Title: In the Mood 

Author: Eykar 

Rating: R 

Pairings: Frodo/Sam, Arwen/Aragorn

Summary: 

Oh, movieverse Sam, of the bedroom eyes, the dry-hump hugs, the 
almost-kisses. Sam, so in love with his own newly discovered power that 
he wants to see his attractiveness forever mirrored in Frodo's endlessly 
desiring eyes. Sam who "can't kiss you; I have a girlfriend!" Sam who 
needs to grow up fast..  
Poor movieverse Frodo, deprived of all heroic qualities except willingness 
and endurance. He shouldn't also have bear endless sexual frustration.

Warnings: Sick (and love-stick) Frodo.  Het content. No happy ending. 

Disclaimer: I don't own them and I don't get paid to write about them. 

Anti-disclaimer: Get over your cheap self, New Line! You know you love 
it. 

Feedback: Please, including critical, to holdfast2004@yahoo.com 


Author's note: 

Inspired by of Solarfall's question: Why, near the end of Peter Jackson's 
The Two Towers, when Frodo declares in despair, "I can't do this," does 
Sam neither touch him nor even look at him? This is my best guess at 
what he means to hide by turning away. 

For Aragorn's earlier adventures in Gondor, read The Return of the King, 
Appendix A, pages 368 - 369 of the new paperback edition.


************************************************* 

"Well," she answered, "Daddy, don't-cha know that it's rude

To keep a lady waiting when she's in the mood." 

-- Andy Razaf (Recorded by Glenn Miller 1940) 

******************************************** 


Sam wandered in wonder under the trees of Rivendell. The roar of the falls 
blended with musical Elvish voices. The air was rich and sweet. It was 
altogether the highest, the finest, the most magical place he had ever been, 
and just being there made everything in his life seem right.  

How different were the weeks just passed, weeks of lost, weary, slogging 
through endless woods, swamps, and dangers. Sam didn't much want to 
remember even half of their perils or terrors. A few moments only drifted 
back to his mind, better in memory than they had been in life. He 
remembered huddling with the others one night around a small campfire, 
oppressed by the fear of pursuing Black Riders, listening to Strider's voice 
grow surprisingly deep and supple as he sang of the love of Beren and 
Luthien.  

Mr. Frodo's eyes had rested on Sam, and a dreamy smile had softened his 
lips. Sam -- always so shy back home in the Shire -- had turned his gaze 
back to Mr. Frodo and seen desire spread like sunrise all over his face. No 
one had ever looked at Sam that way before. Even in fear as he was, he 
had smiled back, feeling very pleased and suddenly warm in dim firelight. 
 

Well, and now Mr. Frodo was barely recovered from the wound that a 
Black Rider finally gave him. It must be past time to go see to him. As 
Sam turned back towards Lord Elrond's house, a rich, lilting Elvish voice 
called his name. He turned in wonder, and saw Lady Arwen beckoning, 
her black hair rippling, her wide eyes deep and solemn. 

"My Lady," he gulped. 

"Will you walk with me, Samwise?" she asked. 

Sam stammered consent, with awe and uneasiness, having never received, 
nor expected, attention from one of the Fair Folk.  

With few further words, she led him far into the woods, above the falls, to 
a vine-covered gazebo next to a small rushing brook. "This is my retreat," 
Lady Arwen explained, "a place for private thoughts." 

So solemn she was, and yet fair and shining. He felt the veiled power in 
those grey eyes, and the heaviness of years behind them. He remembered 
her sword at Strider's neck, when she had first met them in the forest, and 
the laughter in her voice, laughter which was not exactly happy. He 
remembered how swiftly and surely she had run her hands over Mr. Frodo 
and then effortlessly scooped him up, how high her horse had towered as 
she leapt onto its back, how she seemed to grow from her mount as a tree 
from the earth - a charging, moving tree - one now resting beneath the 
trees of her home.  

"Samwise," she said, bringing him back to the golden Rivendell afternoon, 
"Do you love your master?" 

"Of course, Lady," he insisted. How could she think otherwise? Hadn't he 
faithfully been by Mr. Frodo's side since the moment Gandalf had ordered 
him there? 

"Yet you are not now with him." 

