West of the Moon

A Tolkien Fanfiction Archive



A Writer's Bane
Frodo finds himself doing something that should be very familiar.
Author: Cassiopeia
Rating: NC-17


Silver cobwebs danced between the trees as Jem trotted through the shadowed forest, heart in his mouth as he peered through the gaps between the branches. Dry leaves crackled beneath his feet as he took step after step, his breaths coming so fast he thought at any moment he would be caught as well. For a moment he let himself think of the Sun rising over the Hill in the morning, and the call of a cock as snoring farmers rose wearily from their beds. But no, it wasn't allowed. He must keep going.

"Tolco!" he called out, stumbling forward once more into darkness.


Frodo put a hand over his mouth and yawned. "I think that's enough for tonight, Sam," he said, shuffling together his papers. "That walk to Bywater this morning has worn me out, I believe." He stretched out his legs, hearing a soft crack as his bones grumbled.

Sam jumped up, immediately concerned. "I'm sorry, sir, I shouldn't've--" he began.

"No." Frodo waved his hand around with a chuckle. "I won't die if I read when I'm tired." He paused as an idea began to be forged in his mind. "Come with me, Sam." He rose from the couch, walking down the corridor to Bilbo's -- no his -- study. Sam tended to the lamp, and after a moment warm light splashed into the room. Frodo tossed the papers onto the desk and bent down to open the bottom drawer.

The drawer was filled with papers and old quills and empty bottles of ink and other odds and ends that had accumulated there ever since Bilbo had left -- nearly one year ago now. Frodo riffled though the yellowed papers, finally pulling out the stack he was searching for.

Sam was looking at Frodo with his you-ought-to-go-to-bed-if-you're-tired expression he wore a lot lately. Frodo steadily ignored it -- what does he think I am, a sheet of glass? -- and gave Sam a smile. "Would you like to read another story at your home, one I've recently finished?" he asked, holding out the papers. "If -- if you want to," he added shyly.

Sam's beautiful brown eyes widened. "Oh, I couldn't, sir!" he said. "Knowing me I'd probably lose 'em or wreck 'em."

"Oh, you wouldn't," said Frodo. "Take them, please."

Sam looked uncomfortable. "My gaffer says I oughtn't read anyway. He says that cabbages and taters are enough for the likes of me."

Frodo inwardly sighed. Sometimes Sam could be so frustrating. "If you don't want to..." he murmured, darting a look at Sam under his eyelashes.

"Of course I do!" said Sam, scandalized. He took a step forward and almost tore the pages from Frodo's hands. "I'll read 'em in bed when my gaffer's asleep." 

Perhaps it was the heat streaming from the lamp behind Frodo, or the way Sam's cheeks flushed fiercely, or the mention of Sam in his bed, but Frodo suddenly felt very hot and bothered. "All right," he croaked. He cleared his throat. "They're not very good anyway. The elves have a way with words I can't seem to catch on to."

"Don't be silly," whispered Sam, cradling the papers almost reverently. "I mean, begging your pardon, Mr. Frodo, but your stories are good, too."

"That's very kind of you to say, Sam," said Frodo, fussing with his collar. "But I still have a long way to go." There was an awkward silence. Frodo swallowed. "I am awfully tired..."

"Yes, sir." Sam nodded. "I'll be going now. You get to bed soon."

"You too." Frodo mentally berated himself. He hadn't meant to say that so...hoarsely. "Goodnight, Sam."

"Goodnight, sir."

Frodo listened to Sam's heavy steps down the hall, then the scrape of the door, and finally the thud of the door closing. The smial seemed all of a sudden cold and empty. Frodo shivered. Deciding to take Sam's advice, Frodo began to walk towards the hallway, but halfway there realised that he wasn't tired at all.


As Sam hurried up the path to Number Three, he could see light falling from the sitting-room's window. It was probably May, in her chair by the fire, knitting something, maybe a new coat for Daisy's babe. Sam carefully pushed the parchments under his coat and opened the door.

"Hullo, Sam," said a soft voice as Sam passed the sitting-room. Sam had been right; May was rocking back and forth in her chair, humming softly between clicks of her needles. "Da's gone to bed, says his hands are aching again. Would you be wanting something to eat?"

"No," Sam replied, feeling the parchments rub where a bit of his shirt had been teased from his breeches. "I had my tea at Mr. Frodo's. I've had a long day; I might just go to bed."

"All right." May resumed her knitting. "G'night to ye."

"G'night," said Sam.

In his room, Sam put the pile of papers on the old table next to his bed. It used to belong to Hamson, and one drawer knob had fallen off and the paint had nearly flaked away. He found two candles in his closet, and lit them with a match, nearly burning himself on hot candle wax once. Satisfied he had enough light to read by, Sam stripped off his clothes and tugged on his nightshirt, the material falling softly around his body. And with a flutter of excitement he slipped into his bed, taking the parchments and laying them on his lap when he was settled.

Sam took a moment to look at the top parchment. It was filled with lines of dark blue ink: Frodo's handwriting, so silky and fluid, unlike Sam's uneasy hand. He smiled as he remembered how Frodo's tongue always poked out from the corner of his mouth whenever he was writing. Sometimes Sam wanted to lick that tongue.

