Lucinda (indiehobbitlass) wrote in frodo_sam,

Author: indiehobbitlass
Title: Hangover Cure
Pairing: Frodo/Sam; hints of Merry/Pippin
Rating: NC-17
Brief Summary: A night out at the Green Dragon, and its consequences.
Disclaimer: All cobblers. (Good Brit word for lies.)


His hand gripped his pulsating shaft firmly; his slight body positively thrummed with lust as he stroked himself towards his inevitable climax. His breath came in ragged gasps as his heartbeat raced on.

"Oh, Sam..."

One of Frodo's hands entwined itself in his bed sheet, as the other pumped relentlessly. His hips thrust off the bed, beyond his control; his back arched. His porcelain cheeks were infused with colour, his brow beaded with sweat. His white muslin nightshirt had rucked up, his furry toes curled with the intensity of the orgasm that now ricocheted through him.

Frodo lay spent and crumpled in the wake of this comfortingly familiar and delicious sensation, savouring the moment. Gradually his breathing returned to normal and he curled up, falling almost immediately into slumber.


"Mr Frodo, sir?"

Frodo hauled himself back to Middle-earth with a start, realising that Sam had just asked him something very pressing about the positioning of the new snap-dragons that were to be planted in the Bag End gardens. Frodo had been distracted by the springtime sunshine glinting off Sam's fair curls, and had privately been pondering how he would enjoy positioning Sam in the gardens instead.

"Sorry, Sam," Frodo responded sheepishly, sure he could feel the hint of a warm blush creeping over his face. This would never do for an eccentric Baggins, supposedly so oblivious to others' thoughts. He scratched his head, dragging his thoughts back to the matter in hand. "How about over there, by those nasturtiums?" he suggested, with an effort.

Sam surveyed Frodo fleetingly before complying with the latter's orders, a hint of concern behind those brown eyes. Why was Mr Frodo being so strange lately? Had he, Sam, done something that was not in line with his master's liking?

In fact, it was what Sam HADN'T done that was causing havoc with his master's behaviour, but Sam was ignorant of this as he toiled away in the garden. Frodo had retired to the kitchen in an attempt to gather his thoughts over a cup of tea and a snack. Honestly, he was acting like a tween. He was a Baggins. He was SUPPOSED to be charmingly eccentric. Falling for his gardener was probably practically expected. He admonished himself, determined to set matters to rights...


Sam lay on his back in his bed, staring at the ceiling and wondering if Mr Frodo was becoming a carbon copy of the more eccentric Mr Bilbo. His recent behaviour would suggest so, Sam thought ruefully, imagining the stares and whispers of the neighbours. Not that Sam cared a whit for the opinions of others. The image of his master flickered unbidden before his mind's eye, and Sam's hand strayed unconsciously down his body as he thought of his master's dark curls and slim, pale body, such a contrast to his own ruddy, stocky build and blond hair. Sam felt a stiffening in his groin, and half-heartedly ignored it briefly, before taking the matter in hand. A barely audible moan escaped him as he thought of pleasuring his master; his cock stood to attention and he gripped it more firmly, rubbing and wishing it was Mr Frodo bringing him to climax in this way.


"Sam! It's your round!"

Merry and Pippin had come to pay cousin Frodo a visit, which, perhaps not unsurprisingly, was now taking in a session at the Green Dragon. Sam joined Frodo for these occasions, when invited. Initially he had felt a little uncomfortable about socialising with three gentlehobbits, but it had rapidly become apparent that they were gentlehobbits only in name. After all, Mr Frodo had always been more of a friend than an employer, and Merry and Pippin were known by all to be no more than a couple of cheeky rascals, despite their backgrounds.

Sam went to the bar and ordered the ales, his eye sweeping over the inhabitants of the fine hostelry that was his local. Slightly aided by alcohol, he smiled fondly at the dear, daft hobbits that were his friends and neighbours, his gaze growing softer as it came to rest on his master, who was now sharing a joke with Merry and Pippin, those amazing blue eyes shining and creased with laughter. Then Frodo caught Sam's eye, and his laughter stilled a little. Sam felt rooted to the spot, despite his furry feet feeling somewhat fluid with a combination of desire and ale. It seemed to Sam that Frodo's gaze had something predatory about it, and Sam felt colour rising to his face as he felt his cock stir. With an effort, he tore his gaze from his master's, paying for the ales and returning to the table with them.

