Title:  The Cybersex Lives of Hobbits  
Author:  Fennelseed (fennelseed@earthlink.net)  
Pairing:  Frodo/Sam  
Rating:  R  
Summary:  Imagine a Middle-earth that has the internet.  
Now imagine that Frodo is toying with cybersex as a way to 
keep his mind off the young Samwise.  Still with me?  
Good...  
Disclaimer:  Tolkien's characters; not mine; I'm not 
getting paid for this.  
Authors Note:  Yes, this is a very silly idea. And a very 
obvious plot.  But this is just for fun, now, remember. ;-)  
 
Frodo leaned back from his computer, removed his reading 
glasses, and rubbed his eyes.  He had spent far too long 
browsing through online catalogs of books again, and had 
ordered rather more than he really needed.  Merry's warning 
had proved accurate:  ever since he had gotten the internet 
hooked up six months ago, he had become practically 
addicted to it.  Still, that was probably better than...  
 
As if pulled by his thoughts, Frodo rose and went outside, 
where Samwise was sweeping cuttings and weeds off the front 
path, usually his last task before going home.  It was 
October now, getting chilly as the sun set, but Sam glowed 
from the long day's work, and his shirt was unbuttoned 
halfway.  Frodo leaned appreciatively against the door 
frame, gazing upon the boy who was much, much too young to 
be seduced (Sam was barely 23), especially by his male 
employer. Respectable hobbits just did not do that kind of 
thing.  This had given Frodo much secret anguish for at 
least two years now, but the feeling had eased up with his 
discovery of the internet.  Even if the Shire didn't 
understand him, there were others out there who did.  In 
fact, in one chat room in particular...  
 
Frodo's heart began beating faster, and he became impatient 
to push his distracting gardener off the premises so he 
could have a little privacy.  "Almost done, Sam?" he called 
over.  
 
"Yes, sir.  Just have to get this stuff cleared up and then 
I'm off for supper.  Afraid I can't stay long tonight."  
 
"That's fine, that's fine.  I keep you too long anyway."  
 
"Not at all," said Sam, ever polite.  He grinned, and 
brought Frodo a handful of rosemary and sage.  "For your 
soups and breads, like.  Or hang them in the pantry to dry, 
and I'll bottle 'em next month."  
 
Frodo inhaled the spicy scent, and let out his breath in a 
sigh.  It was really too bad he couldn't just marry Sam.  
Or even grab him and pull him in for a casual tongue-kiss 
between friends.  He hid a giggle in the bouquet of herbs.  
"Thank you, Sam," he said.  
 
After Sam had put away his spades and rakes and 
wheelbarrows and gone off home, Frodo gulped down a quick 
bachelor-style dinner (bread, butter, cold bacon, apple, 
pear, five teacakes, and a mug of ale), then rushed back to 
his study and settled himself in front of the computer.  
 
His hands trembled a bit as he logged onto the internet and 
typed in the address of the chat room he had discovered 
three months ago: #Gay_MiddleEarth.  Sounded awfully seedy, 
he was aware.  And it WAS seedy - in fact, the first time 
he had ventured in there, he had stayed only ten minutes 
before fleeing in shame and disgust.  All those horrible 
strangers who latched onto you and asked you questions!  
"How old r u?"  "How big r u?"  "What race r u?"  "u like 
older guys?"  Honestly, they couldn't even spell "you" and 
"are" correctly.  The book-loving Frodo could not cope.  
 
But, a couple of weeks later, plagued by accelerated 
fantasies, he had crept back to the channel, under a 
different nickname than before.  That time he allowed 
himself to be drawn into a private conversation with 
someone claiming to be a 30-year-old Man who had a thing 
for bare feet.  Frodo couldn't resist toying with that one. 
Granted, he had lied and said he was a Man too (a younger 
Man; he'd said he was 19), but at least the part about 
loving to walk around barefoot was true.  Their chat had 
gotten as far as the Man saying "I want to suck your toes 
so bad" before Frodo panicked and pretended an internet 
disconnection.  He had closed the window in mid-dialogue. 
He felt sort of bad, but, hey, this was anonymous sex-
chat.  What did they expect?  
 
It was another few weeks before he went back, and that time 
he met a young Elf (or at least someone claiming to be an 
Elf, who backed up this claim by being pretty good with 
Sindarin) who got all hot for the nipples of other 
species.  So Frodo again claimed to be a young Man, and 
made some clumsy attempts at seduction lines in Sindarin. 
He made excuses to himself that this was just linguistic 
practice, which just happened to have the harmless side 
effect of making him very excited.  He still slipped out of 
the chat early, in shyness, but had rather enjoyed the 
whole thing that time.  
 
