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Hobbit Medicine
Author: mirith
Pairing: Frodo/Sam
Rating: NC-17.
E-mail: mirith@pobox.com
LJ: http://www.livejournal.com/users/mirith/
Summary: Sam and Frodo heal some old hurts in Valinor.
Disclaimer: Never for money. Always for love.
Feedback: is necessary. The ninth circle of paradise is reserved for people who give feedback. Hobbit virgins optional, but why would you pass them up?
Written: 5/21/04 – 5/28/04, for the amazing Snoopydance4me, who suggested Valinor + sex.


It took fifteen minutes for Sam to get up the courage to knock on the door.

For years, he had thought about making the long trip west to Valinor, and now that he was here, at Frodo’s doorstep, his hands insisted on fidgeting in their pockets. Not that there was any question that he had found the right address: it was a hobbit hole, tidy and simple, and the only one that Sam had seen since he stepped off the boat. Something else was holding him back, something complicated and persistent. And so Sam paced in front of the door, wearing a little track in the dust, wondering what he would say to his long-absent friend.

He might have stayed there for hours, had the wind not changed direction, bringing with it the sound of laughter from Frodo’s open windows. Sam blinked in the late afternoon sun, then smiled ruefully to himself.

“What would your Gaffer say?” he wondered, shaking his head. “You're a fine sight, Samwise Gamgee, slinking outside the door of gentlefolk!” Chastised, he took hold of the door knocker and banged it hard.

He heard the sound of a hobbit careening towards the entrance, hitting some part of his anatomy on a piece of low-lying furniture, taking Eru’s name in vain, then hopping to the door. The door opened, and there was Frodo, grinning broadly. He stood on one leg and held his injured shin behind him.

“Sam? Is that you?” Frodo blanched and tottered on his one good leg, about to fall. Sam caught him by the elbows and steadied him, more tenderly than he needed to.

“Mr. Frodo,” he managed. “It’s been a long time, and no mistake.” He held Frodo close for a few precious seconds, breathing in the scent of his hair. For his part, Frodo clung to his new guest as though he might blow away in the next seaward wind.

Sam wondered if Frodo’s trembling was an artifact of the recent blow to his leg. He was about to look into this issue further when he realized they had an onlooker. Over Frodo’s shoulder, he could see an elf sprawling precariously on a hobbit-sized chair. The elf peered at the new arrival.

“Begging your pardon,” said Sam. He drew a circle in the dirt with his toes. “Didn’t know you were keeping company. Don’t want to be no trouble…”

But Frodo had partly recovered his gait and composure and was dragging Sam into the house by one arm. “Hallasir! Look who’s come! It’s my … it’s Sam!”

The elf rose from his chair, and offered Sam a cool hand. Flustered, Sam reached up to take it.

The elf turned to Frodo. “It’s time for me to leave, little one. Enjoy your visit with your halfling friend.”

“I’m sure I will,” said Frodo. He walked Hallasir to the door. The elf ran one hand over Frodo’s dark curls, then nodded to Sam.

“May your evening be pleasant, Samwise of the Shire.”

“Garo adiual vaer,” Sam mumbled in farewell. As much as he appreciated elves, he didn’t like to see a stranger touching Frodo in a familiar way. In fact, he had never much liked the sight of anyone touching Frodo, familiarly or not, and this emotion could not have showed on his face more plainly if it had been painted there. He comforted himself with the fact that Frodo remembered him often enough in speech that his new acquaintances were familiar with Sam’s full given name.

The elf’s eyes glinted. He inclined his head towards Sam, then towards the master of the house, and was gone.

Once the door had closed behind the elf, Frodo wrapped his remaining visitor in both arms, then buried his face in his neck and wept. “Oh, Sam, Sam,” he cried. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

“And you can’t see me now, neither,” said Sam, kissing the top of Frodo’s head. “Not if you take on so. There, now.”

He was seized by the old, long-suppressed impulse to kiss Frodo’s tears away, but settled for rubbing his friend’s back in what he hoped was a comradely fashion. “No use getting myself thrown out my first day here,” he reasoned. Questions about the elf’s role in Frodo’s life ran through his mind, but he quickly drove them out.

When he felt Frodo had cried long enough, he held him at an arm’s length and dabbed at him with a handkerchief. “All right, Mr. Frodo. I see your kettle on the stove. Let me fix you a hot cup of tea. My Gaffer always said that nothing could settle a body like heat and drink, and tea is both.”

“I’ve been a terrible host,” said Frodo, smiling through his few remaining tears. “Let me make the tea, Sam.” He bustled off to the stove to put the kettle on.

