West of the Moon

A Tolkien Fanfiction Archive



Special Medicine
Frodo receives some very special medicine from Sam.
Author: Cassiopeia
Rating: NC-17


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

There it is again as I push open the big green door of Bag End: a hacking, rough cough coming from my master's bedroom. Poor Mr. Frodo has had influenza for the past two weeks, but he's mostly better now, 'cept for the dratted cough that won't leave him, no matter what medicine I give to him on a spoon.

It is a chilly winter morning; snow has piled up around the smial during the night in soft mounds, and the inside of Bag End is as chill as an icicle. I frown, 'cause I had made sure the fires were burning nice and cosy last night afore I left, but now as I check the hearths in the parlour and kitchen, they're silent and still. Worried, I hurry to Mr. Frodo's bedroom.

I slip into my master's room quiet as a mouse. I know he might not be awake because I've seen him cough when he's been fast asleep. The door eases open with nary a squeak, and I step into the half-shadows of Mr. Frodo's room. The curtains are thin and gauzy, so a little morning light seeps in, and I sigh in relief as tongues of flame lick the logs in the fireplace. It's warm as toast in here, not too hot, either, just right.

First I see Mr. Frodo's feet under the blankets, sticking up towards the ceiling. My eyes travel up his body, slowly, and I can't help it. He's too lovely for words, my master, not that I'd go telling him or anybody that. It's my little secret, hid away deep in my breast.

My gaze reaches Mr. Frodo's hips, and the light falling into the room throws that particular area into sharp relief. I feel my face go all hot and bothered then, so I quickly shuffle my gaze to Mr. Frodo's face, his dark curls splashed across the white pillow, and his eyes--

"Hullo, Sam."

I blush fiercely. Mr. Frodo's been awake the whole time! Seeing my eyes look him up like a drunken lad eyeing a lass. I duck my head, mumble a "'morning" and stride to the window, throwing the curtains open. Finally I turn to face my master. "How are you--" I start to say, but he begins to cough again, tearing, aching sounds from his throat.

"Fine, Sam." Frodo gives one last cough to his curled up hand. "Still coughing and a little weak, but otherwise--" He gives a shrug. "Do you think I could get out of bed today and go for a walk?"

I frown. Mr. Frodo's been wanting to go for a walk for the past few days. I can't deny he's looking well today, with a healthy flushed countenance and sparkling eyes as blue as the sky itself. But I'm worried about his cough, and I'd rather it quietened down a bit more afore he goes out anywhere.

"That's a 'no' look, isn't it?" says Mr. Frodo ruefully, sinking into the pillows.

"I'm sorry, sir," I say, "but I'd rather get rid of that cough first."

Mr. Frodo opens his mouth to protest, but out instead comes a coughing fit. When he's done he murmurs, "I suppose you're right, Sam. Could you get me some more medicine? Some garlic honey syrup. It seemed to help a little last time."

I nod. The garlic honey syrup was the third kind of medicine I've tried on Mr. Frodo's cough; horehound and eucalyptus mixtures were in big bottles in the kitchen too. None have helped very much, and I'm beginning to get the feeling Mr. Frodo will be coughing all through winter and maybe beyond. Sometimes coughs can get nasty, and mean you're not better when you think you are. I don't want nothing to happen to my master, or I don't know what I'd do. I'd be alive, but feel like I'm not, most like.

"Would you like some warm anise tea to soothe your throat?" I ask.

"Please." Mr. Frodo wriggles about under the covers. All of a sudden a warm hand meets mine. I look down and blush as I watch our fingers entwine. "Thank you, Sam. For taking care of me. I wish...I wish you could stay in here all day."

I think my face is going to cook with how much I've been blushing this morning. Mr. Frodo's skin's so soft and inviting, and I don't want to ever let go. And the smile on his lips is secret and shy, and I don't know where to look. See, for the past month or so Mr. Frodo's been flirting with me. Not flirting, not really, but that's what I call it. Sometimes when he's talking to me his voice turns all low and husky, sometimes his fingers brush my cheek or hand or shoulder, sometimes I find him looking at me for no reason at all. I think it's 'cause Mr. Frodo's somehow found out about how I feel about him, maybe thinks I've got a silly crush and he's just playing a game. But it's not a crush, 'cause I've had crushes on other lads afore, and they ain't never made me feel how Mr. Frodo does with just a glance or unspoken word. Never.

