Title:
Sam Loves Frodo,
Frodo Loves Sam
Author:
Feather Silver
Pairing:
Frodo/Sam
Rating:
NC-17
Warnings:
Slash, filthy language, gratuitous sex
Summary:
This is the
beginning of Southfarthing tales. Part 1 occurs six months after
Bilbo left the Shire. Sam readies his roses for the Lithe day
competition at By-water while Frodo learns about his duties as Master
of Bag End.
Samwise, as usual, woke first. Quietly, he slipped a sleepy arm off his chest, then stepped noisily onto the floor. Frodo moaned some mysterious nonsense then balled up peevishly in the empty covers. Sam grinned, then padded softly through the smial on his way to the jakes.
Wan light eased through the clean curtains of the kitchen. After he ate, Samwise laid out some simple cold fare with a steaming cup of tea on a well-used tray. With the tray balanced on one arm, he peered into the Best Bedroom's open door. Frodo hadn't moved. Sam stood there watching him sleep awhile, before downing the tea and buttery biscuits himself.
After finishing up in the kitchen, Sam winced at the remaining mountain of biscuits. He decided to run them over to his father, with a healthy bit of the fresh butter he'd bought last market day. Due to the damp weather, Gaffer Gamgee was down with lumbago, which meant his temper, like his back, was tender. Sam stepped outside into a blush of sunrise. Humidity swirled in foggy patches out across the wet grass. Sam looked at the moisture clinging to the brushy fur of his feet, then ran back inside the smial. When he started out again, a bottle of sweet Tookish brandy was clutched tightly beneath one arm.
He got back well before Frodo was out of bed. Sam thought about waking him, decided against it. Instead, he laid out more food where Frodo could easily find it in the kitchen. It didn't matter. Frodo frequently helped himself to whatever appealed in the pantry before settling down for fresh tea at the table. This was most likely why Frodo never gained any real weight, or aged much, or did anything Sam found familiar outside of Bag End.
A while later sounds of ardent scrambling poured out of the pantry and down the long hall. Sam listened for a while as satisfaction whickered across the calm surface of his mind. Everything was right, everyone was happy. Sam could get on with his day.
The roses were somewhat smaller than he anticipated. After two seasons of stenting violet Bywater Passions, to flaming sunset Hobbiton Fancies, Sam was nearly ready to give up. The color blend was far better than he expected. Streaks of feathery crimson swept out from the russet floral tube, growing wider as they circled the pith. However, the corolla still wasn't as round, or deep as he wished, and the spicy scent could be stronger.
Sam's goal had been to create a lavish new rose to enter in the Lithe Day competition at Bywater. As he looked at the slightly stunted bloom in his hand, he wondered whether he could get away with entering it in the miniature's category. A favorite among Buckland's somewhat shorter residents, miniatures commanded hefty sums. However, Sam had imagined something far grander for Bag End's Elegance. This little rose, although lovely, was simply too small.
"It's beautiful." Frodo said as he wandered into the front garden. Sam ducked his head to hide a smirk. Perhaps Bag End's Elegance was merely trying to reflect the stature of its Bucklander master. Sam carefully snipped one of the buds, then handed it to Frodo.
"Stand there a moment," Sam said as he backed up a pace. Frodo did as he was asked.
Sam bent, twisted, and squinted his eyes. He tried standing on tiptoe, then squatting down low. Frodo looked on with amusement as Sam's gestures grew more frantic. After a while, he stopped and shook his head sadly. "S'not going to work."
"What?" Frodo rubbed one of petals across his wrist, then sniffed. "You'll get some amazing soap from these, I'd wager."
"Naw. I was lookin' to see what it looked like bein' held by someone short. See, I've an idea…"
Frodo threw the rose at Sam's chest.
"Getting above ourselves again, Sam?" a curled, feminine voice said from behind him. Sam turned to see Lobelia Sackville Baggins leaning on the front gate. She met Sam's gaze, then switched her skirts at him somewhat menacingly. Seeing this, Frodo quickly adjusted his own posture.
