Sam swam out of a deep dreamless sleep to hear Frodo muttering somewhere in the vicinity of his chest.  He couldn't make out the words, half in a daze himself, but it sounded as if Frodo was talking in his sleep. 

At some point in the night Frodo had discarded the velvet robe in favour of snuggling into Sam headfirst, his head under Sam's chin, one arm flung over Sam's waist and his legs hopelessly entangled in Sam's legs.  And the words were getting louder and more confused as Frodo started to shiver in Sam's arms.

“...don’t...Bilbo?...I...where...Sam? SAM?”  

“Ssshh,” Sam whispered, running his fingers over the dark head tucked under his chin. “You're just dreaming.  Your Sam is right here.  I'm not going anywhere.”

Frodo's head turned, and the bruised cheek brushed Sam's chest, “Ow.  Wha...?”

“I said, I’m right here and I'm not going anywhere, far as I can tell.”

The head lifted.  In the dim light from the lamp, Sam watched Frodo blink away the fog of the dream.

“I...Oh, Sam,” that slow, warm smile was better than any gift Sam could have ever received, beyond waking up with Frodo in his arms.

“Do you remember any of it?  Me mum used to say it was best to talk out the bad ‘uns quick so they would never come back.”

Frodo blinked at him, then the smile faded. “I was trying to get home.  I don't know where I was.”  He frowned.  “But it was hot and dusty and I couldn’t seem to find the way home.” 

Sam stroked his fingers down the cold cheek, “And?”

“And, I finally got back here, but...but I couldn't find it.  Bag End was gone.”

“Gone?”  Sam cupped his hand around Frodo’s face, warming the too cool skin.

“The...the Hill was here, but no...no doors...no windows...no garden -- just a hill -- a barren hill.  Even...even the tree -- the Hill tree was gone.”

“Well, look around.  Bag End's still here.”  Sam traced a gentle line down the side of Frodo’s face to his mouth.  “It was just a dream.”   

“Just a dream,” Frodo repeated, looking around at where they were, and then he seemed to realize what bed they were sleeping in.  “It's Bilbo who is gone, not Bag End.” 

Sam pushed up on one elbow and looked down at Frodo's face in the shadows. He knew it would take time for this pain to ease and nothing could hurry that.  He gazed at Frodo’s mouth for a moment, then ran his finger across Frodo’s bottom lip slowly, listening to Frodo’s breathing become ragged in response.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Sam whispered. “Unless you want to go find Mister Bilbo, then I'll be going with you.” 

“Dearest Sam, you would go with me, wouldn't you?” Frodo’s hand slid up Sam's arm slowly, tracing the bunched muscles under the skin, skating across his shoulder to the hollow of his throat. “But I bet your gaffer would have a thing or two to say about that.”

“That he would,” Sam managed in a gruff voice, “And I would listen real good--”

“And then just go ahead and do what you thought was right,” Frodo finished for him.

Sam must've grimaced a bit at that, from the smile on Frodo's face.

“But the Gaffer would have my hide when we came back, that is, assuming we did.” Frodo skimmed his fingers up the column of Sam’s throat and up his jaw line, gazing into Sam’s eyes solemnly. “I would not lead you off into danger, Sam.  The wide world is not all adventure and excitement, you know.”

“I know,” Sam said solemnly, reaching out to capture the cool fingers tracing his temple, holding them firmly against his cheek. “Mister Bilbo told me that many a time.  And I saw he took that sword of his.” A spasm of pain crossed Frodo's face at that reminder and Sam winced, his hand tightening on the fingers clenched against his cheek, intent on making sure that Frodo understood this one thing. “I know it's not all dragon's gold and happy endings out there -- all the more reason that I would go with you.  I’ll not let you go alone.” 

“But you can’t leave here, Sam.  I wouldn’t ask you to.”  Frodo tugged insistently at his hand, nearly scowling as he responded firmly. “You can’t leave your home.”

“Home’s not a place, Frodo.  You said that about Bag End yourself, and I know how deep your roots are sunk in this hill -- how much you love this place.  Sure, I would feel bad about leaving my gaffer, but...” Sam turned his head and pressed a kiss into Frodo’s palm.  “You are my home.”

For a long moment Frodo held Sam’s gaze, then Sam saw Frodo’s eyes begin to shimmer with unshed tears, the intense look melting slowly into a tremulous smile.  “What ever did I do to deserve you, Sam Gamgee?”

Sam blinked at the sudden tears in his own eyes, unable to find his voice to answer.

“My Sam,” Frodo sighed, finally freeing his hand and stroking it up through Sam’s hair, his eyes following its progress.  Frodo’s hand slowly slid to Sam’s nape and pulled him down into a searing kiss.  Then Frodo’s lips were everywhere on Sam’s face -- his eyelids, his nose, his chin, his hairline, his temple.  For a long moment there was no sound in the room except Sam gasping for breath and Frodo whispering Sam’s name -- again and again.  Frodo lingered for a while nibbling at Sam’s ear before he finally leaned back into the pillows, relaxed and smiling as Sam attempted to retrieve his scattered wits.