Sometimes I think my sisters, especially Mari, know how I feel about my master. They're always giggling when I come home late, or when I say aught about him. But I can't be sure 'bout that. Lasses do that kind o' thing. Anyhow, Mr. Frodo's very smart, and it wouldn't be too hard for the likes of him to realise my awful secret. But I can't bring myself to say anything, not yet nohow. One day, perhaps.

"I've got to go chop the firewood and shovel the path," I mumble, hoping Mr. Frodo don't hear how my heart's beating right fast. "You don't want no breakfast?"

Mr. Frodo yawns, delicate, his mouth stretching open. Then he coughs, real hard, and I pound gentle as I can on his back. Tears are in his eyes as he says, "I think I'll have a bit more sleep, Sam, after my tea. Perhaps you could cook a mushroom omelette for lunch?"

"Yessir," I say. My heart breaks to see Mr. Frodo so miserable. I'd give anything for it to be me sick, and Mr. Frodo as right as rain. "I'll go fetch your tea and medicine, Mr. Frodo."

"Thank you, Sam," says a sickly-croaky voice somewhere under the blankets.


The axe falls hard on the log as I chop the wood, a loud thwack! that breaks the chill air. I got Mr. Frodo his tea and medicine, and an omelette for lunch, and I'm proud to say that he ate all of it. I spent the morning shovelling the paths 'round Bag End and doing odd jobs inside and cooking for Mr. Frodo. The medicine I gave him seemed to soothe his throat for a while, though he still coughed sometimes. But now, as the sun rises up high, as I go 'bout my business outside, I hear Mr. Frodo coughing hard again, and my breast hurts.

"Hoy, Sam!" Mari's coming up the path; she launders for Mr. Frodo, and by her hip is a basketful of washing. Her face is troubled as another burst of coughing comes from Mr. Frodo's window. "Is he getting better?"

"Mayhap," I say uncertainly. "It's just this cough..." I spread out my hands, letting the axe plop onto the wet grass. "It won't leave him be."

"I don't know what else to do, Sam. I've tried all the recipes ma gave us." She gives a friendly kiss to my cheek. "He'll be all right, Sam. Don't go a-worrying. It just takes time to get better."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

"I know, Sam," she says, adjusting the basket.

"What?" I croak.

"That you'll still worry," she laughs, patting my shoulder. "I'd better get this all hanged up. I'll see you at home."

I watch Mari duck into the back of Mr. Frodo's smial, fighting tears. I hate when I start crying out where everyone can see me. It's better when I'm in bed and can hide my tears on the pillow. But I can't go wool-gathering; there's things as need doing, so I gather up the pile of chopped wood and take it into Bag End, adding a couple of logs to the fires in the parlour and kitchen. I check Mr. Frodo's room; it's toasty, and he's sleeping well, though coughs haunt him still.

By the time I carry up some taters and carrots and mushrooms from the root cellar, and sharpen some tools in the shed, the sun begins to dip low, and the slow, tired feeling of evening approaches. I decide to check on Mr. Frodo; I boil some more anise tea first and bring some more garlic honey cough syrup and a spoon for him, hoping it will make him better. Balancing the tray, I open the door and walk in, laying the tray carefully on Mr. Frodo's bedside table.

Mr. Frodo's half-propped up by pillows, his eyes a bit dreamy and wistful-like. His cheeks are rosy and lips so soft I reckon I'd kiss 'em forever if I could. His hands are curled in the coverlet, holding the material, and my throat stings as I let the naughty thought of him holding my root just as tight. "Hullo, Sam," he says sleepily.

"Hullo, sir," I answer, shifting my weight from foot to foot. I pull at my lower lip with my teeth as Mr. Frodo hacks out a fit of coughs, and I quickly pour some syrup onto the spoon. Mr. Frodo leans forward as I offer the sticky syrup to him, opening his mouth and closing his lips softly 'round the spoon's head. Tears burn my eyes then, 'cause he's so beautiful, and I can't help thinking that, even though he's sick and all.

Slowly Mr. Frodo pulls his head back, easing the spoon from his mouth, and it emerges with a low pop! "Thank you, Sam."

I nod, and put the empty spoon on the tray. I go to the fire and kneel down, pursing my lips to blow on the flames, and prod the burning logs with a fire iron. My heart's beating fast, and I don't want Mr. Frodo to see what state I'm in.

"Sam!" Mr. Frodo's voice startles me, and I dart back to his side, worried.

"Sir?" I ask.