“If you aren’t a marvel!” replied Sam, as he watched his friend retreat. Sam admired his easy grace. Even after all these years, Frodo was slim-hipped and sable-haired, and he drew longing from Sam like a sponge draws water from a bucket. Sam shifted his hips, trying to keep the longing in check.

“To think,” Sam continued, “that you learned to boil water!” He looked forward to the tea: its high temperature always explained away flushed cheeks.

Frodo gave a pleased giggle. “I’ve done more than that,” he said. “There are blackberry biscuits on the table. Take some.”

Sam ambled over to the kitchen table and found a blue and white bowl. It was covered in grey elven cloth and looked encouragingly lumpy. Sam removed the cloth and found the promised biscuits inside. He popped one into his mouth.

“Frodo!”

Frodo turned from the stove, his eyebrows battling one another in anxiety. “What is it?”

“These are ...” Sam stopped talking to chew. He waved his hands emphatically.

“What?” Frodo rushed over to the table.

“Good,” said Sam. “Very good. There’s a word for it, I reckon, but choke me if I know what it is.”

“I /will/ choke you, too,” said Frodo, looking relieved, “for making me worry. Now, then, Master Samwise. The water’s almost ready. What would you like in your tea? Wait, I know.” Frodo shaded his eyes with his hand and thought. “No honey. No lemon. Just a dollop of cream, about the size of a radish. That should do you.”

“Do me?” Sam asked himself. He dearly wished that Frodo would do him, and forget about the tea. Still, he responded with a decorous “That’s it,” even adding, “You’re a gentlehobbit to remember.”

After the tea had steeped, they sat at the table and drank. Frodo reached for the honey, then fell back, grimacing and clutching at his left shoulder. Sam fussed over Frodo’s injury.

“It’s the wound,” said Sam, quietly. “It’s been grieving you all this time, with nary a soul to tend to it.”

“Just about,” Frodo admitted. “But we needn’t talk about it now. I’m just so surprised to see you here. Sam, have you come for good?”

“I reckon I have, at that,” said Sam. He studied Frodo’s face, trying to read in it what their lives would be like now that he was here.

“Of course,” said Frodo, returning Sam’s inquisitive gaze. “Nobody ever goes back. But I never thought you’d come.” He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again.

“Rosie,” thought Sam. “He’s thinking about Rosie.”

“It sounds like you’ve learned more Sindarin,” said Frodo, changing the subject. “I couldn’t believe how fluent you sounded when we were seeing Hallasir off.”

“There’s the name of that elf again,” thought Sam. He thanked his master, for Frodo had remained “master” to him, though it was not the only way in which he thought of his friend. He reached for another biscuit.

“Guess I’ve done a bit of studying while you were gone,” Sam remarked, chewing thoughtfully.

“Whatever made you think of it?” asked Frodo. “I always imagined you gardening. Bringing things to life, the way you do.”

“Oh, I still keep my hands in the earth, you might say.” Sam blushed. “Don’t reckon as how it’s me that brings things to life. I just give them a little pat of welcoming when they arrive. But I’ve read a fair bit now, Mr. Frodo. It seemed a shame, you leaving me all those elf books, and nobody to pay them any mind.”

Sam shifted uneasily in his chair, wondering if he had said too much. The fact was that he had been desperately lonely for Frodo, and had been determined to immerse himself in everything that had been his master’s, especially the books. Reading them brought to mind times when Frodo had read to him by the fire, the two of them wrapped up in blankets to keep away the chill. Sam sometimes thought that the books still smelled of Frodo – his hands, his skin.

“And you,” said Sam, looking to break the silence. “How long have you been cooking? Last I knew, you could scorch anything. Tea, even. Now you put Poppy Bolger to shame, you do.”

Frodo beamed. “I’ve been cooking since … well, since I didn’t have anyone to do it for me, I suppose. At first, it was a disaster. I’d try to remember how you made coney stew, or pancakes, and I’d end up with pancakes that were clumpy like stew, or stew that was firm like pancakes.”

Sam smiled fondly and reached into the biscuit bowl.

“I suppose I’ve gotten better,” teased Frodo. “Seeing as how that’s your third biscuit. But there are some things that I’ve never gotten the hang of. That pie crust you used to make, for example. However did you do it? Mine comes out like lead.”

“I’ll show you some time, Mr. Frodo. Don't worry, you’ll pick it up that quick.”

There was another silence. Frodo put his head in his hands for a moment, then raised his eyes to look at his guest.

“Oh, Sam. I don’t know how I can make small talk at a time like this. The fact is, I just missed you so much.”

“I missed you too,” said Sam. “Something fierce.” Frodo helped himself to a biscuit, and the two of them chewed quietly.