"He's recovering now, Lady. He don't need me always fussing around 
him." 

"It is not fussing of which I speak. Although your absence may bring him 
another kind of relief." 

Sam politely suppressed a scowl. 

Arwen responded with a low trilling laugh, or a mix of laughs, like the 
voices of the creek, some low and rumbling some high and dancing.  Sam 
heard a half-hidden sadness, which touched him even as he smarted from 
her words.  

"How plainly must I speak for you?" she asked, giving him a long 
questioning look. "I have never needed to talk with one of your people 
before, although I examined your master very thoroughly." She seemed to 
reach a decision. "If you love him, why do you treat him so unkindly?" 

Sam tried to respond and found himself sputtering. 

"His Nazgul wound is healing, thanks to my father, but he bears another 
wound in his heart, one which you keep open. This brings danger on us 
all, as he has much left to accomplish." 

"But," Sam objected, in sudden distress, "but, we have brought the Ring to 
Lord Elrond. Our duty is done. Can't we go home now?" He heard his 
voice shake. 

Arwen sighed, "Ai! If only you could. If only our borders were that 
secure. I will not tell you more now, for the matter is my father's, not 
mine." She flicked a glance downstream towards the distant house, then 
turned back to Sam. "My business now is only with you, and only 
concerning you and the Ring-bearer. Do you see the way he looks at 
you?" 

Sam had been raised not to speak of such things. But it was no use lying. 
He blushed and nodded. 

"You encourage him, Samwise. I can see that you enjoy his attention. 
Your eyes draw it from him. Your embraces leave him breathless. I am 
sure that you feel it. Yet you keep pretending that nothing has happened."

"But - but I have - I mean to say, there's a lass back home that I'm meaning 
to speak to . . ." 

"Ai. That must be the one you fear to even lift your eyes to." She smiled at 
his shock. "As I told you before, I examined him thoroughly. If I were a 
skilled healer like Glorfindel, I might have been able to strengthen him. 
With my own poor gifts, it was all I could do to search out any part 
uncorrupted by the Enemy's poison." She thought a moment. "Do you 
desire your master as he does you?" 

Sam squirmed, hot with embarrassment from head to foot. Finally he 
choked, "I couldn't! There's. . . He's. . . I . . ." He gave up. 

"You do," she said, smiling sadly. "You guard your desire like a dragon its 
gold." She seemed to grow suddenly taller and grimmer. "Samwise, do 
you know how you are weakening him, on whom we all depend?" 

Stung, Sam dropped his eyes and made himself answer. "I - I never meant 
to weaken him, Lady. It's just - um - I like how he looks at me."  Sam fell 
silent.  He had never spoken so much on such a personal subject before. 


"Familiar words,”  Arwen mused sadly. "I have heard them often from my 
Elessar, during the years I have waited for him." 

"Elessar?" Sam looked up in shock. "Strider?" He had finally come to trust 
the Ranger, despite his too-many, too-changing names. Was that a 
mistake?  

"Yes, Strider is the name he gave you. But I have known him by many 
names, and have loved him many years. Do you think that my people, 
because we may live for as long as this world, know not the tormenting 
lusts of the flesh, nor the pangs of jealousy? Elessar and I pledged 
ourselves to each other when your grandfather was young. My father has 
forbidden him to me until such time as he may become King of Men. Yet 
during our many years of waiting, my father made sure that I heard of it 
every time that Elessar strengthened the bloodline of Numenor among his 
own kind." Arwen's voice was hard, her color high. 

"Poor Lady," Sam murmured aloud, his heart touched. Sam had heard 
tales of cruel kings locking up their daughters, but in those tales the 
princess' true love would always win through to her, not be out chasing 
after others. Someone should teach that Strider a lesson! 

He tried not to think of Strider with "his own kind" doing things that Sam 
had only dreamed of.  