"Could you stay here tonight? In -- by my bed?" Mr. Frodo's all flushed from his illness. That's why he made that slip of the tongue. For a moment I'm distracted by the thought of Mr. Frodo's tongue.

"I could till you're asleep, sir," I say bravely at last.

"I'm lonely in bed, Sam. I haven't seen anybody else for days. Though I'd rather see you than anybody else."

"Yessir," I mumble. I pluck the anise tea from the tray and put it in Mr. Frodo's cupped hands. "Drink up, sir. I'll cook you some soup for dinner."

Mr. Frodo breathes in the fragrant, smoking tea, and takes a sup. "Thank you, Sam. My dearest of hobbits."

I can't hardly breathe then, so I make a hasty departure from Mr. Frodo's bedroom.


I sit on a chair by Mr. Frodo's bed, reading to him from a heavy book. He's watching me read, and I stumble over the words more than usual, but I'm all warm and glowing from being in Mr. Frodo's bedroom, just us all alone and the purple evening closing outside. It seems Mr. Frodo can't keep much still tonight; he downed all his soup and took some more tea, but as I read he's all wriggly, like a lad who wants to dart outside after a week of rain. He's coughing still, too; the garlic honey hasn't helped, as I suspected. But there's nothing else I can do for him. I've racked my brains, but there's naught else I can think of. Mayhap I should go to the physician tomorrow and ask him what he reckons. It's worth a try, to get Mr. Frodo all better.

"Sam," Mr. Frodo says after more coughs. I put the book down onto the floor and wait patiently. Mr. Frodo's eyes seem to peer right down inside me, and I feel all dizzy. He's going to tell me he knows how I feel 'bout him. I hang my head.

"Sam, plainly the medicines you're giving me aren't working." He says this slowly, like he's negotiating his way 'round the words. "There's a cure that I was told might work, whispered to me when I was a tween in Buckland. I've never tried it, but...I thought..."

I leap up; the chair topples over. "What is it, sir?" I cry. "I'll try anything. Just tell me the ingredients."

There's an embarrassed smile on Mr. Frodo's lips. "Ingredients," he murmurs, cocking his head. His eyes darken. "Anything, Sam?" he asks.

"Anything," I repeat.

Mr. Frodo's eyes lower, lashes brushing his cheek, and he fluffs up his pillows so he's sitting half up. "Sam, I..." he begins, then trails off. "Would you...could you take your pants off?" He coughs into his hand, though it sounds forced.

I think I'm going mad, really mad, not at all like Mr. Bilbo. I'm hearing things now, seemingly. "Mr. Frodo?"

"Take off your pants and straddle me. Please."

This time I know I'm hearing right, 'cause Mr. Frodo looks up and his eyes are pleading and scared. His face is flaming, and I swallow deeply. "Sir, I don't--"

"You don't have to if you don't want to," comes a small, frightened voice.

Oh, but I do want to, very bad. I'm already half hard from thinking about what we might do, but I'm still confused, 'cause Mr. Frodo's sick and I don't want to hurt him none. "I do, Mr. Frodo." The words struggle past my lips.

"Please, Sam," whispers Mr. Frodo. "I want you to. Very much. I'm touching myself thinking about it."

My chest tightens as I look down to Mr. Frodo's waist, where his hand has snuck under the blankets. The material down there is moving, very unhurriedly, very teasing-like. I stare.

"I do this every morning when you come in," says Frodo huskily. "I can't help it."

"Me too," I say shakily. "I mean, beggin' your pardon, not when you come in--"

"I know, Sam," chuckles Frodo throatily, the blankets near his root rippling. "I didn't realise till I was sick, and then I couldn't do much about it. Before that I wasn't sure how you felt." The blankets undulate a few times very quickly. "Ooh, Sam, strip for me," Frodo pants.

With a slowness that's edged with embarrassment and a wanting so bad it hurts my toes, I undo my breeches buttons, slipping the little bits of metal through the holes, till they're open, but I'm all hidden away. Mr. Frodo's watching my hands go 'bout their work, his face looking like Mayor Whitfoot's at the Yuletide Roast. The rough skin of my fingers slides over my hard root, and I try hard not to moan. It's too exciting, doing a strip dance for Mr. Frodo.

"Frodo? Mr. Frodo?" I ask, still covered up.

He starts, wrenching his eyes from my trousers. "I'm sorry, Sam," he chuckles nervously. He coughs -- real sickly coughs this time -- into his hand. "I've imagined -- wanted... Please don't stop."

