Disclaimer: Same as ever: These are not my characters; I don't get paid for writing this.
* * *
Sam emerges gradually from sleep. The coverlet under him is unusually soft and fine, and without opening his eyes he fingers it and ponders the texture. Then he remembers where he is, smiles, and snuggles into the pillow contentedly, thinking of last night while he drifts in his half-awake doze.
Yesterday was Frodo's 40th birthday, and he celebrated it modestly, gathering only a handful of friends at Bag End, and feeding them with the finest dining and the best wines. Sam helped prepare the food, but Frodo insisted that he join them at table, and leave the cooking to the lads and lasses he brought in from Hobbiton. Frodo also insisted that they all drink a toast to Bilbo's health since it was Mr. Bilbo's birthday too (even though nobody knew where he was anymore), and then an hour before midnight Frodo yawned hugely and told everyone he was an ancient old man who needed his sleep, and that they all must get home.
(To Sam's eyes, and surely to everyone else's, Frodo isn't the least bit ancient - in fact, he'd pass for a tween if you didn't know him; that's how fresh-skinned and limber he is.)
Frodo handed out mathoms at the door, and everyone thanked him and went home happy.
But he told Sam to wait, and stay a bit longer, if he could. Sam said he could - there's nothing he likes better than staying longer at Bag End with Mr. Frodo, even if he's put to work doing dishes. But Frodo didn't make Sam do dishes. He gave Sam his gift: a tiny book in Elvish, no bigger than Sam's hand, but with the most astonishingly intricate drawings and perfect small writing. How anyone penned such hair-fine lines is beyond Sam, but it's the most beautiful hand-made thing he's ever seen.
"I can barely read it, of course," Sam said shyly, bent over the book at the fireside, in Frodo's parlor. "My Elvish, it's not as good as yours..."
"Tell you what," Frodo said, loosely fingering open another button on his shirt. He was looking flushed; the night was awfully warm, and the fire and the company had made the smial hotter than noon in summer. "Stay overnight, and I'll read some with you. You know, the way children do - a sleeping-over party! Only we won't be telling goblin stories; we'll be telling stories of kings, in the most elegant languages that exist. Come on, Sam, you must! It's my birthday and I command you."
There was, indeed, no way Sam could say no to that. He ran - literally, ran - back to his house to let his Gaffer know he'd be at Bag End all night (that got him some grumbling, but not too much - Mr. Frodo knows best, after all), and then ran back up to Bag End with a change of clothes tucked under his arm for the morning. When he got there, Frodo was clearing the last of the dessert dishes off the table. He'd sent the serving lads and lasses home and the place was quiet.
"It's hot in here, isn't it?" Frodo greeted. "Phew! That cook-fire, on a night like this..." He shook his head, and pushed a window open farther. "That'll be letting the moths in, but it's unbearable in here now. Come on - let's read in my room instead. This parlor won't be cool till morning."
They went into Frodo's room and lit several candles, and found that actually it wasn't all that much cooler in there; so Frodo propped open that window too, but the night air just wasn't moving. Well, it didn't matter, Frodo laughed - they could go casual. They changed into nightshirts (Sam kept his eyes averted, even though they'd changed in front of each other before), and sat on pillows on the lush rugs to read in the candlelight, for it was slightly cooler in the bottom half of the room. And eventually the hour got late; and under the enchanting sound of Frodo's voice alternating between Elvish and Common-Tongue, Sam's eyes got heavy; and then Frodo was chuckling and telling him to get up on the bed and go to sleep.
That's where Sam has found himself now. He opens his eyes and finds the room mostly dark - the candles have been blown out - but with a gray early-dawn light that's beginning to come in through the open window. Now the air from that window is fresh and cool, and the room is comfortable. And Sam is lying on top of the covers, on Frodo's huge bed, and Frodo is asleep beside him.
And Frodo is naked.
