Title: How Sam got his groove back
Author: Feather Silver
Pairing: Frodo/Sam
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Slash, filthy language, really graphic sex
Summary: Part 2 of Southfarthing tales. Frodo and Sam begin a journey to the Southfarthing. Sam discovers the power of the magic nightshirt, and regains his confidence

The smial was alive with a healthy apricot glow Samwise did not share. His mutters had grown surly as the morning drew on. Sam's punishment, for he refused to see it any other way, was to be confined within a nightshirt and a long, loose dressing gown. Both nearly dragged the floor. This was so, as Frodo had explained, Sam would not feel inclined to leave the smial to work in the garden.

The parlor stank of liniment and burdock. Samwise sat atop a ridiculous pile of pillows in the master's chair, with more cushions stuffed under his arms. Each time he tried to move, Frodo sighed and sent guilt clattering all around the smial until Sam thought his head would burst. It was one thing to bollox up in bed, quite another to never let that horrible moment pass; twice now. In a row.

"Let me be," Sam growled as Frodo busily ignored him. That cool, calm intellect was oblivious to pride or frustration, and showed best when Frodo was on about mending troubles.

Something terrible had happened at some point in Frodo's life. Thereafter, all unfamiliar things had to pass a certain muster. This was unintentional, but that didn't make the scrutiny sting less for Sam. In the dark of their shared bed, Sam would sometimes feel him break open and become the wild thing still fresh from the great smial. That terrific intelligence would ease, leaving love blended with innocence, need and a thousand other amazing things that were uniquely Frodo. Lately, the responsibility of running Bag End was affecting his spirit. Nothing Sam did or said helped. Because he didn't know how to fix it, Sam found himself beggared again and again, and always beneath the lamp of those eyes from which nothing remained hidden for long.

Sam imagined he saw hurt flicker through that flawless posture. Then Frodo was on his knees, laying his head across Sam's lap and clutching at his nightshirt like a child.

"It scares me to see you so poorly, and I…"

"I know." Sam let out a long, soothing breath. "Yer not the trouble - the troubles with me," he said with certainty.

Frodo leaned up. "However so?"

Sam gave a painful shrug. "I don't know."

A day later Sam was fine. His gaffer was also on the mend. He had risen from his bed to come help with some promising rose stents. The signs were right. A hard bark had folded over the spliced stems of two established favorites; Sweet Harmony and Bywater's Dreaming. The colors would not be bold, but the fruit looked to be hardy and overlarge. While they worked, Sam laughed on about Lobelia's sudden fixation with farmer Maggot's gardening habits. His dad laughed with him. Maggot's passion was of a practical nature. He kept squash blossoms in a vase on the family table. His wife favored the tiny yellow flowers from cucumber vines to weave into her hair. The posies both wore on their sleeves for Buckland's Remembrance Day were actually red pepper blossoms. Maggot called them posies just the same, as he considered them far more sincere than frippery. Should Lobelia go looking she would discover Maggot's rose was just a sunflower. While many found them marvelous, they were considered far too ordinary to garner mention with society fanciers that evaluated beauty. 'Maggot's Rose" was the name that began many a ditty at the Green Dragon, but Sam doubted Lobelia would ever catch the plot.

Frodo was working in Bilbo's study behind a closed door. Sam brought him tea and victuals, noticed he ate little and talked less. The study was a mass of paper and dust, wrinkled notes and hasty scribblings. The remnants of Bilbo's life lay scattered everywhere in piles. Half finished thoughts and open journals blotted with ink, envelopes bearing queer seals and fine parchments were stacked high upon worn oak shelves that scraped the low ceiling. Shiny bits and things only a magpie would cozen lay at random intervals here and there, some being especially sharp and unfriendly to trod upon. Maps stretched wide upon the walls, hiding older relics beneath. Elegant script marked the names of places no hobbit in living memory had ever journeyed to. The ones marking Bilbo's travels were just as disconcerting, if only for the strangeness of the odd, winding trek. Sometimes Frodo would take comfort in looking at the maps, as if he knew that his Uncle was busy charting new paths. Lately, Frodo rarely looked up from the confusing wad of nonsense that Sam suspected were Bilbo's finances.

At dusk Sam decided Frodo had endured enough and forced him to come out for a proper supper. He looked weary and drawn, but smiled readily enough at a plate of mixed spring lettuces and berries sprinkled with sweet cider vinegar. The smell of rosemary-basted chicken drifted up from the stove. A sweating decanter of ruby red wine fresh from the cellars sat at the center of the table. Frodo ate and drank himself to happiness as Sam looked on with satisfaction.