And then last week there had actually been someone 
likable.  His nickname was Silverthorn.  He was charming, 
he seemed almost as shy as Frodo, and, unlike most of the 
others, he spelled out words like "you," and he didn't ask 
prying questions.  He seemed to understand, without either 
of them having to say it, that the reason they came to 
rooms like this was to do things and say things that they 
wouldn't dare to do in real life.  And therefore asking too 
many specifics about real life was off limits.  Frodo and 
Silverthorn had talked for almost an hour, broaching the 
topic of sex but not getting too uncouth about it.  
 
Silverthorn had told Frodo that he was young ("out of my 
teens, but not too old yet"), and that his friends and 
family were unaware that he had feelings for other males, 
but he hadn't said what race he was, and he hadn't asked 
Frodo's race either.  Frodo guessed he was a young Man, 
maybe a Dwarf, maybe even a hobbit; it didn't matter.  He 
certainly wasn't about to suggest that they meet up in real 
life.  He didn't want to know too much about Silverthorn's 
identity, and didn't want Silverthorn to know too much 
about his.  He just wanted to share some of the secret 
desires he'd been having; he just wanted to tell them to 
someone, someone who would understand and say charming 
things in return and not get completely vulgar on him.  He 
could channel some of the thickly-swarming emotions he had 
for Sam into this harmless, anonymous chat room, and feel 
less plagued by them afterward.  
 
Tonight, as he entered the chat room under his nickname 
"Filigod" (Sindarin for "small bird"; chosen almost at 
random from a book on his desk), he saw Silverthorn's name 
in the list of those present, and his heart jumped in 
excitement.  
 
A private-message window popped up almost immediately.  
 
SILVERTHORN:  Hi Filigod.  Nice to see you again.  
 
Frodo grinned, wriggled down comfortably in his chair, and 
typed a reply:  
 
FILIGOD:  Hello there.  How are you?  
 
* * * *  
 
An hour and a half later, clothes sticking to his sweaty 
skin, Frodo wearily logged off.  He wiped his fingers with 
an old handkerchief, and also ran it along the edge of the 
desk just for good measure. Then he re-opened the document 
where he had copied and saved the log of their 
conversation, and scrolled mid-way down.  
 
FILIGOD:  Have you ever...gone down on anyone?  
 
He cringed to see himself type that.  He would never have 
said that phrase in real life.  Bilbo and Aunt Lobelia 
would probably faint in shock if they heard him say it, he 
thought wryly.  As for Merry and Pippin and Sam - well, 
they probably would just be amazed that he even knew the 
expression.  They seemed to think him rather naive. But 
Silverthorn, apparently, hadn't batted an eyelash.  
 
SILVERTHORN:  Yes.  Just a couple times.  The fellow 
returned the favor, too. ;)  
FILIGOD:  What does that feel like?  
SILVERTHORN:  Being on the giving end or the receiving?  
FILIGOD:  Either one.  I'm rather inexperienced...  
SILVERTHORN:  I have to say, receiving's better.  
FILIGOD:  I'll bet.  I imagine it's wonderful.  
SILVERTHORN:  Was strange at the time, but yes, nothing 
quite like it.  
FILIGOD:  I wish I had the nerve to try it with someone.  
SILVERTHORN:  Are you alone in the room?  
FILIGOD:  Yes.  Why?  
SILVERTHORN:  Well, if you get some lotion or something 
slippery like that, you can start to see what it feels 
like.  
FILIGOD:  Mmm...I like this idea...  
SILVERTHORN:  And then I can tell you what I did with my 
mouth. Though I don't claim to be any kind of expert.  
FILIGOD:  All right...I have lotion.  Go ahead and tell me; 
I won't know the difference if you're no expert. ;)  
 
All those sly winks.  Frodo shook his head, partly 
embarrassed and partly amused.  He skimmed down several 
lines, where his chat-room alter-ego was daring to tell 
Silverthorn how, er, good he was feeling at the moment.  In 
response, Silverthorn had said:  
 
SILVERTHORN:  I'm jealous of you.  I really want to be 
doing that... But my family's in the next room; I can't get 
up to anything until they go to sleep.  
 
