TITLE: Unavoidable: An Unexpected Arrival 

AUTHOR: Stella Hobbit

RATING: NC17

PAIRING: F/S

WARNINGS: None

STATUS: Completed

SUMMARY: A story of Sam and Frodo’s first meeting.

AUTHOR’S NOTES: I came up with a number of plot lines on my 
holiday recently and thought that I’d be able to get it down in a few pages.  
Not going to happen!  As the chapters progress, the story gets darker and 
Merry and Pippin start to get involved in their own dramas.  I’m an angst-
bunny, so this story’s going to get hot and heavy.  This is my first-ever 
fiction, so I hope you like it.  Feel free to send me an email – all opinions, 
advice, encouragement and flames will be looked at (not guaranteeing I’ll 
answer you though 8P )

ARCHIVE: No problems, just tell me where you’re putting my babies. 

FEEDBACK: Hell yeah, I’m a glutton for punishment or praise :-).  
Contact me at thelaconiclibrarian@hotmail.com or check out my Live 
Journal at www.livejournal.com/users/stellahobbit/

DISCLAIMER: If you thought that I owned these characters, then you’re a 
fecking idiot!  The people and places belong to the estate of J.R.R. 
Tolkien.  I don’t make a profit from this (show me one slash writer who 
does!), I just share my stories with like-minded people.






There are some houses that are extremely small in size, yet the inhabitants 
are as lonely as hermits.  Where there is no love, there is no peace.  There 
are some houses that are exceedingly large in dimension yet the people 
living inside them feel safe and comfortable, confident that they are in 
their place and are happy to be there.  The residence of Mister Frodo 
Baggins of Bag End was a mixture of the two.  The smial was opulent in 
size and facilities, rich in fabrics and abundant in provisions.  Yet only one 
hobbit lived there.  

In the year 2980, when Frodo Baggins was 12 years old, his parents died 
suddenly in a boating accident.  He had lived his whole life at Brandy Hall 
and, even though he was technically an orphan, was surrounded by friends 
and family that wished him well and took care of him as best they could.  
But any child knows that ten people with half-hearted wishes cannot beat 
the love of one person who has your best interests at heart.  

Thus it was with great gladness that Frodo accepted the invitation of his 
third cousin (on his father’s side, for all hobbits knew their genealogy) to 
quit Brandy Hall and live with him in his comfortable house at Bag End.  
Bilbo Baggins was a mystery to most of his relatives; at age seventy-eight, 
he still had not taken a wife and looked to live a bachelor until his dying 
days.  Some of the meaner relatives whispered that Bilbo had only asked 
Frodo to live with him so he would not be alone in his old age (even 
though Bilbo looked remarkably well for his age, and could have passed 
for a spry fifty).  Frodo did not view the situation with the same suspicion 
– all he knew was that Bilbo could tell the most wonderful stories, Bilbo 
could laugh the loudest and blow the most ridiculous smoke rings.  Bilbo 
actually seemed to pay attention to Frodo when he spoke!  After sorting 
out the particulars, Frodo thanked his myriad of relatives for their concern 
and affection over the years, packed his small belongs and, for the first 
time in his twenty-one years of living, walked with lightness in his chest 
and adventure in his heart.  





At the time Frodo was suffering the death of his parents, the Gamgees at 3 
Bagshot Row were celebrating the birth of the third and final son 
Samwise, fifth child out of an eventual six in the family.  With his cheerful 
demeanour and gentle ways, he was the favourite of all who knew him.  
As soon as he could walk, he would follow his Gaffer on his rounds – to 
the mill, around the pastures, he would even attempt to follow his father 
into the Green Dragon.  And questions!  The young Samwise was forever 
asking questions.  It was not enough that he shadowed his father in his 
every step and got in the way of his important work, he would wonder why 
the Gaffer was planting those flowers in that particular spot, and how the 
Gaffer knew when to plant the potato seeds and which tree would the 
Gaffer fell to make his sturdy gardening tools.  Hamfast would look at 
Sam, bemused that such a small person could have such curiosity.   He 
would attempt to answer the questions to the best of his ability – until the 
questions became too much for even the Gaffer to handle, and he would 
send his son home to his mother with a slight kick to his dusty bottom.  
For all that, Samwise was the apple of his father’s eye, and Hamfast saw a 
future where his golden-haired, brown-eyed son would be a master of 
garden and growth as he was.  

The inhabitants of the Shire were as shocked as the peerage of Brandy 
Hall to hear the news of Frodo’s adoption.  As Bilbo and Frodo tramped 
up the road, their bright smial door in view, Bilbo spied Hamfast working 
industriously in Bag End’s front garden, spreading mulch over the posies 
that bordered the walkway.  Hamfast stood up and stretched at the sound 
of people approaching and exclaimed “Mister Bilbo, I didn’t expect 
yourself to be back so quickly!  I’ve not laid a log aside for your fireplace 
and…”

“It is of no consequence Master Gamgee, I tired of the noise of 
Brandybuck Hall and longed for the solitude of my quiet smial.  I fear I 
am getting too old to be surrounded by so many people” chuckled Bilbo.

Gamgee replied “Nonsense, ifin’ you don’t mind me saying so Mister 
Bilbo.  You’re a respectable hobbit sir, and there’s nowt to tell what a 
respectable hobbit can and can’t do.  Although I’m rightly pleased to have 
you back.  I’ve some questions to ask you regarding the planting of the 
next crop.”

“I will speak with you with the greatest of pleasure Gamgee, although I 
must first get my charge inside and fill him up with tea and food before he 
wastes away in front of our eyes.”  Bilbo gestured to Frodo at his side.  
“Mister Gamgee, I have the pleasure of introducing you to my third cousin 
Frodo Baggins, lately of Brandybuck Hall.  Frodo has consented to 
humour an old man and has come to live with me at Bag End.”

Hamfast respectively touched his hand to his forehead, assessing the 
quality of Baggins stock in front of him.  Good height, slightly thin for his 
age, large blue eyes, dark brown hair, the sheen of pale skin that denotes a 
bookish person.  “Pleasure to meet you Master Frodo.”

“Frodo,” Bilbo continued, “this is Mister Hamfast Gamgee, the greatest 
gardener to be found in the Shire.  He has very kindly agreed to take care 
of our gardens and fulfil any other business that I should require of him.  
He lives with his family down the road, all the Gamgee troop help this old 
bachelor in some way.”  

“It is my pleasure to meet you Mister Gamgee” Frodo spoke quietly, but 
held out his hand to Hamfast as easily as you please.  Hamfast took it, 
expecting a weak-wristed clasping and a slight touching of palms, but was 
pleasantly surprised when he felt a firm, dry hand shake his with a strength 
that was unexpected.  Hamfast nodded to himself, ‘this one wants 
watching’ he thought.  ‘Most people ‘round here will be thinking he’s like 
a lettuce, full of shine and colour but limp and wet.’  ‘No,’ Hamfast 
thought, ‘he’s more like a pumpkin.  He’s got a glossy sheen to himself 
that makes your eyes glare, but there is a hardness underneath the shine 
that speaks volumes of his character.’  Hamfast nodded to himself again, it 
had been his habit for as long as he could remember to compare people 
with growing things – he had never been wrong and didn’t expect to be 
soon.

“Frodo me lad,” Bilbo said, cutting into Hamfast’s private revelry, “let 
yourself in boy and have a look around the house.  There are plenty of 
rooms that are empty, choose one that you’ll find comfortable.  When 
we’ve got you set up, we’ll choose another room for your study so you 
may continue your work…whatever work a lad of your age has to do.”  

“Bilbo, I am twenty-one years old” Frodo replied ruefully.

“So you are,” Bilbo exclaimed, slapping him on the back and directing 
him towards the house.  “So you are,” he repeated under his breath.  “Ah, 
to be a tweenie again.”  

“I don’t think being a tweenie is all it’s cracked up to be sir, begging your 
pardon.  Time of turmoil and trouble it was for me, but then, I never was 
good at taking directions,” Hamfast chuckled.  

“How right you are Hamfast, how right you are.” Bilbo said as he watched 
his charge enter his new home.  “Hamfast, about my young cousin.”

“Yes sir?” Hamfast enquired.

“He’s…..,” Bilbo paused, “he’s not had a good time of it so far in his life.  
He’s an only child, and his parents died nine years ago and he’s been left 
to fend for himself up at Brandy Hall.  Oh, I don’t say they’ve treated him 
badly, he was well-fed and clothed, but….I don’t think he’s been made to 
feel special in a long time.”  Bilbo blew out an exasperated breath, looked 
at his feet, looked down the road, looked at his front door, then finally 
looked back at Hamfast.  “I mean to take care of him Hamfast.  I’m all 
he’s got know and he’s….well, he’s all I’ve got.  I know it’s difficult for 
you to think of Hamfast, with a large happy family such as yours….”

“Excuse me for saying sir, and pardon me for interrupting, but I’m glad 
he’s here.  For the both of ya.  I’ll help ye with him the best that I can.  
Nothing like taking care of someone to make you feel good about 
yourself.”

Bilbo smiled at his faithful retainer.  “I knew you’d understand Hamfast, 
and I thank you in advance for your help.  I think it will take a while 
before young Frodo feels safe and comfortable in an unknown 
environment.”  A faraway look returned to Bilbo’s eyes.  “Well,” he 
exclaimed, “can’t stand around here all day gas-bagging, I’m sure you’ve 
got things to attend to, and I know I could use a bit of luncheon.”

“Right you are sir,” Hamfast agreed, “I’ll step off to me own home for a 
meal and come back shortly to discuss the planting with you.”

“Of course Hamfast, take your time,” Bilbo threw over his shoulder as he 
walked up the pathway.





Hamfast walked the short journey to his own house, and meet his wife 
with a kiss and a squeeze in the kitchen.  As he consumed his bread and 
cheese, he related Bilbo’s words to his wife.  Bell listened intently, 
clucking and cooing at the tale of the poor orphan in Bilbo’s charge.  At 
the pronouncement that Frodo would be living at Bag End permanently, 
Bell tutted and said “And ‘tis the best thing for both of them.  ‘Tis not 
right for a man of Mister Bilbo’s age and respectability to be living in that 
large smial all by his lonesome, the poor lonely lad will do him good.  Not 
even a brother or sister to keep him grounded!  Here,” she said as Hamfast 
rose from the table and grabbed his hat to return to Bag End.  “Ye take this 
blueberry tart I’ve made to the poor lad up the road and ye can all have a 
nice afternoon whilst ye be talking yer business.”  With a peck on the 
cheek, Hamfast accepted the still-warm pastry and legged it back to Mister 
Bilbo’s.





Unbeknownst to both his parents, young Samwise (or Sam, as he was 
affectionately known) had hidden himself in the pantry at the beginning of 
their conversation.  He had heard the whole story of poor young Frodo, 
who did not have a father or a mother to keep him happy.  At the tender 
age of nine, he still believed in the power of his parents and family to keep 
him safe.  Sam wiped a slight tear from his eye; he was a compassionate 
hobbit and resolved to do something to welcome young Mister Frodo 
himself.

Frodo sat on his bed and looked around his room.  Whilst it was large and 
comfortable, it still lacked personality.  Frodo knew he should start 
unpacking his bags, laying small ornaments and books around the room to 
make it feel his own, but he felt low in spirits and lacking in energy.  He 
could hear the low mummers of Bilbo and Hamfast in the kitchen as they 
pulled out chairs and readied themselves for talk.  Frodo heard his cousin 
yell out to him “Frodo, come here lad and tuck into this excellent 
blueberry tart that Missus Bell sent up for us.”

Frodo got up from the bed, opened the door and stuck his head out into the 
corridor.  “Not right now thank you Bilbo.  I mean to get myself sorted 
first.”

“As you like Frodo,” Bilbo shouted, “although I can’t guarantee there’ll be 
any left.”  Frodo closed the door on the laughter of the two men and 
leaned against the jamb.  How did he feel to be here?  Was he happy, sad, 
apathetic?  It was all too soon for his feelings to sort themselves out.  He 
was glad of the peace and quiet that this smial inspired, and he looked 
forward to pleasant days of conversation and study with Bilbo.  “But will 
Bilbo like me?” he wondered.

A rustling sound by the window attracted his attention.  He moved swiftly 
and quietly to the window and peered out.  There was nothing to be seen.  
The rustling sound started again, he looked down and saw the tousled 
brown hair of a young hobbit climbing earnestly under his window.  
“Hey,” Frodo said.  The boy looked up, his tongue still sticking out of the 
side of his mouth in concentration, and let go in his surprise.  Luckily 
Frodo was not as delicate or slow as his appearance made him seem, he 
quickly clutched onto the boy’s suspenders and hauled him 
unceremoniously into his room.  When the young hobbit was on his feet 
and his tongue was back in his mouth, he looked up at his unexpected 
saviour.  “An elf!” he thought to himself.  “Ain’t no hobbit as fair as he 
is.”

“I’m sorry to tell you, but I am an ordinary hobbit,” Frodo replied, 
smiling.  Sam squeaked, he hadn’t realised he had spoken out loud.  Frodo 
knelt down on his knees in front of the young house-breaker and said 
quietly “I’m Frodo Baggins.  Who might you be?”

“Sam, err Samwise Gamgee sir.  Begging your pardon sir,” Sam replied 
breathlessly.  He rather belatedly slapped his fingers to his forehead.  
Frodo laughed and took Sam’s saluting hand into his own. 

“And to what do I owe this pleasure, young Mister Samwise Gamgee?”

“Ain’t no pleasure sir, I’s come to look at you.  When I heard ‘bout you,” 
and Sam stopped talking abruptly, realising he might be overstepping the 
boundaries of decency with the striking hobbit in front of him.  Yet Mister 
Frodo did not appear annoyed, he still held Sam’s hand in his own and 
was smiling at him.  Sam was so close to his face that he could see his 
own reflection in those large blue eyes.

“When you heard what Samwise?”  Frodo asked, leading Sam by the hand 
to his bed, where they both sat comfortably facing each other.

“Well’en,” Sam stammered, “please call me Sam sir, all my friends do.”

“Sam,” Frodo replied, rolling the name on his tongue.  “I like it Sam.  And 
I like you.  Does that mean I’m one of your friends now?”

“Yes sir,” Sam breathed, “if’n you would, I would be ever so happy.”

Frodo laughed, this child had a spark in him.  “Well Sam, if we are 
friends, why don’t you tell me what you heard about me.”  Frodo watched 
patiently as Sam held a battle within himself.  In the end, the need to 
continue talking with this beautiful figure out weighed his father’s training 
to ‘not get ahead of himself’. 

“Well sir, I heard my mam and da talking about you in the kitchen.  They 
didn’t know I was in the pantry just now and they were talking about you 
and Mister Bilbo, and the fact that you’re an…..” here Sam halted, unsure 
if he should go on.

Frodo gently raised Sam’s chin so the young hobbit would look him in the 
eye.  “I’m a what, Sam.”

“An orphan sir!” Sam exclaimed, unable to contain himself.  “You don’t 
have no mam and da, you don’t even have any brothers or sisters to play 
with, and I thought, ‘Poor Mister Frodo, no one to take care of him’ and I 
thought sir, well, maybe I can be his friend so he ain’t so lonesome.”  Sam 
paused for breath and looked Frodo bravely in the eye.  “Did I do the 
wrong thing sir?”