"We'll be making a trip shortly," Frodo said after a second helping of soft cheese tart.

Sam tilted his head. "Buckland?"

"The Longbottom."

"That's a ways. I'll be sure to tell the Gaffer so Mari can look in whilst we're off." Sam let the question hang in the air.

"Investments," Frodo explained. "I need to shift some money about, and there's a right bit of good farmland down the South farthing that I'd like to look over. The Hornblowers have left a standing invitation, and I could use their advice. " He wiped at his face with a napkin then slid down into thought.

"Bilbo's left a mess," Sam said.

Frodo squeezed his eyes shut and groaned. "I was hoping not to tell you."

Sam smirked at his notion of privacy. Surely there wasn't a hobbit left between Bywater and Hobbiton who hadn't guessed at the truth. "Is that why he left then?"

Frodo looked confused for a moment then laughed, "Oh my dear, if it were only as simple as that!"

Sam drove the pony trap over the wide Brindleberry road past the Three Farthing stone. Frodo bounced pleasantly beside him, fast asleep. That morning they had picked up the trap from Whil Whitfoot's stable in Bywater, then set out for Acron Hornblowers' farm in the Southfarthing town of Longbottom. Tobold Hornblower, creator of the highly prized "Longbottom Leaf", or "Longbottom Blend" as some called it, was both Acron and Frodo's distant ancestor. Bilbo had made a special point to invite Acron and his wife as guests at the Big Birthday Party. There, Bilbo had pressed Frodo to make good connections with his all his distant kin, with special emphasis on the Hornblowers.

From what little he knew of them, Sam thought them particularly blessed as their amazing crop always met or exceeded the previous year's standards. However, their talent for growing 'Old Toby' did not extend to children. The couple had remained barren for many years. Sam thought it odd that the Great Mother was so arbitrary with her gifts. It did not seem just that such goodly folk were unable to bear that which would ensure their ability to tend the land.

As Sam drove the trap on through the Green Hills, he thought it odd to see such vast expanses bereft of chimney smoke or gardens. Tall feathered grasses mixed with swaths of purple heather on out to a sloped horizon. In the near distance, willows lolled above hawthorns and sparkling streams. The air seemed sweeter this far away from the holes and neatly kept buildings of the Westfarthing. Sam felt the rhythm of the seasons beckon to him from across the downs. Some thought a rustic lifestyle was incapable of inspiring wonder. Sam pitied them.

The sun drew back into the hills, and the little village of Pincup showed over the next rise. Frodo stirred from his nap, looked around. Up above, storm clouds were gathering in the dying light.

"We should stop here," he said as he stretched himself fully awake. "The weather looks to be turning. There's an inn up ahead. The 'Swan's Art'."

"That's a funny name," Sam said as he guided the trap across a smooth stone bridge. Sure enough, just ahead, a low, flat rough-hewn building bore a sign with a large white bird smoking a pipe.

There were no other traps in the stable yard, but Sam could see a welcoming rick full of sweet grasses and hay. He and Frodo jumped out, had a stretch, then cooed praises upon dear Sally, the pony Mayor Whitfoot had lent them for the trip. A stable lad emerged from the back of the yard then led Sally away to her own stall. Frodo and Sam got together the rest of their gear and went into the Swan's Art.

A friendly publican showed them to a table by a window where they both could overlook a wide valley to the North. Leading down to a broad expanse of dusky fields, were small streams and brooks that ran this way and that across little boulders resting all along the hillside. The road ran through the middle; as far as they both could see there was nothing else to the village. Pincup appeared to extend only across the rise, below was clear growing land. The publican returned with two healthy half pints of the local ale, and a large tray featuring savory meats and cheeses. The two ate their fill then were shown to a large room upstairs.

Frodo sat atop a wide window seat looking out over the moonlit valley below. Shimmering ripples of twinkling light danced off distant falls. Dark shadows of trees waved gentle fingers at the stars amidst the chirrup of hidden insects. An owl hooted sagely from atop a fence post near the edge of the window, then took wing to go hunting in the night. Frodo clicked open the window and let fresh air move through the room. Outside was refreshingly balmy and calm. The rain had bypassed the valley then moved further south leaving faint strips a lightning in its wake. Frodo watched as jagged tendrils lanced down from distant clouds for a while before hoping down from the ledge to undress.

