West of the Moon

A Tolkien Fanfiction Archive



Another Angle
Sam sees Bag End from a whole new perspective. Frodo just wants to see more of Sam.
Author: Trianne
Rating: R


This story was written for the hobbit_smut Livejournal Community "Hold Me, Heal Me" Challenge.

It throbbed. Horribly.

And swelled. Also horribly.

They both looked at it, Frodo and Sam; outside in the garden it had looked bad, and inside the parlour it looked no better.

"It needs something on it, Sam," Frodo suggested.

"Yes indeed it does," Sam agreed, silently. He knew what needed to be on it. Frodo needed to be on it. But then he came to himself a little and realised that his master was referring to Sam's swollen ankle and not Sam's burgeoning arousal. Of course.

He cursed, not for the first time, the kitten, which, caught piteously in the apple tree, had mewled and mewled until he'd felt obliged to go up after it. The bundle of fluff had been safely handed down to Frodo and Sam was edging back to solid earth when he'd missed his footing and fallen. Not far, mind, but far enough. The ungrateful creature, startled by the noise, had jumped clean out of Frodo's arms and skidaddled off. Frodo had got Sam into the smial, though the gardener was painfully aware of the disparity in their build and weight. But oh, Frodo didn't half smell good...

"I'll see what Bilbo left in the way of remedies. You stay here and don't move," Frodo carefully lifted Sam's foot and placed it gently on a plumped up cushion, then he hurried off to Bilbo's room to root around in his big oak chest. Sam lay upon the settle in the parlour and listened; there was a loud creak as the chest lid was opened, then some muttering and finally the slam of the lid being closed once more. While he waited for Frodo to come back, Sam looked about him; he looked up at the rounded ceiling with its solid beams and shining lamp. He had never seen Bag End from this angle before.

Frodo returned, bearing in his arms a veritable cornucopia - bandages and various jars, sticking plaster and a little leather-bound book. This latter item slithered out of his grasp and landed on the patient's chest. Sam looked down at it and saw upon its open pages an illustration of some kind of medical procedure that he hoped fervently Frodo was not about to attempt...

"Now then, Sam," Frodo said, perching on the edge of the settle and retrieving the book, "let's see what it says about twisted ankles."

"It's late, Mr. Frodo. Perhaps I should just hobble on home and ask the gaffer to fix me up." Sam was actually very comfortable where he was, apart from the dull ache in his ankle, of course; but he felt he ought to at least make the offer. Frodo looked aghast. "Go home? In your condition?" he asked, frowning.

Sam wondered if the condition that Frodo was referring to was the same condition that he himself was becoming astutely aware of. He was, to put it bluntly, hard as a rock, harder than one of his old Ma's rock cakes, harder than a whole book of difficult sums. He was grateful that his old jacket was hiding most of this from Frodo.

Not that Frodo was a prude, because he wasn't. No. And not because he and Frodo hadn't sort of been skirting around perhaps maybe taking things a step further than shy kissing at the bottom of the garden. No. It was more that he was afraid he might frighten Frodo with the extent of his ardour...

Since he was a lad, Sam had been aware that he was - impressive. There'd been the time at the pool in Bywater - a hot summer's day and all the others splashing in the water and Sam contenting himself with just dipping his feet in the shallows; the other lads had all stripped off, everything, thrown aside just like that as if it were the most natural thing in the world... He'd stayed put, just watching with studied indifference. But no, that weren't good enough for 'em, was it? No. They'd come upon him all in a gaggle, giggling, and pulled off his breeches, in preparation for throwing him into the water. The giggles had abruptly stopped.

"I think a Bounder's missing his club!" Nibbs Cotten piped up, appreciatively. They all crowded round to have a look, while Sam attempted to roll away and retrieve his breeches. "That's going to make you popular with the lasses!" chirped Robin Smallburrow, his eyes wide with envy.

Lasses! When all he could think about even then was Mr. Frodo. He'd tried to make light of it, laugh along with them. But it wasn't funny. Not funny at all.