Frodo shook his head slowly so as not to dislodge the tears he could feel 
filling in his eyes.  “No Sam,” he replied huskily, “you didn’t do a thing 
wrong.”  He sniffed and cleared his throat.  “Friends, Samwise Gamgee?” 
he asked as he held out his hand.  Sam accepted gratefully and shook his 
hand quickly.  “Oh no,” he exclaimed when he felt the stickiness between 
their palms.  “I done forgot ‘bout them.”  He released Frodo’s hand and 
looked at his own palm.  A red jelly appeared to be mashed into his 
fingers.  He gingerly reached into his pocket and brought out a double 
handful of bruised, slightly squashed strawberries.  “I’d planned on giving 
them to you as a gift sir, but they’re all wrecked now.”

“Of course they’re not,” Frodo laughed, “there’s no such thing as a bad 
strawberry, unless they’re yellow and hard.”  He picked a strawberry from 
Sam’s hand and bit into it with gusto.  “Yum!” he exclaimed, wiping the 
running juice from his chin.  

“Really sir?” Sam asked doubtfully.  Frodo grabbed another strawberry 
and popped it into Sam’s open mouth.  After a few chews, Sam agreed 
with Frodo that they were indeed “Yum.”

The young hobbits laughed at and with each other, and spent a lovely hour 
feeding each other squashed strawberries, as they sat on the bed and talked 
like they had been friends for years.


TITLE: Unavoidable: A Surprising Suggestion (2 of 8)

AUTHOR: Stella Hobbit

RATING: PG

PAIRING: F/S

WARNINGS: None

STATUS: Completed

SUMMARY: Frodo asks Sam an interesting question

AUTHOR’S NOTES: “It’s getting hot in here, so take off all your 
clothes”.  Remember how I warned you this story was going to get hotter?  
If this story were a horse, we’d be trotting right now.  Be prepared for 
some mean galloping in future.  Feel free to send me an email – all 
opinions, advice, encouragement and flames will be looked at (not 
guaranteeing I’ll answer you though 8P)

ARCHIVE: No problems, just tell me where you’re putting my babies. 

FEEDBACK: Hell yeah, I’m a glutton for punishment or praise :-).  
Contact me at thelaconiclibrarian@hotmail.com or check out my Live 
Journal at www.livejournal.com/users/stellahobbit/

DISCLAIMER: If you thought that I owned these characters, then you’re a 
fecking idiot!  The people and places belong to the estate of J.R.R. 
Tolkien.  I don’t make a profit from this (show me one slash writer who 
does!), I just share my stories with like-minded people.





When Bilbo performed his disappearing act at their shared birthday 
celebration, Frodo was not surprised.  He did not expect such a grand end 
to the evening but, after living with Bilbo for twelve years, had come to 
know his cousin well.  Not for Bilbo the stately address that one would 
expect of a hobbit of one hundred and eleven years old!  Not for Bilbo a 
formal, reflective speech worthy of the master of Bag End.  No, for Bilbo, 
life was about challenges and excitement, and what could be more exciting 
and challenging then to disappear in front of family and friends alike and 
smuggle himself off, chuckling at the expression on all their faces.  Frodo 
smiled to himself as he observed the shocked countenances of those 
surrounding him.  Bolgers, Boffins, Proudfeet and Smallburrows.  
Brandybucks, Baggins, Gamgees and Tooks.  All had stood in silence at 
the disappearing act until, eventually, some of the older hobbits realised 
that Bilbo had played a trick on them.  As their indignant voices grew 
louder, Frodo and Sam scurried amongst the crowd; ordering more food, 
exhorting the band to start up the music again, encouraging young hobbits 
to step up to the dance space.  With the sudden explosion of colours and 
lights caused by Merry and Pippin’s impromptu fireworks display, 
cheerfulness was restored to the party.

No, Bilbo felt this was the right way to end his time at Bag End, but he did 
feel a twinge of guilt for springing the surprise on Frodo as he did.  Their 
twelve years together had passed most admirably.  In Frodo, Bilbo had 
found a companion worthy of his intellect.  Their lives had been smooth 
sailing – not too much change, not too much dissention.  Perhaps this had 
made Bilbo’s going away easier for himself.  Whilst nearly all other 
hobbits required no more than a warm smial, a full belly and smoking 
pipe, Bilbo’s blood had been stirred many years ago and his feet became 
restless as he wished to go adventuring again.  In their time together, he 
had dropped hints of his desire to tramps the roads again, to meet new 
friends, to visit old ones.  Frodo had hoped that this desire to leave would 
pass with age, but Bilbo’s wanderlust had actually increased with his 
birthdays.  Bilbo hoped that Frodo understood how much their time 
together had meant to him, and would hold the memory of their friendship 
close as he lived out the rest of his quiet life.

Once all guests had left the property (or been escorted away by more sober 
friends), Frodo slowly tracked his way back to Bag End.  Although his 
cousins Pippin and Merry were staying with him, he did not expect to see 
them for many hours.  If there was music in the air and drink in the mug, 
the young hobbits would be pleased to roam around in the night, stirring 
up trouble and running away before the trouble caught them.  Frodo hoped 
that, at age nineteen, Merry was taking care of his eleven-year old cousin 
and not inducing him to more outrageous acts.  But the little Took had a 
way of twisting people around his little finger and, unfortunately, his own 
Merry was the most pliable in his hands.

As he pondered these thoughts and wondered where Bilbo had actually 
gotten off too, he opened the cheerful door of the smial and noticed the 
large grey cloak of Gandalf.  He could feel the warmth of the fire burning 
in the parlour, and smelt the sharp acid of mulled cider.  Gandalf stepped 
into the corridor when he heard Frodo’s footsteps.  He looked down at the 
young Master of Bag End – so new to his coming of age, so content with 
his life to this point.  Gandalf sighed quietly to himself and, with a heavy 
hand on his shoulder, led Frodo to sit.  He had many things to say that 
night; he spoke of mysterious objects, unfinished business and gave 
recommendations about the future.  Through this Frodo sat quietly.  He 
did not understand all that Gandalf was speaking of, but he did know one 
thing.  Bilbo was not coming back, and that meant that he was now alone.





When someone suffers a terrible loss, time seems to stand still.  Sounds 
are dull, words too fuzzy to discern meaning, your eye will be caught on 
an object and you could quite easily stare at it for hours.  Even as your 
body is heavy with grief and all movements feel like they are being 
performed under water, a body is expected to function.  What the people 
around you think is lethargy is incapacity.  You don’t want to perform the 
simple functions of day-to-day living; all actions and reactions seem 
meaningless.  It is of no surprise that great trauma brings these feelings.  
What is surprising is that the majority of people who have felt this way, 
have managed to carry on.

Ten years passed, and Frodo’s life did carry on.  After feeling like an 
impostor for the first two years, he settled into the privilege and 
responsibility of Master of Bag End.  The inhabitants of Hobbiton (apart 
from the Sackville-Baggins) welcomed his interest in their lives and knew 
him to be a fair and honest laird.  His situation was perfect – he had 
comfort, respectability and time to indulge in his passion of literature.  But 
he was lonely.

To be sure, every year he would visit Brandybuck Hall and be 
reacquainted with the lives and doings of his relatives.  He watched Merry 
and Pippin grow into the hobbits that they would be for the rest of their 
lives.  Merry changed from being a spoilt only child into a strong and fair-
minded hobbit nearly reaching his majority.  Pippin transformed from the 
plaything of sisters and aunts to a cheeky fun-loving creature that bought 
smiles whenever he entered a room.  The only thing that Frodo noticed 
didn’t change was the devotion the two hobbits showed towards each 
other.  If there was one, then the other was bound to be close by.  They 
shared secrets, caused mischief together, would pull faces and exclaim 
words that would make the other laugh out loud.  Far more than cousins or 
surrogate brothers, Pippin and Merry had grown into the two halves of one 
soul – each needing the other to breathe.  Sometimes Frodo would notice 
Merry looking at Pippin when he didn’t think anyone would notice.  His 
hazel eyes would cloud over, a furrow would appear in his brow and his 
fists would clench imperceptibly.  Then Pippin would look over at Merry 
and grimace behind the shoulder of a fat boring aunt, or attempt to stuff an 
entire cream puff in his mouth at once, and Merry’s face would clear and 
light up as if the sun had peeked through grey, heavy clouds.  

As much as Frodo enjoyed his visits, he never felt like staying for too 
long.  While he was away from Bag End, he had a niggling feeling in the 
back of his mind like he had forgotten to bank the fires or cover a pot of 
jam.  He just knew he needed to go back to set his mind at ease.





When Frodo had been Master of Bag End for three years, the Gaffer had 
requested a moment of his time.  He said in his respectful way that he 
didn’t believe he could keep up the garden of Bag End like it deserved 
and, now that his beloved Belle was gone, would like more time at his 
own hearth and home.  He suggested that, if it was acceptable to Master 
Frodo, that his son Samwise be allowed to continue on as Bag End’s 
gardener.  Sam knew about the garden just as much as his old Gaffer did 
(and Hamfast said that grudgingly, but with a modicum of pride) and, at 
twenty-four, was fit and healthy enough to provide many years of service.  
Frodo agreed with the Gaffer’s assessment of the situation, thanked him 
for his years of service and thought no more of it.

Until recently.  In the past seven years, Sam had graduated from gardener 
to housekeeper to cook.  There was not one part of Frodo’s life that was 
not touched on by Sam.  When Frodo awoke in the morning, Sam was 
there with his breakfast hot and ready.  When Frodo noticed he had run 
out of clean clothes, Sam would pull a bundle of neat laundered items out 
from behind the door.  When Frodo found that he was running out of ink 
or parchment or sausages or cream, Sam had already organised a trip to 
the market.  When Frodo was stuck on a particular translation of Elvish, 
Sam would listen and, with his fine ear for cadence, suggest ways that the 
piece could be interpreted.  When all Frodo wanted to do was sit outside in 
the dark and look at the stars, Sam would sit quietly beside him, pipes and 
weed in hand, ready to smoke in silence and admire the still beauty of the 
night.  It had reached such a point that the Gaffer had suggested, in one of 
his rare visits to Bag End, that since, he was here all the time anyway, Sam 
might as well move into Bag End with Master Frodo and be done with it.  
Hamfast’s house was full to the brim of children, son-in-laws and 
grandchildren, and one less wouldn’t hurt none.  The Gaffer had been 
speaking in jest but as soon as Frodo had heard the suggestion he pounced 
on the idea.  Why shouldn’t Sam live with him if they so desired?  There 
was more than enough room for them both, and because of the close 
proximity of their houses, the Gaffer would never fear not seeing his son.  
Hamfast was embarrassed that his random utterance had been seized on so 
readily by Master Frodo but, after an hour’s cajoling, acquiesced to the 
suggestion.  He left the details of the situation to Frodo.





Frodo returned to his study and sat at his desk.  Through his window, he 
could see the Gaffer trudge up to Sam as his son clipped a border hedge.  
After a few minutes of low conversation and recommendations, Hamfast 
slapped his son on the back and said loudly “I’ll see you at least tonight I 
expect Sam.  Don’t make Daisy keep your supper too late.”  The Gaffer 
looked over his shoulder at Frodo through his window, tugged his forelock 
and with a chuckle, made his way back to his own smial.  A good idea, the 
Gaffer thought to himself.  Young Sam was set up with a good position 
and a fine young master, and the steady varied work would keep him 
occupied until he was ready to marry and settle into his own house.  He 
would earn enough money to support his family, and become the steadfast 
pillar of the community that all Gamgees had been since time immemorial.  
Yes, a good idea.

At the sight of his father’s gesture, Sam turned around to see who he had 
been looking at.  Mister Frodo sat at his desk.  He could his fair master 
through the window that he kept surrounded with the most delicate, most 
fragrant flowers.  It pleased Sam to speculate that, in surroundings as 
beautiful as that, he in some way aided Mister Frodo’s work – 
transforming the poetry of Elvish words into the music that he could 
understand.  Sam noticed that Frodo still sat transfixed, staring out of the 
window.  Sam, slightly embarrassed, nodded politely and threw himself 
back into his work.

Frodo did not return back to his writing.  He watched the fluid movements 
of Sam’s shoulders under his shirt as he lopped branches and shredded 
leaves.  He noticed the glint of gold that shone from Sam’s head as the sun 
shone upon his hair.  He saw, with a hint of anxiety, the sheen of Sam’s 
arms and face as he perspired in his work.  Frodo shook himself.  What 
was he doing?  What was he thinking!  This was Sam after all.  Sam, his 
faithful friend and helper.  Sam, who swept his floors and heated his 
bathwater.  Sam who, if coaxed, would sing old ballads quietly as they sat 
under the stars until both their heads were nodding with sleep and would, 
with a mumbled good night, stroll home humming tunes.  Frodo took a 
deep breath, held it until his chest was nearly shaking, then released it in a 
slow soft hiss.  He would not let a perfectly good arrangement be ruined 
because he felt the sudden urge to stare at a hobbit twelve years his junior.  
He would ask Sam to move in with him tonight, after they’d eaten supper 
and before Sam had to go home.  Even though Sam would usually be the 
one to cook, Frodo decided he would make an extra special effort tonight.  
Really, it was quite sensible for Sam to move in – he would accomplish so 
much more work if he stayed in one place and Frodo would enjoy the 
company.  That’s it, Frodo thought, two male hobbits bunking in for 
laughter and company.  No more, no less.





By the time Sam had finished his work in the gardens and washed his 
upper body and feet clean, the sun was beginning to dip in the horizon.  
“’Taters,” he thought, “creamed ‘taters with a good chunk of beef.  
Steamed carrots drizzled in honey to start, cold cobbler with cream to end.  
Bread, cheese and tomatoes to nibble on through the meal.  And after 
dinner, I’ll make him a pot of that green tea herbal he likes so much, even 
if’n I think it smells like grass gone mouldy.”  With visions of food 
dancing in his head, Sam entered the kitchen to be greeted by the smell 
and heat of many pans being used.  Frodo, with apron wrapped under his 
arms for good measure, worked as if possessed, stirring this, tasting that, 
spoons and knives being thrown around wildly.  

“Mister Frodo” Sam exclaimed, “you needn’t have done this!  I was just 
coming in to start the meal now.”

“Never fear Samwise,” Frodo chortled, “I know it looks like chaos, but 
rest assured it’s organised chaos.”  Frodo smiled at Sam and, with a quick 
toss of his head, gestured that Sam should sit in a chair and watch the 
spectacle.  Sam sat down gingerly, uncomfortable at being an island of 
peace in a sea of activity.  

“Is there naught I can do to help Mister Frodo?”

“No Sam, you can sit right there and watch the master at work,” Frodo 
replied, to which both of them laughed.  While his Mister Frodo was 
capable of doing anything he set his mind to (in Sam’s opinion anyway) 
they both knew that in culinary pursuits, Sam was the unequalled 
champion.

With speed that Sam had never seen in his master before, Frodo hastily 
placed plates, cutlery and assorted extras on the table.  A loaf of bread and 
bowl of whipped butter was shoved at the end.  Two mugs were banged 
onto the table.  Frodo grabbed a tea towel, whacked a board in the centre 
of the table, flung open the door of the oven and pulled a heavy baking 
tray out.  He placed it onto the board and, with a flourish, showed Sam his 
masterpiece.  A brown lump surrounded by pale white potatoes and 
inflexible carrots stared back at them.  

“Ah,” said Frodo.

“Oh,” said Sam.