“Looks like you’ve had some company, though,” Sam continued, trying to keep his tone light. “What with that elf.”

“That elf?” Frodo mulled this over, then started up with a gasp of recognition. “Samwise Gamgee! Are you jealous?”

“Don’t know as I ought to say, sir; I really don’t. It’s just that he looked so comfortable…” Under the table, Sam’s feet rubbed together in a little nervous dance. As usual, he was unable to keep anything a secret from Frodo.

“You /are/ jealous.” Frodo’s eyes, wide to begin with, widened even more. “Sam, are you asking if I’ve been with Hallasir?”

“Now, Mr. Frodo, that’s not what I said.” Sam began picking at the tablecloth. He knew that all of his limbs were fidgeting under Frodo’s sapphire gaze, but he couldn’t stop them.

“I know, but it’s what you meant.”

Sam didn’t offer a rebuttal.

Frodo sighed. “Yes,” he said.

“Yes?” asked Sam.

“Yes, we were … together.”

“Oh.” In a flash, Sam remembered the time he had fallen out of Farmer Maggot’s tallest apple tree and landed on a pile of stones below. This hurt worse.

“It was years ago. I had just come here, and I was in terrible shape. He healed me, as best he could.”

“And sex is part of elvish medicine, is it?” Inwardly, Sam flinched. It hurt him to speak to Frodo that way, but the words had just popped out, converting his pain to insolence.

“Yes,” said Frodo, gently. “It is.” He maneuvered their two chairs so that they were facing each other, and he took Sam’s hand in his own maimed one. “I had no idea you’d be this upset.”

Sam fixed his gaze on his tea cup, now empty but for a few leaves in the bottom. Outside, a bird was singing, but he didn’t recognize the song. “Damned elven bird,” thought Sam.

“Sam, I don’t know why you’re being this way. I needed some contact, and he gave it to me. There was so much that hurt – the Morgul wound, the memories of the Ring, you leaving me…”

Sam’s mouth fell open. “Me leaving you? I never left you!” He struggled to master his voice. “Begging your pardon, but I’m not the one who hopped on a ship sailing west.”

Frodo looked as though Sam had struck him.

“You /did/ leave me!” he cried. “You left me for Rosie!” Frodo sprang from his chair as if to pace about the kitchen, but Sam caught him by the elbows again, just as he had at the door. Frodo’s lip was trembling, and Sam wasn't sure his own was any firmer, but he forged ahead.

“For starters, Mr. Frodo, I don’t see how you can say I left you for Rosie. You and I were never a couple to begin with.” Something about that statement didn’t ring true, but he let it stand. “Second, you told me to marry Rosie. You started in on how you wanted little Samlets running about and why wouldn’t I get married. And finally, I gave in and did it. I would have done anything for you, and you know it.” Sam forgot to breathe as every emotion he’d had since Frodo left hit him like a wave.

Frodo’s face turned white as bone. As soon as Sam felt his friend’s knees giving way, he slung him over his back, as he had done on the road to Orodruin, and carried him to the sofa.

And now they lay hip to hip, belly to belly, as Frodo sobbed into Sam’s hair. “Why did I do it?” asked Frodo, once he could speak. “I never thought you'd take me up on it. Oh Sam, I wanted you so much.”

“You did?” Sam swallowed hard, putting the pieces together.

“Of course I did,” said Frodo. “Sam, don’t hate me. When we got back from Mordor, I wanted you so badly. I remember so many times when I wanted to ask you to take me to bed and make me whole again. You don’t think me wicked for thinking that, do you?”

“No,” said Sam, holding Frodo tightly. "Not for thinking it," he silently amended, "but for not asking. Not that I've done better." For a moment, he rocked the two of them back and forth.

“Sweet Sam. I should have known you’d forgive me anything. So, yes, I had feelings for you, but I was terrified of how you’d respond. I couldn’t bear losing your friendship. Although sometimes, I’d even imagine that … that you’d say yes.”

“Yes,” said Sam, but his face was buried against Frodo’s neck, and Frodo appeared not to hear him.

“And then it was almost worse,” Frodo continued. “I know I'm mad, but I'd think of us together. And then I’d get frightened, because although I wanted … that …, I was afraid of being … pierced again. I was afraid it would be like the stabbing, and that I wouldn’t be able to stand it, even though I wanted it so much. And the idea of not being able to please you …” Frodo's voice trailed off.

"So in the end, I pushed you towards Rosie, maybe to test how you felt. You know. About me.”

Unable to speak, Sam pulled Frodo on top of him and kissed his neck. He stroked Frodo’s shoulders, feeling them rise and fall under his hand.