Sam worried his lip on that thought; it was naughty to think of things like that. By all the beer in the Westfarthing there was no way Frodo would ever, ever, think of that kind of thing, so Sam ought not to think about it either. Even though Sam told himself that all the time, he couldn't help but think about it.

And so he lifted the stack to his face and breathed deeply. The parchments smelt musty and inky and Frodo-y. Yes, Sam could smell a scent that he could only put to his master. Probably the loveliest smell in the world. Sam sighed, snuggled into the covers and began to read. He might smell the stack again later.

The story Frodo had written was about an elf prince who was sent away from his kingdom because his father did not think he should marry the lowly maid. The prince had begged and pleaded and cried to his father, but nothing would move the stubborn king. At last the king, in despair, found a suitable wife -- a princess -- from another kingdom close by. But the prince refused to marry the princess, and the incensed king sent him into the dark forest, alone with only his horse for company.

Sam found himself engrossed in the story, and his heart pounded as the prince faced down hungry wolves, their jaws dripping and their eyes glowing eerie yellow.

Begone! shouted the prince, brandishing his sword. His horse whinnied, its coat lathered and eyes wild. But the wolves crept closer, snarling and gnashing their teeth.

Sam licked his lips and hurriedly put that parchment aside. His eyes locked onto the new sheet and he began to read.

But the story did not continue; instead on the paper was a different story, written this time in green ink. Frodo must have mixed the parchments up. Sam hurriedly checked the other papers; but no, the rest of the writing was in green ink as well. Sam squirmed in disappointment. Now he'd have to wait until tomorrow to find out what happened to the brave prince. He eyed the new story dubiously. Should he read it, or take it back to Bag End tomorrow unread? Maybe Frodo didn't want him to read the story. Maybe Frodo would become angry.

Sam looked out the window. It was all quiet in the garden, except for the occasional natter of a cricket or the hum of a swarm of midges. He really ought to go to sleep now, for he had a lot to do in Bag End's garden tomorrow. His eyes slid to the parchment lying on his chest. Sam counted how many sheets were left -- ten. Not too many. Maybe Frodo had meant for Sam to read it, but no, that didn't make much sense, Sam admitted.

Sam chewed his lip. Yes, he was definitely intrigued by Frodo's story. Because, Sam knew from a quick scan of the first few paragraphs, it was about hobbits. No doubt about that. There -- Sam stuck his thumb on the paper -- the Hill was mentioned. No elves had ever visited the Hill, at least not to Sam's knowledge. It was funny, Sam thought, because Frodo had never written about hobbits before. Frodo always wrote about elves. And Sam didn't mind, because he loved elves, and that's a fact.

Sam gave up any notion of resisting and began to read. Soon he forgot all about the prince, and he felt warm all over, and his hand stole under his blanket.


 Relief made Jem gasp as Tolco fell into his arms, tired and dirty, but otherwise all right.

"We must leave," whispered Jem. "Before he comes back."

Tolco smiled wearily. "Water first, please."

Jem brought his water bottle to Tolco's lips and let him take a sip. Cool water wet Tolco's dry lips, stray drops sparking in the sunlight like jewels.

"Let's go." Jem put the water bottle in his pack and gently helped Tolco up. "Lean on me," he advised, as he wound an arm around Tolco's waist.

Tolco's breaths struggled past his lips, but he limped on. As they left the grime-filled room, Tolco sighed. "You're always with me, aren't you, Jem?"


Frodo walked to the window, looking out into the dark garden. Sam would probably be home by now, maybe having a chat with his sister or gaffer. Perhaps Sam would have a smoke or some tea before he went to bed. A little breath escaped Frodo's lips. He'd thought about Sam in bed a lot. An awful lot. But tonight was different. Tonight Sam had a stack of Frodo's parchments with him, and would read Frodo's story about a prince in love with a poor maid. Frodo imagined Sam reading by the glow of candles, their yellow light tracing Sam's throat, maybe stealing down to a patch of chest where his nightshirt had fallen open. And when Sam had finished the story, flushed with pleasure (Frodo hoped so, but he wasn't sure if the story was any good), he'd tuck the papers under his bed, blow the guttering candles out and close his eyes to sleep. But perhaps he wouldn't sleep straight away. Maybe Sam would toss and turn, and he'd finally realise that there was a steady ache between his legs that needed handling before he'd be able to sleep. Sam's nightshirt would rustle as he drew it up, his mouth open on the pillow, moving (maybe pretending to kiss a maid) and moist. And then slowly, just to tease the sensation, his hand would creep down--

A breeze brushed Frodo's hair; the window was open, allowing a space for the wind to enter. Frodo pulled the window shut, turning the knob to lock it securely. He angrily brought the curtains together and stalked across the room to his desk, flopping onto his chair. Such silly thoughts for a gentlehobbit. Everybody knew that Sam would be marrying Rose Cotton one of these days, though when was anybody's guess; Sam was so shy.

Frodo flexed his fingers and looked around his desk. A couple of maps lay beneath a vase of flowers. Sam had put the flowers there earlier that day, fresh cut from the garden. Frodo leant over and sniffed. The flowers smelt delightful. Sam was such a dear. Two ink-stained quills and an inkbottle crowded the table, and a well-used piece of blotting paper finished the arrangement. It was doubtful Frodo would be able to sleep for a few hours now, and certainly if he went to bed now he'd be doing naughty things that involved having to grab a brush and soap early the next morning, so he might as well do something productive.