In the smoke and silence they looked at each other.  “Well Mister Frodo 
sir,” Sam began hesitantly, “you were quite a whirlwind right there.  I’ve 
never seen you attack the kitchen with such gusto ‘afore.”

“Hmmm,” said Frodo.

Sam got up from the table and grabbed the long carving knife from a 
drawer.  He picked up a fork and began carving away at the joint.  “I 
wonder what type of meat this is?” he thought to himself.  After the first 
few slices, charred bits of ash fell away to reveal a pink moist centre.  
“Ah, ‘tis beef,” Sam exclaimed, then wished he had bitten his tongue.  

“Well, it was until I had a go at cooking it,” Frodo replied with a smirk.  

“We’ll have none of that sir, sit yourself down.  There’s plenty of 
goodness still left here.  I’m thinking that maybe the outside might be a 
bit…”

“Inedible?” Frodo laughed.

“Tough,” Sam replied, “but the rest of it’s fine.  And I’m thinking the 
potatoes and carrots are just as good.”

“Well, if you’re willing to risk it Sam, I’ll eat it too.”

“’Course I am sir, didn’t you go through all this effort to make a nice 
surprise of me?  This smells and looks wonderful.”

“You are too kind to me Sam,” Frodo smiled as he sat down and pulled the 
loaf towards them.  The two hobbits piled their plates high and, if the meal 
did go a bit slower than usual as they picked and prodded the items on 
their plates, there was good cheer between them as they ate and 
entertained each other with stories of cooking disasters that had befallen 
them before.





Once the kitchen shone with its usual cleanliness, Sam and Frodo moved 
outside.  Some nights they sat on the front step and watched the wind play 
in the flowers and trees.  On other clear nights, they removed themselves 
to the back of the smial where Sam had placed a log under the willow tree 
that sat in one corner.  After tonight’s fiasco, both were content to look at 
the row upon row of straight strong plants that Sam tended.  The glossy 
green leaves and cheery yellow flowers of the pumpkin plant that ran 
along the wall glowed in the half moon.  Cucumber plants, ready to fall 
with the heaviness of produce, strained against the rope and pole that gave 
them support.  Bright strawberries peeked out from underneath heart-
shaped leaves.  Whatever had transpired in the kitchen, Frodo knew that 
neither of them would go hungry as long as there was sunlight, and water, 
and Sam’s capable hands to coax life out of seeds.

Sam lay on his back with a relaxed sigh, his pipe lit and puffing as he 
looked up at the stars.  Frodo leant with his back against the tree, pipe 
clamped in the side of his mouth.  He looked down at the glowing head of 
Sam lying beneath him and thought idly of smoothing down the errant 
curls that had started to spring up as Sam’s hair had dried in the heat of the 
kitchen and the warmth of his own body.  Frodo instead pulled the pipe 
from his mouth.

“Did ye say something Mister Frodo?” asked Sam, looking back up at his 
master.  Even upside down, Frodo’s face gleamed of goodness and light.  
Sam noticed how the moonbeams seemed to pick up the angles of his 
cheekbones and dip into the hollow underneath his lips.  Frodo’s eyes, 
always large at the best of times, seemed twice their normal size from 
Sam’s perspective.  “This won’t do at all, and I’m getting dizzy,” Sam 
thought.  He sat up, turned himself around, and looked expectantly up at 
Frodo.

“Uh, actually Sam, I did want to ask you something,” Frodo stammered.

“Ask away and with pleasure sir, there’s nowt I’d hide from you,” Sam 
replied eagerly.  

“Well, I’m not sure what your Gaffer said to you this afternoon,” Frodo 
started, pausing to allow Sam to fill in the gap.

“My Gaffer?” Sam said bewildered.  He scratched his head, shrugged his 
shoulders and said “Well’en, he told me that I hadn’t ought to cut so much 
leaf off’n the side of the hedge that faces the house ‘cause the sun don’t 
shine on it too much during the day.  But I don’t know why you’d want to 
know that sir.  I know you like your garden sir…”

“I love it Sam,” Frodo interjected.

“Yes well, be that as it may sir, am I not doing right by it?  Do you want to 
bring another gardener in?”  Sam held his breath as soon as the sentence 
was out of his mouth.  “Oh, why did you say that ye daft fool?” he thought 
to himself.  “Don’t be giving him any ideas or you’ll be out of here before 
you can say skip, hop ’n’jump.”  He felt like smacking himself in the 
forehead.  Leave Bag End?  Leave Mister Frodo?  What would he do with 
himself?  He never felt so alive as he did when he in his master’s presence.  
The mere thought of not being the one to wake Mister Frodo up in the 
morning caused his mouth to dry up.

“No, Sam,” Frodo exclaimed, “of course I don’t want another gardener.  I 
don’t want anyone around here but you.”  Frodo nearly swore under his 
breath, he hadn’t meant it to come out like that, even if that was the way 
he felt.  Sam blushed lightly underneath him.  

Frodo exhaled noisily.  “I can’t think properly with you sitting beneath me 
like that,” and, before Sam could get up, slid off the log until he was 
sitting beside Sam in the grass.  They faced each other, knees touching 
slightly, both pipes lying forgotten on the grass.

“Sam,” Frodo began again.

“Yes sir,” Sam whispered.

“I was wondering…, if it wouldn’t be an imposition…; that is, if you think 
it may be a good idea…,” Frodo’s words became more tangled as he 
thought of the right way to say it.

“Just say it sir!” Sam squealed, unable to hide his curiosity.

“Woulyoumovinwifme?” Frodo said swiftly.

“I beg your pardon sir?  I didn’t quite get that,” Sam said perplexed.

“Not your fault Sam, no need to beg my pardon,” Frodo sighed and, 
clenching his hands and taking a deep breath, repeated his request.  
“Would you move in with me Sam?”

Silence.  Frodo had not expected it.  Sam stared at him, his large brown 
eyes unblinking.  Frodo squirmed.  “Well say something Sam, say 
anything, don’t just look at me like I’ve grown two heads.”

“Do ye mean it sir,” Sam breathed.  

“Mean it?  Well of course I mean it.  I…I know this is unexpected and 
probably something you haven’t thought of before….”

“Oh but I have Mister Frodo,” Sam beamed back at him.  “I have long 
thought how good it would be to stay here all the time with you, and talk 
to you, and look after you…” Sam stopped, afraid he had said too much.

“Well,” now it was Frodo’s turn to blush.  “I’m glad that the thought had 
crossed your mind as well.  It’s just that I thought, you work so hard 
around Bag End, and you have to be here so early and leave so late…”

“I never minded staying sir,” Sam said hurriedly.  “I always loved hearing 
you read, or sharing a pipe, or just sitting with you staring at the fire sir.  
I…I’m very fond of you sir, begging your pardon for overstepping my 
boundaries.”

“And I am just as fond of you dear Sam,” Frodo replied, covering one of 
hands with his own.  At his touch, Sam’s eyes widen a fraction and he 
gasped without meaning too.  They both looked down; in the moonlight, 
the difference between their hands was obvious.  One was large and 
golden and firm with well-developed muscle, the other was slender and 
white and wiry with dormant strength.  

“I’m sorry Sam,” Frodo whispered and attempted to remove the offending 
body part.  It was obvious from Sam’s gasp that he had been shocked at 
the audacity of his master.  Never one to overstep boundaries, Sam had no 
doubt felt violated by Frodo’s unconscious desire to touch him.

Before he could remove his hand, Sam’s hand tightened around it, 
trapping it with steely strength.  “Nowt’ to be sorry about sir,” Sam 
murmured.  Frodo could feel the heat of Sam’s palm, could feel the fine 
hairs on his wrist that had been bleached into golden invisibility by the 
suns’ rays.  Sam moved his hand to clasp Frodo’s more securely in his 
own; he could feel the delicate play of bones in Frodo’s wrist and the 
smoothness of his fingers.  He looked into Frodo’s blue eyes which had 
trapped him just as he had trapped Frodo’s hand in his.

“When would you be wanting me to move in Mister Frodo?” Sam asked 
as he gently ran the pad of his thumb against the silk of his master’s skin.

“I was thinking…as soon as possible Sam,” Frodo swallowed, feeling a 
tingling sensation that started in his hand, ran up his arm and exploded 
into warmth in his chest.

“And how long would you be wanting me to stay Mister Frodo?” Sam 
enquired as he squeezed Frodo’s hand.

“Umm, I was thinking…how about forever?” Frodo replied as he moved 
his fingers within Sam’s hand, rubbing his fingers against the smooth 
calluses in Sam’s palm, formed by years of labour and toil.  Frodo had 
never known that hard work could make something feel so good.

“Alright sir,” Sam replied, eyes never leaving Frodo’s, thumb continuing 
to make love to the smooth stretch of skin between Frodo’s knuckles.  “I’ll 
return home tonight and pack my things, and tomorrow, when you wake 
up, I’ll be there.  For good.”


TITLE: Unavoidable: A Guilty Pleasure

AUTHOR: Stella Hobbit

RATING: NC-17

PAIRING: M/?, F/S

WARNINGS: Sex and rude words…tee hee

STATUS: Completed

SUMMARY: Merry and Pippin get confused, Frodo and Sam start to 
realize their feelings

AUTHOR’S NOTES: Ride that bronco!  Don’t you love the feeling of a 
galloping horse between your thighs, rubbing against your…hmm, 
shouldn’t start the slash here.  My first cliffhanger, I hope it makes you 
squee for more.  Thanks to all the people who sent me emails of 
encouragement – I hope you like the way this is going.  Feel free to send 
me an email – all opinions, advice, encouragement and flames will be 
looked at (not guaranteeing I’ll answer you though 8P)

ARCHIVE: No problems, just tell me where you’re putting my babies. 

FEEDBACK: Hell yeah, I’m a glutton for punishment or praise :-).  
Contact me at thelaconiclibrarian@hotmail.com or check out my Live 
Journal at www.livejournal.com/users/stellahobbit/

DISCLAIMER: If you thought that I owned these characters, then you’re a 
fecking idiot!  The people and places belong to the estate of J.R.R. 
Tolkien.  I don’t make a profit from this (show me one slash writer who 
does!), I just share my stories with like-minded people.






Merry closed his eyes and thrust his hard cock into the willing open mouth 
of the hobbit kneeling in front of him.  A slow hiss escaped his grimaced 
lips as he regulated the rhythm of his pushing.  In…out…in…out, starting 
to speed up, clutching onto the hair of the male in front of him with one 
hand as the other hand wiped the sweat that was starting to drip from his 
forehead.  “Muumbbaaww,” he heard mumbled from the floor.  “Shut up 
and suck,” Merry ordered, picking up speed again, feeling the slight graze 
of teeth on the underside of his dick.  He felt one hand clutch and roll his 
balls, whilst the other hand slid up the back of his thigh and dug into the 
pertness of his arse.  “That’s it, that’s it,” Merry whispered, “don’t stop, 
don’t you fucking stop.”  His thrusting kicked into overdrive, with a final 
powerful surge he pushed until he felt the tip of his cock hit the back of 
the hobbit’s throat and, as he started spilling his seed into his mouth, 
Merry clung onto the last few precious seconds of release, fingers 
clenched tight enough into his lover’s hair to cause a muttered snort of 
pain.  His orgasm finished and he felt empty.  Merry stood with his eyes 
closed, breathing heavily; sweat dripping from his body as he waited for 
his heart to slow down.  He felt a timid hand stroke his face and felt a 
whisper of air against his cheek as the hobbit attempted to kiss him.  
“Don’t,” Merry said, turning his face aside.





In the smial of Bag End, where there was once one light of life in the 
darkness, there were now two.  Sam and Frodo circled around each other; 
stepping from study, to kitchen, to garden, each shining brighter when he 
was in the presence of the other, each simmering with heat and longing as 
their bodies passed each other by, even though their thoughts were always 
of each other.  When Sam had arrived the very next morning, pregnant 
with unthought of possibility, Frodo opened the door with a solemnity 
worthy of a momentous occasion.  Sam’s room was located near the back 
entrance in close proximity to kitchen and cellar.  Frodo’s study was a 
quickstep down the hall and his master’s bedroom was at the end of a 
lonely corridor.  

The first few weeks Sam and Frodo were hesitant around each other, 
neither wanting to be an inconvenience.  They would sit in the parlour at 
the end of a day’s work and enjoy their usual pipes and conversation, but 
each would be waiting for the other to make a move to retire.  Neither 
wanted to be the one to cut the night short.  Eventually, Frodo saw past 
Sam’s attempts to hide his yawns and, since he knew his friend would get 
up at the crack of dawn, suggest that now might be a good time to say 
good night.  

For Sam, the situation was bliss.  Not only did he have the luxury of 
deciding what to do to run the household and when to do it, he also had 
unlimited access to his garden.  And of course, his master.  The early 
mornings of stepping into Frodo’s room, to quietly whisper “Good 
morning Mister Frodo” seemed like a benediction.  He did not rush 
through his chores, each movement was a dance of revelation.  Folding 
Frodo’s clothes and being able to still feel his master’s body heat captured 
in them sent tingles of cat-like enjoyment through his nerves.  To be able 
to steal into a room while Frodo was scribbling over a scroll, to place a 
tray of hot tea and warm buns at his elbow, to never expect but to always 
receive a vague “Thank you Sam, just what I needed”, these were the 
moments that Sam lay in bed at night reviewing.  Sam had always 
respected and loved his Mister Frodo for teaching him to read, for 
listening to his opinions, for silent walks through the outlaying lands; he 
started to realise that these feelings had grown into pure adoration.  He 
worshipped the ground that Frodo walked on.  A simple hobbit, Sam never 
let his feelings be dampened by what-ifs or shouldn’t-haves.  The distant 
ramblings of his Gaffer and keeping in his place did not bring him down.  
He knew his place, and it was with Frodo.  Even if Sam was the only 
hobbit in the world to ever know this, the knowledge made him happy.

Frodo took some adjusting to having Sam constantly at the house.  He was 
used to seeing him over the kitchen table or through his window, but the 
sound of another person walking through the smial at night still made his 
chest feel funny.  He had lived alone for so long and wasn’t sure if he 
would be able to be generous enough to share space with another.  But 
Sam was like a warm fire; there when you needed it, burning brightly in 
the corner until it was required.  It got so that Frodo would listen for his 
friend’s footsteps returning home after a night at the Green Dragon.  As he 
lay in bed, he could hear the low humming and unsteady tread of a slightly 
inebriated Samwise and would smile.  Now he was not alone.  Now he had 
a friend, a companion, a confidant.  He began to understand the depth of 
Sam’s devotion to him.  His hard work, while always appreciated, now 
seemed to be an extension of Sam’s regard.  Frodo would sit at his desk in 
the night after Sam had gone to bed, smoking his pipe and looking at the 
starlight shining on the flowers surrounding his window, recalling snippets 
of conversation they had had that day, or the way Sam had looked as he 
carried in firewood, or the smell of the breakfast that Sam would make to 
tempt him to eat, or the shiny look of Sam’s almond eyes as he listened to 
Frodo read from a book of poems.  For a hobbit of some years older than 
his friend, he was not so easily able to access his emotions.  He knew that 
there was something different about the way he felt about Sam now, 
something sweet and submerged.  But Frodo was a patient hobbit, and 
believed that, when the time was right, his mind and his heart would show 
him.





Merry woke the next day with a throbbing headache, a dry tongue and a 
weight pressed up on his stomach.  He grudgingly opened up one eye and 
stared into the green eye of a contented animal perched against his chest.  
“Oh, it’s you,” Merry sighed.