"I endure what I must, " Arwen said, suddenly calm again. "My love told 
me, and I believe him, that it was his duty to father and fortify the 
Stewards of Gondor, and the Rangers of the north as well, as often as 
anyone looked on him with longing." She straightened and took a restless 
pace or two along the gazebo's short railing. "He called it a chance to 
prepare his own race for the coming wars, and indeed he has much 
enriched the ranks of the Rangers. Now, with war upon us the time has 
ceased for such measures.  He will be faithful, he says, and again I believe 
him, yet he will never be wholly mine.   Yet how can I complain when this 
war, should we win, is all that will allow him to me? " 

Sam tried to follow the Lady’s improper, twisting story, his face hot and 
fingers curling into fists. These sort of matters were personal, or ought to 
be.  He sneaked a longing glance towards the cool green of the woods, in 
the distant westward direction of home. For the great and high, was 
anything personal?

Lady Arwen turned swiftly to him. "Much in this war may depend on your 
master, far more than my chances of happiness. The survival, for instance, 
of your home.”

War in the Shire? Sam's spine chilled. He had to get home, to protect his 
old Gaffer! Yet if the Elves could not, how could he? Even here, within 
Rivendell's magical borders, he felt suddenly frightened and desolate. All 
that he had seen of Elves before today was beauty, serenity, power. Now 
Lady Arwen showed pains he shared: Loneliness, fear for home. She was 
counting on Mr. Frodo -- at whose side Sam's duty, and his desire, lay. If 
only the times weren't so dark and fearful, he might even be happy about 
that! 

"What should I do, Lady?"  

Arwen's eyes fixed him and drew him into her sadness. He would do 
anything to comfort her. She said, "Your master is sick with longing for 
you, Samwise Gamgee, and he needs his strength for greater tasks than 
reflecting you back to yourself. If I were a High Elvish lord like Gildor 
Inglorion, I could shape your heart after my own choosing, but I can only 
tell you that you have a choice. If you love and desire your master, you 
can treat him as you know you wish to. Or you can steel yourself to never 
again torment him, by word, or by look, or by touch, or by any other 
means, until his quest is accomplished." 

Sam shook his head, backing up from the very idea; he could never harden 
himself enough to hide all he felt. But the first choice terrified him, even 
though the Lady herself urged it, even though much might depend on it, 
even though he longed for it. "I have never. . ." he muttered, eyes stuck on 
the ground. "I don't know how . . ." The brook roared in his burning ears. 

"Samwise." 

He raised his eyes hopefully towards her. 

She reached towards him, not touching, smiling. "Neither does he. Surely 
you know this. The two of you will learn together. You will know a 
pleasure never to be mine." 

Sam gaped, and then found he no further depths of embarrassment to 
plumb. The floor beneath his feet felt solid, the opening steps of a path to 
tread. "Thank you, Lady," he said at last . 

"Will you go to him now?" Arwen asked quietly, seeming suddenly once 
again far above Sam. "Can you find your way?" 

As he walked back down the path, he heard her singing softly and 
wistfully. Without knowing the language, Sam was sure it was a song of 
love. 

************************************************ 
 
Frodo half-dozed in a chair by the window of his room in Elrond's house. 
Visiting Bilbo, his greatest exertion since arriving at Rivendell, had left 
him too exhausted to undress or go to bed. Besides, it was only 
midafternoon. The voice of the falls and the yellowing sunlight were 
pleasant - as was even the solitude. Now that Frodo's wound no longer 
burned, but only rested cold in his breast, the Elves were content to stop 
watching him constantly. But Sam, or someone, would come along soon. 

Bilbo, looking more than a little worried, had walked with him back to 
Elrond's house, but Frodo couldn't have asked Bilbo to help him to bed. It 
would be disrespectful, and too great a change between them. Bilbo had 
adopted Frodo when he was too old for innocent good night kisses, but too 
young for any other kind. They had always done their best to avoid 
awkwardness. 

A knock sounded at the door. No one ever expected Frodo to open it; 
knocking was only a concession to modesty. Since he didn't protest, in 
came someone- Sam. Frodo's heart beat a little stronger at the sight of him. 
He looked thoughtful and a little self-conscious and, as always, strong and 
sweetly desirable. Being so near him so much of the time was sometimes 
exquisite and sometimes torture. 

As soon as he entered Frodo's room, Sam was immediately worried. 
Frodo's thin face was more drawn than yesterday, the bones sharper, the 
eyes more pained. And here Sam had thought he was getting better! "Treat 
him as you wish," Lady Arwen had said. Sam wished to fatten him up. "I 
brought you some apples," he said. "Will you eat one?" 