Sam turns slowly onto his side and stares at this vision. He doesn't remember Frodo taking his nightshirt off. He *knows* they didn't do anything with each other - why, they've never so much as kissed (not that Sam would mind). Must be that Frodo was too warm in the middle of the night, and threw the garment aside. Sam thinks he sees an edge of white, over on the floor on Frodo's side; that must be it. He takes another look at the casually-flung limbs and deep-breathing body beside him, and swallows against a sudden surge of desire. He should cover up Frodo. He should get that shirt and cover him up. Because, well, see, Frodo is...aroused. In his sleep, there, he's hard; it's pointing up toward his belly-button.
But then, Frodo probably doesn't *want* to be covered up, if he's too hot; and in any case, getting hard when you're asleep isn't anything unusual - Sam wakes up that way nearly every day, seems like. He'll just shut his eyes again and maybe go back to sleep, and when Frodo wakes up he'll never know Sam saw him like this. And Sam can think about this all later, when he's alone, when it's safe to think about this.
Sam shuts his eyes.
Frodo whimpers.
Sam opens his eyes. Frodo is shifting now; atop the covers, his body slowly twists, like he's having a dream. Sam wonders if he's all right, if it's a nightmare or anything. He watches with concern, trying not to look at that erection (it's still there; fine, he looked). Then Frodo pushes his hips upward, with dream-time slowness, and whimpers low again. Sam's concern melts into heat as he suddenly knows exactly what kind of dream Frodo is having.
Sam gets hard too, then, trapped between his thighs as he lies on his side. He flexes his thigh muscles to rub it, watching as Frodo's hand squeezes a pillow and Frodo's knees twitch open wider. Frodo's head is turned to the outside of the bed, exposing a stretch of pale neck, but as another undulation ripples through his hips, he rocks his head to the other side, face turned to Sam. Frodo's long-lashed eyelids seem to tremble, as if his eyes are moving beneath them, and now his lips fall open to let his breath move in and out.
Sam bites his lower lip and squeezes himself tighter between his thighs, squirming back and forth a little to increase the sensation; because this is too much; he can't watch this and not feel the same way. He lets his eyes go back where they want to: to Frodo's groin, lifting and falling in waves, like Frodo is making love to some maiden (or lad?) in his dream - and making progress, from the look of him. He's breathing faster, and unless Sam's eyes are mistaken, he's harder now too; the head is protruding more from the looser folds of the shaft than before. Sam knows *his* looks like that when he gets especially hard - which is a state he's approaching now. His heart pounding, Sam squirms and presses his thighs around his hot flesh, longing so much to just reach his hand down and touch himself...but how could he, here in Mr. Frodo's bed?...
Frodo is whimpering continually now, and gently tosses his head from side to side. His pelvis rotates and seeks; his hardness strains against his dream-object; his thighs part, and Sam can see, in the growing dawn light, the swollen sac hanging like a pair of ripe apricots in that private nook of Frodo's skin. Sam presses his mouth to his arm to halt a groan. The mad idea has entered his head that he would like to *lick* those apricots...
Frodo's hips pump upward insistently, two, three, four times, and he tenses. Then, as Sam watches in an erotically-induced paralysis, Frodo groans, and without anything even touching him, semen trickles and spurts onto his bare skin, coating him from nipples to navel.
Sam's mind is whirling; he's thinking this is too good to be real, and at the same time knows with astonishment that it *is* real; and above all he desperately wants to come too, wants it so much that he almost does come. But the chance of Frodo waking up holds him back. Plus, his instinct for taking care of Mr. Frodo is clamoring in his mind: Sam can't leave him to wake up like *this*, all clammy and messy; think how humiliated Frodo would be! If it's possible, it would be much better to wipe him off without waking him up, and then he'd have his dignity when he did awake, and Sam would have an amazingly wondrous memory that he would never, ever speak of to anybody.
So while Frodo's muscles relax onto the bedcovers, one by one, and his taut flesh starts to sag in exhaustion, Sam leans to the floor and grabs up his own kerchief, a faded green cotton thing that he knots around his neck to keep the sun off. Hardly daring to breathe, he edges his torso toward Frodo, and settles the kerchief onto Frodo's wet stomach with a shaking hand.