"Oh, Mistress, I didn't see you standing there!" Sam said with a well-practiced, submissive squeak.
"Good morning, Cousin Lobelia. What brings you to Bag End this fine, sunny day?" Frodo said with withering clarity.
The older woman frowned, sensing the slight. Her hands retreated to her parasol and grew tight with impatience. Sam opened the gate. Lobelia drew herself up proudly, smoothed her generous skirts, and then led herself, parasol first, into the immaculately kept front garden. Her eyes darted keenly from one Hobbit to the other until coming to rest on Frodo. "I wish to see the hybrid Sam's been working on."
Sam quickly snipped her a fresh bloom, then scuttled back. Lobelia, well practiced at the art of divining true quality from failure, scrutinized the diminutive rose for long moments. Sam watched her intensely.
"Is this a miniature? It's hard to tell," she declared.
"Yes Mistress!" Sam said brightly. "It most certainly is!"
Lobelia snorted. "Figures. All this land and you fret about improving miniatures. I take it you're entering this at the fair in Buckland?"
"Of course he is," said Frodo.
"Of course I am," said Sam, overjoyed.
"What are you naming it then?"
"Bag End's Elegance." Sam was nearly bouncing on his toes.
"A good name for such a puny thing," Lobelia smiled.
Frodo, newly puffed from the authority laid upon him by his Uncle's recent departure, said, "And I suppose you have something of your own to enter?"
Lobelia picked up her chin. "I do. A rather…full Hobbiton's Pride. Miniatures seldom take the prize, do they now?"
"'Tis true enough," said Sam. "And yours is all that glorious yellow and gold, like what's found closer to Buckland. The Maggot's, aye, they favor it so."
"Farmer Maggot has roses?" Lobelia was shocked. "I had no idea such…extravagances were in the purview of such…simple folk."
Sam shuffled his feet while keeping a wary eye on the parasol that sometimes doubled as a scourge. "Oh, Mistress, they ain't nothin' like your own," he said soothingly. "My Gaffer says there's summat positively odd about a Rose near the size of a pie plate. I wouldn't set to worry on it, much. We all know'd them Bucklander's bear a queer preference for extremes. Aye, the like 'ent fittin' for Hobbiton. They are…" Sam grappled mightily for a word, "…entirely boorish in character."
Lobelia wasn't so sure. "Surely, you're mistaken lad?"
"Oh, I'm sure Mistress Lobelia. My Gaffer said he heard up the 'Dragon. The Maggot's been using that mud from the banks o' the Brandywine to nurse them roses with. Aye, 'tis a bit of the old forest, unnatural like, that's seeped itself in the blooms -or so they says."
Frodo shrugged. "Then it must be so."
Lobelia nodded. "I quite agree." She regarded the rose in her hands a bit sadly. "Perhaps this year is one for extremes." Lobelia picked up her head, gray eyes flashing boldly. "Don't let that make you think you've an edge on me, Frodo Baggins. There's a goodly part of the growing season left."
Without waiting for an answer, Lobelia approached the gate. Sam opened it for her. Both he and Frodo watched as she snapped open the parasol, which instantly bathed her in gaudy crimson light. With an indelicate hitch of her skirts, Lobelia quick stepped her way towards the Green Dragon, stopping now and then to take a generous sniff of Sam's rose.
Twilight settled over the shire, draping the broad, golden fields with warm violet. Sam sat atop a scraggy knoll near the border of the garden, sucking in deep draughts of Longbottom leaf. Frodo leaned against his shoulder, yawning gently. The two passed the pipe back and forth, smoking, and thinking quietly, as the day wound down to a velvety close.
"How long's it been?" Frodo said. "What…just over six months now?"
"About." Sam reached up and stroked the mass of dark curls nested warmly against his chest.
"What a bother. What a tiresome, ugly bother. I had no idea Uncle spent so much time keeping all and sundry straight. The accounts, silly disputes, social appearances - and despite all that, there's more than one who thought him quite daft."