“Good gracious Merry, your breath is as bad as Prissy’s oatmeal cookies.  
How much did you drink last night?”

“Off Took, before I show you what I drank last night.”  Merry pushed his 
cousin aside and sat on the edge of the bed with a groan.  He hung his 
head in his hands.  He might not remember how many ales he had drank 
last night, but he definitely remembered what he had done.  Or who he had 
done.  “Darko Middlemarch,” he thought “you bastard.”

Pippin moved to the side of the bed and rubbed Merry’s back 
sympathetically.  “I saw you talking to Darko last night, but then you both 
disappeared before I could talk to you.  Not that I wanted to talk to Darko 
anyway,” Pippin said, wrinkling his nose.  “I thought you didn’t like him 
anymore Merry.  You said you had an argument with him and didn’t want 
to speak to him again.”

“I don’t like him and I don’t want to speak to him.  It was nothing.  Can 
you get out of here while I make myself presentable?” Merry said rudely, 
standing up from the bed suddenly and moving to pick up his clothes that 
were scattered around the room.

Pippin looked at his cousin and any sympathy he had flew out the window.  
“Don’t take it out on me you damn idiot if you can’t hold your drink.”  
Merry stayed silent at this obvious jest.  Pippin said in a huff “Fine, I’m 
going to have breakfast.  I’ll talk to you later if you’re in a better mood” 
and, with an evil grin on his face, deliberately slammed the door shut 
behind him.

Merry fell back onto the bed.  Why had he done it?  He had promised 
himself that he would never do that with Darko again.  Darko, a distant 
cousin with proud looks and a disdainful attitude had showed his affection 
to Merry one faithful night many years ago.  What had started out as 
youthful investigation had progressed to hot, hard meaningless sex 
whenever they got the chance, and every time they did it, Merry promised 
himself that that would be the last time.  He gained no mental or spiritual 
pleasure from using Darko’s body like that, the release was purely 
physical and a sick copy of the person he really wanted.  He never allowed 
himself to think while he went through the motions; he had an image 
trapped in his mind of his one true pure love, and would not sully it while 
using Darko like that.  Darko seemed to enjoy the feeling of being 
domineered, although he had, at their earliest stages, taken a more active 
role in their lovemaking.  Darko knew that Merry had no feelings for him, 
he was aware that Merry didn’t even particularly like him as a person.  
That is what made their sex so sweet.  Merry may not want him, and 
Merry may not like him, but Merry had no choice but to indulge with him 
while the object of his affection remained unattainable.  

Darko suspected that Merry’s feelings for Pippin were less than 
honourable, and he got sadistic pleasure from watching Merry’s tortured 
eyes follow his cousin.  Darko would always attempt to kiss Merry when 
they achieved their climaxes, he laughed on the inside at the look of 
disgust on Merry’s face.  No, Darko knew that Merry did not want him 
and he felt that their association would soon end.  But not before Darko 
had made one telling blow to Merry’s heart.  He wanted Merry to suffer 
pain as he had.  He wanted Merry to cry himself to sleep at night, knowing 
he could never have the one he wanted.  And he knew exactly how to do 
it.





It did not take long for Darko to put his plan into action.  After the 
miserable night he had had before, and the hung over day he had had 
today, Merry was in no mood to stay amongst his relatives.  He even 
avoided Pippin, who had attempted to cheer his cousin up many times.  
Pippin bought him food, regaled him with tales, snuck him into the kitchen 
for a between-meal snack.  Even though Merry thanked him warmly, 
something was not right.  Pippin felt as if he was being torn in two.  What 
good was it being Merry’s closest friend if he could not do anything to 
settle his mind?  

“Have I upset you Merry?” Pippin had asked softly amongst the bustle of 
staff in the kitchen.

“Of course not my dear Pip,” Merry replied, tugging at his cousin’s 
shoulder until the younger hobbit was nestled, warm and secure under his 
arm.  Pippin kept his face on Merry waistcoat; he found it easier to talk to 
Merry sometimes if he wasn’t looking at him.  Sometimes, looking into 
Merry’s eyes caused him to lose his train of thought mid-sentence, until 
Merry punched his arm or tickled his side and said “What are you thinking 
of now, my silly Took?”  And Pippin would have to lie and say he was 
remembering a specific tree in the plantation that would soon be ready to 
be raided, or a funny lyric that he had heard the night before.  He found it 
easier to speak his mind to Merry if he didn’t have to look at those warm 
eyes.

“Merry-mine,” Pippin tried again.

“Um?” Merry replied, settling his hand on Pippin’s back and stroking 
gently.  

“If it’s not me that’s done something to upset you, is it someone else?”

For long seconds Merry made no answer, and his hand stopped moving.  
Shaking himself slightly, Merry started the long strokes again and said, 
“It’s just something I’ve done Pippin.  I’m not too proud of it and I don’t 
want to do it again.”

“Is it Darko?” Pippin asked.  Merry sat up abruptly pushing Pippin from 
his arms.  

“What do you mean?”  Merry asked accusingly.  “What have you heard?”

“Nothing Merry, I promise,” Pippin replied quickly.  “It’s just that you 
didn’t look at him all day, and he kept looking at you.  He had a nasty grin 
on his face, I didn’t like it.  Is he going to hurt you Merry?  ‘Cause if he is, 
I’ll go sort him out straight away.  No one hurts my Merry-mine.”

Merry smiled and took Pippin back into his embrace, stroking his face as it 
once again lay against his chest.  “No Pippin, Darko can’t hurt me.  He 
and I….I’ve done things that I should not have done.  Well, not done with 
him anyway.  I thought that near enough was good enough and I know 
now it’s not.  I’ve been a fool and I’ll never do it again, I swear to you.”

“Will you tell me what you’ve done Merry?  I swear your secret is safe 
with me,” Pippin asked, raising his head and looking Merry straight in the 
eye.  “You know I’d never betray you.”

“I know you wouldn’t, my half-ling and I promise, when the right day 
comes along, I will tell you everything.  I will pour my heart out to you 
and you will know the secrets of my soul.”

“It’s not because you think I’m too young is it?  I’ll be 15 in a week you 
know,” Pippin said indignantly.

“No love, it’s not that,” Merry replied chuckling.  “It’s just that…I’m not 
ready yet.  Can you wait Pip?  Can you trust me to take care of you?”

“Merry-mine, I’d trust you to the end of the world and back again.  But I 
don’t trust you to leave me some supper,” Pippin shrieked and launched 
himself at a tray of fruit that had accidentally been left near them.





After their snack, Pippin had bid a weary Merry good night and decided to 
go for a walk before he went to bed.  Brandybuck Hall was starting to get 
quieter; the bundle of relatives and guests had made their way into their 
rooms for a good nights rest before the next day.  Pippin walked down the 
paths of the gardens, his way lit in silver and all features appeared to be 
cut out of marble.  He sat on a bench near the lake, watching the ripples of 
the water and wondering what had happened to Merry that had hurt him so 
much.  His twenty-three year old cousin was the hero in his life – he was 
more than a friend, Pippin felt they had a connection that went beyond 
blood and familiarity.  Pippin pegged some stones into the water, enjoying 
their short sharp sound.  As he approached his fifteenth birthday, he felt 
himself growing into his skin.  Alright, he would be the first one to admit 
he was the family clown.  His general charm and good humour was always 
appreciated by the older hobbits.  But Pippin began to feel the stirrings of 
something more.  He didn’t just want to be liked and laughed at, he 
wanted to be respected.  He wanted to be loved.  And he had the sneaking 
suspicion that the one person’s love and respect he felt he needed to make 
him complete would not be forthcoming.

A sudden footstep alerted him to the fact that he was no longer alone.  
“Merry?” he cried joyfully and turned in his seat.





Merry tossed and turned in his bed.  He was tired but he couldn’t reach a 
comfortable position in his sleep.  Something irked him.  At first he 
thought it was guilt – he had come too close tonight to telling Pippin of 
how he really felt about him.  It was too soon, Pippin deserved the right to 
grow into maturity before he had to confront the feelings that Merry had 
for him.  For Merry had made the secret confession to himself.  He loved 
Pip.  Not as one was supposed to love a friend and cousin.  He loved 
Pippin like a tree loved the seasons.  He wanted to bathe in the glory of his 
half-ling.  He wanted to gaze at his skin and worship him with his eyes.  
He wanted to feel him moving under him as their bodies pressed together 
in love.  He wanted to feel Pippin’ lips on his, he wanted to stroke his back 
without the barrier of cloth.  He wanted to lick the sweat on his neck and 
smell that individual smell that Pippin had trapped between his thighs.

Merry groaned loudly.  This would never do.  He would not sleep tonight 
while those thoughts raged in his mind.  He quickly got dressed by the 
moonlight streaming through his window and resolved to go for a walk.  
He would sit near the lake and stare at the water until the blue-green 
waves made him forget the blue-green of Pippin’s eyes.





He heard the noises before he understood them.  As he walked down the 
path, Merry could hear groans that were not expected at a time like this, in 
a place like that.  Before he had time to think his feet took him to the seat 
that lay in front of the lake.

“Darko!  Leave him alone you bastard!” Merry screamed.



TITLE: Unavoidable: An Auspicious Accident (4 of 8)

AUTHOR: Stella Hobbit

RATING: NC-17

PAIRING(S): F/S, P/?

WARNINGS: Angst, sex, violence, hurt/comfort

STATUS: Completed

SUMMARY: Sam and Frodo get wet, Pippin gets confused, Merry gets 
gone

AUTHOR’S NOTES: I know what some of you were thinking when you 
read the last chapter and I hope to surprise you all.  The story at this point 
is like a seesaw; light and happiness on one end, despair and sorrow on the 
other.  Thanks to fantastic words of encouragement from Losille and Rosie 
Gamgee at ‘Hobbits To Humans’ – you girls keep pushing me!  Feel free 
to send me an email – all opinions, advice, encouragement and flames will 
be looked at (not guaranteeing I’ll answer you though 8P )

ARCHIVE: No problems, just tell me where you’re putting my babies. 

FEEDBACK: Hell yeah, I’m a glutton for punishment or praise :-).  
Contact me at thelaconiclibrarian@hotmail.com or check out my Live 
Journal at www.livejournal.com/users/stellahobbit/

DISCLAIMER: If you thought that I owned these characters, then you’re a 
fecking idiot!  The people and places belong to the estate of J.R.R. 
Tolkien.  I don’t make a profit from this (show me one slash writer who 
does!), I just share my stories with like-minded people.





When Merry turned the corner of the path and observed the scene in front 
of him, he had an out-of-body experience.  His eyes literally could not 
understand what he was seeing.  There, in the moonlight, stood Darko.  
His back was towards the lake and his eyes were closed.  There, kneeling 
in front of him, was Pippin.  His arms were clutched around Darko’s waist 
and the moans and groans Merry had heard appeared to be emanating from 
him.  His face…his face was pressed in Darko’s crotch.  Merry felt the 
blood rush out of his head and he made a small mew of protest.  Darko 
heard the noise and his eyes snapped open.  He looked at Merry standing 
there, wide mouthed in incomprehension.  Darko smiled and caught 
Merry’s eye.  He glanced downward and drew Merry’s eyes to the hobbit 
kneeling in front of him.  Pippin was not aware they had been found out.  
He enthusiastically continued sucking Darko’s dick.  Darko began to 
chuckle at the look of despair on Merry’s face then entwined his fingers 
into Pippin’s hair, urging him to take him deeper into his mouth.  Pippin 
tried, but made a snort as he was choked suddenly.  The sound of Pippin in 
distress unfroze Merry.  He leaped towards them, grabbed Pippin by the 
shoulders and threw him down.

“What the…?” Pippin asked bewildered.  “Darko…MERRY!”

“You fucker Darko,” Merry intoned, pacing towards the grinning hobbit.  
“I’m going to kill you, you bastard.”

“Now, now Merry,” Darko smiled, “it’s not as if he didn’t want to do it.  
And since he was so keen to learn...,” Merry threw a punch suddenly at 
Darko’s jaw.  Caught off-guard, the cruelly handsome hobbit fell to the 
floor.  

“Stop it Merry, don’t hurt him,” shouted Pippin, running towards the two 
fighters.  Merry’s vision was clouded in hate; he hated what he had seen, 
he hated Darko for taking advantage of the situation, he hated Pippin for 
doing it.  “Why couldn’t he wait for me?” a small voice of sorrow sounded 
in the tiny bit of room left for logic in his brain.  Darko still lay on the 
floor and his fingers touched the blood trickling from his mouth.  

“Ah well Merry, some of us aren’t content to wait idly in the background.  
Some of us take what we want and make it ours.  Some of us have more 
courage,” Darko whispered.  Merry grunted in rage and threw himself on 
the wounded hobbit, both of them pushing and punching without thought.  
Pippin was mortified and confused; how could something that had felt so 
right have degenerated into this brawl?  He felt ashamed that Merry had 
seen Darko and he together, no doubt his cousin would be so disgusted 
he’d never speak to him again, but he couldn’t let Merry injure Darko.  
Darko had been so nice and so willing to listen to Pippin and, as one thing 
had led to another, promised to show Pippin the method of dealing with 
those troublesome urges he’d been having lately.

Pippin threw himself into the brawl, attempting to stop the fight by placing 
himself between the two combatants.  He succeeded in pushing Merry’s 
heaving body off Darko, who had lost consciousness due to the severity of 
his beating.  “Stop it Merry, please stop it, for me,” Pippin cried, clutching 
onto his cousin’s chest.  

“For you?” Merry repeated, eyes wide and uncomprehending as he stared 
at his beloved in front of him.  “For you?  I’m doing this for you.  He 
shouldn’t have…, it wasn’t meant to be him…, how could you choose 
him?” Merry screamed in agony, his heart dying.  

“Why not him?” Pippin screamed back.  “Who am I supposed to wait for?  
Alisha?  Beatrix?  I feel nothing for them,” he spat.  “At least he takes me 
seriously,” Pippin gestured to Darko’s silent bleeding body lying beneath 
them.  “He listens to me, he wanted me.  What was I supposed to do 
Merry?  Wait for you?  What makes you think you’re my type?” he asked 
contemptuously.  Merry swung without thinking and planted his fist into 
the side of Pippin’s face.  

Pippin feel to the ground like a sack of potatoes.  His head connected dully 
with the path and his eyes closed automatically, a dull redness appearing 
around one of them, foretelling an almighty bruise.  Merry stared at his fist 
without comprehension.  Had he just done that?  Had he just hit the only 
person he had loved his entire life; without thought or reason?  He fell to 
his knees, grief melting his face into an ugly mask.  “Oh my Pip, why, 
why?” he cried, stroking back the curls from Pippin’s face.  “I’m sorry 
Pip, I love you but I can’t stay here.  I can’t see you with him,” and with 
that Merry kissed the lips of his halfling softly, his tears falling into his 
curls.  Merry stood up and resolved to do the only thing he could think of.  
He would leave, and never darken his father’s door again.

“I’m sorry Merry,” Pippin whispered, his eyes still closed as he heard 
Merry leave.





Autumn days in the Shire are full of sound and scent.  The wind begins to 
pick up, the trees start to dress down for winter, and the hobbits enjoy the 
last carefree days of sunshine before snow requires them to stay more or 
less in their comfortable smials.  Everyone feels on edge, as if there is 
something significant just about to happen.  