All it takes is one hesitant swipe, though, and Frodo catches his breath and opens his eyes. "Sam, what are you...?" he mumbles in confusion, looking down his chest. Sam has frozen in terror, and a second later Frodo's eyes go wide. "Sam!" he cries in protest, seizing the kerchief to himself and shoving Sam's hand away.
"It's all right," Sam attempts. "I was just-"
"Just *what*?" Frodo mops himself up in quick, horrified movements.
"You were dreaming," Sam begs, "and it ended - that way - and I didn't want you to wake up and be...ashamed..."
"So you tried to *clean* me?" Frodo drops the kerchief between them as if repulsed, sweeps up his nightshirt from the floor, and wriggles into it faster than Sam thought possible. "That is above - *well* above - and beyond your call of duty," Frodo says, with a ghastly false laugh, as he tugs his shirt into place.
"I'm sorry," Sam answers helplessly. "I meant no harm..."
Frodo won't look at him. In fact, Frodo isn't looking at anything: he's dropped his face to his hands and is sitting hunched over on the bed. "I cannot believe this," he mumbles. "Can't believe it." His dark hair tumbles between his knuckles. Sam thinks it's even more lovely now, the curls disarrayed and wild from sleep, than when it's clean and combed and tidy. He wants to stroke those curls, make Frodo feel better, but he knows touching him probably isn't the way to do that right now.
"Don't be upset, sir," he whispers. "Please don't be."
Frodo shakes his head slowly, and does not look up. The white nightshirt drapes and clings on his body, enough so Sam can see he's shaking a little.
"How about if I start breakfast?" Sam suggests, hoping a change in topic - or the idea of food, at least - will improve Frodo's mood.
Frodo's fingers rub slow deep circles around his eye sockets. His hands and his shock of hair make it impossible for Sam to see his eyes. "I'm sure you understand that I can't face you right now," Frodo says softly. "Please help yourself to any of the leftovers from last night. Take some home to your family, if you wish."
"Sir," Sam begins, wounded, but that was clearly a dismissal and there's nothing more he dares say. He pulls back, slips his feet to the floor, puts on his trousers, removes his nightshirt, puts on the shirt he brought with him, and, after a moment of uncertainty, picks up the wadded green kerchief from the bed. Frodo does not look at him, or uncover his face, the whole time. All Sam can see are glimpses of Frodo's chin and lips, so perfectly formed and so stiff that they're seemingly carved of marble. Holding his bundle of clothing, Sam murmurs, "I'll see you later, then." He waits at the door for an answer, waits for a full count of ten, but Frodo says nothing. Sam goes out quietly.
He feels accosted by the rising sun outside. He walks down to his home without noticing anything around him except the sunlight and the annoying dust of the road as it sifts over his feet. He gets inside and passes his sister and says hello without thinking, and shuts himself into his own room. Last night's shirt and waistcoat fall to the floor. He leans against his door with the green kerchief clutched in his hand. He is hurt and he is confused, but most of all he is hard, very hard, and that needs to be dealt with first.
He undoes his breeches rapidly, still standing there with his back against the door, and shoves them down just enough so they're out of the way. With one hand he grips himself and begins stroking, and with the other he presses the kerchief to his nose. Through the familiar scents of cotton and his own garments he smells the sharp, marsh-dank, rainwater-fresh, intensely intimate smell of Frodo's seed. His thighs tense, his hips move with his hand; he's so close and so swollen that he aches. The thought of Frodo feeling like this...the image of Frodo naked and aroused and twisting...the knowledge that this is what he smells like down there...
Sam comes in a matter of seconds, soiling his trousers and a patch of floor between his feet. His knees buckle and he slides to the dusty wooden floor, breathing through his mouth with the kerchief still crumpled to his nose.
"Oh," he sighs, feeling like he has just spent four hours running at full sprint across the countryside.
He knows Frodo is unhappy and probably too embarrassed to look him in the eye for a while. He suspects Frodo might even be angry with him for presuming to try cleaning him up. He bets there's some unpleasantness ahead from all this. But he cannot say he wishes it never happened. He feels guilty for thinking so, but deep at heart, Sam Gamgee has to admit he's over-the-moon thrilled.