Frodo struggled to get up, but was helpless against the other hobbit’s greater strength. “Sam, dear, don’t tease,” he managed. “I know you mean it innocently, just in friendship, but you don’t know what it does to me.”

“Aye,” said Sam, marveling at his own ability to sound so calm. “I mean it in friendship.” He licked a slow line from the apple of Frodo’s throat to his ear.

“Sam, please,” moaned Frodo. He pushed at his couchmate, seeking leverage. “It’s cruel.”

“That it is." Sam paused. "I’ve come all the way here to give myself to you, and you insist on staying dressed. With your leave, Mr. Frodo, it’s no way to treat a guest.”

Frodo scrambled into a sitting position atop Sam and peered into his friend’s eyes. He must have liked what he saw, because a slow, bewildered grin began to spread over his face.

“Samwise Gamgee! Are you …” Frodo fumbled for the words. “Are you making love to me?”

“I’m trying to, sir.” Sam reached up to caress the tip of Frodo’s pointed ear.

“But I thought … Sam, how long have you…”

“Don’t know that either of us wins any prize in communication,” said Sam. “Me nor you. I’ve loved you since I first heard of love. Since before then, most likely.”

“I’ve been so foolish.” Frodo covered his face with his hands, but Sam uncovered it.

“If this is what a fool is,” he said, “Then I must be powerful fond of fools.” He pressed himself tightly against Frodo, trying to comfort him, as was his wont, with his arms and body.

“Now then,” Sam continued, when they had held each other a while, “I don’t mean to be forward, but it seems to me that you mentioned something about me taking you to bed.” It was bold, but Sam had lost so much through lack of boldness, and he was determined to make up for lost time.

Tentatively, Frodo ran a finger over Sam’s lips, getting used to the skin there. “Sam, you don’t have to. You just got here; I’m sure you want to lie down…”

“With your consent, Mr. Frodo, I do want to lie down. And I’d like a spot of company while I do it.” Uncertainty hit him then, and he ran his hands down Frodo’s shirt buttons. “That is, sir, if you’ll have me.”

“Oh, Sam, I will have you,” replied Frodo. He bent to kiss Sam’s forehead, then stroked his face. “But where can we go? This couch is small, but the bed is even smaller.”

Sam was glad to hear some corroboration of his hope that the elf did not spend his nights in Frodo’s chambers, but he kept that to himself. “I’ve always wanted to love you in a garden,” he admitted.

Frodo licked his lips. Sam couldn’t tell if the gesture was nervous, lusty, or both.

“As it happens,” Frodo replied, “I have a garden. A nice garden out back with very high walls.”

“You have a garden?” asked Sam, shaking his head with wonder. “I leave you alone for a few years, and quick as a ladybird, you’re cooking and gardening. There’s not much use for old Sam around here.”

“I could think of many uses for old Sam,” said Frodo, shyly, “if he would be pleased to go to the garden with me.” He offered Sam his hand, and led him out into the sunshine.

Sam gasped when he saw what Frodo had done. The garden was luminous, with banks of greenery, a small pool for water plants, and an ocean of flowers. Golden hues predominated – honey-colored roses; buttery daisies; amber lilies. Sam knelt to examine a cluster of small posies by his feet.

“Elanor, the sun-star,” he said. “We saw them together in Lothlórien.”

“I know,” said Frodo, looking at his feet. “They’re the color of your hair.” He touched his hand to his cheek in embarrassment.

“I’m getting more white hairs by the day, Mr. Frodo. Soon I’ll be toting a staff and wearing a pointy hat.” It was dawning on Sam that /every/ plant in the garden was roughly the color of his own hair.

“You will not,” said Frodo, reaching out to stroke Sam’s wayward locks. “Your silver hairs are beautiful, and I won’t have you hide them. I will plant moon-star for them, and lunaria, and silver sword…”

Here Sam pulled Frodo briefly into his arms for a kiss. Frodo’s lips were sweet from the biscuits, and Sam shuddered as they gave way to his own. It perplexed him that something as soft as his master’s mouth could shake him so hard.

“I should know that I can’t out-love you with words,” Sam said, his voice low. “But if you lie down with me on that moss over there, I reckon I can show you some romance.”

“Then show me,” said Frodo. Moving slowly, as in a fever dream, he offered Sam his wrists.

“All right, then,” said Sam. Sam grabbed Frodo and hoisted him, squealing, onto his back. He tottered toward his goal, occasionally pausing to pretend he was losing his grip, then deposited Frodo tenderly on the bank of moss. Frodo pulled Sam down beside him, and they came to rest facing each other in a loose embrace.