The abrasive weather had an extraordinary effect on Frodo.  His eyes 
glistened, his skin felt ill-fitting on his slender frame, he wished to run 
until his sides seized up.  The feelings he had felt mounting increased in 
intensity; something was going to happen, something amazing.  He still 
did not know what it was, it pricked and teased the edge of his 
consciousness, and the sedentary life he had been leading lately only made 
him more eager for adventure.  He walked into the garden and 
unobtrusively observed Sam.  There was a hive of activity.  Even though 
the wind blew his curls into his eyes, he determinedly attempted to pile all 
the fallen leaves into a pile.  His bottom lip was tucked into his teeth; 
Frodo had only recently noticed the enduring way Sam nibbled on his lip 
when he was concentrating.  The wind gusted again and Sam let out a soft 
expletive as his pile became scattered.  Frodo laughed without thinking, 
and Sam looked up to notice his master leaning against the doorpost, 
hands tucked into his pockets, pipe jutting from his mouth.

“Well, and I expect it would be easier for a gentlehobbit such as 
yourself?” Sam asked annoyed.  Since Frodo and Sam had battled and 
cordoned off their territories, they both felt comfortable enough in each 
other’s presence to speak their minds.  Frodo delighted in the way that 
Sam had opened up to him, sharing his thoughts and opinions with ease.  
No matter that he apologised for speaking his mind at least once a day, 
and still insisted on calling him ‘Mister Frodo’.  Frodo felt blessed to have 
him living with him all the time, and still wondered what such a wonderful 
hobbit saw in a stuffed shirt such as himself.

“Sorry Sam,” Frodo chuckled, “it’s just that you were concentrating so 
hard, and you looked so angry when the wind ruined your plans.”

“I’ll not blame the wind for what it can’t help but be doing, and I’ll not 
blame you if you wish to stand there and make fun of a simple hobbit such 
as myself doing his best at his job” Sam said, trying to appear as forlorn as 
his statement.

“Fool of a Gamgee,” Frodo replied, taking off his coat, rolling up his 
sleeves and picking up the compost bag from near Sam’s feet.

“Obstinate Baggins,” Sam responded cheerfully, continuing the game of 
teasing each other with the names that older hobbits had called them.  Sam 
began to put the leaves into the bag with his bare hands.  They worked in 
silence and, with the two of them at it; the job was complete in no time.  
Both of them stretched out the creaks in their backs.  The wind had died 
down and the sun was beginning its slow descent into evening. 

“I’ve had an idea, Sam” Frodo said suddenly.

“Really?  I didn’t know that the week had passed so quickly,” Sam 
rejoined.

“I’m being serious,” Frodo replied, swatting Sam’s chest with his hand.  
“Let’s have a picnic down by the creek!  We’ve not many days until 
winter, and the afternoon looks to be warming up nicely.  Is there anything 
pressing that you need to get done?”

“Well,” Sam thought aloud, “I’d planned preparing another plot for the 
winter veggies, but I suppose I can do that tomorrow…” and a wicked 
gleam appeared in his eyes “that is if my master doesn’t find out I’ve been 
skiving off work today.  He’s old, but he’s crafty, my master is.”

“Ha ha, very amusing young Gamgee,” Frodo said, making his way back 
into the house.  “I’ll get the food, you get the blankets.”





Pippin knocked on the door of his Uncle Saradoc’s office, dreading the 
summons that had bought him here.  He opened the door at the 
authoritarian “Come” he heard and stepped into the chambers.  Saradoc 
looked at the yellow, green and black swelling surrounding his nephew’s 
eye and whistled in appreciation.  “Merry got you a good one, didn’t he?”

Pippin did not answer, preferring to stand and stare at his feet.  “Sit boy,” 
Saradoc commanded and gestured to the seat next to his.  “Want to tell me 
what all this is about?” he enquired.

Pippin let out a sigh of relief.  His uncle therefore did not know what had 
transpired last night and Pippin was not going to be the one to tell him.  
He planned on making up a story and hoped that Merry would go along 
with it as he always had.

“Nothing Uncle,” Pippin replied, “we were just teasing each other and one 
thing led to another and…” his voice trailed off.  After Merry had left last 
night, Pippin had woken Darko and managed to smuggle him into the 
house without being seen.  Neither of them were in any mood for 
conversation, but Darko let it be known that he was leaving in the morning 
and would have no reason to visit again, regardless of what their families 
would say.  Pippin was silent, he did not know what to say.  He regretted 
his impulsive action of last night – the attempt to soothe his own miserable 
heart with the one person that Merry most despised had been his worst 
action yet.  No wonder Merry had been so angry; it would be like Sam 
betraying Frodo with Lotho Sackville-Baggins!  Pippin didn’t regret his 
behaviour last night, the act had felt right even though he questioned his 
choice of partner, but he wished that he had time to speak to Merry last 
night.  He wanted to apologise for appearing to take Darko’s side.  He 
wanted to try and explain to Merry the feelings he had been having, the 
thoughts he had when he saw a strapping male pass close to him, the way 
his body reacted sometimes.  Even if Merry thought him vile, maybe there 
would be enough familial love to keep them friends and, if not friends, at 
least enough understanding for Merry to tolerate Pippin’s presence.  

“So it was Merry then,” Saradoc sighed, “I don’t know what you said to 
him to get him so riled up young Pip, but it must have been good.”

“Didn’t Merry tell you then Uncle?”

“No my boy, I’ve not seen him.  But I knew once I’d read his letter that 
you would have something to do with it.”

“Letter?” Pippin asked, confused.  

“Yes, your Aunty Esmeralda found it on his bed when she went to find 
him this morning.  Here,” he said, throwing the parchment into Pippin’s 
lap, “have a look.”

Pippin opened the sheet and read.


	My dear mother and father,
	
By the time you find this, I will be gone.  I can’t bear being here 
and have decided to go on a journey.  If you have any love for me, 
you won’t try to find me.  Know that, even though I love and will 
miss you both, I need this time to be alone.  I will write to you as 
often as I can.  Please let me be.

Your loving son,

Merry

P.S.  Please don’t be too hard on poor Pippin; the actions of last 
night are not his fault and I regret everything I said and did to him.  
Tell him that I wish him to be happy and I will not stand in his 
way, if that is the path he has chosen.  Tell him I will miss him, 
and will always be, his loving Merry-mine.


Pippin brushed at the tears that had formed in his eyes.  Saradoc looked at 
him in sympathy and said, “It must have been some argument.”

“It was my fault,” Pippin began to cry and crumpled into a ball.  “I never 
meant to hurt him Uncle I swear, I’m sorry I ever did it.”

“There there Pip,” his uncle murmured, stroking the shaking hobbit’s 
back.  “Don’t you know that you could never do anything to Merry that 
would make him angry at you for more than a day?  He’s loved you since 
the first day he saw you.  You and Merry are the two faces of the same 
coin, neither are complete without the other.  Don’t you fret so, he’ll calm 
down soon.”

“He won’t come back,” Pippin keened.

“Of course he will,” Saradoc replied, “I know my son and while he might 
be a bit flighty, he knows the right thing to do.  We’ll give him a couple of 
days to cool down and then he’ll back before you know it.  No doubt he’s 
gone to trouble poor Frodo for a bit.  You just let him get back to normal 
and all things will go back to the way they were.”  

Back to the way they were.  Pippin did not believe that could ever happen.  
He had hurt poor Merry in the worst possible way and could not envisage 
a way of making it right.  “Do you think so Uncle?” the young hobbit 
asked.  

Saradoc said purposefully “Peregrin Took, if my son isn’t here by the time 
your fifteenth birthday comes to pass, I’ll eat my belt!”





Frodo and Sam met on the path in front of the house and began their stroll 
to the creek.  Even though Frodo was twelve years older than Sam, and 
liked to complain about his age, there was no apparent difference in their 
appearances.  Both hobbits were of health – one, golden and strong; the 
other, sleek and sinewy.  As they walked, they unconsciously matched 
their steps so that they were always synchronised.  Sam had removed the 
basket from Frodo’s grasp (ignoring all complaints), tucked the blankets 
on top, and swung it in rhythm to their steps.  

The meadow was deserted when they arrived.  Sam quickly spread the 
blankets and started to unpack the basket.  He held up two jars to Frodo 
with an inquiring lift of his eyebrows.  “Apple cider,” Frodo replied, “one 
for now and one for later.  I’ll put one in the creek so it can stay cool.”

“You’d best let me do that Mister Frodo, it needs to be tied well or we’ll 
lose it down the river.”

“It’s alright Sam,” Frodo said, pulling some twine out of his pocket, “I’ve 
been watching you and I think my knot-tying would keep even you 
satisfied.”

Sam blushed and quickly bit into an apple.

Their afternoon luncheon was delightful; Frodo had grabbed a 
smorgasbord of items from the pantry.  Afterwards, they lay on their backs 
next to each other; in reach but not touching.  They looked up at the clouds 
whirling past in the sky, felt the sun on their bones and, inevitably, fell 
asleep.  





Pippin wandered around Brandy Hall aimlessly.  Nothing gave him 
pleasure; his heart was heavy in the certainty that Merry would never 
come back.  Regardless of what his uncle said, Pippin knew Merry better 
than anyone on the earth and knew that, if Merry said he wanted to be 
alone, he would do his utmost to make sure no one found him.

Merry had walked long since dawn.  With a few possessions in his pack, 
he left the main roads that would make his travelling easier and sought the 
seclusion of forests and dells.  Each step away from Pippin broke his 
heart, but he could not stay and watch the only person he’d loved ruin his 
life with someone like Darko.  “Better I was dead than to ever see that 
again,” Merry mumbled to himself, placing one tired foot after another.  
As the sun started to fall and the way became darker, Merry stopped in a 
clearing.  He lit no fire, he ate no food.  He simply leaned against the 
rough bark of a tree and, cuddling his own knees, replayed last night’s 
scene again and again.  Oh, to have hit the love of his life.  To cause him 
to fall and bleed.  To injure the skin he wanted to caress.  Merry was 
harder on himself than anyone else could ever have been on him; his sleep 
was restless and as he tossed to and fro, tears streaming from his face, his 
only words were “I’m sorry Pippin, oh I’m sorry my love.”





Frodo was the first to wake.  The sun was halfway down the horizon and 
there was a chill in the air.  He looked at his companion.  Sam had rolled 
onto his side in his sleep, one arm flung out recklessly, a slight grin on his 
open mouth.  Frodo marvelled at how peaceful, how pliable Sam looked at 
that moment.  He resisted the temptation to wake Sam by running his 
fingers through his hair and gently shook his shoulder instead.  “Sam,” he 
whispered.

Sam opened his eyes suddenly.  Frodo was amazed; he had never seen 
anyone pass from sleep to wakefulness so quickly.  “Must be all those 
dawn starts with the Gaffer,” Frodo thought.

“It’s nearly night Sam and it’s getting cold.  We’d best be off.”

“Right sir,” Sam replied and began to pack up their belongings with 
Frodo’s help   “Ah,” he exclaimed suddenly, “the cider.”

“I’ll get it Sam, you may not be able to undo the knots,” Frodo said to 
Sam’s retreating back.

Sam chuckled and threw over his shoulder “Begging your pardon sir but 
I’ll do my best, won’t take me a moment.”

In the twilight Sam easily located the string that connected the cider to a 
medium-sized willow.  He began to reel in the string when it stopped 
suddenly.  “Snag,” moaned Sam.  Oh well, there was nowt for it.  It was 
cold and Sam wasn’t letting Mister Frodo go into the water to retrieve the 
flask.  As much as Sam feared the water, he would go in to save Frodo 
from catching a cold.  He gingerly started edging down the bank; the water 
was moving rapidly and looked chilly.  He slipped slightly and nearly fell 
on his back.

“Sam?” he heard Frodo shout from the clearing.

“’Tis alright sir, the bottle’s got snagged,” Sam yelled back.  In those few 
seconds of lapsed concentration, the muddy side of the bank jilted and 
Sam slid into the water, an abrupt “Oh!” his only sound.  

Frodo heard the splash and started towards the creek.  Sam was nowhere 
to be seen.  A sudden movement from his right startled him.  Sam’s 
drenched head appeared above the water.  “Sam,” Frodo shouted, making 
his way down the bank, careless of the mud that flung over his clothes.  
Sam’s arms thrashed around widely and he disappeared under the water 
again.

“Sam!” Frodo screamed again, agitated beyond comprehension.  He knew 
how scared Sam was of the water and, even though it was not so deep, 
believed that Sam might lose his wits and drown.  He paced the riverside, 
not knowing where to jump in for he did not know if Sam had managed to 
fight the current.  Without warning, Sam threw himself up onto the mud 
like a confused fish, moss and leaves tangled in his hair, his face 
beginning to show blue from lack of oxygen and the freezing environment 
of the water.  Frodo clasped his hands and, with a strength he himself did 
not know he had, pulled Sam up to the meadow.

They both lay on the ground, panting and soaked.  Sam’s eyes were closed 
and he lay face down, his fingers dug into his beloved soil.  Frodo could 
not stop looking at Sam as if to reassure himself that his friend was still 
alive.  He began to wipe the moss and water and leaves from Sam’s face.  

“Mister Frodo,” Sam whispered, eyes still closed.  

“Yes Sam, yes my dear. I’m here,” Frodo replied, pressing his face to the 
dirt so he could look upon Sam more closely.  One of Sam’s eyes tiredly 
opened a crack, and Frodo smoothed the hair from his temple.  

“What is it Sam?” Frodo asked, heart still racing at the thought of his near-
loss.

“That was a grand knot you tied sir,” Sam said, chuckling a bit and started 
to cough as the water trapped in his lungs started to rise up.  Frodo sighed 
in exasperation and rolled Sam onto his side, supporting Sam to his feet.  
“The hobbit nearly dies, and all he can think about is making fun of me,” 
he muttered as he slung his arm around Sam’s waist.

“Ah!” Sam yelled and jolted so suddenly that they both nearly fell over.  
They looked down and saw a sharp stick that had speared Sam right 
through his foot.  There was no blood apparent; the coldness of the water 
had slowed down the flow to his extremities, but it would be a nasty 
wound when the wood was removed. 

“Oh Sam,” Frodo intoned, unable to tear his eyes away from the wood 
protruding from Sam’s foot, “I didn’t know.”

“Neither did I Sir, ‘till I just stood up.  I must have stepped on it whilst I 
was coming up the bank.”

“Does it hurt terribly?”

“Only if I put my full weight on it sir,” Sam gingerly tried putting pressure 
on his toes.  

“You wait here and I’ll go get the Cotton’s cart,” Frodo said quickly 
attempting to lower Sam back to the ground.

“No need Mister Frodo, ‘tis night already and I’ll not want to disturb them 
for a little thing like this.  I’ll be right getting home if you’d just help me.”

“Home,” Frodo repeated.  He had not heard Sam refer to Bag End as his 
home before, the sound made his insides roll like warm treacle.  

“Home,” Sam whispered his arm thrown over his master’s shoulders, close 
enough to smell Frodo’s sweat of fear and adrenalin.  

The two hobbits made their way slowly and steadily and, while it took 
them twice as long to get there, both of them knew they would never 
forget this slow, deserted march home.  