The door swung open and Sam bustled in. He had enjoyed first crack at the tub down the hall and was busy toweling himself off. A healthy glow radiated from the deep natural gold of his flesh. Frodo thought he appeared quite pleased with himself. Ever since crossing over into the South farthing, Sam had come alive in unexpected ways. The sly shift of his hips, blooming confidence and candor suited Sam well. He was a large hobbit; he deserved to move like one and not be brought low by ridiculous concerns. Frodo vowed to never saddle Sam with any of the daft nonsense Bilbo and Gandalf had heaped onto himself. If it were the last thing he did, Frodo would ensure that Samwise was free, even if that meant losing him. While Frodo's life might drift into twists and turns, he couldn't bear to drag his heart's desire down with him.

One thing was entirely clear; Frodo needed desperately to rearrange his finances. His goal was to establish a legacy that was free of constraint and strong enough to thwart his cousin's ambitions concerning Bag End. Dozens of hobbits depended upon earnings from the estate. Most of the residents of Bagshot row relied on agreements structured by Bilbo. The Gamgee's housing and income derived from such. Bilbo must have been mad to leave everything in such a state of confusion. Gandalf had hinted as much. Frodo originally thought the wizard was playing at academics. In reality he had been far too kind.

Movement flashed at the corner of Frodo's eyes. He turned his head. Samwise was grinning and turning about. He had put on the special nightshirt, the 'clever' one he favored for the long opening down the front. Marvelous. A broad smile played at Frodo's lips then was answered by a low chuckle from Sam. It was then Frodo realized he'd gone woolgathering after doffing his own clothes, and was therefore quite naked. His appreciation for the special nightshirt had not gone unnoticed, as was evident in Sam's rakish grin.

He didn't blush, or he thought he didn't. Sam's eager expression told him everything he needed to know. A breeze wafted across Frodo's backside. He flinched and reached for the window handle. Sam stopped him then looked outside.

"You think you could reach down there?"

Frodo quailed at the drop. "I haven't had my bath yet."

And this was so completely ridiculous they both laughed aloud. "Look, I'll go first, then ye step down on me, right?" Sam lifted a leg out the window. "The frogs will avert their eyes."

"Careful!" A sheer drop awaited just beyond the cliff face. Sam stepped outside and balanced on a boulder. He reached up.

Frodo bit his lip. If any of this made it back to Bywater, he'd never make it through the Green Dragon without ducking his head. With a tremendous burst of courage, Frodo squeezed his eyes shut and lowered himself gently down.

Sam, thankfully, carried him away from the Inn. At a safe distance he placed Frodo back on his feet then took his hand. They walked in silence as the moon chased away the clouds and then lit the wide path ahead. Pincup really was no more than an Inn and stable. For now, the entire rise and broad valley belonged only to them.

Frodo moved through the forest like mist. Sam saw flashes of pale flesh darting between ramble and shadow. They walked on for some distance before arriving at a spot overlooking the falls both had glimpsed before. Frodo climbed atop a wide boulder and bent down to gaze into the pool below him. Spray rose up and settled across his face. He opened his mouth to lick as the cool water went rushing by.

Sam watched him laugh and tousle wet through his hair. It was a steep drop of some great distance to the pool and Sam found himself staring bleakly at the churning water below. While Frodo was skittish about heights, water made him reckless. With a wink, Frodo simply turned his head, then was gone. A few seconds later Sam heard a healthy splash echo up from below.

A sputtering face broke the surface and cried out from the shock of cold. Sam was instantly nervous. He hated water, thought playing about in it unnatural. Water silenced unfamiliar things. The pool below was alive with frothing, dangerous swirls, and the noise from the falls was shatteringly loud. Despite himself, Sam stepped back and turned away.

Shortly, Frodo found a path back to the rise. He found Sam looking hesitantly over the edge, as if he was gauging the merits of overcoming his fear. Frodo watched him for a while then perched back atop the rock. Few real things frightened Frodo; he reserved the majority of his fear for ideas.

When he was younger, Frodo would often sneak about questing for adventure. Since coming to Bag End most of his journeys took place only in his mind. He'd allowed himself to slip into that sedentary pace that Bilbo favored during his later ages. In his heart, Frodo was a creature of extreme indulgences whose predictability was measured only by stamina. So many things had passed from him in Hobbiton. It was as if he were living a duel life somehow and reaping benefit from neither. Pincup allowed him to dream. He looked at Sam and smiled rakishly, daring him to join him up on the rock.

Sam clambered up in his halting, timid way as the sound of the falls beat a steady caution through his ears. Frodo laughed at his trepidation. Sam strengthened his resolve. The boulder was slippery, as was Frodo's cool flesh. It was madness to find a comfortable spot between the two. When he did, the heavens opened wide above his head, and some recklessness bled over into him. Sam smiled giddily as spray flowed down into his hair then shouted as Frodo licked droplets from his ears. Warm lips rushed across Sam's throat, settled softly upon his chin. Sam filled up with sighs.