"Samwise, would you believe it!" The next minute, the impish young Pippin had launched himself at Sam, half-whispering, half-laughing into the latter's ear about some scandal or other away in Buckland. Sam could only appreciate this so much, due to never having been so far from home, even less knowing the inhabitants. Besides, he was somewhat distracted by the proximity of Frodo, whose eyes, although slightly misted over with ale, were surveying Sam with a speculative smile that did nothing to alleviate Sam's hot flush.

"Come, dear cousin, enough already," Merry murmured to Pippin, taking the younger hobbit's hand and sitting him down. "Sam has other things on his mind, don't you know," he continued, only just loudly enough for Sam to catch what was being said. Sam started at this statement. He felt a little beer-addled, but coherent enough, and wondered if his feelings towards Frodo were really so obvious. He eyed Merry and Pippin with a puzzled countenance, before Frodo ruffled his hair fondly, turning his innards liquid with warm wanting.

"Oh, Sham, you know you're my besht friend, don't you?" Frodo gurgled, a little inebriated, the hand that had ruffled Sam's hair (and stirred him so) now coming to rest on his nape. Sam was momentarily dumbstruck, and could only mouth helplessly, as Merry and Pippin, no less bibulous, looked on with some amusement. It occurred to Sam that those two rapscallions seemed to be sitting extremely close together. It also occurred to him that Frodo rarely consumed so much ale: perhaps this was why.

"Now, Mr Frodo," Sam answered with what he hoped was a comradely pat on Frodo's shoulder, "maybe you might've had too much ale, begging your pardon and all."

Frodo's soulful, striking eyes regarded Sam now with a mixture of inebriation, annoyance and some other expression that Sam was unable to decipher. "Shamwishe! You're not my mother! I shall drink ash much ale ash I pleashe!" Frodo declared, swaying a little on the seat next to Sam, his hand rubbing deliciously up and down Sam's neck, evoking shivers in the latter.

"I think not. You've had your fill, Mr Baggins," announced a new, female voice. All four hobbits looked up, collectively trying to focus on the newcomer. It was the barmaid Melilot Brownlock, who, despite attempting to affect an air of authority, was clearly also trying to suppress a smile at the antics of this well-known local quartet. "Master Samwise'll look after you," she continued, with a coquettish flick of her tresses to Sam, "and I expect the young masters from Buckland'll be on hand to help," she finished, turning on her heel and sashaying back to the bar with a backwards glance to the four hobbits, that lingered longest on Frodo. He was, after all, such a beautiful creature. Even alcoholic excess merely complemented his beauty, adding a spot of high colour to his cheeks, and an extra mischievous sparkle to those unearthly eyes.

"Aye, come on, Mr Frodo, your Sam'll get you home," said Sam, getting slightly unsteadily to his feet and offering a hand to Frodo, while Merry and Pippin roused themselves from their seat, muttering half-hearted protests at this cull on their drinking time. Frodo gazed imploringly up at Sam from his chair, almost bringing the latter to his knees with wanton lust. Sam sighed, steeled himself and helped Frodo to his feet. It was going to be a trying journey home...


Remmirath, Borgil and Menelvagor were all twinkling high in the velvety night sky by the time the fearsome foursome had staggered back to Bag End. Merry and Pippin had vanished mysteriously beyond its round green door, and Frodo was apparently admiring the stars, even though it seemed to him that they were moving back and forth rather rapidly.

"Just a few more steps, Mr Frodo," Sam encouraged his master, feeling that he was losing the battle to contain his physical and emotional feelings for much longer.

Frodo turned his gaze from the stars to Sam, his face illuminated ethereally by the moonlight. "Sham, the shtarsh are sho beautiful," he slurred happily, gripping Sam's hand tightly.