At the time, Frodo had been in no state to pursue the 
meaning of the remark, but now he considered it.  His 
family?  Did this mean Silverthorn was married, and had 
children, and was visiting this chat room because he, like 
Frodo, found females pretty but couldn't get males out of 
his head?  Oh, well - it was none of Frodo's business.  
 
FILIGOD:  But you'll think of me when you do get some time 
to yourself?  
SILVERTHORN:  Oh, I definitely shall.  
 
Frodo stuffed the handkerchief loosely into his pocket, 
shut down the computer, and wandered to the window.  
Through the pane and the swaying branches of his shrubs he 
could see a scattering of bright stars.  He kissed his 
fingertips and then pressed them to the windowpane, sending 
the kiss out into the wide world.  He intended the 
goodnight kiss for Silverthorn, but as the glass cooled his 
fingers he wondered if perhaps he wasn't thinking of Sam 
instead.  
 
* * *  
 
The next morning, Frodo slept late, and when he shuffled 
out to the front room he found warm sunshine streaming in 
through the windows. He opened a window, leaned out, and 
waved to Sam, who was picking up fallen apples in the side 
garden.  
 
"Morning, Sam," Frodo yawned.  
 
"Afternoon, Mr. Frodo," Sam corrected, with a grin.  
 
Frodo made a face.  "Indeed."  He stretched his arms behind 
his back. "Ever stay up too late reading ridiculous things 
on the internet?"  
 
"All the time, sir.  It's addictive, just like Merry warned 
us it would be."  
 
"Quite so.  Well, I think I'll go have something to eat."  
 
"By the way," Sam added, "if you like, we could have a 
picnic lunch, later on.  This could be the last fine day 
we'll see for months."  
 
"Thank you; that would be lovely."  
 
* * *  
 
SILVERTHORN:  Good evening.  How was your day?  
FILIGOD:  It was very nice.  Yours?  
SILVERTHORN:  Likewise.  October's always one of my 
favorite months.  
FILIGOD:  Mine as well.  
 
All right, Frodo thought, enough with the small talk.  
 
FILIGOD:  I wanted to ask you...how did you find someone, a 
boyfriend, to do these things with?  Did you meet him in a 
chat room, like this?  
SILVERTHORN:  No, he was just someone I knew, who I hung 
around with one summer.  My first clue was when we were 
wrestling, and he pinned me down and started kissing my 
neck. :)  
FILIGOD:  Ah.  I guess that isn't very subtle.  
SILVERTHORN:  That's the only time, though.  I don't have 
anyone at the moment.  I have what you might call a crush 
on one fellow, but I can't act on that.  We work together 
and it wouldn't be right.  
FILIGOD:  I know what you mean.  The fellow I fancy, well, 
I'm just sure he's straight.  
SILVERTHORN:  He might not be.  You can't always tell.  My 
friends are aware I like the ladies, but they probably have 
no idea I like the lads as well.  
FILIGOD:  How could I ask him?  Is there some secret 
password?  
SILVERTHORN:  The secret gay Middle-earth password?  Not 
that I know of. :)  
FILIGOD:  Rats.  
SILVERTHORN:  Well, try complimenting him, or something.  
Tell him he looks fetching in his new coat.  See how he 
reacts; positive or negative.  
 
Frodo thought of Sam's dirt-smudged gardening-clothes, the 
same ones day in and day out, and smirked.  "How fetching 
you look in those clothes, Sam!"  Sam would think he had 
lost his mind.  Or was teasing, to be cruel.  
 
FILIGOD:  Well, never mind him.  Did you think of me last 
night like you promised?  
SILVERTHORN:  I certainly did.  
FILIGOD:  Tell me about that.  
SILVERTHORN:  All right...  
 
* * *  
 
When Frodo awoke the next morning, he found the weather 
cold and foggy.  Sam's prediction had been right - the fine 
warm days were over, at least for now.  Still, the chilly 
fog was almost exciting after so many days of bland 
sunshine, so Frodo threw on his winter cloak, took some of 
the apples Sam had picked yesterday, and went out for a 
morning walk.  
 
As he trudged along a forest path and munched apples, he 
let his mind slide back to the contrasting experiences of 
the previous day:  on the one hand, Sam with the sun in his 
hair, telling him in that sweet delicious voice about his 
sisters' comical romantic problems, sounding a little sly 
but mostly so innocent that it made Frodo feel wicked for 
letting his eyes flick down Sam's figure even for a 
second.  And on the other hand...Frodo's jaws slowed as 
they chewed the piece of apple, caught up in the memory.  
Typing things to Silverthorn he could never say out loud.  
Reading things no one had ever said to him before.  
Believing every word of it when Silverthorn said, "Now 
you've got me doing it...even though I shouldn't and 
someone could walk in any second...I just want it so much I 
can't wait..."  
 
