can...be inside me...but it would be lovely to...touch inside of you..."
Aren't you eloquent?
"What I'm trying to say, Sam," Frodo managed, "is that anything you want is fine."
Silence. Sam shifted under him.
"Please," said Sam very gently. "Please...I want you so much...love you so much... And I want to be young again, like you...and...and give you everything..."
"Oh, you do, Sam. Just by being here...coming to see me again after all these years..." Frodo cupped Sam's cheek, stroking the rough skin with a thumb.
"And I don't know how much longer I can bear not knowing how it feels to have you inside of me." Sam's eyes crinkled with fond laughter. "I can't wait..."
"Oh, don't worry, there's more to come," Frodo said deviously, with a waggle of eyebrows.
Sam's eyes widened and he grinned at the emphasis. "You're a wicked young lad, Frodo Baggins." He grabbed at Frodo's erection, delivering a few quick strokes.
Frodo yelped, his mouth hot, and tickled Sam's belly, then wrestled him, pinning Sam's arms above his head with one hand. "You're at my mercy, you old hobbit," Frodo said, narrowing his eyes, letting a finger glide down Sam's breastbone, down to trace the V-shape of fine, white curls. Frodo was stronger than Sam. That was sure to change tomorrow.
"Then," heaved Sam, struggling but unable to break free, "you best have your way with me."
Frodo obliged, lowering his head to kiss Sam fiercely on the mouth, sucking hungrily on that slippery tongue. His hand roamed lower to caress Sam's erection with a few teasing fingers.
"Help me!" Sam cried out in mock horror.
"Are you going to be a good hobbit?" Frodo asked sternly. He grazed his arousal along Sam's stomach, leaving a wet, glistening trail.
Sam bobbed his head frantically. "Yessir."
"Make sure you only call me 'sir' when I'm having my way with you," replied Frodo firmly, taking a helping of Sam's nipple into his mouth and kissing the taut flesh. "Or I might get upset."
"Yes...Mr. Frodo sir." Sam grinned, a flash of teeth. He bucked under Frodo.
"Good," said Frodo with satisfaction. "Now be good and turn over onto your stomach."
While Sam turned over, Frodo shuffled along the bed and grabbed the sunflower oil. "I don't know how flexible you would have been in the other position," he breathed into Sam's ear after he'd edged back. Unhurried, he mouthed his way down Sam's spine, kissing each peak, relishing each bump.
Down, down Frodo ventured, till he came to the adorable swelling of Sam's bottom. He buried his nose in, and quickly licked the dark, furred cleft, too shy to study it properly with his tongue just yet.
"Frodo!" Sam groaned. "Feels so good."
Frodo blushed furiously, sinking his teeth into his lip, and gently pulled Sam's hips up; Sam's head was pillowed between his arms.
"I'm going to..." Frodo paused. "Put my...stick my... oh, you know. Are you ready?"
"Hurry!" Sam pleaded.
Satisfied with the answer, Frodo twisted the lid off the sunflower oil and tipped the pungent liquid into his hands. He rubbed his hands together to warm it a little, and spread the oil all over his arousal, nearly coming at the touch, and at the view of Sam's rear end wriggling and waiting for Frodo to slide in.
Frodo crawled up beside Sam, kissing his cheek, reverently stroking Sam's bottom. Without a moment's warning, he guided his finger inside of Sam, about an inch, into wonderful warmth and tightness.
Oh, that's rather nice.
"Oh...Frodo!" Sam pushed back, burying Frodo's finger right to his knuckle.
Even better, Sam-dear.
"Good?" Frodo asked. He moved his finger experimentally. Sam moaned.
"All right?" murmured Frodo.
"Another," Sam begged. "Want more. Please."
Frodo pushed in another finger, and for a breath nearly burst out laughing at the utter ridiculousness of it all: here he was, in Tol Eressëa, the Undying Lands for heaven's sake, performing an elvish healing ceremony that involved sticking his fingers into Sam's bottom. Not exactly what he'd dreamed of all these years, but near enough.
Frodo swirled his fingers around for a bit, teasing, sprinkling kisses down Sam's back. He spread his fingers gently, pushing in and out, readying Sam, till he had Sam begging and panting. Taking out his sticky fingers, Frodo slathered the rest of the oil over himself, the excess liquid running down his thighs, and tossed the empty bottle onto the floor. Then he secured his legs on either side of Sam's, pressed his leaking tip against Sam, and slid into him in one fluid thrust.
"Oh!" Sam moaned. "Oh! You feel so good in there."
It feels good to be in there, dear.
"Do I?" whispered Frodo, laying his cheek on Sam's back. "I have you again now, Sam-love, and I shan't ever let you go." Frodo reached around to play with Sam's erection, while he gently thrust out of Sam, and in again, careful. He didn't want to hurt him.
But Sam had other ideas. "Deeper," he gasped. "Harder!"
Willing to oblige, my love.
Sam was firm and swelling in Frodo's hand, and Frodo's hips were begging to pump quicker, harder. Bracing his hand on the mattress, Frodo plunged -- in, out, in, out. Sam was making little whimpers of delight; Frodo heard somebody making rather noisy moans, and found it was himself, astounded that he was surrounded by dark, heated flesh, held inside of his beloved.
"Oh, Frodo," Sam groaned loudly now. "You're so hot...so hard in me...don't you dare stop..."