"That they may be, Mr Frodo, but you'll be feeling none too pretty yourself, come the morning, at this rate. You should be in bed, sir," Sam admonished Frodo, leading the slighter, more befuddled hobbit towards his bedroom.

"Then you musht tuck me in, Shamwishe," Frodo answered gaily, causing further eruptions of lust in his servant. Sam closed his eyes fleetingly as he guided Frodo to his chamber. How on middle-Earth was he supposed to resist this gorgeous creation, even if it was his master?

Frodo and Sam suddenly slumped onto the bed together, breathing heavily from the effort of the journey home. Sam was on new territory now; just being on his master's bed was making him feel heady with want. His willpower seemed to have diminished to a mere slither of mithril. Frodo giggled, and the sound was high, clear, infectious. Sam found himself laughing too, then, somehow, he had taken his master and employer in his arms. But it didn't matter. They kissed, lightly and gently at first, lips seeking lips, then tongue tips meeting fleetingly, sending electric shocks of desire through both hobbits, down to their furry toes. Hands snaked through locks of hair, then slowly progressed downwards.

Taking a break to come up for air, Frodo and Sam stared deep into each other's eyes. Frodo's eyes, usually so starkly blue, had become almost all black, and his lids were heavy with lust and drink. He smiled, running a finger softly down from the tip of Sam's ear, then along his jawbone to his chin. "My dearesht Sham," he murmured, before passing out.

Sam, while by no means sober, was nonetheless more coherent than Frodo, and raised his hands to his head in sheer despair and frustration. He had been waiting for physical contact with his beloved Frodo for ... well, practically as long as he could remember. And now he had had but a taste of it, only for it to be brutally snatched away from him! His straining erection ached to be pleasured both manually and orally by Frodo, inside Frodo even. Now that he had finally experienced fleeting intimacy with Frodo, he feared there was no going back. His feelings had burst their banks, like the Brandywine back in Old Rory Brandybuck's days. However, the worry then began to set in. What if this whole episode had merely been a drink-induced error on Frodo's part? What was Sam to do in such a case?

Sam sighed, balling his fists and resolving to help his master instead of fretting like a ninnyhammer over something that couldn't be helped. Frodo was slumped so beautifully on the bed next to him, a peaceful expression adorning his features. Sam began undoing Frodo's purple velvet waistcoat, sliding it off the prostate form, ruefully stroking Frodo's arms, still clad in his fine cream shirt. Sam removed this gently from his dear master and employer, revelling in this new uncovering of Frodo. The sight of his slight, pale body warmed Sam's insides something chronic. Taking off Frodo's breeches was almost too much for Sam, who only just managed to resist pulling off Frodo's undergarments as well.

Sam lay next to his master, pulling the covers over them both. After all, he reasoned, if Frodo was going to regret this in the morning, Sam felt it better to know sooner rather than later. To his relief, overwhelming tiredness and the waning effects of the ale suppressed his immense sexual frustration, and he drifted off to sleep, wondering where Merry and Pippin had got to...


"We're not so different from the Big People in some ways, you know."

That familiar, much-loved voice filtered into Sam's unconscious, causing him to stir and swim slowly upwards towards wakefulness. It was daylight. Frodo was lying on his side next to Sam, his elbow engulfed by the soft pillow, his chin cupped by his hand. His expression ranged from playful to thoughtful and back again, as he fondly watched Sam drag himself from slumber.

"What do you mean, sir?" Sam asked, responding to Frodo's comment concerning Men. As he said this, Sam was slowly piecing together fragments of hazy memories from the night before, thankfully musing that Mr Frodo seemed fair unbothered by such Middle earth-shattering events. It almost seemed that lying in bed together discussing the similarities - or otherwise - betwixt the big and little folk was nowt out of the ordinary. Perhaps, Sam hoped with a thrill, this could be the case. He silently beseeched dear Eru to grant him this one wish above all else.