“Before we start,” said Sam, “I only want to do what pleases you.”

“I know,” said Frodo.

Sam sighed. “I wish I had known, back then, about your being afraid and such. You know, of … piercing. We could have done other things together, you know. I could have loved you with my hands, with my mouth. I would have loved you with my elbows, if you wanted. I just didn't think …”

“I see that now,” said Frodo, “and I wish I had seen it then. Don’t worry: if I get scared, I’ll ask you to do something else. But I don’t see how you could frighten me, the way we are now.”

Encouraged, Sam took Frodo’s face in his hands and kissed him. This time, Frodo’s lips parted to offer Sam entrance, and Sam accepted, caressing the inside of his beloved’s mouth with his tongue. Frodo gave a groan of pleasure, then set about exploring Sam in the same way. Sam could already feel himself stiffening against Frodo’s clad thigh.

“Too hot,” gasped Sam. He moved to unbutton his weskit, but Frodo stayed his hand.

“You are /my/ mathom,” said Frodo, “and I will open you.” As soon as they had both gotten to their knees, Frodo began to make good on his promise. He stripped Sam of his weskit and unfastened his braces.

Frodo paused to admire his handiwork. It was a tactical mistake, for Sam pounced upon him. Although Frodo wriggled, he could not unseat his rider, and the stronger hobbit soon divested him of weskit, braces, and shirt. Sam lost patience removing the latter, stopped working on the buttons, and pulled it over Frodo’s eyes in a makeshift blindfold.

“Sam, I can’t see,” Frodo pointed out, bested and breathing hard.

“But I can,” said Sam. Understanding, Frodo lay still and Sam study him.

“Mother of Eru,” whispered Sam, “and all his aunts beside.” He had often seen Frodo naked, but he had never seen Frodo lying back in all his seductive glory, ready to take a lover. Words of awe and desire began burbling from Sam, and he stroked a path from Frodo’s throat to his belly, thrilling to the way the sweet skin felt under his hand.

“Samwise Gamgee, only you would say such things,” groaned Frodo. “I’ve been gutted like a hake and I haven’t all my fingers and…”

“Then only I’d be right,” soothed Sam. “Hush now and let your Sam look at you.” The scar on Frodo’s shoulder was jagged and ugly, but that was the scar and the Wraith who made it, not Frodo. In Sam’s eyes, it threw Frodo’s luminous skin and radiant curls into sharp relief, making him shine all the more brightly because of it.

“So white where the sun hasn’t touched you,” Sam breathed. “You’re a water lily, and a tower of Gondor besides.” Frodo squirmed, then gasped as Sam caught and pinned his wrists to the ground.

“Although,” Sam reflected, “not all of you is pale. Here’s a pink bit.” Sam bent his head down to breathe on one of Frodo’s nipples, then moved back to examine the results: a harder nipple and a writhing Frodo. Sam was beginning to think that the latter would be a responsive bedmate.

“Sam, please,” Frodo begged. Still pinned, he raised his hips in the direction of Sam’s body, then cried out when he brushed against it.

“Never you mind, sweet master. Sam has more than breath for you.” The younger hobbit bent his head back to Frodo’s nipple and licked it, being sure to rub his own clad erection against Frodo’s in the process. He was pleased to lift his gaze in time to see Frodo throw his head back and bite his own arm. Entranced, Sam suckled at him, nipped at him, grazed him with his teeth.

“You taste sweet here, Mr. Frodo,” remarked Sam, still holding down a wriggling hobbit. “But I’ve not tasted everywhere.” When Frodo parted his thighs and moaned, Sam took the hint and licked a path down to where Frodo’s breeches began.

“What’s this?” Sam asked. “A barrier.” He lay his cheek on the bulge in Frodo’s trousers, then nuzzled it through the velvet. “Hmm. None shall pass. It’s a defeat, Mr. Frodo, and there’s no two ways around it.”

“You are /not/ defeated,” gasped Frodo, temporarily lucid. “Confound it, Sam, strip me!”

Happy to oblige, Sam got to work on Frodo’s trouser buttons. He was intentionally clumsy, his fingers constantly veering off the buttons and on to Frodo’s arousal, which was still bound by the velvet. Finally, buttons were undone, the breeches removed, and Frodo revealed.

“Beautiful,” breathed Sam. He could think of no other word in Westron that fit, though there were many in Sindarin. He removed the shirt from Frodo’s willow-the-wisp eyes.

“Now you can see how splendid you are,” Sam said. “And you can watch the things I do to you, if you like.”