“Samwise Gamgee -- friend of friends, master gardener, brave adventurer,” Frodo recited in a languid voice, still tracing Sam’s eartip with one finger.  “Should we add 'legendary burglar' to that list as well?  We might have all manner of dwarves visiting if that gets out.” 

Sam frowned.  Was this some part of the dream?  But then Sam forgot the question and closed his eyes as Frodo leaned forward once more to nuzzle at Sam’s neck for long, lovely moments.  Sam groaned and tried to pull the slender body closer as Frodo’s mouth moved up to linger over Sam’s ear, and then shivered as warm lips nibbled at the tip and a skilled tongue traced sensitive flesh.

“How did you get into Bag End, Sam?” came the sudden loud whisper, right into Sam’s ear.

Sam stiffened and nearly jerked away in surprise, then he grimaced and turned to find Frodo smirking at him, one eyebrow raised quizzically. 

“Well?”  Frodo prompted in a serious tone after a long moment of silence.

Sam pulled himself up over Frodo quickly, grasping Frodo’s other arm and effectively pinning him into the mattress.  Rewarded by a flash of heat in Frodo's eyes, he hung over him balefully.  “I think you're feeling a bit better now, aren't you?” he whispered. 

“And I think you’re avoiding the question, Sam Gamgee,” Frodo responded sternly, but Sam saw the side of his mouth twitch.

“That I am,” Sam said sternly. “The Master Gardener of Bag End must have some secrets, else he couldn’t do his job proper.”

“Indeed?  Well, Master Gardener of Bag End, I am the Master of Bag End,” Frodo returned soberly, “And I say--”
 
Sam lowered his head and effectively stopped whatever nonsense Frodo was going to say, watching as Frodo's eyes fluttered shut and he leaned his head into the kiss.  For a long moment, Sam was perfectly content to just explore Frodo’s mouth lazily -- tasting a bit of blackberry and tea and just luscious Frodo.  Then, ever so slowly, Sam slid his lips over to the spot under Frodo's ear, the one that made him--

Frodo moaned, his legs shifting restlessly, and Sam smiled, slowly kissing his way down the pale column of throat, shadowed in the dim light, listening to Frodo's sighs like some wonderful music that he was creating.  He had worried so that he might never again taste this silken skin beneath his mouth, which made it taste all the sweeter. 
 

Illustration by Willow-wode

Sam stopped to spend some time paying special attention with his tongue to the shadowy hollow at the base of Frodo's throat, the one that made him--

“Sam.”  It was a breath, a plea, a groan, and Frodo's hand slid into Sam's hair. 

Sam smiled against sweet, salty skin, and slid his hands down either side, counting each rib.  He found himself briefly thinking of recipes and roasted chickens, but only for a moment before sliding his fingers lightly across the too-flat stomach to that spot, just beside Frodo's jutting hipbone, the one that made him--

“Mmmmm,” and the hips lifted, questing for more contact.

Sam looked up at the moist, flushed face framed by dark tousled hair and felt his heart twist painfully.  He watched as his lips and tongue found the sensitive nub of flesh on Frodo's chest, and nipped just that way, the one that made him--

Frodo bit his lip and threw his head back, bringing his other hand up to grasp the back of Sam's head.

And Sam smilingly kissed his way down across quivering muscle, as his hand slid further down, slowly questing across slick flesh to a spot just inside Frodo's leg, the one that made him--

Frodo sighed and his legs spread further apart, allowing access to hard velvet heat that rose into Sam's fingers.

It would never grow old, this exploration, this discovery, this union that felt as if he were caressing his own skin, as if Frodo's reactions were his, and his Frodo's, building back and forth as if they were connected by more than touch.  Sam encircled and stroked Frodo slowly, moving his thumb up and across a familiar ridge of flesh, the one that made him--

Frodo nearly lifted up off the bed and twisted, trying desperately to gain more contact.  Then he whimpered and Sam smiled, kissing the sweat-slick skin under his mouth.

He found himself under the soft sheets, unable to see Frodo's face any longer, but no longer needing to.  His mouth breathed over sparse dark curly hair and unerringly found the one thing it was seeking, the one that made him--

“Oh! Sam!” Frodo thrust upward into slick wet heat and Sam was suddenly far too busy with mouth and tongue to smile.  

He had learned well.  Mister Bilbo always said, show Samwise something once, and he remembers.  Sam slid his hands to rest on questing hips and held tightly, slowing desperate movement, languidly exploring and enjoying with mouth and tongue.  Nipping and sucking and stroking slowly, listening to the groans building and feeling the muscles rippling and pushing against him, the fingers tugging at his head, the sheets being pushed back.  He lifted his eyes to watch, and felt himself tighten, his own hardened flesh sliding against soft, silky sheets and restlessly moving leg. 