"Well ... using alcohol to induce feelings of courage," Frodo explained with a smile, affectionately giving the tip of Sam's nose a gentle, brief stroke. "Why else do you think I never had more than a couple of halves of ale on a night before? Everything in good time, as Bilbo used to say, and I had to be ready to show you how I felt, most beloved Sam," Frodo continued.

Sam was too choked to speak. He felt warm happiness well up in him like lava, ready to gush forth from his furry toes (and possibly from other, more intimate places). This was far better than he could have imagined. He shifted, turning from his back onto his side to face Frodo, grimacing only slightly at the pain this caused his head. He mentally made a note never to over-indulge again, fondly cursing his dear Frodo for his infuriating ability to wake the morn after a session, fresh as a daisy.

As Sam turned in the bed, his hand fluttered to his chest, which he had suddenly noticed was bare. His hand inched downwards, to find the rest of his person somewhat devoid of clothes also. His expression turned to shock, as realisation dawned. His gaze met Frodo's. Frodo in turn was regarding Sam with amusement.

"Mr Frodo! You undressed me?!" Sam squawked in indignant tones.

"Oh, Sam, it's a little late for you to be playing the vestal virgin," laughed Frodo. "I must say you seemed to do rather a good job of disrobing me too - for which I am most thankful, given that I was a little too indisposed to do the deed myself."

"But ... but, I left on your ... your underwear," Sam spluttered, feeling even the tips of his ears practically glowing pink. It seemed ridiculous to lie abed with his master and employer quite comfortably, yet the mere mention of undergarments was sufficient to require a hefty dose of smelling salts.

"Enough!" exclaimed Frodo light-heartedly, dismissing such trivial matters with a wave of his hand. "As I was saying earlier, dear Sam, I had to be ready to show you how I felt. Regrettably, a slightly excessive intake of ale left me unable to show you EXACTLY how, and my demonstration was somewhat curtailed." Sam felt his entrails turn liquid as Frodo fixed him in an undeniably lustful look, and launched himself forward to embrace Frodo.

Unfortunately Sam, as well as Frodo, had enjoyed a slightly excessive intake of ale the previous night, and found movement too much to bear, sinking back onto the pillow with a growl of frustration. He had yearned for this moment for years, but was now rendered useless by over-enthusiastic consumption of urine of Sauron, as he was now grimly re-naming it.

Frodo's expression took on a mantle of concern. "Sam! What is it?" Almost immediately, he realised. "Sweet Sam! I shall look after you. I have citrus oil. I'll prepare a bath for you, and the oil will clear your head."

Sam was left mouthing wordlessly at this frankly shocking change of roles, as Frodo bustled about in search of oil, towels and a kettle. Presently a steaming bath awaited Sam, who made his way gingerly to the bathroom, a little dizzy and light of head.

After a few minutes' soaking, Sam was feeling a little more refreshed. "Mr Frodo?" he called out tentatively.

Frodo popped his head around the bathroom door, his face breaking into a smile. "You already look better, beloved." He approached the bath, sitting on the edge, and ruffling Sam's hair affectionately, as he had done in the Green Dragon.

"Where are Merry and Pippin?" Sam asked. He had neither seen nor heard any sign of Frodo's cousins since the night before.

"Oh, it'll be ages before those two wake!" Frodo exclaimed with a laugh. "They're well-known for their ability to lie abed until it's opening time at the nearest hostelry."

"Well," Sam ventured, emboldened by his improved physical state, "maybe's we should be making the most of our time alone, Mr Frodo." And with that, he pulled Frodo into the bath with him.

Frodo gasped and laughed, before sitting astride Sam and engaging him in a long, slow kiss.

"Just a minute," he managed to pant, "let me get out my clothes, Samwise, you confounded nuisance!"

Once Frodo's clothes had been removed, he and Sam renewed their embrace, kissing ever more passionately and with more ardour. Sam had paused only to admire Frodo's naked form, feeling his cock grow hard at the mere sight of Frodo's, which was longer and thinner than his own, and surrounded by darker hair. Sam was pleased to note that his own body seemed to be having an arousing effect on Frodo's, and confirmed this by feeling under water, and encountering a rock-hard member. Frodo's head fell back, and he groaned. "Dearest Sam, if you knew how long I'd desired this," he murmured throatily.