When they arrived at Bag End, Frodo quickly ensconced Sam in the 
parlour in front of the fireplace, where he lit a furious blaze.  He gently 
lifted the injured foot onto an ottoman and gathered candles to light up the 
room.  Sam lay back in the chair, his breathing shallow as the warmth of 
the room started to bring life back into his nerves.  He was now starting to 
feel his wound and hoped that the stick’s removal would not cause so 
much pain as to make him cry out in Frodo’s presence.  Frodo returned to 
the parlour, his hands and pockets full.  

“I’m going to clean you up Sam, and see if I can do anything to make this 
better.  Are you sure you don’t want me to call a healer to remove this?” 
Frodo asked, kneeling by Sam’s side as he looked at the injured foot 
propped up in front of him.

“No Mister Frodo, ‘tisn’t necessary if you’d just get it out.  I’ll try to be 
quiet,” Sam replied, becoming pale.

“You scream as much as you want to Sam, no one will hear you.”  Frodo 
took a deep breath and gently started to clean around the wound with a 
piece of soft cloth that had been sitting in a bowl of tepid water.  As Frodo 
began to remove the dried mud and muck from Sam’s feet, Sam’s breath 
quicken but he didn’t whimper.  When the area was as clean as it could 
get, Frodo steeled himself and, looking up at Sam asked “Ready?”

Sam nodded silently, his hands beginning to clench.  Frodo saw this and, 
taking Sam’s right hand, opened the palm gently and placed it on his own 
shoulder.  “You squeeze just as hard as you want, you won’t hurt me,” 
Frodo whispered.  Sam nodded again, his hand starting to squeeze his 
master’s shoulder.  Frodo looked back at the foot; the best thing for it 
would be to pull it out in one swift movement.  He placed his hands 
carefully around the stick, concentrating hard so they wouldn’t tremble.  
“On the count of three Sam,” Frodo said, as he felt Sam’s fingers convulse 
and tighten onto his collarbone.  “One, two…”

At three, Frodo pulled smoothly up and out and Sam’s fingers dug in 
desperately.  They were both panting with exertion and looked at the 
offending piece of wood.  Frodo’s eyes narrowed and he flung the stick 
into the fireplace where it was quickly engulfed.  He returned back to the 
injured foot, and Sam reluctantly removed his hand from Frodo’s 
shoulder.  There was minimal blood flow that was quickly halted with dry 
compresses.  Frodo took this opportunity to turn his attention to Sam’s 
other muddied appendage.  With a sureness and delicacy that surprised 
Sam, he gently cleaned Sam from toes to knees.  The water became cloudy 
with silt as Frodo ran his fingers through the wet curling hair of his feet.  
Sam lay back in amazement, the pain now a distant throbbing in the back 
of his mind.  He could not believe his eyes.  Here was his beloved Mister 
Frodo, tending to him as gently as if he was a newborn foal.  Frodo’s 
nimble fingers caressed Sam’s calves, going over each spot of taunt skin 
to make sure it was clean. 

In the fire and candlelight, Frodo’s dark hair shone red and black, his face 
a mask of concentration.  When he had finished cleaning Sam’s lower 
legs, he gently removed the bloodied compresses from Sam’s foot.  The 
bleeding had stopped and Frodo looked around for clean material to bind 
it.  Seeing none, and not wanting to remove his hands from Sam’s body 
for too long, he leaned back onto his heels, undid the buttons of his 
waistcoat and tossed it aside.  He undid the buttons of the soft linen shirt 
that he wore and, without looking at Sam, began to tear strips from it.

“Mr Frodo, no!” Sam implored.  

“This part of the shirt’s clean Sam, you won’t get infected” Frodo replied, 
winding strips of body-heated cloth around Sam’s foot and tying knots 
securely until the job was done to his satisfaction.  No spots of blood had 
welled through the dressing and the foot was back to its healthy golden 
glow.

“It’s not that Mister Frodo, you didn’t ought to ruin your shirt for me,” 
Sam was beside himself, he hadn’t wanted to be a bother.  

“I don’t care about the damn shirt, I want to make you better.  Will you let 
me Sam?” Frodo asked, his hand lightly resting on Sam’s thigh.  

“I’d let you do anything to me sir,” Sam replied huskily, his eyes trapped 
under Frodo’s gaze.  

“I wouldn’t want you to feel obliged,” Frodo murmured, raising himself 
onto his knees and moving his body closer to Sam’s.

“I’ve never done anything for obligation in my life Mister Frodo, and I’m 
not going to start now,” Sam said, raising himself up until he was sitting 
on the edge of his chair.  “I’d not want to be an imposition,” he continued, 
holding Frodo still in his mesmerising stare.

“Impose me Sam,” Frodo whispered, his face barely two inches from 
Sam’s.

Sam felt Frodo’s hand on his thigh tighten and he moved his own hand 
back onto Frodo’s shoulder.  With the gentlest of pressure, Sam inclined 
Frodo forward; until they were so close they could feel each other’s breath 
on their faces.

“Ah, but you are lovely,” Sam whispered and brushed his lips against 
Frodo’s.  Frodo’s eyes closed, feeling the gentlest of pressures moving on 
his mouth.  He leaned into the kiss, pushing his open mouth onto Sam’s.  
Sam’s hand moved from Frodo’s shoulder into the nape of his neck and, 
tilting his head, sighed, closed his eyes, and opened his lips up to his love.

They kissed languorously, lips and teeth rubbing against each other.  
Frodo moved his hands to Sam’s head, clasping the soft cheeks and pulled 
Sam deeper.  Sam’s tongue made a hesitant foray into Frodo’s mouth and 
Frodo replied by pushing his own tongue into Sam’s.  Their mouths did 
battle as their hands started to move down each other’s bodies.  Sam 
pulled Frodo up into his lap until Frodo sat on Sam’s thighs, his own legs 
trapping Sam’s torso in their tight grasp.  Their chests were melded, 
groans of pleasure emanating from them both until they did not know who 
made what sound.  Sam opened his eyes slowly, knowing Frodo was still 
there but not feeling his lips on him.  Frodo looked down into the eyes of 
his lover, tears welling in his own eyes.  

“I have wanted this for so long Sam,” Frodo’s breath hitched.

“And I’ve waited for this my whole life, my Frodo,” Sam said, voice 
thickened with emotion.

“My Sam,” Frodo said, caressing Sam’s hair, his shoulders, running his 
hands down the strong arms.

“My love,” Sam replied, catching Frodo’s lips to his own again.

Their kisses became harder; their breath more rapid, fingers seeking bare 
bits of skin.  Frodo trailed wet open-mouth kisses down the side of Sam’s 
neck until he found the place he wanted to suckle.  Sam gasped and, 
placing his hands into the small of Frodo’s back, pressed Frodo into his 
lap.  Their erections brushed into each other and Frodo let out a moan.  
Sam started to move under Frodo’s body, his hands playing gently on his 
bareback; rubbing, kneading, caressing.

Frodo’s lips found Sam’s again and his tongue dipped into that honeyed 
pot again.  “Sam” Frodo said indistinctly, for he would not stop kissing 
Sam to speak to him.  “What are we going to do?”

Sam’s hands moved from Frodo’s back and held his face gently.  Their 
eyes became locked in each other’s sight again.  “I would do all that you 
wish me to do master.”

“You are just as much my master as I am yours Samwise Gamgee,” Frodo 
smiled and kissed each palm that lay on his face.  “I don’t know what to 
say.”

“Say all that lies in your heart Frodo-dear, for I would have no secrets 
between us,” Sam replied, his thumbs massaging the soft skin of Frodo’s 
jaw.

“And will you do the same Sam?” Frodo asked, not sure how far Sam 
wanted this to go.

“I will and I will start, if it eases your heart,” Sam stopped his hands 
moving reluctantly, knowing that this moment was the most important in 
his life.  “You are my heart Frodo, and I feel it is breaking from want.  I 
have loved you from afar for so long, and if this is the only time in my life 
where I will feel your body against mine, and your eyes loving me, then I 
will die tomorrow happy and complete.”

“I love you Mister Frodo,” Sam continued, tears threatening to fall as his 
throat began to seize.  “I don’t know if I should, but I can’t help it.  You’re 
my life.”

“Mister Samwise,” Frodo said, giggling slightly as his head started to spin.  
He had hoped that Sam returned his feelings but never suspected that they 
were as deep as he felt.  “You are everything that is good in my soul, and I 
don’t have the words to tell you how my heart is singing.  I feel my chest 
is going to break open with the force of it.  I have never wanted, nor ever 
needed anyone but you, my darling Sam.”  Frodo paused, hoping that his 
voice would carry the conviction of his feelings.  “I love you Samwise 
Gamgee.”

“And I love you Frodo Baggins.”  Sam took a deep breath and said what 
was closest to his heart’s wish.  “Make me yours Frodo.”

Frodo lent in and kissed Sam softly on the lips.  He got out of Sam’s lap 
and helped him to his feet, making sure to support him so his sore foot 
would not carry his weight.  

“You have been mine since the first day I saw you, just as I have been 
yours since the day I was born.  Come to bed with me my darling.”

The two lovers leaned into each other’s embrace and began their slow 
walk to the waiting chamber.


TITLE: Unavoidable: A Momentous Decision (5 of 8)

AUTHOR: Stella Hobbit

RATING: NC-17

PAIRING(S): F/S

WARNINGS: Sex, angst

STATUS: Completed

SUMMARY: Oh, it hurts, it does.  This chapter makes me want to scream 
at the computer.  I know, I’m the one writing it, but even I don’t like some 
of the things that want to be told.

AUTHOR’S NOTES: This is the first time I’ve ever written a love scene; 
I hope it feels as right to you as it does to me.  People who have seen the 
behind the scenes stuff on LOTR will know where I got the idea of Sam 
hurting his foot like that.  Feel free to send me an email – all opinions, 
advice, encouragement and flames will be looked at (not guaranteeing I’ll 
answer you though 8P )

ARCHIVE: No problems, just tell me where you’re putting my babies. 

FEEDBACK: Hell yeah, I’m a glutton for punishment or praise :-).  
Contact me at thelaconiclibrarian@hotmail.com or check out my Live 
Journal at www.livejournal.com/users/stellahobbit/

DISCLAIMER: If you thought that I owned these characters, then you’re a 
fecking idiot!  The people and places belong to the estate of J.R.R. 
Tolkien.  I don’t make a profit from this (show me one slash writer who 
does!), I just share my stories with like-minded people.






Frodo’s bedroom was cold and dark.  After leading Sam to his bed so he 
could sit with his foot in comfort, Frodo began building the fire.  Sam, for 
once, was happy to sit quietly and let his master work in front of him.  As 
Frodo moved around the room, lighting candles, moving pillows, Sam had 
the opportunity to look at his love at will.  He feasted his eyes; now there 
was no need to hide his longing.  With each graceful step and precise 
movement, Frodo was opening another portal in Sam’s heart.  It was hard 
to believe that he could love him any harder or any more, but tonight had 
awakened things in Sam that could never be denied again.  He felt so 
happy he thought he might cry – how was it that he was so lucky?  Frodo 
finished preparing the room and looked at the muscular figure in front of 
him.  Even though he had been wounded only hours ago, his skin was still 
ruddy with health.  His smile showed his contentment.  

“Frodo?” Sam asked hesitantly.

“Yes my love,” Frodo replied, sitting on the bed beside him.

“If I hadn’t hurt myself today, would you have ever told me how you 
felt?” 

Frodo looked into his heart at this question.  It was something he had been 
considering since he’d bought Sam into his room.  He clasped Sam’s hand 
in both of his own and, stroking gently, said, “I’ve been thinking the same 
thing Sam.  And I thought…I always knew I loved you, but I don’t think I 
knew how much until I saw you in the water.  There’s been something on 
the edge of my mind recently and no matter how hard I tried to see it, it 
wouldn’t be found.  I think it was you.  I think it was us.  It’s the way we 
are together.  You are such a part of me that sometimes, I don’t even 
realise you’re there.  I know that sounds terrible…,” Frodo paused, unsure 
if Sam would take his words incorrectly.

“Keep going my sweet,” Sam interjected, filling the pause.

“I’ve felt for the longest time that something wasn’t right.  I mean, it was 
right, it just wasn’t there.  Do you know what I mean?  I don’t even know 
what I’m talking about,” Frodo said exasperated.

“I think I do,” Sam said thoughtfully.  “Loving you is just like breathing, 
it’s in the background of everything I do.  You don’t much think about 
breathing, but you certainly miss it when it’s gone,” he chuckled.

“Yes Sam, yes it’s like that but more.  It’s not just that I’d miss you if you 
weren’t here, it’d be like the world had no meaning anymore, that I had 
nothing to keep going on for anymore.  Oh, it’s not all about me,” Frodo 
said angrily.  “It’s you, it’s everything about you.  I so want the best for 
you; I want to do everything I can for you.  I want to serve you to the best 
of my ability Sam.”

“Ah my love,” Sam smiled, stroking Frodo’s curls from his face, “now 
you’re beginning to understand the pleasure I get from serving you.  I 
never want you to need without me being the one to fulfil it.  Making you 
happy is such a simple thing, but it fills my heart with such joy.  Every 
time I say Mister Frodo,” Sam’s voice dropped huskily, “I do it for my 
own pleasure.  It is my gift to myself, a way letting myself love you a 
million times a day.  I’m selfish in my service, because nothing on this 
earth has given me greater pleasure than being here for you.”

Frodo wept at the devotion in Sam’s voice, he now understood how 
precious this relationship had become to both of them.  It didn’t matter 
who was called master and who was called servant; the bonds of love they 
shared connected them like ribbon, love and devotion moving from one 
end of the bond to the other, a ceaseless wave of giving and receiving that 
crashed upon them, gathered force from their souls and was sent back, 
feelings reciprocated and reinforced.  

Sam kissed the tears that lay on Frodo’s cheeks, feeling a heated 
contentment that he was the one that could make Frodo cry, and that he 
was the one who would soothe Frodo’s heart.  With a gentleness that 
Frodo had observed but never experienced, Sam lay them down.

Clothes were stripped from bodies with reverence, fingers were stroked 
down skin to marvel at the sensations.  Sam sought Frodo’s neck and 
drank deeply from it.  Frodo pressed kisses from the tips of Sam’s fingers 
up to his chest, breathing deep of the musky tones of his lover.  After what 
seemed an eternity of kisses and licks of love, Frodo found himself lying 
on top of Sam, their naked bodies pressed together.  

“I have no words…” Frodo stammered.

“Then show me, my love,” Sam asked

Frodo kissed him deeply, mouth hungry and open.  Sam writhed 
underneath him, trapped in the pleasure of that tongue moving in his 
mouth.  He moved his hands down to the satin of Frodo’s buttocks, pulling 
him closer, squeezing the succulent globes.  Frodo responded by running 
his palms against Sam’s nipples, grazing and pulling them until they were 
hard to the touch.  He moved his mouth down, tongue circling the brown 
areola, licking the tiny whorls of hair that surrounded it.  Sam gasped in 
appreciation.  Frodo flicked his tongue over the surface of his nipple, 
enjoying the sudden buck that Sam gave.  He moved his mouth away and 
blew warm breath over it.  Sam moaned in want.  Frodo attached himself 
greedily to Sam’s chest, sucking and licking like this would be his only 
nourishment.  Sam’s hands moved haphazardly on Frodo’s back, not 
knowing what he wanted but knowing that this was only the first step in 
their lovemaking.

Frodo began to move his kisses down Sam’s body, licking and sucking at 
the healthy hard flesh.  He pressed his fingers into the rigid stomach 
muscles and enjoyed the tension in Sam’s body.  He moved himself down 
until he was kneeling between Sam’s legs. 