Like finishing his special story.

Frodo's left hand absentmindedly opened the bottom drawer and fished around for its prey. A moment later a stack of papers sat in front of Frodo. Frodo just looked at them, feeling the same nervous flutter and spreading warmth as whenever he thought about his new story. It was something he'd never done before, never even thought of, until Bilbo left.

When Bilbo had left in a flash and a gasp last autumn, Frodo had been quiet for weeks, feeling alone and bewildered. He wandered far about the Shire, half hoping to find Bilbo camping somewhere, chuckling and happily frying bacon over the fire. But it wasn't a joke: Bilbo really wasn't coming back. Finally Frodo had accepted this, and buoyed by his friends, especially Merry and Pippin, he had tossed away his melancholy.

But Merry's and Pippin's visits were few, no more than once a month, and in-between Frodo admitted he was lonely. He took to reading the books left by his uncle, and to writing as well. At first he had written about elves, delighting in their bravery and fairness. Frodo loved how exciting the elves' lives were: sometimes he wished a dragon would chance upon the Shire and shake up things a bit.

Not too long after this he had noticed how Sam had turned into a handsome lad. The first time he'd realised he had perverse feelings for his gardener was when he was sitting at his desk engrossed in another elvish story. A shadow had darkened his paper, causing him to look up impatiently. A few breaths later Sam walked past the window again, pausing for only a few seconds to scratch at something, but Frodo was transfixed. Sam was hot and sweaty and delicious enough to eat. Frodo was smitten.

Suddenly the elven story Frodo was writing seemed a terrific bore. His mind had wandered, usually in the direction of Sam without any clothing on, conceiving astonishingly erotic situations. He had been in the midst of imagining himself, Sam and a cake of soap, nestled together in the bathtub, when the notion struck him. Of course Frodo had to take care of the straining between his legs before he thought it out properly, and after a few strokes he was satisfied, smiling to the ceiling of his bedroom.

Why couldn't he? Why couldn't he write stories about two lads? He wouldn't use anybody's real names, and he'd keep the papers hidden in his desk. Nobody would ever see them, and he'd have a lovely secret that he could keep close to his heart. Though he'd keep writing his elven stories, to keep up appearances, as Sam liked to read his stories by the fire after a day of gardening, his real love would be with his special story.

That night Frodo was awake till dawn, hastily scribbling away as his mind whirled with possibilities.

Frodo flipped through the papers, coaxing each page with his thumb as he searched. He pinned his lower lip down with his teeth, smothering the secret smile that upcurled his lips. Now where in the Shire is it? Frodo checked through the stack one last time. No, it was gone. The story was gone. Panic flashed through Frodo's blood. Had somebody stolen it? No. Frodo shook his head hard, almost wrenching his neck. The only other person who'd been in the smial for the past few days had been Sam.

"Oh," gasped Frodo, understanding.


 After two days of walking over hills and through forests and past rivers, Tolco and Jem reached a small house made of brick and plank. Nobody was home, so they immediately searched for the nearest bed and fell asleep together, exhausted with toil.

When they awoke, well-rested and rather hungry, Jem found Tolco watching him quietly, face wearing a smile. "What is it?" he said, blushing.

"You saved me," said Tolco softly. "You risked your life for me."

Tears pricked Jem's eyes. "You would have done the same for me."

Tolco nodded. "I would. But, my dear Jem, I have something to tell you."


Sam thrust -- one, two, three -- times, choked down a cry and caught his seed in his hand. Parchments were strewn over his bed, crackling as Sam's thighs twitched with release. He sighed with contentment and closed his hand, swirling the moisture around on his palm. With a trembling arm he lifted his hand to his mouth and licked himself clean, every last drop. When he'd first tasted himself he'd almost thrown up at the musky flavour, but now he lapped greedily, because it felt so good touching yourself there till you cried out. Sam had learnt this was the best way to do this kind of thing: when he'd first done it, his sisters had discovered the soiled sheets in the morning, much to Sam's embarrassment. It had been a good six months before he could even look at his sisters without blushing up to his ears.

Sam hastily gathered up the parchments and tucked them under his mattress. Then he snuffed out the candles with his thumb and forefinger and laid his head on the pillow. He grinned into the soft material. Imagine, his master having thoughts like that! Not that he'd thought Frodo had never done it before...but it was kind of like thinking about your parents doing it. You knew it happened, but some part of you denied it stubbornly. Sam remembered Frodo kissing Merry on the cheek last summer at Overlithe. Had Frodo done it with Merry? Sam shivered, surprised to find he wasn't jealous at all. He'd always thought Merry was a handsome hobbit, with bright hazelnut curls and sharp green eyes. Not as handsome as Frodo, mind.

The thing was... Sam squeezed his eyes shut. The story Frodo had written was obviously not finished: the story ended with hastily scribbled out sentences that Sam couldn't decipher no matter how hard he tried. The lads had finally admitted that they liked each other, after being friends for many years. But all they'd done was kiss; Sam had been heartbreakingly disappointed when the lads had not gone any further. How could they hold on to the -- the secret flame of desire, as Frodo had aptly written it, Sam wondered. Sam reckoned if he ever kissed Frodo he'd not likely walk away without at least touching Frodo there.