"Or wished for his treasure," Sam chuckled. "Bushels and heaps of dragon gold…"
"More like a hoard of notes and bills." A ripple of concern knotted Frodo's brow. "And now that my standing has increased, there's speculation about my living arrangements…"
"Meanin' there's more than one lass who's set her cap on Bag-End."
Frodo heard the unspoken concern. He reached back and grasped Sam's arm. "I've heard quite enough flattery for a lifetime."
This relaxed Sam, who commenced to mutter and draw on the pipe. After a healthy bit of time wandering around in his own thoughts, Sam said, "Mr. Bilbo never spoke with you 'bout what to expect?"
"No. I thought he led a charmed existence. It never occurred to me that he had any real authority. I don't know what I thought…perhaps that things were presented to him because of his knowledge, and that he resolved situations with simple kindness?"
"That's what he wanted you to think. He didn't fancy his' self a laird. Hobbiton hasn't had a fittin' laird since Bag-End were first pulled away from the hill. Back when Mr. Bilbo set to travellin', the Sackville-Baggins' tried a turn at it. Everyone hated 'em, and that's flat. None's knowin' what to make of you yet."
"I don't know what to make of myself," Frodo said honestly.
"Well I do." Sam leaned warmly against his shoulder. "An' I think yer fine as you are."
And this seemed to comfort Frodo, who was content to let the matter drop. Sam watched him for a while, saw Frodo's eyes drift out towards the horizon, and knew he was wondering what lay beyond the Shire's edge. A little twinge of sadness flitted through Sam. One day, Frodo would do as his Uncle had done and leave the Shire behind. When that time came, and it would, for he could feel it building in Frodo even now, the best part of Sam would follow.
"Lobelia's a trick." Frodo observed drowsily. "What motivates her to be so…difficult, at times? I find it amazing that she's actually a blood relation."
Sam chuckled, and then wove his toes in the long grass. "I don't." He passed the pipe back to Frodo.
"What? Surely, you're joking." Frodo scrunched his back against Sam's sturdy bulk, kicked one knee up over the other, then sucked heavily on the pipe. Shimmery pinpoints of silver winked over the deepening horizon. Frodo clacked his jaw, sending smoke rings whirling into the sky. Sam watched them go, wondering if they touched the stars?
"I'm nothing like Lobelia," Frodo said. "How can you bear to make that comparison, Samwise Gamgee?"
"I see what I see." Sam took a deep breath. When Frodo nudged him with the pipe, Sam let him keep it. "The Valar blessed us well."
"Riddles." Frodo knotted his brow. "Reminds me of Uncle. I do hope he's allright."
"He is," Sam said, and then leaned a fraction closer to Frodo. "You'd know."
Frodo murmured something that sounded like the beginnings of a song. His voice was clear and bright in the crisp night air, and carried far out over the fields. Sam guessed it was Elvish from the way the notes trilled and wandered into pitches no hobbit but he would find appealing. A night peeper struck up a chorus with the swirling, breathy sighs that sounded so much sadder than a lament. But it wasn't a lament; this was Frodo's way of blessing the unseen path of his Uncle, who wandered somewhere far out over the hills. Sam noticed sleepy marsh hens and tiny finches, normally so shy this time of the evening, stirring openly the longer Frodo went on. Crickets and fat buzz flies clicked and hummed, and all around the breeze picked lazy flutters from fields flushed golden in the dying light. At the center of it all sat Frodo, whispering so softly it seemed the song was meant only for him. Yet, all creation seemed to hear and answer, and send the blessing on, weaving a path out past the sinking sun and on to the wanderer, who must surely hear it, and smile.
The song ended, and Frodo sat thinking for while, his teeth gripping the long white stem of the pipe. After a while, he said "Go on with your riddle."
"Let me fix us some dinner, first."
When Frodo made to squirm in protest, Sam draped a heavy arm across his chest. "It's damp out. Lets get a bite, then I'll bank up the fire in the parlor, aye?"
Sam rolled to his knees. Taking the hint, Frodo steadied the pipe between his teeth, and let Sam pull him to his feet.