There'd been other occasions; caught short  whilst helping out the gaffer and half the village lads during the haymaking - comparing himself to them, slyly, and feeling he must be some sort of monster, to have a thing like that between his legs. It weren't natural.

And lately, when the wonderful thing had happened and he'd found out Mr. Frodo felt about him as he felt about Mr. Frodo - well, even then, when his body longed to jerk forward, he'd held back. That first kiss, just a few weeks ago (both of them a little drunk on Bilbo's ale and toasting the old hobbit in his absence, he having departed from Bag End under mysterious circumstances the year before), had been marvellous indeed but Sam had been very careful to angle his body away from Frodo, lest his horrible secret be revealed.

Kisses there had been since, and hands in shirts and whispered endearments, shared suppers and jokes... But whenever it seemed it might go a little further, whenever Frodo's eyes had started to narrow and go a smokier shade of blue, his body leaning in... that was when Sam reached for his coat and fair ran down the lane. Better to leave Frodo perplexed and frustrated, than to see those glorious eyes open wide in shock and disgust.

And now he was helpless on the settle in Frodo's parlour, the sun going down and Frodo busily leafing through Mr. Bilbo's book, his little pink tongue flicking out in concentration as he read the cramped writing. It was agony.

"It keeps mentioning poultices. And it says to keep the foot raised up, so the cushion was a good idea," Frodo said, pleased with his foresight. "It also says that ice should be applied to bring down the swelling. There's ice in the cellar, I think. I'll go and look."

Sam could tell that Frodo was deliberately keeping busy, that his constant bustling about was distracting him from his worry and guilt. After all, Frodo had been the one to urge Sam up the tree, too softhearted to stand the kitten's pathetic calling a moment longer. He returned from the cellar, carrying a cloth in which he'd placed some ice chippings from the block. Sam decided it was best to ignore the vague smell of fish, which had been keeping on the ice. He watched with a little consternation as Frodo tied the cloth up into a bundle and gingerly held it against the effected area. Sam gritted his teeth but the treatment did actually make him feel a little better. Now, if he could just get some ice down his trousers to solve that particular problem.

"I'm going down the row to let your gaffer know you'll be staying here tonight, Sam," Frodo said, briskly. "You'll have to hold the ice against your ankle yourself until I get back. I'll bring your toothbrush up with me and perhaps a nightshirt?"

"I can go home, sir!" Sam struggled to sit up, aghast at the very idea of Frodo helping him into his nightshirt. But Frodo was quite stern; given that his face was so very pretty, this seemed a little absurd, yet Sam found himself yielding. Obediently, he pressed the ice into place and watched Frodo put on his coat. When he was quite sure his master had gone, Sam switched the ice from his ankle to his groin, grimacing as the cold seeped through the thick homespun of his trousers, melting away his arousal. "Down, boy," he groaned. As he waited, he looked about him at the familiar room; here, he had received his wages every week, sometimes helped out with shifting heavy pieces of furniture at spring-cleaning... Here he had looked without seeming to look, always at Frodo, burning him inside his eyelids to be restored later, in private, in the dark...

By the time Frodo returned, the ice was back where it belonged. "Brr, it's cold out there!" Frodo shivered as he took off his coat and hung it up by the door. "It's cold down 'ere, too!" Sam thought, miserably. He hadn't banked on the ice making a damp patch in that particular place and now he was desperately afraid that Frodo might think he'd, well, had an accident...

"The gaffer offered to come back with me and carry you home, but I wouldn't hear of it. Your dad's not as young as he once was, and he'd likely do himself a serious injury. He saw sense, thankfully, and sent up your night things. And a flagon of ale for us both, which was jolly decent of him," Frodo said, placing the bundle on the table. He took off his jacket and unbuttoned his collar, casually, and then he poked the fire, feeding it a log or two.

Finally he turned his attentions to his wounded gardener.