Frodo kissed him quickly then rolled over. After stretching himself out across the rock, Sam eased a little away. From there, Sam could see every inch of the taunt, cool body splayed beneath him. Wan light played at the hollow of Frodo's throat, across the elegant rise of narrow hips. He arched up so that the flat arc of his belly rippled narrow bands of feathered muscle. He inhaled and flexed the taunt flesh of his arms and shoulders, pushed out his chest. Where Sam was raw power, Frodo was wonderfully refined. Light and lithe, his athletic built was supple. He baled and pitched sod as good as any, but no commoner ever kept such pearl white flesh, or moved through the fields with such effortless posture. The ruling class of hobbits was sculpted beautifully across the high, delicate bones of his cheeks, but the wildness in his eyes betrayed his broader appetites.

It energized Sam to watch Frodo enjoy his own quality. Moreover, the eyes looking back at him held no weakness, showed no concern. Impish and fey, this was the lad that once kicked over a bucket of milk so he could show off his pretty arse as he bent over to wipe it up. He remembered the first time Frodo let him fuck him down inside the wine cellar while Bilbo stalked the floors above, searching every corner. Sam had slammed Frodo so hard he'd knocked the plaster from the wall. He'd barely gotten his breeches fixed before Bilbo found them. He'd dreamed fitfully for weeks after that. There was still a big bald patch on the wall. Frodo liked it there.

Patient hands rode across the folds of the damp nightshirt that clung to the powerful cut of Sam's chest, the sturdy curve of his back, then down to hard cabled thighs. Fingers traced around the outline of the tight heat pressed against his belly, then back up to the sharp cleft of his breast. When they reached his throat, Frodo closed his eyes as a sigh settled across soft, swollen lips.

Sweetness bordered on pain. Sam fairly flew into a frenzy of lust, grinding against the answering stroke of Frodo's heat, rolling them both across the boulder, tearing pleasure from the hot mouth locked onto his. Cries rippled across Frodo's voice.

"You want me to fuck you, then?" Sam pinned his shoulders. Hazy eyes sparked lightning through his guts. "Tell me."

A lazy grin broke the flush on Frodo's cheeks. "How?"

A hand stole beneath the shirt, gathered Sam up inside a tight fist. Despite himself, Sam grunted and thrust reflexively. Frodo's face lit with a little knowing smile. He worked Sam cruelly, cool fingers seeking out every secret trigger within him. Sam's breathing fractured grew ragged, then greedy as he flexed and twisted, unable to stop himself from falling again and again into that determined touch. Frodo's rough laughter snapped him back to awareness. Sam trapped the fingers against the rock with his weight. The movement stopped. Safe for the moment, Sam choked down air and gathered his wits. When he looked up again, Frodo's lovely face hung a breath away, pouting beautifully.

Sam licked and sucked urgently at Frodo's fingers. In turn, Frodo took Sam's fingers into his mouth. He shifted, forced Sam's fingers past the back of his honeyed throat, then farther as he opened wider still. Sam groaned and watched his fingers slide back and forth across full, wet lips, vanish behind a busy tongue. Sharp teeth grazed his palm. Sam kicked Frodo's knees apart. Shimmering laughter bubbled up against Sam's ear.

"Not that way," Frodo teased. "The other that way."

And this was all Sam wanted to hear. He wrestled his hand back, snatched up Frodo's. He rolled the palm open, spat heavily into the center. Needing no direction, Frodo wove his hand down, gained Sam's cock and squeezed. Despite the urge to fling himself off the rock, Sam held true as Frodo expertly slid Sam's velvety foreskin further back then gently pinched the tip between his thumb and forefinger. Sam jumped and swore violently, gnashed his teeth and hissed. Frodo smiled then stripped fire out of Sam, stroking and twisting him to the ragged edge of pain, then down again into a softer, soothing touch that was somehow more maddening. Sam's breathing hollowed out as he gritted his teeth and hung on as a wet slick built up against his thigh.

At last, Sam came to his senses. He reached down and knocked away Frodo's hand.

"Yer knowing me too well," he said as he scrabbled for breath.

"…from loving you a time or two," Frodo offered in breathless explanation.