Frodo's hips made a wet slap as they slammed into Sam's bottom.
"Yes, oh, yes. Frodo, I can't -- I'm going to -- oh -- come all over -- over you--"
Frodo decided there wasn't a finer sound in this world than Sam uttering such incoherent (and wonderfully dirty) words.
"Good," moaned Frodo. "I want...want to feel it...all sticky...and hot...on my fingers..."
Love you, Sam...
Yes, oh please, dear, come for me...
Hot fluid flooded over Frodo's fingers, and in turn he sank deep inside Sam, erupting in a flurry of quick thrusts. Frodo collapsed onto Sam's back, breathing heavily, dropping happy kisses in Sam's damp hair. When the watery feeling seeped from his limbs, he carefully withdrew, easing himself from tender flesh.
Frodo picked up a blanket from the floor and lovingly wiped Sam clean. He helped Sam into his gown, quickly pulled his own gown on, then flipped the blankets over them and nestled close to Sam. He could hear Sam's old heart beating wildly.
"I could use a bit of elvish healing every night," murmured Sam sleepily, curling a lazy finger through Frodo's hair.
"That was utterly wonderful," said Frodo, kissing Sam's closed eyes. "I hope it won't be the last time."
"Better not be." Sam's voice was thick, slurred. "Don't think we need elvish healing as an excuse no more."
"No." The sharp, fresh smell of their lovemaking drifted into Frodo's nose. He breathed in, savouring the delightful fragrance.
"Do you think it was...a bit hot...and spicy?" Sam yawned.
"You, my dear Sam, melted in my mouth," Frodo returned with a sigh. The lamps' fires dampened out; now only the dancing glow in the fireplace lit the room. Thin shadows spread across the walls.
"I'm happy, Frodo." Sam's breath caressed Frodo's cheek. "Not from the magic, I don't reckon."
"I don't think so either." Frodo was quiet. Sam planted a few drowsy kisses on Frodo's mouth, and in time his breaths came slow and heavy. Frodo's skin began to tingle, little prickles of light and heat wafting over his body. His eyelashes fluttered. Tomorrow Sam would be younger...Sam would be his...forever...tomorrow...
Frodo awoke to find an empty space beside him, and a sparkling blue dawn greeting him out the window. He raised his head, called out a sleepy "Sam!" and looked around. Sam was gone.
Frodo frowned and tossed the blanket off his body, then heard a gasp from the bathroom. He sank his feet into the heavy carpet and hurried to the small room.
Standing before the mirror was a golden-haired, firm-muscled hobbit wearing a crumpled gown.
My lovely Samwise.
Sam's reflection smiled at Frodo in the mirror, little crinkles springing up at the corners of his eyes. Frodo flew to his beloved and draped one arm around Sam's waist, the other lifting Sam's wheat-coloured hair to nuzzle wet kisses below Sam's ear. "Oh, Sam, you're beautiful. You were beautiful before, of course, but now you're my sweet Sam from the Shire. How do you feel?"
"Young," Sam said in awe. "No more aches and pains. Like I could run twenty miles."
"No need to do that," Frodo murmured, licking Sam's ear.
"No." Sam's voice grew warm and husky. "Maybe we could try something else. Is that allowed?"
"It is now," said Frodo, incredibly aroused by the lovely hobbit in his arms. "I should check to see if everything's right." He lowered his hand to Sam's thigh and slowly drew up the creamy-coloured gown, gently stroking the exquisite bundle underneath. Indeed, everything was right. Very right.
"That's fine, Sam," breathed Frodo softly. "Very fine. Let's go to bed."
Sam turned around and lifted Frodo up, kissing him none too gently on the mouth. Frodo snickered, toes dragging on the floor, pinching Sam's tight bottom. "Oh, you're so strong now, Sam," he said dramatically. "I'm at your mercy, I'm afraid."
Sam growled, tugged off Frodo's gown and lifted Frodo up like a babe, Frodo's legs dangling and rather weak, too. He laid Frodo onto the messed-up bed, rustled up his own gown and hoisted it over his head, smiling fondly as he crawled up to the puddle of smitten hobbit. Frodo looked up shyly beneath his lashes, thinking Sam might have even grown a little down there if he wasn't mistaken.
"Reckon you're going to have to move into my room, if you're going to make noises like that," murmured Sam as he dwelt on Frodo's chest for a moment to bite the seashell-pink peaks of Frodo's nipples. "It's a bit further from Mr. Bilbo's."
"Poor Bilbo!" Frodo laughed, head sinking into the pillow. "I hope he won't mind."
"He'll just have to get used to it." Sam trapped Frodo's wrists above his head with two strong hands; Frodo giggled and squirmed but couldn't free himself. Sam pushed his tongue past the welcoming gate of Frodo's lips, kissing him deeply.
"We ought to thank the elves," gasped Frodo, writhing under Sam's arousal-inducing body.
"I'll send them a letter."
Frodo chuckled, thrusting upward to meet Sam's hot, stiff erection. "I love -- love you, Sam. We have so -- mmm -- many years to catch -- uh -- up on."
Sam stilled for a moment, his face inches from Frodo's. "Love you too, Frodo Baggins. Feels like I've been waiting to tell you all my life." Something sparkled in Sam's brown eyes. "But right now I'd like to catch up on this," he said, pinning Frodo to the bed and kissing him senseless.
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