* * *
Sam emerges gradually from sleep. The coverlet under him is unusually soft and fine, and without opening his eyes he fingers it and ponders the texture. Then he remembers where he is, smiles, and snuggles into the pillow contentedly, thinking of last night while he drifts in his half-awake doze.
Yesterday was Frodo's 40th birthday, and he celebrated it modestly, gathering only a handful of friends at Bag End, and feeding them with the finest dining and the best wines. Sam helped prepare the food, but Frodo insisted that he join them at table, and leave the cooking to the lads and lasses he brought in from Hobbiton. Frodo also insisted that they all drink a toast to Bilbo's health since it was Mr. Bilbo's birthday too (even though nobody knew where he was anymore), and then an hour before midnight Frodo yawned hugely and told everyone he was an ancient old man who needed his sleep, and that they all must get home.
(To Sam's eyes, and surely to everyone else's, Frodo isn't the least bit ancient - in fact, he'd pass for a tween if you didn't know him; that's how fresh-skinned and limber he is.)
Frodo handed out mathoms at the door, and everyone thanked him and went home happy.
But he told Sam to wait, and stay a bit longer, if he could. Sam said he could - there's nothing he likes better than staying longer at Bag End with Mr. Frodo, even if he's put to work doing dishes. But Frodo didn't make Sam do dishes. He gave Sam his gift: a tiny book in Elvish, no bigger than Sam's hand, but with the most astonishingly intricate drawings and perfect small writing. How anyone penned such hair-fine lines is beyond Sam, but it's the most beautiful hand-made thing he's ever seen.
"I can barely read it, of course," Sam said shyly, bent over the book at the fireside, in Frodo's parlor. "My Elvish, it's not as good as yours..."
"Tell you what," Frodo said, loosely fingering open another button on his shirt. He was looking flushed; the night was awfully warm, and the fire and the company had made the smial hotter than noon in summer. "Stay overnight, and I'll read some with you. You know, the way children do - a sleeping-over party! Only we won't be telling goblin stories; we'll be telling stories of kings, in the most elegant languages that exist. Come on, Sam, you must! It's my birthday and I command you."
There was, indeed, no way Sam could say no to that. He ran - literally, ran - back to his house to let his Gaffer know he'd be at Bag End all night (that got him some grumbling, but not too much - Mr. Frodo knows best, after all), and then ran back up to Bag End with a change of clothes tucked under his arm for the morning. When he got there, Frodo was clearing the last of the dessert dishes off the table. He'd sent the serving lads and lasses home and the place was quiet.
"It's hot in here, isn't it?" Frodo greeted. "Phew! That cook-fire, on a night like this..." He shook his head, and pushed a window open farther. "That'll be letting the moths in, but it's unbearable in here now. Come on - let's read in my room instead. This parlor won't be cool till morning."
They went into Frodo's room and lit several candles, and found that actually it wasn't all that much cooler in there; so Frodo propped open that window too, but the night air just wasn't moving. Well, it didn't matter, Frodo laughed - they could go casual. They changed into nightshirts (Sam kept his eyes averted, even though they'd changed in front of each other before), and sat on pillows on the lush rugs to read in the candlelight, for it was slightly cooler in the bottom half of the room. And eventually the hour got late; and under the enchanting sound of Frodo's voice alternating between Elvish and Common-Tongue, Sam's eyes got heavy; and then Frodo was chuckling and telling him to get up on the bed and go to sleep.
That's where Sam has found himself now. He opens his eyes and finds the room mostly dark - the candles have been blown out - but with a gray early-dawn light that's beginning to come in through the open window. Now the air from that window is fresh and cool, and the room is comfortable. And Sam is lying on top of the covers, on Frodo's huge bed, and Frodo is asleep beside him.
And Frodo is naked.