"Seems to me we should be making up for lost time then," Sam suggested hoarsely, about to burst with desire, as he kissed Frodo's throat, his hand slowly moving up and down Frodo's shaft. He manoeuvred his other hand to stroke Frodo's balls and through his legs towards his arse. This was having a most pleasing effect on Frodo, who was shuddering and gasping. "It'll not be long, Sam," he muttered with a shamefaced laugh, "I'm just too aroused."

"That's no bad thing to my mind," Sam whispered, his own cock groaning to be included. However, years of serving his master in other ways had taught him that Mr Frodo came first - literally this time. It would take Frodo many enjoyable lustful sessions to teach Sam that he could come first, too.

Frodo suddenly reached his climax with a cry, spurting his milky seed out of the bath, holding Sam close, while Sam's head and heart raced with desire and delight at the effect he could have on his dear Frodo.

All was still for a while, as Frodo recovered. Then he kissed Sam again. "Come back to bed, most beloved of all hobbits!" he exhorted Sam. "I shall return the favour," he added, smiling.

And so the two adjourned to Frodo's chamber, where Frodo sat astride Sam once more, massaging him with the citrus oil that he had used in the bath earlier. Sam found this simultaneously relaxing and yet erotic: he longed to have his frustration dealt with.

Frodo seemed to be reading Sam's mind, for now he was kissing his way down Sam's oiled body, pausing to suck on a nipple here, stopping to stroke Sam's belly hair there.

Sam moaned. "Mr Frodo, you tease!"

Frodo laughed and stroked Sam's face lovingly. "Never fear, dear Sam," he murmured from between Sam's legs. With that, he got to work, taking Sam's swollen cock deep into his mouth, until Sam could feel Frodo's throat muscles constricting pleasurably around the sensitive tip. Sam cried and bucked; the sensation was just so gorgeously intense. He grabbed Frodo's hair in his desire, incredibly turned on merely by knowing that Frodo was performing gloriously intimate activities on the most delicate part of his body. Frodo in turn was moaning with lust, finding this a most heady sensation, arousing his Sam so deeply. Frodo's tongue flickered about the tip of Sam's member; his hands insinuated their way to Sam's balls and arse, gently stroking. Then his lips and tongue followed suit, while his hands continued to pleasure Sam.

Sam sat up abruptly, his breath ragged. "Mr Frodo!" he rasped roughly.

Frodo stopped, surprised. "What's wrong? Aren't you enjoying it?"

"Glory and trumpets, Mr Frodo!" Sam exclaimed, "it's more beautiful than any of the Overlithe garden parties I've worked on, I tell thee, and that's saying something, if you get my meaning. I dare say Mr Bilbo passed on some elvish magic to you." Sam blushed at heaping such platitudes on his master, whose face was positively aglow with love, and he paused briefly before continuing. "It's just I want ... I want to TAKE you, Frodo. I want that something terrible." Sam hung his head at such impudence, yet Frodo was stirred by the idea of such a radical role reversal.

"I'd like that, Sam," he responded, his finger gently lifting Sam's chin from his chest, so that the two's eyes could meet. "In fact," he added, "that's an understatement, to say the least." He lay down next to Sam, indicating that Sam should lie atop him. Sam knelt tenderly between Frodo's legs, holding himself above Frodo. Frodo handed Sam the oil; Sam applied it both to his own cock and to the entrance to Frodo's body, enjoying the way Frodo quivered with delight.