Frodo blushed, and felt a tingle of desire rush through 
him.  Sick, Baggins, you're sick, he told himself wryly, 
and pitched the apple core into the forest.  
 
When he got back to Bag End, he found Sam raking the damp 
leaves behind the house.  
 
"Hello, Sam.  Looks as though you were right about the 
weather."  
 
"Aye; seems autumn's finally on us."  
 
Frodo picked up another apple from the ground, and began 
drying it off with the edge of his cloak.  "By the way...do 
you know of a plant called 'silverthorn'?"  
 
The rake paused, as if Sam was thinking.  Then it began 
moving again. "Yes, sir.  It grows in the forest.  Just a 
little weed; has some greenish berries no one can eat.  
They're too sour.  Trust me, I've tried."  
 
"Oh.  I just heard its name somewhere and wondered; that's 
all." Frodo looked at Sam again, who had turned in his 
raking so that his back was to Frodo.  Frodo noticed that 
Sam was wearing a grey overcoat, not his usual brown one.  
"Is that a new coat?" he asked. "I don't recognize it."  
 
"Not really new; it's me dad's.  Mine was washed yesterday 
and isn't dry yet, so he let me borrow his."  
 
Frodo tossed the apple in the air and caught it, and tried 
to make his voice sound light as he said:  "Well, you look 
very fetching in it."  
 
Sam turned around abruptly, as if frightened.  "What do you 
mean?"  
 
Frodo was taken aback.  "I was just being pleasant.  I 
didn't mean to tease you.  I'm sorry."  
 
Sam relaxed his grip on the rake, and laughed a little.  
"Sorry, sir. Guess I'm a bit jumpy today."  
 
"Why?  Did something happen?"  
 
"No...just...the change in the weather, I imagine."  Sam 
was back to raking.  
 
That probably qualified as a "negative" reaction to a 
compliment, Frodo thought, with a sad smirk.  "Well.  I'll 
go inside and do some reading..."  
 
"Oh, I meant to ask," Sam added, without turning around.  
"The word 'filigod,' is that Elvish?  If you happen to 
know?"  
 
Frodo felt like he'd been kicked in the stomach.  In one 
horrible second, everything fell into place:  Silverthorn 
was never online when Sam was around.  The ages matched 
up.  The reaction to his "fetching" comment...and now, 
asking about the word "filigod"... He couldn't believe his 
incredible blindness and stupidity - and yet, no, no, this 
had to be a coincidence; it just had to be.  "What was that 
word?" he asked weakly.  
 
"Filigod.  Feel-a-goad?  I'm not sure how it's said."  
 
"Sindarin...I think...'bird' or something."  
 
"Bird," Sam echoed thoughtfully.  
 
"Sam," Frodo entreated, to Sam's back.  "Where did you see 
that word?"  
 
Sam stopped raking for a moment.  "Just in a book, I 
reckon," he mumbled.  
 
If there was anything Sam Gamgee was bad at, it was lying.  
Frodo could tell instantly, and his last hopes for secrecy 
fell apart.  He could still turn away and walk back into 
Bag End; they could still both pretend this conversation 
hadn't happened; they could skirt the topic and never admit 
it the rest of their lives.  But that would be pathetic and 
cowardly, and Frodo knew it.  
 
"Sam..." he said.  He walked up until he was facing Sam, 
who kept his eyes fixed on the pile of leaves.  "I say 
'Silverthorn' and you answer with 'Filigod'?  Why did that 
happen?"  
 
Sam didn't answer.  He seemed to wobble a bit, and leaned 
heavily on the rake.  
 
"How long have you been going to chat rooms?" Frodo asked 
quietly.  
 
Sam groaned, as if in pain, and lowered his head to the 
handle of the rake.  "Oh no, oh no, oh no..."  
 
Frodo wobbled too, and clutched the nearest tree for 
support.  "Did you know it was me, Sam?"  
 
"No, sir, no, no, I would never...ever...oh, no..."  
 
"Obviously I didn't know it was you, either, or I wouldn't 
have said...good gracious..."  Frodo staggered a few steps 
and collapsed onto a stone bench Bilbo had put there 
decades ago.  He cradled his head in his hands.  
 