The smial had settled down for the night, the fire in the parlor gone cold. Books and pens and dishes and clothes were tucked away, waiting for tomorrow. In the Best Bedroom, Frodo sat astride Samwise's broad back, kneading slowly, listening for a telltale grunt of approval. A rather large pop startled him. Samwise shifted pleasantly, growled out healthy burp, then reached over to the bed stand for his mug. He brought the ale to his lips then sucked a quarter of it down in one noisy gulp. Frodo watched, fascinated, until Sam expelled more excess air from his stomach in grating, creaky explosions. Afterwards, Sam wriggled pleasantly atop the spread.
"Don't. You filthy, filthy beast, " Frodo warned.
"Too late." A grinding wheeze slid out from just behind Frodo's comfortable perch. ""Tis a testament to the quality of back rub. All me innards are relaxed, just so."
Frodo thought to extract vengeance an then realized he had nothing to contribute. Sam propped his head on his hands, and grunted.
"So tell me your riddle," Frodo said, kneading a bit rougher than before.
"Get me another ale."
Frodo twisted his fist into a knot, jammed it just below Sam's shoulder.
"Oh…bleedin' stars!" Sam arched up. A loud pop sounded beneath Frodo's hand. Rolling his head around deliciously, Sam said, "I think yer onto something w' that."
Frodo drummed his fists against Sam's ribs. "Out…OUT with it."
"Well if you're fixed on burpin' me like some bairn…right, right…half a sec," Sam gathered himself together, eased Frodo to one side, and sat up. "First, I'll not sully our bed with Lobelia's doing's. But I will tell you this…"
"Will you now?"
Sam frowned, scratched at his face, then said, "And ain't that the thing you two have in common? No patience. Not a whit between you for qualities sake. But that ain't what I'm getting' at. Yer both wild like that. To be 'plain said' as befits yer fancy o' late, she's on her own, whereas you ain't, and never will be. Otho and her, 'tis not a proper fit, for reasons I ain't inclined to share now, and that's the end of that. Just you know you've everything Lobelia ain't never had, an' won't. You turn it 'round, I can't says you wouldn't match her, blow for blow." He considered his words for a moment, then added, "Twice over, more like, for you'd never get shut o' it 'til ye'd had 'er beggin' mercy. Aye, and 'prolly not then, niether." Sam shivered a little. "The both of you together could likely finish off the greatest, biggest, bloodiest Orc there ever were by just bitchin' it dead."
"Samwise Gamgee! You are baiting me!"
Sam belched laughter as his whole face unwound with delight. "Oh, but I love you so, me dear. Every inch of yer blessed self is the light o' me days." He reached over to the bed stand and picked up the mug. "'An I'd not have that fire away from me, or tame it out o' fear. 'Tis enough, what I have, and more than I ever could' a dreamed to hold. 'An yer knowing that every bit of me there is, rests easy where ever you choose. Aye, I choose you, m'dear, an all that you are. " Sam drained the rest of his ale, then raised himself up over the swirl of covers. He slowly rolled his head, easing out the last little cricks, stretching the thick swath of muscle bunched between his throat and shoulders, down to the tight cleft wedged between his breasts. He inhaled, spread wide his heavy arms, then arched back into a cloud of pillows. Candlelight quavered over the rough profile of Sam's belly, teased at the powerful swell of his hips. As he moved, the sheet rippled lazily across his massive frame, drawing back to the paler flesh above his thighs.
Frodo shook curls off his face, and watched Sam, who waited so patiently, mellow green gold flecks dancing in his eyes. Frodo knew he would wait there forever if he wished, never loosing that quiet, unconditional love. The mouth that greeted his was welcoming, instantly alive, filled with quicksilver and treacle beneath a sure, knowing heat.
Frodo felt Sam shift, then slide under his weight. Sam reached back and locked his hands on the headboard, grinning mischief. He was up for a bit of turnabout again, as he sometimes was. Bothering Lobelia had left him in a daring mood he'd kept to himself for the better part of the day. Frodo raised his eyebrows and cocked his head with a grin of his own.
