West of the Moon
A Tolkien Fanfiction Archive
Frodo overhears Sam talking to himself.
Author: Bill The Pony
"Oi, now, me gaffer says ye shouldn't be troublin' me." Sam's accent is thicker than his wont, at least when he talks to Frodo, and sharp as a whip. "Not with the grass to be mowed yet, an' all."
Frodo lifts his head, puzzled and a little startled; he hasn't heard another voice or another set of footsteps, just Sam. He shifts a little, parting the springy tuffet of grass where his book lies propped. He can just see Sam down in the arbor. Sam is apparently talking to his shears.
"Anyhow, me Gaffer says 'tain't right, an' I'll just have to work harder. 'How?' That's what I'd like to know." Sam continues, cross as may be. "I'm workin' from sunrise to middle-night, I am, an' you're the botheration of me in spite of all that."
Frodo plucks a blade of grass and chews it, wondering idly if the gardener lad has lost his mind. In any case, this one-sided conversation is more interesting than the lofty declamations of Fëanor, especially since Frodo has reached a place where the book he's reading descends into impenetrable details of gemsmithing.
"I shouldn't ought to listen to ye," Sam snaps to the air. "Leastways that's what me Gaffer says. 'Tain't right, he says. But ye don't take no for an answer, nohow. I reckon if I don't want more than my share of shame from walking about so, I'd best get ye over with and done, so's I can do a bit of work." He picks up the shears and stalks off with them towards the tool-shed.
Frodo debates with himself for a moment, then gets up and follows, curious-- maybe Sam is going to sharpen the wayward shears? He folds up his book as he walks and sets it carefully on a sheltered bench. The tool shed is nearby now, but he doesn't hear the sounds of the whetstone. He doesn't hear anything at all, unless it's a little sound from Sam, something like a grunt of effort, or maybe a little choked cry of pain.
....And it all slides into place. Frodo's eyes go wide, and a laugh nearly forces its way out of his throat; he should go away now and leave the lad in peace, but he's too near; the door of the shed is open just a crack, and through it he can see sunlight sliding along Sam's bare forearm, which is sliding along something else.
And then he doesn't want to go; darting a wary glance around himself to ensure that nobody is watching, he sidles close to the door, leaning against the wall, his eyes locked on what he can see inside. He should go, but....
Sam's left arm braces against a beam, the sturdy fingers gripped around its surface, his elbow and leg pressed against the wall. His right hand is busy, flat against the placket of his breeches, and his eyes are shut. His lips are open, and the shaft of light from the window catches the soft down of hair on his cheek, and the coarser hair on his forearm.
Frodo licks his lips, reaching down to shift himself; he feels a brief pang of shame that melts like ice in the sunlight as Sam makes an impatient noise and reaches inside the placket, coming out with himself in hand.
"Ah, now don't ye go askin' that," Sam says abruptly. "For it ain't right, no...." the word curls on a breath, lengthening and sighing into a low flutter. Sam's hand doesn't listen; it curls tight and moves, callused thumb brushing over the soft flesh that covers the head of his shaft. "Not him," Sam breathes. "Not him; he ain't for ye t'be askin' after."
Frodo bites his lip. Him? He wonders who 'him' might be-- maybe Tom Cotton, meant for Sam's own sister. It must be so.
"Just do yer bit and leave me be," Sam implores, his voice harsh, but his fingers look gentle and skillful, and the wet plum-head of his cock comes peeking out of its soft skin-sheath as he says it, dark and gleaming. "That's it," Sam purrs. A low shudder runs through him as he swipes his rough thumb over the wet silky tip. His fingers cradle himself, nice and tight, and his thumb joins them, making a tight ring around himself for a few fast, hard, strokes. His knees wobble and he leans heavily against the wall.
Frodo's own hand finds its way into his breeches and curls around the warm, damp flesh that is stirring there. He pushes his hips forward, slow and lazy, watching Sam do the same-- watching Sam push his cock through his fist as he holds it steady and tight.
"Aye, well, think of him then," Sam husks to himself, impatient and throaty. "If ye must, but only the once, mind, or ye'll earn the Gaffer's thrashin'!" His head falls forward, and the shaft of sun paints his lips in shades of rose and gold. His hips move harder, faster; the head of his shaft is wet, and a droplet of pearl gleams at its tip.
"His mouth, aye," he breathes, and doesn't seem to know he has spoken. "Like that."
Frodo swallows thickly. And who wouldn't want such a mouthful; who wouldn't want those thick callused fingers tightened to fists in his hair? He looks at Sam, seeing the sturdy, hard lines of him through his loose, ragged clothes-- the wide span of his shoulders, the hard muscles of hips and thighs, taut and pumping. Frodo stifles a moan, watching the play of sinew under skin in Sam's wrist and forearm; the innocent curve of his lower lip, and the gleam of his teeth sinking in it.
"Aye, me dear!" Sam's thumb skims his cock-head, spreading the drop. His deep chest gathers breath; his thighs quiver. The rough homespun draws tight over them as his muscles flex. "Just a bit more, there's a good lad."
He is given over to his body's call now, sweat beading on the small bit of throat and collarbone and coarse hair, almost red in the light, that Frodo can see behind the open collar of his shirt. His arm twists, muscles tightening, the sun caressing him with covetous ardor. Frodo's hand works fast, and he tries to swallow the harsh sound of his breath whistling in his throat.
Sam shifts his feet; his hips swing faster. His face falls into shadow, bending forward, and his hair catches the light like a golden crown.
"Ah, but I can't-- not in your mouth," Sam whimpers, breathing harshly through his opened lips. His hand moves faster, arm rigid, cock taut, the whole head visible now, the loose skin behind it cushioning each harsh stroke of his hand. "I couldn't--? *Oh sir!*"
He cries out, low and desperate, and his body spasms. Jets of pearl and white catch the light, arcing and falling gracefully like rain, caught in a moment that seems to slow and hitch to find its breath before the light steadies and the air stops swimming around Frodo's face and he can wipe his own wet hand on his underclothes as he watches Sam hastily tuck himself away.
The birds are clamoring in Frodo's ears; his heart is like distant thunder, and his lip aches where he bit it to silence his startled cry.
"Now ye'd best not trouble me until the sun is gone," Sam scolds himself. "And pick a lass when ye do!"
Frodo barely has the presence of mind to dart around the corner as Sam emerges; Sam's footsteps at first are stealthy, languorous, but as he goes on down the path, there's a bounce in his step, and before he vanishes from sight around the smial, he begins to whistle.
Frodo makes his legs move. They feel weak, like a colt's, as he steps around the corner and makes himself go to shut the door, which Sam has left ajar. He hesitates on the verge, scenting Sam's musk from inside, secret and sharp like cut grass. He wavers, then pulls open the door, blessing the silence of its well-oiled hinges.
The Sun catches in swirling motes of dust and draws its glowing circle on the workbench There are droplets like jewels left lying there, bright like the Moon when she is touched by the Sun. They are sinking in to the wood; they lie caught on the blade of the shears Sam has left behind.
He touches his fingers to the largest one, drawing them through it, and lifts them to his face. He draws a deep draught of the scent and touches his trembling fingers to his mouth, paints his lips with the soft silky fluid, then licks his fingertip, the pad bitter-salt on his tongue, and suckles it clean, his eyes closing.
When Sam returns for the shears only minutes later, they are clean, and Frodo is gone.
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