Sam still stood bowed over the rake, looking shattered, 
shaking his head back and forth slowly, and mumbling, "Oh, 
this is bad.  Oh, no; oh, no..."  
 
"You won't tell anyone, will you?" pleaded Frodo.  
 
Sam emitted a small laugh.  "I was just about to beg you 
not to tell my Gaffer."  
 
"As if I would.  'Yes, excuse me, Mr. Gamgee, I have a 
complaint about Sam.  You see, I was out looking for 
cybersex, and he was audacious enough to comply.'  No, I'm 
equally to blame.  In fact, I'm more to blame - I have 
responsibilities regarding you."  
 
"We're equally to blame," Sam sighed.  He lifted the rake 
again and scraped at a few more leaves, then wilted and 
just stood shaking his head.  
 
"Sit down," Frodo said, gently.  "Come on.  Please."  He 
moved over on the bench to make room.  
 
Sam set the rake against the tree, sank onto the bench, and 
slumped forward.  Both of them hid their faces in their 
hands.  Frodo wanted to die; he wished fervently for a 
merciful bolt of lightning, or a poisoned arrow from a 
deranged Elf hiding in the bushes; or anything lethal, as 
long as it happened quickly.  From the look of Sam, he was 
wishing the same thing.  
 
"I don't normally do stuff like that," said Sam, muffled in 
his hands.  
 
"Me neither," said Frodo, likewise.  
 
"It's just...when Mr. Merry told us about those 
channels...where people could find other people who liked 
certain things..."  
 
"I know.  I was there.  That's where I learned about it, 
too."  
 
"Guess it makes sense, then."  
 
"Not such a coincidence after all," Frodo admitted.  "Oh, 
I'm so stupid...I can't bear to imagine what you must think 
of me..."  
 
"You?  At least you're not the one who told all about his 
experiences with other lads."  
 
"Were those true?  You really...?"  
 
"Yes."  
 
"Who was he?" Frodo asked miserably, still keeping his face 
covered.  
 
"A cousin of the Bracegirdles.  Visiting one summer," 
mumbled Sam, who also still kept his face covered.  
 
"But you said he wasn't...that you two weren't...anymore."  
 
"He's married now.  It was just that one summer, just 
playing around. It wasn't even that great."  
 
"But you said, now...someone you worked with...a crush..."  
 
Sam groaned again.  "Let's not talk about that."  
 
"Sam...you must know who I was talking about, when I 
said...when I said I liked a younger lad..."  
 
"Sir, don't..."  
 
"Because I tried the confounded stupid line on you.  You - 
as Silverthorn - said I should tell the lad he looked 
fetching in his new coat and so I did.  I told you."  
 
Frodo waited for Sam to answer, but there was no reply.  
Just the sound of Sam taking a deep breath, and swallowing.  
 
"I take it from your reaction that I'm not the one you 
wanted to hear this from," Frodo added, softly.  
 
"Yes, you are," Sam whispered.  
 
Frodo finally lifted his face.  Sam still had his head 
down, and was rubbing at his scalp with both hands.  "Then 
why can't we look at each other?" Frodo half-laughed.  
 
Sam ventured a sideways peek at Frodo, a flash of golden-
brown irises, then cringed, sat up, and turned his head 
away.  "Because the way I treated you in there, the things 
I said - that isn't the way to treat YOU."  
 
"I'm a delicate flower, am I?  I'm innocent and easily 
shocked and would slap you across the face if you tried to 
kiss me?  Really, Sam, think of the things I said."  Frodo 
leaned back on the bench, clutched his hands together in 
his lap, and stared at them.  "Now, I admit that I 
wouldn't, or rather couldn't, say most of those things out 
loud.  But, now you know that I...I think them."  
 
"I still wish I hadn't said them to you," lamented Sam.  "I 
just want you to know I can be better than that.  I can be 
less...dirty."  
 
"Of course you can.  I know.  You're never 'dirty' around 
here." Frodo reached over and traced his finger along a 
smudge of earth on Sam's hand.  "Well, except in a certain 
literal sense."  
 
Sam jumped at the touch, then relaxed and managed a nervous 
laugh. "I guess being dirty is the point of going into chat 
rooms like that."  
 
"Yes.  Being anonymously dirty.  That's what I was there 
for."  
 
Sam thought on this for a while, then sent Frodo a furtive, 
curious glance.  "So...did you make up any of it?  The 
things you said in there?"  
 