"Now, let's see what's what," he said, kneeling beside Sam. "Ah, I do believe the ice is doing the trick." He took hold of Sam's foot.

Sam stared up at the ceiling. Then out of the window, though it was now getting too dark to see much. Then he set to recalling each and every cousin he had and all their names and the names of their husbands, wives, children... He went through the list of herbs and flowers and shrubs and bushes and trees that he'd planted in the garden at Bag End and in the garden at home... He counted up to sixty-nine, and that was when he could distract himself no longer and had to look down at what Frodo was doing. His master was gently bandaging the twisted ankle, his fingers soft and yet firm upon Sam's over-sensitised flesh, caressing, soothing. And just when Sam thought he could stand no more, Frodo leaned down and kissed him, right there on his foot.

"Oh," Sam said, though it was wholly inadequate. "Oh."

Frodo relinquished the foot, placing it tenderly on the cushion; he came closer, still upon the floor, shuffling until he could look down directly into Sam's eyes.

"You have lovely eyes, Sam," he purred. Sam smiled, a loose and silly grin. He felt quite drunk, though the ale stood untouched on the table. "Have I?" he asked, raising his hand to touch Frodo's chin.

"You do, indeed," Frodo said, nodding. He leaned down, his mouth an inch from Sam's and waited, his breath tickling Sam's cheek. Then the inch was but a memory.

It seemed to Sam then, lying upon the settle upon which old Mr. Bilbo had with some reluctance entertained the Sackville-Bagginses on many an occasion over the years, that all the kissing he and Frodo had done before had been mere preparation for this moment; their caresses and fumblings had been seeds buried in rich soil, germinating, growing into just this moment. He felt Frodo's tongue brush his lips, felt his mouth opening to Frodo's... The dull ache in his ankle had receded to nothing at all and kittens in trees were heavenly creatures...

He became aware of Frodo's weight upon him, a sturdy and comforting presence. Frodo was tugging at the hem of Sam's shirt, tucked into his breeches, all the while working his mouth on Sam's, soothing him into a liquid state of nothing very much. Sam's arms had wrapped themselves around Frodo's waist, one hand venturing lower to tentatively cup Frodo's backside, which was warm and round and just exactly fit for the purpose.

Frodo sat up, straddling Sam, careful always not to catch the injured ankle. His mouth was red, his eyes glossy and dark, skin a little damp. He pulled at Sam's shirt, freeing it from his breeches. He leaned back down, working Sam's jacket off his shoulders, an odd mixture of want and shyness upon his face. He let his hand wander down once more, down to the button of Sam's trousers.

"No, no," Sam said, suddenly. He sat up suddenly, dislodging Frodo, who fell to the floor with a gasp.

"I'm sorry! Oh, this is terrible," Frodo said, jumping to his feet. He looked so beautifully dishevelled, his hair a little awry and his skin flushed, that Sam felt like the worst cad in the world.

"No, it's not you, it's me," he cried, sitting up. "You're starting something neither of us might be able to finish." It sounded feeble, even to his own ears. He was so hard that trying to manoeuvre the bad foot onto the floor was proving a trial. And all the time, Frodo was staring at him, miserably.

"I thought you wanted me. It's not as if this was that sudden, after all," Frodo pointed out, quietly, turning away to face the fire. "We've kissed before. You know how I feel. And don't go telling me I'm your master and you're my gardener, because I don't want to hear it."

"What's that got to do with the price of cheese?" Sam struggled to stand up, cursing beneath his breath as a twinge of pain shot right up his leg. "I don't know where you get these ideas from!"

Frodo turned, his face a little flushed now from standing so close to the fire, and cast a puzzled glance in Sam's direction. "Then what is it?"

"It's this!" Sam cried. He braced himself against the settle and proceeded to unbutton his breeches, making himself look at Frodo, never dropping his gaze. Frodo did, however, drop his. As Sam lowered his trousers around his knees, Frodo's jaw dropped in sympathy.