The kiss had been, however, Sam admitted, very hot. Tongues and teeth and lips crushing together, hands fluttering through curls and over backs. Sam bit his own tongue. Surely Frodo must have kissed somebody if he could describe it so well. Sam had never kissed anybody before, not even a lass. Well, he did kiss Rosie Cotton on the cheek once, but that didn't really count.

Sometimes Sam practiced kissing Frodo, just for fun, and he found himself doing it now. Not that he'd really ever actually do so, but, right now, Sam couldn't help but take the pillowcase between his teeth and fondle the rough material with his tongue. He pressed his face down hard, so the pillow wrapped around him, moving his lips and rolling his hips a bit.

 Ooh, Frodo, just...mmm...mmm.

Sam broke away. Silly, you can't talk while you're kissing somebody. He turned the pillow over (it had become awfully moist) and again tried to sleep. He now had another problem on his hands. Should he give the parchments back to Frodo tomorrow? What would Frodo say? Maybe he'd be so embarrassed he'd dismiss Sam on the spot. Sam had a hard time falling asleep that night.


A seam of light flushed though the curtains, caressing Frodo's face till he opened his eyes. Drat, he thought, I'm alive. He'd half been hoping, when he finally had crawled into bed hot with shame and tears, that he would die in the night and never have to face Sam again. Frodo hid his face in the pillow and took a breath. All right, you're alive, so you are going to have to deal with this. The best excuse he could come up with was that it was a dare Merry had forced him to do. Pretty lame, but better than admitting: Oh Sam, I write because I want to feel you inside of me something awful and want do naughty things to you with my tongue, and so I need  a way to express this desire. A flicker of hope kindled in Frodo's heart; that maybe Sam had glanced at the papers but not read them. And maybe elves don't have pointed ears.

Frodo stretched and hopped out of bed, dressing slowly. He yawned and glanced out the window. The sun was shining bright on the morning dew, drenching the land in liquid gold. Just his luck that it would be a fine day. If it had been raining, Sam wouldn't have to come up to Bag End today -- at least not till later, anyway.

Frodo made his way to the kitchen, half-heartedly making himself a strong cup of coffee and claiming a chair to rest his weary body.

"Mr. Frodo?"

Frodo nearly received blisters from spilt coffee. "Oh, hello Sam," he managed.

"Do you want me to make you some breakfast?"

Frodo wondered how Sam could look so beautiful, just standing there covered in falling sunlight. "No, I'm not hungry today."

"Aye." Sam nodded and moved to leave, but changed his mind. "I read your story," he said shyly.

"Oh." Frodo scalded his tongue on the coffee. "What did you think?" What kind of game are you playing, Frodo Baggins? he asked himself.

"'Twas very good, sir." Sam shuffled his feet. "I hope you don't mind, but I forgot to bring the papers back. I promise to bring them tomorrow."

"I hope you hid them so your father wouldn't see," said Frodo. He could imagine the gaffer finding his special story in Sam's room. The gaffer would know immediately who had written such a thing (he being familiar with Mr. Frodo's handwriting) and most probably send Sam away to Tighfield before he could say cabbages and potatoes.

"I put 'em under my mattress," said Sam.

"That's a good place," said Frodo, smoothing a smile that threatened his mouth, despite his wretchedness. He remembered when he used to hide naughty pictures he and his friends had drawn under his mattress so his aunt and uncle wouldn't see.

"Well, I ought to be going to clip the lawn," murmured Sam.

"All right, Sam." Frodo watched Sam leave, burnt his tongue on his coffee again and sighed.


That night, Sam, after reading Frodo's story again, was lying in bed touching himself. He had laid a sheet of parchment over his face (the one containing the lads' kiss as it happened), and was breathing in the wonderful fragrance, while his hand squeezed and moved skin, coaxing himself slow then fast, stretching out the sensation. He pulled up his knees and rocked into his hand.

Sam breathed gently so the paper was not disturbed, imagining Tolco and Jem lying in bed, smiling at each other, running hands over clothes and hair, kissing soft to begin with, then more passionately, till buttons were hastily undone and clothes tugged off...

Fumbling under his pillow with his other hand, his hand closed around something cool and hard. Now he needed two hands, so he reluctantly tore his other hand away from its ministrations and put it to work on a more important task.

It was rather difficult opening his gaffer's arthritis oil with a leaf of paper on his face, but Sam managed to do so, and spread the pungent but deliciously slick liquid all over his fingers. Sam swallowed, a bit nervous, but he'd heard this felt ever so good. And he was much too excited now to stop. When the bottle was set on his bedside table, Sam lifted his hips and -- oh!

 Mmm, Frodo, feels so good...

You want this, Sam, don't you?

So much... Too much. Another finger, please.

Sam wriggled in the sheets, managing to push in another digit. He swirled his fingers, trapping a moan deep in his mouth, closing his eyes to imagine...

Want to be inside you, Sam.

Please...oh, Frodo...uh...yes...mmm...