Frodo's head was thrown back, one hand against his mouth.  As Sam watched, Frodo raised his head and met Sam's eyes.  And Sam managed, under the searing gaze, to move his mouth just that way, the one that made him--

“Nuh...” Desperately strong hands were suddenly pulling at him, tugging him up, and Sam complied willingly, groaning as his own rigid flesh slid across hot slick skin, coming to rest with his hands planted firmly on either side of Frodo's head, smiling broadly down into that beloved face.

“You...are...amazing,” Frodo muttered hoarsely, pulling him down into a deep, probing kiss.  Sam felt the vibration from his head to his toes as Frodo groaned into Sam's mouth.  Then Sam watched as Frodo's hand reached out to where his bedside table would have been, and found empty space.  A frown quirked Frodo's brow, and he started to turn his head to look.

“Here.  It's here.”  Sam managed breathlessly, pulling out the drawer and fishing out the small bottle of oil.  Frodo gazed up at him in delighted disbelief as he grasped the bottle. 

“Samwise Gamgee,” Frodo said huskily.  “As I suspected, you are a master burglar.”

Sam couldn’t manage to be embarrassed, not at this moment.  He lowered his head to capture Frodo's mouth beneath his and heard Frodo's startled intake of breath.  Then Frodo's arms looped mindlessly around his neck as he slowly explored the hot slick depths of Frodo's mouth.  And Sam did the trick with his tongue, the one that made him--

Frodo moved, the lithe, sinewy limbs and unpredictable strength rolling Sam over onto his back in the huge bed.  Then Frodo was hanging over Sam, pushing him into the headboard, hot demanding tongue sliding into Sam’s mouth, groaning mindlessly.  And Sam forgot to smile, moaning instead and pulling his knees up to wrap them around Frodo’s waist, moving just that way, the one that made him--

“You!”  Frodo growled, fumbling with the bottle, managing to coat eager fingers with the pungent oil and at the same time lean over to recapture Sam’s mouth with his own, frantically sucking and biting.  Sam slowly ran his hands down shivering sides and crooned softly and soothingly under his breath. 

Then it was Sam's turn to move and groan when Frodo dipped his head to lay a line of nipping kisses down Sam’s neck, to rub silky hair against sensitive skin.  And it was Sam’s turn to whimper when slender, skilful fingers reached down to sink slowly into Sam’s flesh, easing in and filling him to the edge of pain, but not quite -- just slippery and hot and achingly full.

Sam shifted one leg further up and Frodo bent his head, nuzzling into Sam's neck until he could not think, between Frodo’s mouth and those fingers, teasing him beyond conscious thought.  But too soon the fingers were gone and he started to moan in protest. Then he felt Frodo shift over him and sink into him in an achingly slow, searing thrust, replacing fingers with hard throbbing heat.  And Sam was lost -- lost in those unbelievable eyes gazing down into his -- lost in pure, unrelieved sensation as Frodo began to move, pulling slowly out of him.  He gripped Frodo's arm, trying to hang on somehow, to stay anchored.  From somewhere, he heard Frodo groan mindlessly and felt the slick muscles quivering as Frodo ever so slowly thrust back in, then slowly out, then back again.

“Tease,” Sam growled out in response to the deliberate pace.  He squirmed impatiently, demanding faster and harder.  There was a familiar choked-off laugh from above him and then a gasp as Sam shifted then clenched certain muscles, just that way, the one that made him-- 

“Oh my...S..sam,” Frodo gritted out in a raspy voice and then surrendered,  beginning to thrust hard and fast.  As if from a distance, Sam heard the huge bed begin to creak beneath them in an age-old rhythm -- the pace quickening as their frantic gasps and sighs grew louder than protesting wood joints.

Then Frodo's hand slid between them across slick warm skin, and Sam lost all coherent thought as Frodo’s slippery fingers grasped his hardened flesh, encircling and stroking urgently.  Frodo was plunging into him, whole and entire, wild wanton heat and hardness.  Sam groaned mindlessly, closing his eyes, feeling as if the huge old bed was sinking deeper into the hill and them with it, sinking into the heart of Bag End.

Somehow Sam lifted his head with an effort and opened his eyes to see Frodo's open hazily in response, feverish with desire.  He reached up and sank his fingers into the short silky curls, wanting more, wanting all of Frodo inside him.  And when Frodo’s greedy mouth covered his and he tasted that familiar hot sweetness, he clutched Frodo tightly to him, as if he would never let go.  Then he fell into swirling oblivion, groaning into Frodo's mouth, lost in a white-hot shudder around Frodo's body, the one that made him--

Frodo lifted his head and moaned hoarsely,  “Oh! Oh stars.  Oh Sam. Oh Sam...Sam...SAM!”
 
Sam hung on tightly as Frodo shivered with release and then collapsed, trembling, into his arms.  Sam thought, only briefly, clutching that limber, sated body tightly to him and sliding back into the warmth of the Master of Bag End's big feather bed, that they were home -- both of them.

***

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