"I may have stretched a few truths sometimes, but..."  
Frodo chuckled in embarrassment, and rubbed at his eyes.  
"For the most part I was frightfully honest."  
 
"So when you said you were...you know...doing things, while 
we were talking...you really were?"  
 
"Yes," Frodo sighed.  Then, with that tingling feeling 
creeping back over him (a great improvement over the 
kicked-in-the-stomach feeling), he lifted his eyes to Sam.  
"Were you?"  
 
Sam, already blushing, looked at his lap and nodded.  
 
Frodo smiled, and took a moment to look about at the autumn 
fog wrapped around his garden.  It muffled sounds and made 
it quite easy to believe that he and Sam were the only 
people for miles.  "Well. I'm not disgusted," he said at 
last.  "How about you?"  
 
"No, 'disgusted' isn't quite how I'd describe it," Sam 
answered. Notes of huskiness and merriment drifted through 
his voice.  
 
Frodo's smile evolved to a grin.  He turned on the bench, 
and offered his hand.  "Silverthorn?  Frodo Baggins.  Thank 
you for agreeing to meet me."  
 
Sam melted into a chuckle, and gave him a solid handshake.  
"Sam Gamgee.  Pleasure's mine, Mr. Filigod."  
 
They both sat laughing gently in relief for a few moments.  
"Ah, come on, Sam," Frodo said, gathering his friend in for 
an embrace.  "It'll be all right, then."  
 
Sam shyly wrapped his arms around Frodo, and patted him 
lightly on the back.  
 
It occurred to Frodo, as he kept his chin stiffly above 
Sam's shoulder, that this was a pathetic hug, the kind you 
would give a distant relative who you didn't like very 
much.  So he slid his legs closer, until his thigh touched 
Sam's, and cradled Sam in against his chest.  He let his 
cheek sink to his friend's shoulder, and breathed the 
delicious scent of the warm space beneath Sam's collar.  He 
felt Sam's tension ease; his hand stopped patting 
awkwardly, and just slid down Frodo's back to a comfortable 
hold.  
 
"I'm so glad you're not angry with me," Sam whispered.  
 
"I'm so glad you don't think me a horrible old pervert," 
Frodo answered.  
 
"You're lovely.  And you're not old."  
 
Frodo moved his face a few inches, and let his lips brush 
Sam's, warm in the chilly autumn air.  He pressed a careful 
kiss onto them, felt Sam move a little in response.  "Is 
this all right?" he asked his gardener.  
 
Sam creaked two soft sounds that, from their tone, 
indicated an affirmative.  Then he leaned in and kissed 
Frodo again.  His mouth was closed at first, but after a 
minute he began catching Frodo's lips between his own, 
moving slowly from one side to the other. Frodo, 
inexperienced in the practice but wise in the theory, 
caught on quickly.  
 
"So this is what they call 'making out,'" he murmured a few 
minutes later.  
 
"Aye.  You're turning out quite good at it."  
 
Though the bench was cold and hard and narrow, and though 
they were draped in layers of bulky clothes against the 
October chill, the two stayed a good half-hour there, doing 
nothing but kissing, as the fog collected in tiny droplets 
in their hair.  While Frodo was exploring Sam's mouth with 
his tongue, he was delighted but not exactly surprised to 
feel Sam's hand creep down, and squeeze between his legs.  
Frodo moaned, fumbled for the edge of his cloak, and swept 
it over his lap.  
 
"If anyone comes along," he breathed, "it would be bad 
enough if they saw us kissing.  They don't also need to see 
your hand on my...oh, that feels nice..."  
 
"You know," observed Sam, "your cloak's covering my lap 
too."  
 
"So it is," said Frodo.  He slipped a hand down, and, a 
second later, felt Sam gasp against his cheek.  
 
A few minutes after that, as both of them were twisting 
around and trying to get more comfortable, Frodo broke his 
mouth away from their kiss and suggested, "Maybe you'd like 
to come inside for a cup of tea?  Or some...lotion or 
something?"  
 
"Maybe not in that order," Sam answered.  
 
Frodo grinned.  "Let's go."  
 
* * *  
 
It was well after sunset, indeed after supper, before 
Samwise finally went home, walking away from Bag End, 
looking exhausted but happy. In two households, later that 
night, two separate computer screens lit up.  
 
FILIGOD:  Hello, Sam dear.  
SILVERTHORN:  Hi there, Mr. Frodo. :)