Sam's other hand came around to wrap around his arousal, swollen and aching. He pushed back on his fingers, arching and snapping his back as he caressed that special place he'd heard about.


Sam, you feel so lovely around me...mmm...


Feeling Frodo hot and hard inside him made Sam's mouth water, made him want to come harder and faster than he'd ever done before. Frodo's hand danced up and down his erection, fingers playfully squeezing and teasing, while Frodo thrust and murmured into his ear.

Sam, you're so hard...love feeling you...you're so slick...come for me, Sam...come hard for me...

Harder, Frodo! Ooh...oh!

When Sam pushed into his hand one last time, biting his shoulder to muffle a cry, three things happened at once. The gaffer's oil was knocked from the table, splashing all over the floor. He came so hard he didn't catch one drop, and his sheets became splotched. And the paper on his face was lifted by Sam's gasp, floating to the floor. Sam spent the rest of the night scrubbing the floor, and rinsing and hanging out the sheets to dry, and filling his gaffer's phial with salad oil.


 "I feel the same, Tolco-dear," sobbed Jem, pulling Tolco close to his breast. "For such a long time all I wished was to hold you close to me and tell you how I feel."

"Aren't we silly?" said Tolco. "Denying our feelings for such a long time?"

"We are." Jem smiled through his tears. "And I would very much like to kiss you, Tolco, if you feel up to it."

Tolco moved his head forward, letting his lips caress Jem's. Stars danced happily in his eyes. "I do," he murmured.

And, after many years lost, the lads began to kiss one another, the secret flame of desire blossoming like a flower as the morning Sun touches her petals.


Sam woke bleary-eyed and tired. The sun was tracing glary lines on the floor, stinging Sam's eyes. He rose a bit shakily, stuck a hand in front of his eyes and stepped onto the floor. Sam bit his lip and lifted the mattress, removing Frodo's stories. He'd have to return the pile to Frodo today. Perhaps he could ignore the story about Tolco and Jem, pretend he hadn't read it. Things would be easier if he'd never read the story, Sam admitted, though he was secretly pleased he knew something about his master that nobody else knew about. And it gave him a bit of hope, too. Still, he would miss reading -- re-reading -- Frodo's story. Sam shook his head and glanced at the curling green letters one last time. Suddenly something on the back of the paper caught his eye. It was a bit wavering and smudged, but if Sam squinted just so he reckoned it said -- Sam trapped a gasp -- Sam and Frodo.

The paper swayed lightly to the floor.

What did it mean? Sam puzzled it over. Did Frodo have thoughts about Sam? Judging from the content of the story -- and maybe a little of Sam's wishful thinking -- obviously Frodo had thoughts about other lads. Sam could come to no other conclusion.

Sam picked up the paper and returned it to the stack on his bedside table. He could either wait for the rest of his life, or say something. Who knew? Sam felt a small burning excitement touch his heart. Maybe, just maybe...

And it was quite obvious Frodo was having trouble writing the climax of the story. Perhaps Sam could find a way to help.


Frodo couldn't sleep. Between worrying about what Sam would think about his story, imagining Sam reading it in bed and wondering why Sam had forgotten to bring it back, there was no way he would be able to fall into a dreamless slumber. He sat at his desk, quill brushing his cheek, trying to write the climax of his story. It was, though easy to think about, terribly difficult to write. Already five screwed up pieces of parchment littered the floor, and Frodo felt near to despair.

Rain rapped on the window, sometimes harshly, sometimes softly. If it continued on when the sun rose, Sam wouldn't be pottering around Bag End's garden today. Though, thought Frodo ruefully, there was plenty for the lad to do inside. Being inside Bag End with Sam all day gave Frodo nervous flutters of excitement and anxiety. Stop thinking of Sam and write, you silly hobbit! Frodo massaged tight circles on his temple with his fingers. Writing was supposed to make him feel better, not worse.

Frodo threw the quill against the wall. It was no use: he couldn't do it. He buried his face in his hands and let the tears trickle between his fingers. Life, at that particular moment, was a tragedy.

"Sir?" Something touched Frodo's shoulder.


"You fell asleep, sir."

Frodo opened his eyes and blinked blearily. When he raised his head a bit of paper tore away from his cheek, landing on the desk. The ink was smudged.

Frodo groaned. "I suppose I have ink over my face."

Sam smiled. "A little, Mr. Frodo. Do you want me to get a washcloth?"

"No, I'll take a bath later." Suddenly remembering the contents of the parchments scattered in front of him, Frodo gathered them up with a flush.

"I brought your stories back," said Sam softly, laying a stack of parchments on top of the other ones on Frodo's desk. Frodo could see that a stray piece of paper sticking out of the pile had curls of green ink.

Frodo searched Sam's face. He swallowed. "You -- you saw what I was writing." He gestured to his desk. "My story."

"Aye. Looks like you're having trouble finishing." Sam moved closer, his hip almost touching Frodo's shoulder.

"You don't think it's -- naughty?" Frodo said in amazement.

"No." Sam's golden curls danced as he shook his head. "I said I thought it was good."

Frodo considered his gardener; Sam was looking steadily at him, open and interested. "The problem is--" Frodo blushed. "You don't mind talking about it, do you, Sam?"