Sam turns slowly onto his side and stares at this vision. He doesn't remember Frodo taking his nightshirt off. He *knows* they didn't do anything with each other - why, they've never so much as kissed (not that Sam would mind). Must be that Frodo was too warm in the middle of the night, and threw the garment aside. Sam thinks he sees an edge of white, over on the floor on Frodo's side; that must be it. He takes another look at the casually-flung limbs and deep-breathing body beside him, and swallows against a sudden surge of desire. He should cover up Frodo. He should get that shirt and cover him up. Because, well, see, Frodo is...aroused. In his sleep, there, he's hard; it's pointing up toward his belly-button.
But then, Frodo probably doesn't *want* to be covered up, if he's too hot; and in any case, getting hard when you're asleep isn't anything unusual - Sam wakes up that way nearly every day, seems like. He'll just shut his eyes again and maybe go back to sleep, and when Frodo wakes up he'll never know Sam saw him like this. And Sam can think about this all later, when he's alone, when it's safe to think about this.
Sam shuts his eyes.
Frodo whimpers.
Sam opens his eyes. Frodo is shifting now; atop the covers, his body slowly twists, like he's having a dream. Sam wonders if he's all right, if it's a nightmare or anything. He watches with concern, trying not to look at that erection (it's still there; fine, he looked). Then Frodo pushes his hips upward, with dream-time slowness, and whimpers low again. Sam's concern melts into heat as he suddenly knows exactly what kind of dream Frodo is having.
Sam gets hard too, then, trapped between his thighs as he lies on his side. He flexes his thigh muscles to rub it, watching as Frodo's hand squeezes a pillow and Frodo's knees twitch open wider. Frodo's head is turned to the outside of the bed, exposing a stretch of pale neck, but as another undulation ripples through his hips, he rocks his head to the other side, face turned to Sam. Frodo's long-lashed eyelids seem to tremble, as if his eyes are moving beneath them, and now his lips fall open to let his breath move in and out.
Sam bites his lower lip and squeezes himself tighter between his thighs, squirming back and forth a little to increase the sensation; because this is too much; he can't watch this and not feel the same way. He lets his eyes go back where they want to: to Frodo's groin, lifting and falling in waves, like Frodo is making love to some maiden (or lad?) in his dream - and making progress, from the look of him. He's breathing faster, and unless Sam's eyes are mistaken, he's harder now too; the head is protruding more from the looser folds of the shaft than before. Sam knows *his* looks like that when he gets especially hard - which is a state he's approaching now. His heart pounding, Sam squirms and presses his thighs around his hot flesh, longing so much to just reach his hand down and touch himself...but how could he, here in Mr. Frodo's bed?...
Frodo is whimpering continually now, and gently tosses his head from side to side. His pelvis rotates and seeks; his hardness strains against his dream-object; his thighs part, and Sam can see, in the growing dawn light, the swollen sac hanging like a pair of ripe apricots in that private nook of Frodo's skin. Sam presses his mouth to his arm to halt a groan. The mad idea has entered his head that he would like to *lick* those apricots...
Frodo's hips pump upward insistently, two, three, four times, and he tenses. Then, as Sam watches in an erotically-induced paralysis, Frodo groans, and without anything even touching him, semen trickles and spurts onto his bare skin, coating him from nipples to navel.
Sam's mind is whirling; he's thinking this is too good to be real, and at the same time knows with astonishment that it *is* real; and above all he desperately wants to come too, wants it so much that he almost does come. But the chance of Frodo waking up holds him back. Plus, his instinct for taking care of Mr. Frodo is clamoring in his mind: Sam can't leave him to wake up like *this*, all clammy and messy; think how humiliated Frodo would be! If it's possible, it would be much better to wipe him off without waking him up, and then he'd have his dignity when he did awake, and Sam would have an amazingly wondrous memory that he would never, ever speak of to anybody.
So while Frodo's muscles relax onto the bedcovers, one by one, and his taut flesh starts to sag in exhaustion, Sam leans to the floor and grabs up his own kerchief, a faded green cotton thing that he knots around his neck to keep the sun off. Hardly daring to breathe, he edges his torso toward Frodo, and settles the kerchief onto Frodo's wet stomach with a shaking hand.