As Frodo moaned and surrendered himself into Sam’s care, Sam couldn’t help but notice that his pupils were eclipsing his irises at a furious rate. His lithe body was a picture of readiness – his lips parted, his breathing fast, his cock red and ripe with heat. With an amorousness that bordered on reverence, Sam parted Frodo’s thighs and knelt between them.

“I thought we could start with this,” said Sam, placing a kiss at the end of his lover’s hardness. He looked up at Frodo’s face for assurance that his touch was welcome. Frodo focused his eyes long enough to shoot Sam a look of pure need.

“He wants me,” thought Sam. There was something giddy in the thought, yet something fierce and possessive too. Holding back a growl, Sam planted a hand on Frodo’s thigh, then took his lover into his mouth.

Although Sam had never been with another lad, he had often mulled over exactly how he would serve Frodo, bedwise, if ever the Queen of the Valar stepped down from her mount and gave him the opportunity. Most of his ideas on love-making had their roots in gardening. For much of his life, he had done his best to give what was needed to the green life that twitched to break forth from the soil, and he saw parallels to this in romance. Seeds needed warmth and wetness; Frodo would need these too. Intent on supplying these requirements, Sam moved up and down on his beloved’s shaft, offering him the heat and moisture of his tongue.

“Sam,” Frodo moaned. It was the first coherent thing he’d said since asking Sam to strip him. He bucked his hips, entering Sam more deeply, and now it was the gardener who was moaning, rock-hard at the thought of Frodo using him this way. He relaxed his throat, doing his best to accommodate the flesh that filled him.

Frodo trembled and whimpered. Reluctant to put an early end to his lover’s pleasure, Sam drew up and slowed his pace. He began lapping gently at the underside of the head of Frodo’s cock. Sam was sensitive there, and he hoped Frodo would be too.

Frodo must have enjoyed the new sensation, for he clamped his thighs around Sam’s shoulders, urging him on. But Sam was determined to continue teasing. With a feather-light touch, he drew his tongue up over the head of his lover’s sex. As he reached the slit, he pressed into it, gratified when it yielded up a drop of clear fluid. He rolled it around on his tongue, savoring the taste of Frodo’s desire.

Frodo was pleading now. He implored Sam to do it harder, to do it faster, to do anything he wanted, as long as it would bring release. Relenting, Sam took in as much of his beloved as possible, sliding his tongue down the underside of the shaft as he went. Then he reversed the gesture, sweeping his mouth from the base of Frodo’s arousal to the tip, tonguing fervently all the while.

“Your hands,” Frodo begged, as his body twitched and fluttered.

Hoping he understood, Sam placed his hands at the base of Frodo’s cock. Continuing to shower his sweetheart with the devotions of his mouth, he began stroking and gentling Frodo with his hands as well. He moved one of his hands to cup his lover’s sac, and found it hard and tight against Frodo’s body.

“So good,” breathed Frodo, and Sam could hear the beginning of his climax in his voice. It soon began elsewhere as well, and Frodo started thrusting into Sam’s mouth as though his hips were beyond his control. Sam lapped him, sucked him, loved him, until, with a strangled cry, Frodo spent himself long and hard against the back of Sam’s throat.

Afterwards, Frodo wrapped himself around Sam in a dreamy snuggle.

“That was heaven,” said Frodo.

“That it was,” said Sam. He stroked a curl back from Frodo’s cheek, where it had become plastered during their exertions. “To tell you the truth, Mr. Frodo, the way you started driving into me at the end – it stirred me something terrible.” He pulled Frodo’s hand to his crotch, so that Frodo could feel for himself.

“I couldn’t help it,” said Frodo, almost apologetically. “I really couldn’t.” He moved his hand over Sam’s hardness.

“That,” said Sam, “is why it stirred me.” Holding back a groan, he bit his lover gently on the neck.

They held each other for a few minutes, getting used to this new development in their friendship. Frodo was the first to break the silence.

“Sam, would you do something for me?”

“Not only something,” said Sam, “but anything.” He looked at Frodo expectantly.

“Would you … would you lie with me?”

Sam cocked his head. He was unfamiliar with the idiom, but had hopes as to what it might mean.

Frodo worried his lip with his teeth. “I mean, would you bed me? I need to feel you inside me. Please, Sam. I want us to be together. I don’t know what I’ll do if you don’t.”

Sam had never heard a request that he more desperately wanted to fulfill, but he balked at the idea of causing Frodo pain.

“What about the piercing, as you say? Although you’re probably used to it by now.” Sam blushed at this last reflection.

“What do you mean?” Frodo wanted to know.

“I mean, that elf, he’s a big feller. The height of him, anyhow.” Sam squirmed at his own candor.