"No, Mr. Frodo. In fact I...like talking about it...thinking about it."

"Well, you're a tweener...I suppose you think about it a lot," Frodo said academically.

A ruby-red flush crept over Sam's cheeks. "Aye," he breathed. "What's the problem?"

"I've never done more than kiss a lad, so I don't really know what..." Frodo coughed. "You know."

Sam nodded wisely. "I know, but I've never done it afore either."

Frodo tried to remember how to breathe. In and out, in and out. "We can't very well ask your gaffer," he chuckled, mostly at the lameness of his joke.

Sam's thigh bumped into Frodo's shoulder. "Aye, but maybe we could try it."


Sam flushed. Had he just said that? By the look on Frodo's face -- those blue eyes wide, soft mouth open -- he must have. "I-I'm sorry," he murmured, "I didn't mean--"

"In the name of story research," said Frodo, a bit hoarsely. "Just so it's accurate."

Sam's heart tugged. "It'd be awful if you got some detail wrong...might ruin the whole story, begging your pardon."

Frodo's hand was gripping the desk tightly, the skin pale and bloodless. "You don't have to do it, Sam. I wouldn't dream--"

"I've got some ideas, sir, if you'd like me to help," said Sam.

"Oh," squeaked Frodo. "Pray tell."

"Well, sir," mumbled Sam to the floor, "I reckon we ought to kiss a bit -- get us in the mood."

"Yes." Frodo gave a scholarly nod. "I would imagine it would."

Sam took a step forward. "I've never actually kissed afore, Mr. Frodo, so I'm probably no good at it." He wiped his fingers over his breeches.

Frodo's eyes darkened for a moment. "You'll never know if you never try," he said. He gave Sam a crooked smile. "I'll show you if you like."

"All right, sir."

Frodo's throat moved. He swallowed. "First, put your arms around my back." Sam slid his arms around Frodo's waist, leaving a space between them. He didn't want Frodo to know how excited he was -- they hadn't even done anything yet. "Erm, I'll do the same."

Sam hummed softly as Frodo wrapped his arms around him, fingers loosely dangling above Sam's bottom. They were almost the same height -- Frodo a little taller. If Sam moved forward a bit his nose would brush the soft curve of Frodo's lips.

"Right." Frodo cleared his throat. "I have kissed somebody before, Sam, so I don't need to take notes."

"Uh, aye." Sam couldn't take his eyes off Frodo's mouth. "What should I do?"

"Close your eyes and just..." Frodo faltered. "You can't really explain it, you just do it."

Sam studied Frodo's face. If he went straight on, he'd likely bump his nose into Frodo's. Tipping his head, Sam said, "Like this..."

"Yes, mmm..."

Sam nudged his mouth towards Frodo's and moved his lips. Frodo's hand twitched on Sam's back. Very quietly Frodo sighed, a puff through his nose, tickling Sam's cheek. Frodo's mouth was hot and velvety, opening a little, his lips stirring lightly against Sam's, very gentle and very arousing. The sweetness lasted a few more moments before Frodo pulled back. "You're very good for a beginner," he said.

They were still close together, locked in a tight embrace. "I have another idea," said Sam shyly. "Maybe we ought to go to your room, if you're willing."

Slowly Frodo nodded in agreement. "Yes, and I'll gather some papers to take notes."

Silence. Sam shifted. "You should probably let go o' me, sir, if you want to do that," he finished with a nervous laugh.

"Of course." Frodo stepped back and gathered up the papers as if trying to hide a blush. "All right, let's go."

Sam followed Frodo down the winding hallway. I'm going to wake up at any moment, he moaned to himself. And I'll be frustrated and sad all over again.

Soft, grey light edged past the curtains in Frodo's room, and the faint scent of rain washed in through the window. Frodo settled his notes on the bedside table and took a bottle of ink and a quill from the drawer. He fussed with the papers for a rather long time, shuffling them and tapping them on the drawer top to align them straight.

Sam gazed longingly. Despite his embarrassment and knowledge that this experience would most likely leave him more frustrated, he was desperate with desire. Frodo's pale shirt clung to him as he bent over, flattening against smooth back muscles, and his breeches adhered to his perfect bottom (perhaps even riding up a bit, if truth be told.) Oh, Frodo, Sam begged, let me touch you.

"Right." Frodo cleared his throat. "I'm ready."

Me too. Forever. Sam stepped forward and kissed Frodo sweet-soft on the mouth. "Are you going to take notes while we...do it, or later?"

"Well," Frodo flustered. "I don't know. Should I?"

"Might ruin the experience, so to speak," mused Sam. "And might get ink in -- uncomfortable places."

They stared at each other for a long moment. "This is rather awkward," Frodo chuckled.

"For your story." Sam's voice husked. "It's important to you."

"For my story," Frodo echoed, and began to kiss Sam eagerly.

Frodo's tongue was delightfully warm and slippery, teasing Sam's lips and teeth in slow licks. Something hard prodded Sam's thigh, and he moaned into Frodo's mouth, and began to dab moist kisses down the pale arc of Frodo's throat. Sam didn't bother to hide his own erection, and let it graze Frodo's, and, gaining confidence, began to push slowly against Frodo. Their mouths met again; Frodo tasted exquisite: dark wine and summer blossoms and hot desire. Sam's hand wandered over Frodo's back, finally stroking down to Frodo's bottom, and he gave a squeeze.