Only the crackling of the fire punctuated the silence that followed. Sam waited, his arousal bobbing before him like a baton at a hobbit Yule concert.

"Oh, Sam," Frodo whispered, his eyes riveted to his gardener's groin. "It's so - big."

"I know," Sam replied, tugging his trousers back up. He knew he was red to the roots of his curly fair hair, though for some reason his embarrassment was not denting his enthusiasm, and it was taking some getting back into his pants.

"What are you doing?" Frodo crossed the room and stood before Sam, very close. "You can't tease me and then take it away, that's not fair."

"You don't have to pretend, Frodo, I know." Sam tried to pull away from Frodo, angle his body away, but Frodo was pulling him back, angling his body in every direction but away.

"Can I touch it?" he heard Frodo say and he must have imagined the thrill in that dear voice. "I want to hold it in my hand."

Sam felt his trousers, still unbuttoned, being gently peeled down once more and then Frodo's hand was there where in the past only Sam's hand had been. The hand was smaller but had a firm, velvety grip. Sam was glad the settle was behind him. He glanced down and saw such a look of wonderment in Frodo's face.

"This is marvellous, Sam," and here, Frodo gave Sam's member a squeeze, "it's so long and thick. I love its colour, too, it's dark and velvety like a late summer plum." If Frodo had compared Sam's cock to some painting in the mathom house at Michel Delving, then Sam might have been embarrassed, but comparing it to a fruit, a fruit he knew and grew... well, he couldn't have loved Frodo more than he did right then. He rested a hand on Frodo's slender shoulder, and Frodo looked up. He was biting his bottom lip.

"I never realised how blessed you are," Frodo said, his hand still holding Sam's shaft, which twitched a little.

"It don't bother you, then?" Sam said, huskily. He had been longing to rub against Frodo for the longest time and now it seemed that it might just happen.

Frodo smiled, tightening his grip on Sam. "Bother me? Why, Sam, I feel that I have been blessed along with you! Though I do think that perhaps the vial of oil Bilbo left behind may not now be up to the task..."

"Oil?" Sam blinked. "You mean you and your Uncle...?"

Frodo blushed and then laughed out loud. "No! The idea! But he was a hobbit of the world, was Bilbo, and he bequeathed it to me, suspecting that I might have a use for it one day. But it's only a small bottle, which is a bother."

"Frodo. We could just, you know, lie together and do what you're doing now. There's plenty of time in the future for the oil." Sam wondered at himself for even breathing those words.

Frodo sighed. "You are quite right. But seeing you, feeling you, I have such an urge to have it inside me. Does that shock you?"

"A little, if I'm honest," Sam replied.

"So you are averse to the idea?" Frodo

"No, no," Sam said, after a moment's consideration. "Not at all agin the idea. It's the putting of it into practice, which worries me. I might - hurt you."

Frodo had a strange look upon his face as he listened. Sam wondered if he'd said something really very foolish; he felt for the first time that evening that he was just Samwise, the gardener, son of a gardener and grandson of a rope maker, not to be expected to know anything worth knowing that didn't involve mulch or mushrooms or knots or...

All the thoughts which had been swirling around in Sam's head and which seemed like to drown him, all drained away to nothing with the mere touch of a hand which was in some ways as familiar as his own and in others quite mysterious, and which still had the power to jolt him out of himself. He looked into Frodo's eyes and saw at once that he had been quite wrong.

"Hurt me? You could never hurt me, dear," Frodo said and though his hand still held Sam's member, now his lips were on Sam's lips and his heart beat against Sam's. "Lie with me; it will be enough for now."

Sam became aware of the sharp ache in his ankle and he felt behind him for the edge of the settle.

"My bed will be more comfortable for you, Sam. Let me help you along." Frodo smiled an encouraging smile that was equal parts shy and wanton. Reluctantly relinquishing Sam's blessing, Frodo took Sam's weight upon his shoulder and together they made their way out of the parlour, past the piles of Bilbo's books standing exactly where he had left them, as if he would be returning for them on the morrow. At Frodo's door, Sam pulled away and stood solidly upon his two feet, as if to give notice that once inside, he was equal to Frodo and quite capable of anything.