“Look at me Sam,” Frodo requested.  Sam was so overwhelmed that he 
could hardly see.  There kneeled his beauty, his love, his body so close 
that their wanting lay a hair’s breath from each other.  

“I love you my Sam,” Frodo said and he crouched over and took Sam in 
his mouth.  How to explain the sensations that Sam experienced at this 
moment?  A part of Sam’s consciousness seemed to be outside of his 
body.  It was if he was both in the bed and out of it.  He could feel the 
warm satin of Frodo’s mouth as he licked and nibbled Sam’s length.  He 
could see the white-heat of Frodo’s delectable body balanced over him, 
back shining and taunt in his quest to go deeper.  He saw Frodo’s head 
move up and down, tongue circling and delving, hands exploring and 
squeezing.  He felt that he would faint with the pleasure of it.

Frodo could feel Sam moving hard under him, pushing up and in.  He 
listened to Sam’s whispered utterances “Oh yes Frodo, oh yes my love.  
There my love, like that.  Oh don’t stop, don’t stop.”  Frodo had no 
intention of stopping until he had tasted his lover’s essence.

He began to suck with a vengeance now, wanting to feel the turgid heat of 
Sam’s erection in his mouth, wanting the flesh to split and spill.  He felt 
Sam’s fingers entwine in his hair, clutching on like he was about to fall of 
the surface of the earth.  Frodo tasted a bit of fluid, the time was near now.  
He stopped sucking, withdrew his mouth and teased the head with the 
tiniest of snake flickers.  Sam shuddered and moaned, his body rigid with 
feeling.  “How I do love you Sam,” he whispered into the curls of golden 
hair that framed the beautiful cock next to his face and, without warning, 
covered Sam entirely with his mouth.  His head moved up and down 
rapidly, his tongue swirled and quickened until Sam cried out “I’m 
coming!”  Frodo felt the warm shock of fluid running into his mouth, he 
licked and lapped it up like it was a bowl of fresh cream.  When Sam’s 
need was spent, Frodo gave an innocent kiss to the peaceful member that 
now lay there and returned to Sam’s mouth.  They kissed and Sam tasted 
himself for the first time.

The taste was intoxicating.  Not only could he taste himself, he could taste 
Frodo’s sweat and slightly spicy tongue.  He felt unable to speak for the 
sheer pleasure of it.

“Did you like that my love?” Frodo asked, leaving soft kisses against 
Sam’s jaw.  Sam nodded helplessly.  Frodo laughed and hugged the warm 
pliant body into his own.  They lay there for some time, arms tightly 
wound round each other, legs entangled. 

“Have you ever done that before?” Sam asked, his voice trembling as his 
heart sought to regain its normal tempo.  

“No,” Frodo chuckled, “although I’ve had it described to me before at 
Brandy Hall.  Has that ever happened to you before?”

“No sir!” Sam enthused.  Frodo snickered.  Sam looked into the eyes of 
his laughing lover and said, “Well, at least I was honest.  Although I’ve 
heard tell of such goings on, but didn’t truly believe them.”

“What else have you heard about Sam-dear?” Frodo asked shakily as Sam 
started to lick Frodo’s neck.  

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Sam chuckled into the crevasse of his neck.  

“That’s not fair at all Samwise Gamgee.  I’ve showed you something new, 
now it’s your turn to surprise me.”

“Is it now?” Sam asked and suddenly flipped Frodo onto his back, 
trapping his body underneath his heavier frame.

“Only if you want to,” Frodo said humbly.  

“Now don’t you get coy with me Frodo Baggins, it’ll not work anymore,” 
Sam laughed and moved up Frodo’s body.  “Oh,” he breathed, feeling the 
hard heat pressed into his stomach.  “Seems like I’ve got some unfinished 
business to attend to.”

“What do you have planned Master Gamgee?” Frodo asked, eyes glazing 
over as Sam continued to rub against him.

“This,” Sam said.  

Sam spun their bodies until Frodo was on top of him again, lifting Frodo’s 
hips easily until Frodo found himself perched on Sam’s chest. 

“I keep forgetting how strong you are,” Frodo said admiringly.  Sam’s 
face was close to his crotch, Frodo’s need obvious to both of them.  Sam 
gathered Frodo’s hands and made him brace himself on the bed head.

As Frodo was crouched above Sam’s head, Sam started to lick the heavy 
sack that played against his chin.  “Ahhh,” Frodo moaned, clutching onto 
the wood so as not to fall.  Sam’s tongue intensified, taking long slow 
sweeps of the warm balls.  His hand reached around Frodo’s waist and 
started to stroke his erection, pulling up and twisting, allowing him greater 
access to the sack.  

Frodo sucked air in between his teeth, he felt like a large satisfied cat had 
become trapped between his thighs.  He felt a hand push in the small of his 
back and now his position was changed, the tip of his cock rubbing against 
Sam’s lips.  Frodo looked down through his straining arms and saw Sam 
with his eyes closed, blissfully licking Frodo like he was the world’s most 
delicious lollypop.  “My Lady, you are beautiful,” Frodo said sultrily.  
Sam opened his eyes and, seeing he was being observed, decided to make 
a show of it.  Whilst his hands were squeezing Frodo’s arse, his tongue 
and mouth danced up and down his dick.  Sam’s eyes were half-closed in 
lust, but he could see Frodo mesmerised by his actions.

“I want you to come now Frodo,” Sam asked, hands never stopping. 

“Yes Sam, yes I will,” Frodo said, raising himself up on his knees and 
gyrating his pelvis into Sam’s face.  Sam was overcome with the feel and 
taste of Frodo, he was smothered in his scent.  His mouth began to move 
faster, encircling the head, playing up and down the shaft, hands busily 
squeezing and prodding.  

“Yes,” Frodo moaned, arms held stiff, head thrown back in pleasure.  He 
bucked again, and again.  Sam gripped onto his hips, urging him to move 
harder.  

“I want you to come over me,” Sam begged, and Frodo moaned at the 
wantonness of Sam’s statement.  To have Sam here beneath him, to have 
him ask for such things with the lust so apparent in his voice made Frodo’s 
head reel.  Frodo complied.  He moved back and fell heavily on Sam’s 
chest, his seed spilling and spurting generously onto Sam’s body.  Frodo 
moaned; he would have fallen onto the bed if Sam’s hands had still not 
had his hips trapped between them.  He opened his eyes and saw Sam 
lying beneath him, slick with sweat and semen, pearly and lovely.  Frodo 
moved his fingers through the liquid, feeling the stickiness between the 
curls.  Sam gripped his hand and encircled Frodo’s fingers with his 
tongue, licking the seed dripping from his hand, moaning at the delicious 
taste.

Frodo had no choice to remove himself from Sam’s body lest he fall off.  
He lay with his head pressed into Sam’s arm, their faces close.  Frodo 
licked the corner of Sam’s mouth, tasting the saltiness.  They both grinned 
deliriously.  

“And have you ever had that done to you before Mister Frodo?” Sam 
asked cheekily.  Frodo looked around the room, pretending to think.  Sam 
grumbled and kissed him hard.  

“Don’t get angry my love, I was only teasing,” Frodo said beneath his lips.

“I know you were Frodo-sweet, but I’ll not be teased in matters of love.”

“No one has ever touched me like you have touched me, dear Sam,” Frodo 
said, serious now.  “No one has ever made me feel like you’ve made me 
feel.”

“Good,” Sam said, placated.  He sighed and pulled Frodo back into his 
arms.  

“Sam, have you ever….done that before?” Frodo asked hesitantly.  This 
time Sam pretended to think, humming in thought.  Frodo punched him 
lightly in the chest to gain his attention back.

“Not so nice when someone else does it now, is it?” Sam chuckled.  He 
looked into the shining blue eyes of his loved one and said, voice low in 
sincerity “I’ve never done that before and you know it.  I’ve never wanted 
to do anything like that before to anyone.  You are the only one I think of, 
the only one I want to share this with.”  He kissed Frodo lightly, the 
weight of his words seemed to add to the solemnity.

“You’re my only one, Sam,” Frodo replied softly.  “The only one I’ve ever 
had, and the only one I’ll ever have.”

“Make sure you stick to that,” Sam sighed, kissing Frodo’s lips gently, 
“for I’ll not share you with anyone.”




Frodo always woke slowly.  First, the deep yawn.  Then, the unhurried 
stretch.  Finally he would open his eyes to view his surroundings.  And 
how different his room looked this morning.  There, peering close, were 
the warm brown eyes of his lover.  “Hello you,” he said and reached up to 
hug Sam to him.  Sam fell across his body and kissed the sleep-warm 
mouth.  

“Morning darling, seems like you’ve got a bit more energy this morn then 
usual,” Sam said after a moment, pressing his body into Frodo’s.  

“Ah, but you’re dressed,” Frodo said disappointed.  

“We can’t all be laze-abouts like some rich folk I know,” Sam teased.  
“I’ve only been up for a while, I wanted to clean off and start breakfast.  
Are you hungry yet?”

“Always,” Frodo said huskily, attempting to put his hands in unusual 
places on Sam’s body.

“Oi, none of that,” exclaimed Sam, jumping off the bed.  “I’ve got things 
to do and a master to take care of.”

“And take care of him you did Samwise,” Frodo said sultrily, stretching 
and pressing against the sheet that covered his lower half, displaying his 
morning need to his gardener.  Sam blushed and, leaning over quickly, 
pecked Frodo on the nose.

“I’ve put a bowl of warm water and your lavender oil on the table there, 
if’n you want to get cleaned up before breakfast.  Mind you don’t be too 
long,” Sam said mournfully, unwillingly to leave Frodo’s sight but unable 
to fight off feelings of slackening off his duties.

“I’ll be there before you know it,” Frodo replied, sitting up and swinging 
his legs off the bed.  “And Sam?”

Sam turned from the door.  “I love you Sam.”  Sam blushed again, and 
said quietly, “I love you too Frodo.”

After sitting for a moment and enjoying the sun streaming through his 
window, Frodo stood and began to swipe the warm wet cloth against his 
body.  As he cleaned himself, he imagined that it was Sam’s tongue 
moving against his skin.  He smiled and thought he might try to convince 
Sam to come to bed when he heard voices in the hallway.  No doubt it was 
a member of the Gamgees family visiting at this early hour, so Frodo 
endeavoured to make himself look respectable.  He quickly dressed in the 
clothes that Sam had thoughtfully set out for him.  The waistcoat was a 
particularly dark shade of blue; Frodo had said in the past it looked too 
garish for daywear, but Sam had thought it matched his eyes perfectly.  
His trousers were a dark tan with flecks of gold weaved into the material.  
Frodo wondered if Sam had realised he had matched the trousers to the 
colour of his own eyes.





When Frodo entered the kitchen he was surprised to see his cousin sitting 
at the table.  “Merry?” Frodo exclaimed, “I didn’t know you were 
coming.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t give you any warning cousin, I felt the need to get 
away from Brandy Hall, and couldn’t think of anywhere else to go,” his 
voice broke at that last statement.  Merry looked scruffy and tired, his 
head hung and his eyes showed a lethargy that was previously unknown.  

“Whatever is the matter Merry dear?” Frodo asked, lowering himself to 
his knees and holding his cousin’s arms.  “Is there something wrong with 
your parents?  Is Pippin alright?”

Merry started to weep quietly, shoulders shaking in despair.  Frodo looked 
up at Sam, who said quickly, “I’ll just go put some tea on.”  Frodo thanked 
Sam with his eyes and turned his attention back to his miserable cousin.  
“Merry dear, tell me who’s hurt.”

“No one’s hurt Frodo,” Merry said shakily, “there’s nothing wrong with 
any of them.  Except me!” he cried and broke down in Frodo’s arms.  
Frodo held his weeping cousin to his chest and rocked him, whispering 
little nothings to soothe.  

After Merry had cried his fill, fixed his face with the aid of Frodo’s 
handkerchiefs and drank the large cup of hot tea that Sam had provided, he 
felt more like himself.  Sam vacillated nervously between the kitchen table 
and the stove and Frodo felt no closer to the solution of the mystery than 
before.

“Would you like to talk about it Merry?” Frodo asked softly. 

“I’ll just be going to the garden then,” Sam said, making his way to the 
backdoor.

“No Sam, don’t leave on my account,” Merry called him back.  “Thank 
you both, you don’t know how much better I feel.  All I want to do is sleep 
Frodo, I feel like I haven’t slept in weeks.  Can we talk later?”

“Of course Merry, I’ll prepare a room for you,” Frodo said.  “You just 
finish off your tea and you’ll be comfortable in no time.  Sam, will you 
help me please?”

Sam gave Merry a look of sympathy and joined Frodo at the linen closet.  
They removed sheets and blankets and took them to the main spare room.  
As they made up the bed, they wondered what was wrong.  

“No doubt it’s a fight between him and Mister Pippin, the two of them is 
always at it hammer and tongs,” Sam said, expertly flicking and tucking a 
corner of the sheet.

“Yes, but I’ve never seen him so upset before Sam.”  Frodo wondered, 
pulling a clean case onto a thick pillow.  “I don’t know what Pippin could 
have done to make Merry so sad.”

“We’ll find out soon enough sir, just as soon as he’s had his rest,” Sam 
spoke wisely, tugging the final cover onto the newly made bed.

“Sir?” Frodo asked incredulously.  

“You forget me dear,” Sam said, moving close to Frodo and wrapping his 
arms around him.  “I’m a selfish hobbit, and when I say that, I’m meaning 
that I love you.”  He kissed Frodo tenderly on the lips, running his fingers 
through his curls.

Frodo gasped as he was released from the kiss.  “How could I forget, when 
you call me Mister Frodo and Sir a thousand times a day.”

“Good,” Sam replied, squeezing Frodo’s bottom.  “Will you be alright 
here?”

“Yes my love, get to your garden.  I know when I’ve got competition,” 
Frodo chuckled, placing one last wet kiss on Sam’s lips before pushing 
towards the door.

“Oh and Sir?” Sam asked, as he was about to leave.

“Yes Sam?”

“I love you Sir,” and winked as he left the room.





Frodo stood for a few minutes, trying to catch his breath and his thoughts.  
It would not do to stand around daydreaming when his cousin needed him.  
He gathered Merry’s meagre pack and directed his weary cousin to the 
room.  “I’ll be here all day Merry, call me if you need anything.”

“Thank you Frodo,” Merry replied, looking at the welcoming room and 
the comfortable bed.  “I’m sorry to be such a bother.”

“Be silent you fool,” Frodo scoffed and closed the door.

The rest of the day passed peacefully.  Sam went about his respective 
duties, only stopping for a quick kiss when Frodo hung out of the study 
window dangerously.  Sam’s injured foot did not slow down his progress, 
he moved from patch to path with ease and intent.  Frodo, after trying and 
not succeeding in his encouragement of Sam to have a decent break, 
turned his attention back to his writing.  At lunch they enjoyed a glorious 
few minutes of clutching and kissing before Sam smelt the soup burning.  
They ate lunch quietly, watching spoons move into each other’s delicious 
mouths, Frodo making sure that, when he rubbed his foot against Sam’s 
leg, he did not touch the injured limb.  





At twilight Sam re-entered the smial.  His head shone with water and he 
smelt delightfully of soap.  After a swift squeeze in the study (in which a 
bottle of ink came dangerously close to spilling over Frodo’s accounts), he 
returned to the kitchen to make dinner.  Frodo finished his work and 
knocked softly on Merry’s door.  