"Sam!" Frodo broke away and laughed.

Sam smiled back innocently. He was too bothered to be embarrassed. He pulled Frodo close and began nibbling on a patch of his neck, biting gently before soothing the reddened skin with a kiss. With a soft sigh, Sam navigated up Frodo's throat to his cheek, licking away the ink stain, lapping a few more times just to be sure.

"Sam...Sam..." Frodo's lips formed the words as his mouth threaded through Sam's hair. "I think we're ready..." He pulled back and gave Sam a bashful smile.

Sam settled a kiss on Frodo's lips. "Why would you say that, sir?"

"Well, you're -- I'm awfully--" Frodo ducked his head as a blush traced his cheeks.

"You've got to write it, Mr. Frodo. Won't you say it?" Sam looked up shyly beneath his eyelashes, and accidentally-on-purpose brushed his fingers over Frodo's breeches buttons

"Oh, Sam," Frodo half-moaned, "I'm so hard."

"Good," Sam soothed. He tugged at Frodo's shirt. "Ready to get rid o' this?"

Frodo nodded and began to unbutton his shirt.


Frodo couldn't look at Sam as they both began to undress. He took a few deep breaths to steady himself. Imagine, him and Sam Gamgee undressing in his bedroom. What would Bilbo say? And did he actually tell Sam he was hard? Good heavens, he'd never live that down. He hoped Sam's tongue wouldn't loosen after a few ales at The Green Dragon on a cold night. The stories he could tell; Mad Baggins indeed!

"Frodo?" said a soft voice.

Frodo looked up. Sam Gamgee stood shyly -- and completely and utterly naked -- in front of him. A golden light was now falling inside the room, breaking through the clouds, setting Sam's ginger curls to glinting gold. Warm tanned skin curved this way and that, hiding strong muscles and delicate shudders. Frodo dared a glance to Sam's erection, straining and swollen and pointing towards his belly. Blushing, Frodo felt himself become, if possible, even harder. Frodo raised his head; and Sam was nipping his lower lip, eyes bright and eager, and Frodo knew he wanted him too.

"Sam, I--"

"Hush." Sam laid fingers over Frodo's lips. "Show me, dear."

Frodo watched his fingers unfasten the last of his buttons, and he let his shirt fall past his wrists and onto the floor. Sam made a murmur deep in his throat and sat on the edge of the bed. Frodo's breeches buttons came undone quite a bit faster, and he kicked them away as Sam lay upon the bed, quietly watching. And, to Frodo's astonishment, began to pleasure himself.

"Sam!" Frodo croaked. "What are you doing?"

Sam slid his hand up and down a few times before answering. "Waiting."

Well, Frodo wasn't about to let Sam wait any longer. He pounced.

A few kisses and laughs later, Frodo whispered into Sam's ear, "I want you, you know. Desperately. I want you to know how I feel."

Sam lightly caressed Frodo's cheek. "I know."

They touched lips again, twining their tongues together and moaning at the feel of each other's skin rubbing and caressing together. Frodo wrapped his hand around Sam's erection as Sam touched his, and they rolled around on the bed laughing and planting kisses on whatever bare skin they could reach.

"You feel ever so good," said Frodo, giving Sam a sultry look beneath his eyelashes. "And I should like very much to hold you inside of me."

Sam held Frodo's face between his hands. "I'm waiting, me dear," he said.

Pushing off the bed, Frodo leant over and produced a small phial. "Almond oil," he said, and unstoppered the lid.

"Convenient," Sam offered, eyes watching Frodo's hands.

Frodo gave Sam a wanton wink. "Isn't it always?"

"Never know when you'll need it." Sam laughed. "At least it's not salad oil."


Sam shook his head and huffed. "I'll tell you later."

Frodo poured out the pale yellow oil in a thin stream. It was cool to the touch, but it soon warmed as he rubbed it between his hands. Gazing at Sam's face, he smeared the slippery oil first over Sam's thighs and belly, teasing-like, till Sam reached forward and, clasping Frodo's wrist, guided his hand over to the bulge between Sam's legs. Frodo looked innocently at Sam, as if to say Sorry, Sam, I didn't notice. Silly me.

Frodo massaged Sam's arousal. "Impatient, aren't you?" he chuckled.

"When you're like that...yes...ooohh Frodo!" Sam pushed into Frodo's hand.

Frodo paused to steal a kiss on Sam's groaning mouth. "Watch," he whispered in a low voice, moving his eyes downward, where Sam's eyes quickly followed. And he gripped and kneaded himself with a slippery hand, sometimes even putting a few fingers in his mouth to taste his growing excitement, sharp around the almondy flavour of the oil.

"That's good, Frodo. Don't stop...love it when you do that..."

Frodo licked his forefinger and laughed. He knew he'd have to stop doing that soon and... "I shall stop, Sam, because...mmm..." He suddenly moaned as his fingers reached to fondle the flesh hanging beneath.