Sam had only seen the inside of Frodo's bedroom from outside in the garden, when he had chanced to peer inside the round window, a casual and quick glance which had satisfied his curiosity but left him feeling somewhat low and mean. Now he had been invited in. It was warm and smelled clean; upon the dresser stood a beautiful old vase which Sam guessed would have caught the eye of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, but which was incongruously filled with daisies and buttercups; the contrast was so Frodo that Sam could not help but catch him up in his arms and hold him tight. Equals, yes.

"Oh, my dear," he whispered into Frodo's hair. 

"Lie down upon the bed, Sam. Let me take another look at your ankle before we go any further. I wouldn't want to damage you," Frodo said, though his eyes shone with as much mischief as concern.

Sam stretched out on Frodo's bed, sinking into the sweet-smelling coverlet and smiling to himself as he realised he was seeing yet another part of Bag End from an entirely different angle. He knew that this was the sight which Frodo saw first thing every morning and last thing at night. As if to underline his determination, Frodo carefully removed his trousers and shirt, laying them neatly upon the cedar chest underneath the window, an item, which Sam realised, he had never seen before, as the angle had been quite wrong. 

He closed his eyes and gave in to the sensation of Frodo, upon the bed with him, tugging off his trousers and stroking his feet. He kept as still as he was able as Frodo blew soft kisses up and down the length of his hairy calves and upon the bandaged ankle, Frodo's curls sweeping Sam's skin as he made his inventory. Sam cracked open one eye and beheld Frodo's naked backside, tantalisingly close to hand. So he extended one and pinched.

"Sam!" Frodo cried, turning with a shocked but delighted expression upon his face. "I see you are feeling much better! Perhaps the healing I was about to bestow upon your other swelling is not necessary, after all." He made as if to slither off the bed, a prim pout now wavering into a helpless giggle.

"I am in agony. Truly, I am. I may die without your healing, Frodo." Sam delivered his line deadpan, his eyes only rolling a little theatrically up to the ceiling.

"I cannot have you dying here in Bag End. The gaffer would most likely set your Marigold and Daisy on me, and I am no match for the two of them," Frodo straddled Sam's bare thighs. He supported himself on his elbows and leaned down to nuzzle Sam's nipples. Sam almost bucked Frodo off, the reaction was so strong. He wrapped his arms about him, instead, holding him in place, their arousals aligned, despite the disparity in size. He raised his head sufficiently to look down the length of their bodies, to see their two cocks as they rocked together; he thought that in all of Middle Earth, no one alive was seeing anything as beautiful and right as this, that no one could ever have anything as perfect as this, for it belonged to just the two of them, Sam and his Frodo. He laid his head back down and surrendered to the sweet, intoxicating rhythm.

Rain was pittering at the window and down in the lane Sam could hear voices, perhaps the gaffer on his way to the Green Dragon; he felt no remorse or shame. His dad loved his ma and Sam loved his Frodo. It was a revelation, to see things as they truly were.

Then he was seeing nothing but the fireworks at the party the year before, only now they were in the room and surely Gandalf was not here? But it was, of course, only the lights behind his eyes, lights bursting with his release. He was vaguely aware of Frodo limp in his arms, atop him, of soft curls and hot skin.

After a little while, they shifted enough to pull back the coverlet and slide into bed properly. Frodo, yawning, looked long into Sam's eyes; in the moonlight, he had a frosted appearance. "This changes nothing, Sam. Don't go to sleep thinking things are spoiled and don't wake in the morning feeling lessened."

Sam, himself slipping inexorably towards sleep, moaned something and pulled Frodo closer.

"How's your ankle?" Frodo asked, though it was mostly swallowed up by Sam's shoulder.

"Healed," Sam replied, then all was still.

The End


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