I'm feeling bold now, 'cause I know this isn't a dream, that Mr. Frodo really feels the same 'bout me as I do for him. I'm a right ninnyhammer for not seeing it afore, but well, I ain't going to let that bother me now.

"Frodo," I say saucily, "what have you imagined?"

"To see you naked. Please, Sam..." I smile, 'cause I feel I have a bit of power over my master. But it's not real; I'd do anything for him, I love him so.

I pull my pants down, edging them under the bed with my foot. My root sticks out from between my shirttails, all angry-hot, and I catch my breath. "Frodo," I whisper, "what do you want?"

"You," Frodo breathes. His fingers catch my own, and he tugs me onto the bed. I tumble down upon him, and oh! it feels so good to lay on him, better than all my dreams. I straddle his hips, blushing like mad 'cause my root's right in front of him, and he eyes it hungrily. I wet my dry lips with a flick of my tongue.

"Sam, I lo--" Frodo begins, but he's overcome with coughs, rusty and dry. He needs some liquid down his throat, surely, and I'm about to suggest that maybe he should drink some tea -- despite my obvious impatience -- when he starts again. "Time for my medicine, I think, Sam."

I don't have no clue what he's talking about, but the evening's going mighty fine so far, so I'm not going to say nothing. "Yes, Frodo," I say, all growly-low. The cheek of me, using his name like that! But, aye, I reckon that I'm in no position to address him as "sir" or "Mr".

"Wriggle forward," commands Frodo. On my knees, I step up, past his hips, past his belly, till my legs are covering his chest. Frodo's eyes are gleaming in the lamplight, his mouth wet from numerous licks of his tongue. My root is bobbing about an inch from his mouth. I close my eyes, because I know, know he couldn't be thinking of that kind of medicine. My minds whirls, and I decide I'd give away my prized pot o' daffodils if Frodo--


I gasp as Frodo's wet welcoming mouth swallows me up, and my eyes fly open. Looking down, I see Frodo's dark head bobbing about as he sucks on my root; I moan and grab the headboard for support. Frodo's getting a good taste of me, licking and swirling his tongue all around me.

"Frodo!" I groan. I watch the arcs of my arms shake in front of me and my knuckles turn white from clutching the wood so tight. There's little mews of pleasure rising from Frodo's throat, like he's enjoying me -- taking me. I want to come badly at that thought, and my hips begin to thrust into Frodo's lush mouth, near scraping the back of his throat I reckon.

Frodo eases off, his lips sliding off of me. "Not yet, Sam," he says. His hands come up, both of them, delivering quick strokes to my root. His hands are smooth and clever, and one sneaks under me to cradle and squeeze my heavy balls. It feels too achingly good to be believed, and I begin moaning his name, over and over. Frodo glances up at me and grins, and holds my root in one hand as he starts kissing it all over, tiny, sweet kisses that feel better than anything.

Then, at this worst of times, he begins to cough, pulling his lovely mouth off me. Immediately I settle my bottom down lightly on him and hug him tight. When he stops, his eyes are bright and there's a quiet smile gracing his slightly puffy lips. He kisses me on the mouth, and he tastes of anise and garlic, beautiful, and he glides his tongue over my lips.

"Please, my medicine, Sam," Frodo grinds out.

There's a part of me that feels bad, that I'm taking from Frodo, when he's sick of all times, but it's what my master wants, and I love him so. I rise up again, and again the tip of my root breaches his lips, and there's wonderful suction and a hot tongue, and hands! Hands -- Mr. Frodo's pale, slim hands -- come around and pinch the cheeks of my bare bottom, guiding me deep into his mouth. I gaze at Frodo; his cheeks suck in, working hard, and my breast bursts with love. I want him so much. There's no way I can last long now, not when Frodo's fingers begin spreading my cheeks and revealing--

"Frodo, I'm going to...oh...oh...OH!"

My hips buck, and my seed shoots into Frodo's mouth, and nothing has ever felt so good as that in my life. Frodo drinks his fill, nary a shudder nor sound come from him. When I've finished coming -- I don't think I've ever come harder in my life -- I collapse next to Frodo on the bed, pushing my face to his neck. I don't remember much of the next few minutes, till Frodo shakes me gentle-like.

"Just what the doctor ordered," he says, a mirthful smile on his lips. "Sam, come under the blankets." I blush, 'cause of what I just did, 'cause I'm hopping into my master's bed with my old and dirty shirt on -- and not much else. Frodo squirms down till we're snug together, his back pressing on my belly. He turns his neck so we can share a long, tongue-filled kiss. I taste the musky, bitter flavour of myself. I've tasted myself before, in bed one night, but nothing compares to sharing it with Frodo. I wager Frodo tastes mighty fine. Thinking such things makes me hard again, my root poking into the nightshirt-covered cleft of Frodo's small bottom.