Aroused beyond belief, Frodo felt rather naughty and giddy as he felt Sam's eyes on him, drinking him in, warming him, wanting him... Oh, he needed Sam now! He was leaning forward and reaching around when he glanced at Sam and said, "You know...what I have to..."

"Oh, aye," Sam murmured. "Done it misself afore."

Frodo settled on his knees, and dabbed Sam's mouth with a kiss. "It shall be good, dear Sam."

"No doubt." Sam's voice cracked with eagerness.

Slowly Frodo slid a finger inside of himself, opening himself up. Another finger soon followed, pushing inside as far as he could, feeling so good. He moved them around a bit, wanting to be ready for Sam's ample girth.

"I'm ready," Frodo sighed at last. "Let me show you, dear. Just lie back..."

Frodo straddled Sam, as Sam lightly held his hips and gently guided him. After a few shuffles and awkward movements, Frodo gasped as flesh filled him, slick and achingly dear. Instinctively Sam moaned, and thrust up, so he was all sheathed inside of Frodo.

Sam's hands trembled on Frodo's hips; Frodo placed his hands over Sam's and squeezed. Taking Sam inside of himself was the loveliest thing he had ever imagined. He loved feeling himself mould to Sam's flesh, and the white-hot sparks of almost-pain fade to wonderful pleasure. "That's lovely, Sam," he whispered. "You're lovely."

Sam wriggled underneath him, hands tightening beneath Frodo's. Arcs of joy danced under Frodo's skin, shattering him as Sam began to move up and down, slow, so slow at first. Sam's eyes fluttered. "Me dear," he breathed, moving a little and slipping a few fingers into a dark, furred cleft. And then Sam pushed deep, hard, rocking in and out, and Frodo groaned, trying not to come as Sam's fingers and arousal teased and stroked him.

Frodo threw his head back and moaned as he rode Sam's thrusts, each one seeming to tickle the very place that made stars shoot before his eyes. He closed his eyes and felt for his erection, stroking quickly and guiding smears of moisture down its length.

"Frodo...let me..." said Sam.

"Sam!" Frodo kissed his fingers then pressed them on Sam's lips. "Let me..."

Frodo sheltered his body over Sam's, protecting him, loving him, and moved in rhythm with Sam, wanting Sam to be pleasured with each motion.

"Frodo! That's so good!" whimpered Sam, writhing hot and oil-slicked beneath him.

Frodo licked away a dribble of sweat from his upper lip. "Harder," he moaned. "Oh, Sam! Don't stop."

Sam moaned and lifted his hips. "Do you...oh...think you'll have enough for your story?"

Frodo half laughed. "Yes...mmm...oh yes."

Sam's bucking quickened, and Frodo began to squeeze and caress his arousal to match, his other hand clutching the coverlet.

"Frodo...I'm going...I'm coming..."

"Coming...or going...Sam?"


One last time Sam cried out and pushed deep inside Frodo, filling Frodo with warmth. Frodo answered with his own cry, coming in quick shudders all over Sam's belly, and collapsed at Sam's side, shaking and kissing Sam feverishly.

"Sam...Sam..." he murmured, closing Sam's eyes with his mouth. "Dear..."

"Frodo..." Sam's eyes opened, soft and drunk with release. "Shh, sleep now."

As the sun warmed their bare bodies, Frodo curled up against Sam, pressing kisses in Sam's damp hair. And as Frodo fell into sleep, the wind picked up, and through his eyelashes he watched as his papers were lifted by the breeze and hidden under the bed.


Frodo awoke to late afternoon sunshine drifting into the room. A familiar smell entered his nose, crisp and mouth-watering. Beside him was a Sam-shaped depression on the coverlet, but Sam was nowhere to be seen. Frodo let himself enjoy the morning's intense pleasure again, shivering, then rose and wrapped a dressing gown around his goosepimpled skin.

Frodo found Sam in the kitchen, bent over a sizzling pan that breathed the scent of scrambled eggs and fried bacon. To Frodo's intense disappointment, Sam was dressed, though his clothes did look awfully rumpled.

"Sam!" Frodo chuckled. "It's nearly teatime, and you're cooking breakfast!"

"Well," Sam mumbled, skilfully sliding the eggs and bacon onto two plates, "it seemed right, somehow."

Frodo took the plates to the table and sat down beside Sam, prodding his eggs thoughtfully. "I--" he began, at the same time as Sam opened his mouth and said "I."

They both laughed. "You go," Frodo said.

Sam played with his bacon. "I just wanted...it was wonderful what we did...and I want..."

"Me too, Sam," said Frodo softly. "A great deal."

Sam looked at Frodo, relieved. A grin broke over his face. "Oh, Frodo!" He stuck a bit of bacon in his mouth and chewed. "So, do you reckon you've got enough for your story now?"

Frodo thought it over. "I've got enough material, Sam. But somehow I don't think I'll need to use it anymore. My heart feels filled."

A sparrow trilled outside, and landed on the window sill, pecking for food. Frodo was silent, watching Sam eat his breakfast -- tea -- thinking of his story. When they were finished, they gathered up the dirty dishes and took them to the sink.

Frodo reached for Sam's hand. "Even though the lads didn't say so in the story, do you think they loved each other?" he asked.

Sam drew up Frodo's hand to his lips and kissed it gently. "I think so," he smiled.



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