“You’re still thinking of Hallasir,” said Frodo, surprised. “I told you, that part of our relationship was over a long time ago. And anyway, we never did that.”

“You didn’t?”

“No. We did other things, but he never took me that way.”

Sam considered this. “Because you were scared, like,” he said slowly, looking to Frodo for confirmation.

“Yes,” confessed Frodo. “And because he…”

Somewhere by the pool, a cricket was chirping. Sam decided to wait for his lover to finish before going off to deck the elf.

“Because he wasn’t you,” Frodo said.

Sam’s desire for revenge gave way to elation. The gratitude within him was so powerful that he wouldn’t have been surprised if it had come shooting out of his furry toes. He drew Frodo closer.

“Of course I’ll touch you that way, if you’ll let me. I never wanted anything half so bad, and that’s the truth. But I’m afraid I didn’t bring no … supplies. You know, to make it easier on you.”

Frodo arched an eyebrow. “And here I thought you, of all hobbits, were always prepared for anything.”

“Usually am, sir. But I never figured we’d be doing this ever, let alone an hour after I got here.”

“Samwise Gamgee!” Frodo laughed. “I do believe you’re saying I’m loose. I may be, at that, since you’re the only one who still has most of his clothing on. Let me help with that, Sam, and then we’ll look for supplies, as you call them.”

Sam held still and let Frodo strip him of his shirt. The afternoon sun felt good on his chest, but not as good as Frodo’s wandering fingers. Next, Frodo struggled with the buttons on Sam’s breeches. The realization that his master’s eagerness was causing him to fumble like a love-hungry tween warmed Sam’s insides like brandy.

At last, Sam lay bare. Something in the unveiling seemed to erase any thoughts of finding something to ease their love-making from Frodo’s mind. In fact, Frodo seemed to have forgotten everything except throwing his arms around his erstwhile employee, rubbing his body against him, and moaning.

Sam struggled to maintain a clear head. “Now, then, Mr. Frodo. You said something about supplies.” He gasped as Frodo parted his thighs with one knee.

So intent was Frodo on reducing Sam to a mass of pliant carnality that it took the gardener several minutes to bring his master back to task. Eventually, Frodo pointed to a plant by Sam’s elbow.

“The leaves,” he said.

Interpreting Frodo’s comment as best he could, Sam picked a few thick, pointed leaves – so thick that they almost seemed like stalks. Inside was a clear gel. Sam raised his eyes to Frodo, questioning.

“The elves call it /saesalosse/,” said Frodo.

“Pleasure blossom,” Sam translated. He shook his curly head at the kinkiness of elves. He was soon distracted, however, by an unexpected feeling on the back of his left hand. Some of the gel had fallen there, and he looked down at it with amazement. “It’s warm!”

“Yes,” said Frodo. “It warms on contact with the elven body. And, as it happens, the hobbit body.”

“Then it must warm for you,” said Sam, “being that you’re both, like.” He had often thought that Frodo was too small to be all elf and too luminous and slender to be pure hobbit.

“It does,” said Frodo. “Would you put some …” He whispered into Sam’s ear.

“Begging your pardon,” said Sam, coloring, “but did you say ‘on’ you or ‘in’ you?”

“I said ‘in,’” said Frodo, smiling, “but I’ll take what I can get.” He lay back, put his hands behind his head, and waited.

Sam was not inclined to keep Frodo waiting long. He kissed Frodo, then retrieved more gel from the plant and coated two of his fingers with it. It quickly took on his body temperature. Then he paused a moment to look at his lover, who had drawn up his knees in readiness.

“Are you sure?” Sam asked.

Frodo nodded. “Sam, let me be with you.” He took hold of Sam’s hand and guided the coated fingers to the entrance to his body.

Swallowing hard, Sam pressed one of his fingers into Frodo’s tight warmth, then lay his head on Frodo’s chest. Frodo’s heart was like a hummingbird, wings beating fast.

Frodo clenched around Sam at first, then relaxed. “More,” he said.

Sam eased a second finger in. “Is it all right?” he asked.

“It’s good,” said Frodo, breathing hard. “Open me.”

Sam experimented with spreading his fingers apart. Sweat began to break out on Frodo’s forehead. Sam kissed it away.

“I’m ready,” Frodo managed, and with his legs splayed open in a wanton pose, he looked it. Sam moved to slick himself up with the plant juice, but Frodo intercepted him. “Let me,” he said.

Sam watched as Frodo stroked him, covering him in the warm balm. There was something insanely erotic about the sight of Frodo readying him for love-making, and the sweet tugging of Frodo’s hands threatened to loosen something in Sam, make him overflow. Finding it difficult to wait, he straddled his companion, then gently pushed him backward into the moss.