All it takes is one hesitant swipe, though, and Frodo catches his breath and opens his eyes. "Sam, what are you...?" he mumbles in confusion, looking down his chest. Sam has frozen in terror, and a second later Frodo's eyes go wide. "Sam!" he cries in protest, seizing the kerchief to himself and shoving Sam's hand away.
"It's all right," Sam attempts. "I was just-"
"Just *what*?" Frodo mops himself up in quick, horrified movements.
"You were dreaming," Sam begs, "and it ended - that way - and I didn't want you to wake up and be...ashamed..."
"So you tried to *clean* me?" Frodo drops the kerchief between them as if repulsed, sweeps up his nightshirt from the floor, and wriggles into it faster than Sam thought possible. "That is above - *well* above - and beyond your call of duty," Frodo says, with a ghastly false laugh, as he tugs his shirt into place.
"I'm sorry," Sam answers helplessly. "I meant no harm..."
Frodo won't look at him. In fact, Frodo isn't looking at anything: he's dropped his face to his hands and is sitting hunched over on the bed. "I cannot believe this," he mumbles. "Can't believe it." His dark hair tumbles between his knuckles. Sam thinks it's even more lovely now, the curls disarrayed and wild from sleep, than when it's clean and combed and tidy. He wants to stroke those curls, make Frodo feel better, but he knows touching him probably isn't the way to do that right now.
"Don't be upset, sir," he whispers. "Please don't be."
Frodo shakes his head slowly, and does not look up. The white nightshirt drapes and clings on his body, enough so Sam can see he's shaking a little.
"How about if I start breakfast?" Sam suggests, hoping a change in topic - or the idea of food, at least - will improve Frodo's mood.
Frodo's fingers rub slow deep circles around his eye sockets. His hands and his shock of hair make it impossible for Sam to see his eyes. "I'm sure you understand that I can't face you right now," Frodo says softly. "Please help yourself to any of the leftovers from last night. Take some home to your family, if you wish."
"Sir," Sam begins, wounded, but that was clearly a dismissal and there's nothing more he dares say. He pulls back, slips his feet to the floor, puts on his trousers, removes his nightshirt, puts on the shirt he brought with him, and, after a moment of uncertainty, picks up the wadded green kerchief from the bed. Frodo does not look at him, or uncover his face, the whole time. All Sam can see are glimpses of Frodo's chin and lips, so perfectly formed and so stiff that they're seemingly carved of marble. Holding his bundle of clothing, Sam murmurs, "I'll see you later, then." He waits at the door for an answer, waits for a full count of ten, but Frodo says nothing. Sam goes out quietly.
He feels accosted by the rising sun outside. He walks down to his home without noticing anything around him except the sunlight and the annoying dust of the road as it sifts over his feet. He gets inside and passes his sister and says hello without thinking, and shuts himself into his own room. Last night's shirt and waistcoat fall to the floor. He leans against his door with the green kerchief clutched in his hand. He is hurt and he is confused, but most of all he is hard, very hard, and that needs to be dealt with first.
He undoes his breeches rapidly, still standing there with his back against the door, and shoves them down just enough so they're out of the way. With one hand he grips himself and begins stroking, and with the other he presses the kerchief to his nose. Through the familiar scents of cotton and his own garments he smells the sharp, marsh-dank, rainwater-fresh, intensely intimate smell of Frodo's seed. His thighs tense, his hips move with his hand; he's so close and so swollen that he aches. The thought of Frodo feeling like this...the image of Frodo naked and aroused and twisting...the knowledge that this is what he smells like down there...
Sam comes in a matter of seconds, soiling his trousers and a patch of floor between his feet. His knees buckle and he slides to the dusty wooden floor, breathing through his mouth with the kerchief still crumpled to his nose.
"Oh," he sighs, feeling like he has just spent four hours running at full sprint across the countryside.
He knows Frodo is unhappy and probably too embarrassed to look him in the eye for a while. He suspects Frodo might even be angry with him for presuming to try cleaning him up. He bets there's some unpleasantness ahead from all this. But he cannot say he wishes it never happened. He feels guilty for thinking so, but deep at heart, Sam Gamgee has to admit he's over-the-moon thrilled.