"Now, take me, Sam," Frodo begged with a sultry look that left Sam only too happy to do so. Sam kissed Frodo reverently, and gently eased his cock into Frodo. To be inside him was the most overwhelmingly erotic feeling Sam had experienced. In fact, the last twelve hours had contained a bewildering array of new, exciting, heady feelings that were leaving both Sam and Frodo reeling. Sam knew that this particular intercourse wouldn't last long, as he was so very excited, but he now felt sure that there would be other times, which in itself caused a frisson of lust to ripple through his cock. Frodo felt it, and began to move himself to try to find the most pleasurable angle. Encouraged, Sam started thrusting more roughly than his first, more tentative approaches, and both hobbits found themselves moaning with desire in between frantic kissing. Frodo's legs were now wrapped about Sam's back, his hands clamped about Sam's buttocks. He was writhing like an electric eel; Sam was fascinated by the way his lovely Frodo seemed to be possessed in these intimate moments. Suddenly Sam knew he could hold off no longer; his orgasm was rippling through him at first, then tearing, tipping him over the edge. He grunted and thrust deeper, pumping his come deep into his most beloved hobbit, until at last he was spent. He collapsed onto Frodo, panting.

When Sam had recovered a little, he became aware that Frodo was stroking his face tenderly with one hand, while the other was gently toying with Frodo's own cock, which had become hard again.

"Sam," whispered Frodo with a loving smile.

"Frodo," Sam managed in return, adding, "Seems like you're ready for some more, sir?"

"You have that effect on me, Samwise," Frodo murmured.

"You're one sweet-talking hobbit, Frodo Baggins," Sam responded with a sigh and a smile, before wriggling down the bed. He longed to admire Frodo's cock more closely, and now took his opportunity to do so, stroking, licking and sucking until Frodo was a pliant heap of carnality, urging Sam to keep going. That was until Frodo suddenly leapt up onto Sam, and, wordlessly grabbing the oil, smothered it over both his member and Sam's arsehole. Sam guessed what was coming, and felt desire flow through him anew. He was on all fours on the bed; Frodo entered him from behind, holding onto Sam's hips and driving him forward, thrusting roughly and deeply. It was brief but passionate, and both hobbits were spent by the time it was over.

"This must be love! After all, it must be time for third breakfast, at least," Frodo exclaimed as he and Sam lay together, entwined.

"That may be true, sir," Sam agreed, suddenly realising that some food would indeed be most welcome. "Shall I fetch some for you?"

"No - we shall get some together," Frodo replied, adding, "Enough of the "sir"s! I think after the things that have happened, you're entitled to address me as Frodo."

"Of course, sir," Sam responded, out of habit, before they both laughed and set off to the kitchen, hand in hand in their nightshirts. There they found Merry and Pippin, who had obviously been doing a very good job of demolishing the contents of Frodo's larder.

"I should've known you two tinkers would be around when there's food in the vicinity!" exclaimed Frodo. However, Merry and Pippin were clearly distracted by the development in their cousin's relationship with his servant, for broad grins were etched across their faces.

"We wondered how long it would take you, dear cousin," Pippin grinned. Frodo was beaming proudly as if he were showing off a newborn babe.

"Not before time, eh?" Merry agreed, laying a hand on Frodo's arm. "Now, who's for a cup of tea and some eggs?"

"Me," piped up Pippin.

"You've already had three lots!" Merry scolded him, biffing him affectionately.

For the first time, Sam twigged. Merry and Pippin had a relationship like his with Frodo. He gazed on them with new understanding.

"Now, Sam!" Pippin announced, putting his arm around Sam's shoulder. "Do you fancy a trip to the Ivy Bush a little later?"

Sam gazed to the ceiling. "Thank you, Master Pippin, but I'm still needing to recover from the Green Dragon, if you follow me."

"I don't actually, Samwise," Pippin answered. "After all, it sounded to me and Meriadoc here that you had a rather effective cure for any over-indulgences incurred at the Green Dragon ..."

"... in the form of our dear cousin," finished Merry.

"Or maybe it's Frodo you need to recover from," Pippin hooted, in high spirits as ever.

Sam flushed and bustled off to fill the kettle while Frodo, Pippin and Merry chuckled at this new source of amusement. Frodo came and lay a reassuring hand on Sam's shoulder, smiling and helping Sam to realise that this was mere banter, not intended to cause embarrassment. Sam smiled back, and, lightening up, realised that he did indeed have a new and novel hangover cure, in the form of this sprite beside him.

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