“Yes,” a voice asked creakily.

“Dinner’s on Merry, come out and have something to eat.”

“I’ll be out in a minute Frodo.”

When Merry entered the kitchen he found the table set for three.  Sam 
whizzed amongst the steamy pans, Frodo sat at the table admiring his 
talent.  Merry sat down heavily and poured himself a glass of wine.  He 
drank it down quickly and refilled his glass.  This too was downed and a 
third was poured.

“Steady on Merry, you won’t be able to taste your dinner,” Frodo said 
jokingly, although Sam could detect a note of worry in his voice.

“I’m sorry Sam, I know it will taste beautiful, I’m just not in the mood to 
eat,” Merry said sombrely.

“No need to apologise Mister Merry, you just eat what you can,” Sam 
said, bringing heavy dishes to the table.

The meal was one of the strangest Frodo had ever eaten.  The food was 
predictably beautiful.  He was so full of joy he wanted to shout it out, or 
share it with his love who sat distractingly close, looking lovely and hot.  
But his cousin sat to one side, so full of despair that he didn’t eat one 
quarter of the food on his plate.  Frodo had never seen Merry so 
despondent and felt helpless to alleviate his pain.  

When Merry had finished picking at his plate, Sam began to remove the 
dishes from the table.  Frodo rose as if to help him but Sam shook his 
head, silently gesturing to his cousin.  Neither Sam nor Frodo had had 
time to fully adjust to their new situation, and didn’t rightly know how to 
behave in front of other people.  ‘That needs to be sorted out soon,’ Frodo 
thought to himself.

“Come Merry,” Frodo bullied, “I’ve got just the place to smoke our pipes 
and have a good quiet chat.”  Frodo led Merry to the bench that sat to the 
side of his study window.  Frodo smiled at the sight of it; Sam had built it 
for him just this summer.  He knew that Frodo liked a place to sit and 
think and admire his flowers.  Sam had spent many nights carving the 
Elvish reliefs and floral tributes into the wood, until the back of the bench 
curled and flourished with a majesty not seen before in the Shire.  

As Merry and Frodo sat and puffed in silence, Sam finished cleaning the 
pots and plates, returning the kitchen back to its sparkling glory.  He 
decided to make a fresh pot of tea and take some tasty sweets out to tempt 
Merry’s appetite.  He placed the kettle on the fire, prepared a tray with 
teapot and leaf, cups, saucers, spoons, sugar, honey for his Frodo, and a 
selection of creamy biscuits that he had made the day before.  He stopped 
and contemplated.  Just the day before.  Just yesterday he was doing his 
job, loving from afar, heart being torn in two as he basked in his master’s 
presence, but never having the courage to do anything about it.  He 
hugged himself with glee and put his fist in his mouth lest he squeal for 
joy.  His love, his Frodo.  Frodo had let him, Samwise Gamgee, love him, 
and he had loved him back.  ‘Things such as this cannot be borne’ Sam 
thought to himself.  ‘How’s a hobbit to live and breath when such miracles 
as this was going on?’

He looked for the tea strainer that was needed for the leaves and 
remembered he’d left it in Frodo’s study in the afternoon.  Walking 
quickly, he moved around the study in darkness, he knew the lay of each 
room in this smial like the back of his hand.  He heard Frodo and Merry’s 
voices drift through the open window.

“Will you tell me Merry dear?’ Sam heard his master enquire.  His heart 
swelled; there never was as decent a hobbit as young Mister Frodo, always 
wanting to help.

“I’m afraid too Frodo, I don’t want you to think badly of…of him,” Merry 
said hesitantly.  Merry knew that, for all Frodo’s youth and vigour, he had 
at the core a thread of conservative strength.  He did not want to let Frodo 
know his feelings for Pippin, lest he be disgusted in them both.

“No matter what he’s done, I’ll still love him as much as I love you Merry.  
Come along, it can’t be all that bad.”

Merry’s next sentence was spoken so softly that Sam could not interpret it.  
He had small inkling of guilt which he quickly squashed; he wasn’t 
listening out of curiosity, he wanted to help Mister Merry if he could, and 
if by helping Mister Merry he also set his Frodo’s mind at ease, that was a 
bonus.   

“He was with Darko Middlemarch,” Merry repeated, breathing shallowly.

“So?” Frodo said.  “I know you don’t like Darko much Merry, but Pippin 
has a right to make his own mind up about people.”

“No you don’t understand,” Merry said angrily, hitting his fists into his 
legs.  “He was WITH Darko, he was making love to him.  Although,” 
Merry continued, angry tears streaming down his face, “I don’t know if 
you’d call it love.  He was kissing him, he was sucking him there!  Pippin 
was sucking Darko off and he was enjoying it Frodo.”

“Ohhh,” Frodo breathed, shocked.  He could see why Merry was so upset 
now.  Merry and Pippin had always had a special bond.  Merry must be 
torn between his feelings of love for his cousin and his feelings of disgust 
for what he had seen.  For all his rapscallion behaviour, Frodo knew that 
Merry, as the only heir to Buckland, was as straight down the line as his 
father.  He knew Merry must see this as a disgusting aberration, a thing to 
be mocked and prevented.  

“Yes oh,” Merry mocked.  “Can you believe it?  Darko, that pig, and 
Pippin…the stupid little fuck!”  Merry was beside himself with rage.  “I’m 
not an idiot, I know this sort of thing goes on.  You know as well as I do 
Frodo that some people will think any port in a storm will do, but that?  
Liking it?  Liking another male?  Pippin was moaning Frodo, he was 
liking it so much he was moaning,” and here Merry broke down, unable to 
hold against the tide of his tears. 

“There there,” Frodo said without thought, rubbing the back of his 
grieving cousin.  How could Frodo not agree with Merry at this time?  For 
him to speak on Pippin’s side would drive Merry away.  Who knew where 
he would go or what he would do in this state?  Frodo needed time to 
allow Merry to calm down.  He needed to speak gently and convincingly 
to Merry, to make him see that, even though he felt nauseated by the act, 
he could still love the participant.

“ I feel sick Frodo,” Merry lamented. 

“So do I,” Frodo replied.

“I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to look him in the face again.  How 
can I see him and not see…that.”

“He made a mistake Merry,” Frodo said, cautiously.  

“He bloody well did Frodo.  I’ll never forgive him for this, not as long as I 
live,” Merry exclaimed.  “He and Darko can go to hell.  Oh, I wish I’d 
never found out.”  Merry sobbed again, it hurt telling this story to Frodo, 
but he knew it would hurt even more if he told Frodo the truth.  How 
could he explain to his older cousin that the main feeling he had was one 
of regret?  He wished he had been in Darko’s position.  He knew that 
Frodo would speak nicely but distantly if he ever suspected the truth.  If he 
ever found out that Merry felt that way about other males.

“Yes,” Frodo said softly, “it was a mistake.  I bet Pippin never meant it to 
go that far Merry.  I bet,” and his voice hitched, “I bet he was sorry he’d 
ever done something like this, and doesn’t know how to make it go back 
to the way it was.”

Sam gasped inside the study, Frodo sounded like he was the one who was 
sorry; that he was the one that wished it had never happened.

“But you can’t make it go away, can you Frodo,” Merry asked, wiping his 
wet face on his sleeves.

“No Merry-love, what’s done is done.”

“And what are you supposed to do then?”

“You get on with life Merry.  You do your best with what you’ve got and 
you carry on.  You try not to cause trouble but in your heart,” and Frodo’s 
throat swelled at the lie he was about to say, “you wish it had never 
happened,” he whispered.

Sam left the study, shocked and dry-eyed.  He should have seen it coming.  
‘Stupid, stupid Gamgee,’ he berated himself.  ‘What made you think that 
this was alright?  Didn’t you just hear himself saying he’d wished it never 
happened?’  Frodo hadn’t known that Sam could hear them, so he must 
have been telling the truth to his cousin, pouring out his heart and 
wondering how to deal with his own foolishness.  Oh but his heart felt like 
it was being torn in two.  What could he do?  He couldn’t stay here with 
the knowledge that every whisper was a lie, every caress was forced, all 
acts of love pretence put on to spare both their feelings.  He needed to get 
out of here.  He needed to think.

He felt himself become resolved to his actions.  He would go, but first he 
had to take out the tea.  He could not be the one to tear this façade down.  
He would not let on that he knew anything was different; he would act his 
normal self and he would think.

Sam poured the boiling water into the teapot and, gathering the tray, put 
on a face of soft, dumb concern.  He approached Merry and Frodo who at 
this stage were relighting their pipes in silence.  

“Mister Frodo sir,” Sam said as he started to pour out the tea.

“Yes Sam,” Frodo replied, still looking at Merry’s sorrowful countenance.

“I’ve just had word from Marigold that my Da’s not feeling too well.  I 
think I’ll pop up the road and see if there’s nowt I can do to help.  Will 
that be alright sir?”

“Of course Sam,” Frodo replied, passing a cup to Merry’s trembling 
hands.  “Would you like any help?”

“No sir, thanks for asking.  I’ll just be along and see what I can do.  
There’s no need to keep the front door open for me, I’ll slip in through the 
back if I need to, but chances are I won’t be back till morning.  Is there 
anything you’ll be wanting done before I’m gone?”

Here Frodo looked up at Sam, his eyes sad.  It would be their first night 
apart after their first night together.

“Thank you Sam,” Merry interrupted, breaking the mood. He bit one of 
the creamy cakes.  “You’re a wonderful cook.”

“Just doing my job Mister Merry, just doing my best to take care of Mister 
Frodo,” and with that, Sam tugged on his forelock and was gone without 
another word or glance to Frodo.

“Send my best to the Gaffer,” Frodo yelled out to his retreating back.  It 
must be a serious situation for Sam to hurry off like that.  He wished he 
could go with him and assist the Gaffer, but he knew that Merry needed 
him more.  He sighed and took another suck of his pipe.





Sam ran out into the lane, not caring where he went as long as it was away 
from Bag End.  He felt like vomiting after seeing Frodo; how could he lie 
like that?  How could he bat those eyes at Sam, pretending he loved him 
when the very thought made him sorry for the time they’d spent together.  
Sam was an honest hobbit; even to himself, so he could not deny that 
Frodo had some feelings for him.  But love?  He’d been the first one to 
make a move, he had admitted that he would do anything for Frodo, he 
had leaned in and kissed Frodo first.  What was Frodo to do?  Of course he 
loved Sam, Sam was his friend and loyal employee.  And of course he had 
those feelings, what grown man didn’t?  But for Sam to twist those actions 
into a dream of love, to wish for something that couldn’t be his, to put 
himself above his place…

Yes, that was it.  He had put himself above his place.  He knew now where 
he could go.





He let himself quietly into Bag Shot Row.  It was very late and a small fire 
burned in the kitchen hearth.  Sam stole across the floor until a loud 
‘Hurmpp’ stopped him.  There was his Gaffer, sitting by the fire, pipe in 
mouth and feet up on a chair.  

“Da?” Sam asked alarmed.  

“Samwise?  What are you doing sneaking in here this time o’ night?  You 
been up to no good at Bag End?”

At that pronouncement, Sam felt the floodgates open.  He threw himself at 
his father’s feet, placed his head in his lap and sobbed hysterically.  After 
a few minutes, when the storm seemed to ease, Hamfast said “There there 
lad.”  He stroked his son’s hair and asked, “What’s got into you boy?”

“I’m sorry Da, I truly am, but I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Go? Why, what’s happened to Mister Frodo?  Has he been hurt?”

“No Da, he’s alright, it’s me,” Sam sobbed.

“What’s wrong with you boy?  Are you hurt?  Well, speak up!” Hamfast 
pulled his son to his feet, inspecting him from head to toe.  He saw the 
bindings on Sam’s feet and let out a gasp.

Sam looked down at his feet; truth be told, it hadn’t hurt since last night.  
He’d been poked, prodded and pierced innumerable times in his life, but 
nothing had hurt like this.  

“It’s not that Da,” Sam sighed, his tears halted by this stage.  

Hamfast grunted and said “Sit yourself down, you look tired.”  Sam sat in 
front of his father’s feet, gazing into the fire.  Hamfast looked upon his 
youngest; there was so much of Bell in him, and so much of himself, but 
there was something more that added to the completeness of Sam.  ‘He 
looks so young and strong’ Hamfast thought, ‘he is everything I wanted to 
be’.

“Do you want to talk now son?” he enquired.

Sam sighed and shook his head, not to say no, but to clear his mind.  He 
didn’t know a way of going around this so he came straight out with it.  
“I’ve got to leave here Dad.”

“Leave?  Leave us?  Leave Mister Frodo?  Why – has he said you must be 
leaving?”

“No, he doesn’t know I’m going,” Sam voice broke.  “It’s the right thing 
to do.  I can’t live with myself knowing…knowing what I’ve done.”

“But what is it you’ve done Samwise?  This makes no sense to me,” the 
Gaffer asked, annoyed and frightened.  He could not let his son leave 
without a fight.

“I’ve forgotten my place,” Sam whispered, looking at the floor.

“But Sam-lad, there’s nowt you could have done that would make it so 
bad.  You’re a good lad, I’m sure Mister Frodo will forgive you for any 
mistakes you’ve made.”

“I’m sorry Dad, I can’t tell you anymore.  Just…understand that if I could 
stay, you know I would.  I’ll find work up in Bree, and I’ll send you 
money regular, I just can’t stand to be here right now.”  Sam looked up at 
his stern father, grasping his hands.  “Please Dad, please, you’ve got to let 
me go.  I know I’ve not of age and you can tell me what to do, but I’ll not 
stay anymore and I’d rather I went with your blessing and your love than 
with your anger.”  Tears streamed down Sam’s face as he begged his 
father to let him be.

“Aye Sam,” the Gaffer said, smoothing the hands clenched between his.  
“You’ve always had my blessing and my love.  But, do you really need to 
go?” His voice cracked at the last statement.

Sam’s shoulders shook with the force of his tears.  “It breaks my heart to 
leave you sir, but I must be away.”

“Aye then lad,” Hamfast said heavily.  “If it’s what you must do, I’ll not 
stand in your way.  But what of Mister Frodo?”

“You’ll still be here to keep an eye on him Dad, he can hire another 
gardener and the girls can tend to his other needs. I’ll be gone for a while, 
but it’ll not be forever.  I’ll write to you most often and come back if you 
or the girls really need me to.”

“Don’t you worry about us Samwise, we can take care of ourselves.  I’ll 
explain it to the lasses and they’ll be sad, and they’ll not understand, but 
they’ll love you all the same.  But will you not say goodbye to your 
master?  

“No Da, there’s nothing to say to Mister Frodo that I’ve not said before.  
He’ll be fine without me and…I’ll be fine too,” Sam said, putting on a 
brave face.

Hamfast looked at the trembling lip, the filled eyes, the steady shoulders.  
As much as he wished to keep his son by his side, he knew that this was 
the only way he could grant Sam peace.  He placed a rough hand heavily 
on his son’s head and said, “Go with the Lady’s blessings Sam-lad, and go 
with mine.”

Sam threw himself into his father’s embrace, thanking him with a hard 
kiss on the cheek.  Hamfast stroked the golden hair for a moment, seeking 
to remember its texture then said, “Be off with you lad then.”

Sam stood up, wiped his tears from his e