"Aye, I've loved you a fair bit as well." Sam shifted slightly, and Frodo slipped into his lap. His flesh was cool against Sam's – smooth, fast and tight. "And I'm knowin' that mouth's about run short o' comment jus' 'bout now." Sam threw his back into a shove that knocked Frodo a hand span above his thighs. Sam caught him easily – he was so light - in a steady grip that pinned his arms, left his breath in tatters. They were both wet with spray, the nightshirt long past soaked through. Frodo struggled to gain purchase on Sam's thighs, straddle his cock. Sam shifted, and his cock slipped away, leaving Frodo on the edge of rage. "But no' so much for screamin'," Sam added then touched the edge of his tongue against a special spot behind Frodo's ear. The shriek that greeted him struggled against the thunder of the falls. Blood surged through Sam's eyes while his mouth seethed ragged hunger down Frodo's throat. Sam shifted again, felt Frodo's hot cleft settle into place.

"You want me to fuck you?" Sam insisted. Getting Frodo to admit anything was nearly impossible. "Tell me," he said softly as he slipped a finger down between them, teasing, penetrating him just enough to pull greedy little sobs from the back of Frodo's throat.

"Get on with it, you cruel bastard!" Frodo cried hoarsely, body wet with need.

Sam thrust up as hard as he could. The slick tip of his shaft breached Frodo at once. A great shudder rocked the body in his arms. Frodo screamed inside Sam's mouth. Sam closed his eyes and growled, pushed harder – felt a rock hard fist of muscle clamp down on his cock. Frodo thrashed and struggled wildly against his chest, fighting. Sam pulled his head back, gave a great sigh. From some fading part of his mind, he summoned patience. In a moment, he was able to move forward again. Frodo's cries changed pitch as his hands clutched and shook. Sam laid his forehead against Frodo's cheek, waiting, feeling his body stutter, then relax. An instant later, Sam slammed up again.

A tight, living glove sheathed him in fire. Samwise felt each breath, each heartbeat clatter madly through every part of Frodo until there wasn't a secret left. Trembling lips murmured senselessly. Frodo fell apart, melted bonelessly, yielding everything to feeling, exchanging all his worlds for now.

Everything fled from Sam's mind. Energy tore open his brain and sang. With a mighty heave, Samwise hugged Frodo tighter, and stood up. Sam sank a tooth into his lip as he gripped the boulder with nothing more than his toes. Frodo wriggled, locked his ankles across Sam's back, steadying them both. The sky spread wide, starlight smiled down. Sam lost himself in the slap and pull of heavy bodies, felt bliss quiver across the surface of his mind. He threw back his head and shouted, heard his voice echo all around the valley as Frodo started to shudder and hunch greedily against his belly.

Sam faded into a twilight delirium. The night moved to a single far away point, then swam back into sharp focus. His whole body contracted and wound into a fist as all the stars dissolved into one long fractured sigh. Moments later, Frodo snapped over and went ridged with a breathless scream. A rush of wet heat spread over Sam's breast as the body in his arms quivered and sobbed for air. It was the sweetest music Sam knew - would ever know. He laughed as Frodo's song sliced him to pieces as his own orgasm peaked. Sing, Sam thought. Sing to me, my darling, my love, my master, my world.

Sam wasn't aware of time. Frodo lay curled at his side. A cool breeze lifted spray from the falls. Sam caught some water against his tongue, savored it. Little tremors whirled pleasantly up and down his spine. Frodo rolled drowsily. Sam made sure he didn't roll off the rock. That was important.

They might have slept, Sam wasn't sure. The sky was dark, and the stars faded. There was a wonderful clarity to his thoughts. Frodo was all tangles and warm sweetness. The fire within spread out into his limbs – his touch burned. Sam pushed some of the hair out of Frodo's face, kissed his eyes tenderly. A happy smile lit his ruddy cheeks. Sam smiled with him. The moon ducked down into a nest of clouds. Somewhere close by, a night bird sang in high, trilling notes that slipped in and out of the drone of the falls.

"When we get back, I should like to talk to you," Frodo said.

"As ye like." Sam yawned lazily. "Somethin' special?"

"I love you." Frodo's voice was shattered and utterly sincere.

"An' I love you." An itch crept up between Sam's shoulders. He ground his back against the rock, then realized he still wore the nightshirt. He took it off, folded it carefully and kissed it. "Can't be loosin' this!"

Frodo looked strangely distant. Sam wasn't ready for him to be away yet. "Think we can get back w' out givin' the Inn a show?" He chuckled at his own nakedness. "Sneak back through the window, eh?"

"Suits." Frodo rolled to his feet then pulled up Sam.

There was something distressingly open about Frodo then. He appeared vulnerable, as if the layers of protection he wore around him were suddenly burdensome. This could be a good or bad. Sam considered a wide expanse of possibilities, then said, "Whatever happens, I will be there."

And that seemed to settle it for the night.