Frodo understood. “Yes,” he said, and his eyes were ball lightning, blue and inexorable.

Sam guided himself to Frodo’s opening, then pressed against it, not yet entering. Frodo wrapped his legs around Sam’s waist and lifted his hips.

“Come, Sam,” he begged.

“Don’t want to hurt you,” panted Sam. He could feel Frodo pushing up against his cock, trying to take him in. He wanted to let Frodo make the decisions here, since it was his body that stood to suffer, despite Sam’s gentle intentions. Frodo seemed to know what Sam was waiting for, because a litany of carnality began to pour out of him.

“Samwise, give me your body – want you to take me – need to give you pleasure, need it now …”

With a moan, Sam sank into his lover, burying himself in Frodo’s tightness. Frodo cried out, and a spasm rippled through him. Afraid he had been too rough, Sam stilled. “All right, love?”

Frodo caught his lip between his teeth. “Stay in me,” he gasped. Sam could tell that the connection had been difficult, and it worried him.

“I’ll do anything you want,” Sam promised. “Anything.” He pushed the hair out of Frodo’s eyes. He had been holding himself up with his arms, but now he lowered himself to catch Frodo’s lips in a kiss. As Frodo opened to him, allowing himself to be probed and taken by Sam’s insistent mouth, Sam nearly wept with desire.

Despite the kissing, however, Frodo was not relaxed, and Sam didn’t dare to press into him any further. It occurred to him that if he changed position, he should be able to lie over Frodo, still inside him, while stroking his lover’s cock. He tried this, and found the experiment a success.

As soon as Sam wrapped his sticky-smooth fingers around Frodo’s shaft, he felt the reluctance in Frodo’s muscles dissolve into welcome. Frodo arched himself up into Sam’s fist, and the rocking of Frodo’s hips brought Sam a stab of pleasure. It must have been enjoyable for Frodo, too, for he breathed, “Move, Sam,” and continued to rock against him.

To be inside Frodo and unable to thrust had been a sweet torture. Now Sam began to slide in and out of his love. The underside of his cock rubbed against soft, confining flesh, and Sam doubted he would last long, especially when Frodo was making those tantalizing noises. Sam was in the process of changing his angle in hopes of reducing sensation when Frodo cried out.

Sam froze. “What’s wrong, love?”

Frodo’s eyes were frantic with lust. “Like that. Please, Sam. Again.”

It wasn’t long before Sam had found the angle again. He judged that he had hit it when Frodo began moaning rhythmically, his beautiful face contorted in desire. Sam began to feel that he could not slow down, no matter what Frodo asked of him, and Frodo must have read his mind, because he began begging Sam to do it, to take him, to fill him, to use him for his own pleasure, and Sam was following Frodo’s directives like a hobbit possessed when Frodo’s ecstasy ripped though them both. First it took Frodo, made him shudder and shout and spurt against Sam’s belly, and then it took Sam, who quivered and shook and pumped his seed into the slight body beneath him.

Afterwards, they lay on the moss, holding each other and panting.

“Wonderful,” said Frodo. “I love you, Sam.”

“And I love you, master.” Sam kissed his cheek.

“You needn’t call me that” laughed Frodo, “considering what you’ve just done to me. It’s not like I own you.”

“Aye,” said Sam, “but you do. You do.”

They snuggled some more, then Sam broke the silence.

“You know how you said I was to be ‘solid and whole’?”

“What?”

“‘Solid and whole,’” Sam repeated. “You told me that just before you left for Valinor, when I was fair torn.”

“Yes,” said Frodo, slowly. “I remember now.”

“And then you got on that boat, and I thought the pain would kill me dead. No, let me finish. It hurt so bad, it was like a knife wound that had cut out the heart of me, and would not mend.”

“I know something of that,” said Frodo, holding Sam near.

“But now I know you were right, Mr. Frodo.” Sam kissed Frodo softly on the mouth, as though sealing a promise. “I was meant to be solid and whole, and so were you. And I think we can be, now.”

“Oh, Sam. You are … you are the other half of my soul and body, now and always." Frodo wiped a tear away with the back of his hand. Tears would be rare in the days to come.

The two hobbits kissed again. Then Frodo wrapped all four of his limbs around Sam and brought his mouth close to Sam’s ear. “Promise me,” he whispered, “you’ll live with me until your housing is ready.”

“What?” asked Sam, but Frodo’s eyes were shining with love and humor.

“You’ll do no such thing,” he said. “My home is yours, as is my heart. You will be with me, near me, and in me as often you like.”

“Thank the Valar for that,” said Sam, and he carried his dreamy, sated lover back into the house.