When we finish kissing, I nuzzle Frodo's throat, making his pale skin blush up and down his neck. "Sam," he says at last, and I know what he's asking. I reach around and draw up his nightshirt past his hips, and wrap my fingers around his swollen root. He's hot and damp, and I tug him gentle at first, then harder, till he's thrusting into the cave of my hand and moaning real softly.

"Oh...oh Sam!" he cries when he comes, his hips rolling in waves against my belly, and he spurts in warm throbs all over my hand. I gentle him, whispering loving words, till he's still and breathing hard, his skin sheened in sweat. I wipe my hands on the sheets, thinking I'll need to wash 'em on the morrow so Mari don't discover such things.

We lay together, as the lamp begins to die down, pressed up close on the bed. Frodo is holding my hand, and he lifts it up to his mouth so he can lick my fingers clean of his seed. Long, unhurried kiss-licks coat my hand. He's slack and soft pushed up against me, loosed from all his aches. Frodo sighs, happy, and tears swell in my eyes. When Frodo releases my hand, I let it stray down the side of him, and roam over the point of his hip bone, and down the quivering muscles of his thigh. I can't believe I just made love with Frodo, that he wanted to with me. I'm feeling very tired, and my eyes feel heavy. It's been a long, wonderful day.

"Sam." I awake later to find Frodo looking at me; the stars are bright in his eyes and the lamp has gone out. It's all quiet. He's lovely, the starlight glittering in his hair, his skin moonlight-pale. I can't help but lean towards him hungrily. We share a long kiss, Frodo's mouth leisurely and moist beneath mine, soon becoming eager and bold as his wakening root nudges my thigh.

"Sam," he says again, after he's tasted me proper. "Have you heard anything?"

"Heard what?" I ask.

"Me cough."

I frown; Frodo's wearing a big grin. "No, I haven't," I say.

"I think your medicine worked well," he says mischievously.

My eyes open wide. "Frodo!" I gasp in embarrassment.

Two hands fly up to cover Frodo's mouth. "It did," he insists, laughing.

I can't help but chuckle as well. "Glad to help," I say mock-seriously.

"We should bottle it."

That is too much. We break into peals of laughter: two half-naked hobbits writhing around in bed, giggling into the pillows. We break the laughter to kiss, soft-slow, and my heart feels like it could take off and fly away at any moment.

"I think," Frodo murmurs at last to my neck, "I shall keep your 'medicine' all to myself."

I brush my lips over his brow. "I hope you won't want it only when you're sick," I say.

"No, I don't think so," Frodo says naughtily. "I shall need it often -- three or four times a day -- as a preventative."

"That sounds like the right dosage," I agree.

"You know," Frodo says slowly, "it's late and I've only had one dose. My dear Samwise, do you think I ought to have another? Just to be sure."

I look at him a bit sceptical. He's still sick, after all. "Are you sure, Frodo?" I ask.

But Frodo's skilful fingers are already fondling my hardening root, and besides, I reckon he's feeling much better now. And he does need his medicine.

"Aye, Frodo-love." I sigh as Frodo crushes our lips together then dives under the blankets.


Later, I walk home under the cover of the cool bright stars. I'm late but not too late; I reckon I can think up an excuse. My throat feels scratchy, and my head aches a bit, but I'm grinning to the gloomy darkness like a ninnyhammer. When I arrive at Number Three, I find Mari sitting in the parlour, knitting, the fire smoking long curls in the hearth.

"Sam!" she chirps, her needles clacking, "you're late home. Lucky Dad's gone to bed early." Her forehead pinches together. "Mr. Frodo's all right, isn't he? Did you give him some more medicine?"

"I did," I say, nary a stutter in it, "and he's feeling much better."

Mari smiles. "That's good news, Sam. What did you give him?"

"Oh," I say, pert as you like, "some special medicine."

Mari is about to speak when I bend over and cough, hard, into my rolled up fist. My throat hurts. I cough again.

"Sam," Mari fusses, "I reckon you need some of Mr. Frodo's special medicine."

I straighten up and kiss Mari on the cheek. "I'll ask him first thing in the morning," I say, chuckling as I leave Mari all a dither as I head to my bedroom.



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