"Are we cheeky, Mr. Gamgee?" Frodo said as hips shimmied off the cool linen, leaving a warm, naked length pressed up against his belly. Sam nodded and kissed his nose. "You've been a clever lad today, what with your extraordinary roses and considered observations concerning my cousin's character. Well done." Frodo's voice dipped into the low, upper-class drawl that never failed to achieve a singular effect on the body beneath him. Sam's grin became a giggle.
With a crooked smile Frodo pressed down onto the flesh beneath him, and felt the jump of muscle spread all through Sam's bones. Frodo bent down and dragged his head across the peaks of Sam's chest, trailing soft curls and wet kisses from the arch of one slope to the other, listening for the tell-tale gasp that would tell him when to bear down harder. Sam rolled, bit at his lips until he could hold back the moan no longer. Frodo circled his tongue around a point, and bit. Sam, bless him, was nothing if predictable.
After years of hiding and hurried lovemaking behind and under every concealing obstacle the two could find, they could finally take their time. A hush had come over the smial in the months since Bilbo's departure. During that time the two had gone further than either dared; even to the point of taking the best bedroom for themselves. More than anything else, this told Sam that Frodo had accepted that Bilbo was truly gone. Sad as this was, it allowed their relationship a greater degree of independence, one that was as close to acceptable as Sam thought it could be. For the first time in their lives together, they were paired - if only in private. It was more than Sam could have ever hoped for, although he wished it had come about some other way. Outside the smial things would always be different. Sam loved Frodo, and Frodo loved Sam, but the rest of the Shire would never accommodate them. For now, it didn't matter. With luck, it never would.
And Frodo seemed to catch Sam's thoughts as he smiled down upon him. For long moments the rush of need damped down to smolder as the two looked lovingly into each other's eyes, affirming the trust and depth of their bond. Sam would be with Frodo for as long as he would have him. Frodo couldn't imagine a world without Sam. Both silently agreed, for the thousandth time since the smial became their own, that they were paired for life.
The two locked into a long, heartfelt kiss, as the candlelight flickered over their heads. In that instant there was not a secret between them, not a desire unanswered. Sam's strong, handsome face beheld the lovely shadows flickering across his mate's pale, smooth brow, then chased each away with a whisper. Frodo looked to Sam, and knew fear would forever be a memory so long as that quiet, sure presence protected him. In the sudden fall of bliss, need sparked, then fanned into a blaze between them.
Sam wrapped heavy thighs around the slender waist above him, and slowly began to rock. Frodo answered with a comfortable rhythm of his own. The soft, warm fur of Sam's belly grazed against his, along with a hard, demanding heat. Frodo's eyes filled with a silky plea. Sam arched back, bore down with his legs, and then rubbed his heels against the backs of Frodo's calves. Sam smiled, and Frodo allowed his need to soar.
Sam's arms bulged with effort as he fought to keep his grip on the headboard. Frodo's hands slipped down beneath his waist. Sam felt a warm hand fold around him, then begin a series of slow, steady strokes that sent his breath into ribbons. Greed filled Sam, spun recklessly through his flesh, wiping caution from his mind. He arched up against the headboard and then bore down with his thighs until Frodo fairly growled frustration.
Abruptly, Frodo pulled away. Sam nearly screamed as his head threatened to implode. Damp played at the edges of Frodo's face as he struggled to gain awareness. After a moment he remembered what made him stop. He looked down at Sam.
"You're right then?" Frodo said as he puffed for breath.
"Aye," Sam said tersely. "I do so hate it when you do that."
"When I don't do that, you mean." Sweat ran trails down Frodo's cheeks. "Its just…well last night, are you quite sure you didn't sprain…"
"I'm not twisting! You were twisting me!"
Frodo looked confused. "I was?"
"You're doin' it right now!" Sam reached over to the side table, then knocked over the empty mug. He swore and fumbled around with his hand until he located the drawer pull. He couldn't quite get his fingers around the knob. Sam raised himself up until he was able to get purchase on the drawer. He pulled it open, grabbed the waiting bottle of oil. With a happy shout, Sam twisted back towards Frodo, then stopped.
Frodo's eyes sparked wide. "No!"
All the color slowly drained from Samwise's hurt face.