"Too tired," Frodo apologized. After a moment he flushed and added, 
"Would you help me into bed, Sam? I can't seem to stand up without 
help." 

Flustered in a way he would not have been before, Sam muttered, "Of 
course, Mr. Frodo," and bent to put one arm around his back, as he often 
had for warmth or support during their journey. He pulled Frodo carefully 
to his feet. For a moment they clung together, which flustered Sam even 
more. Lady Arwen had warned him against just this - this "tormenting." 
He would have to say something, only his tongue betrayed him and 
wouldn't move to utter more than a brief, "Come on." 

Sam walked Frodo the few steps to the bed. Next, he'd have to help him 
off with his clothes. If he couldn't speak now, he would have to act, even 
clumsily. Quickly, softly, he kissed Frodo. Frodo's lips gasped open 
against his. Sam held him tighter and whispered, "I want to help you 
undress sometime for - for something different." 

Frodo's wide eyes lit up. "Oh, Sam, do you mean -- Do you want to -- ?"  

Sam finally found the words. "I do, and I have, and I should have said so 
before. Here, sit down, Mr. Frodo. You need to rest now. You'll need to be 
stronger before - " Sam didn't get to finish because Frodo was kissing him 
now, with lips first as tentative as his own, then bolder, and running one 
hand through his hair, while the other pulled him down onto the bed. 
Where did he get the strength? The question fleeted through Sam's mind 
but sensation overtook it. Breathing hard, he gazed down into Frodo's 
eyes.  

Frodo smoothed Sam's hair, his eyebrow, his ear, with a look of happy 
wonder at every touch. Sam' breath caught as he carefully undid a few 
buttons and let his hands wander a bit down Frodo's thin body, moon-pale 
and lily-soft, in spite of all he'd been through, but now warm and in places 
sweat-dewed. If only his ribs weren't so easy to count. 

"Mr. Frodo," Sam finally said, for there was no other way he could start, 
"we can't be doing this weak as you are. I don't want to hurt you." 

Frodo rubbed a leg against Sam's and said dreamily, "Nothing you would 
do could ever hurt me." 

"Now, we both know that's not true -" Sam found himself silenced again, 
and more aroused by the moment. With some difficulty, he pushed himself 
a few inches away and objected, "You said you were tired." 

"Oh, Sam," Frodo said tenderly and a little sadly, "did you think I would 
give you a chance to change your mind?" His hands were still warm on 
Sam's back.  

"I wouldn't!" Sam protested as Frodo's leg pressed his hip, bringing other 
places together. He should pull away. He didn't want to. "You said you 
were too tired to eat," he objected weakly. 

"Food will still be here when I wake up." 

"So will I. I promise." He cupped Frodo's face and kissed him again softly, 
just to seal it. 

Frodo's eyes burned into Sam's. He said in a low and urgent voice, 
flushing, "I want to feel you peak for me before I sleep." 

Sam heated from head to toe. "I could give you your wish right now," he 
muttered, unable to speak it fully aloud. "But - you can't stand up." 

"I don't need to. Please, love." There were soft hands somehow under 
Sam's shirt, hot kisses all over his neck. He surrendered with one last 
insistent, "Promise you'll eat something when you wake up." 

"Promise," Frodo told Sam's nipple. 

Sam's answer couldn't be put into words.

*****************************************************


"Oh, Sam, you taste like home," Frodo sighed between kisses. He was still 
too weak to leave his bed for long, and Sam wouldn't be separated from 
him, for Frodo wanted him there, and sleeping or waking, filled his arms 
very nicely.  

Merry and Pippin kept coming by and hinting at more than just kissing, 
but since that tumultuous first time, days before, Frodo hadn't the strength. 
Sam and Frodo played teasing games with fingers and feet, but stopped 
short of anything more demanding. Sam spent more time feeding Frodo 
than kissing him. When the other hobbits teased, Sam tried to smile 
mysteriously, blushed beet-red, and was often laughed at. Frodo handled it 
much better, temptingly ambiguous. 

Frodo gazed sweetly but searchingly into Sam's eyes. "You are everything 
I love about the Shire. I so hope we can return there soon and be together 
for all our lives."  

"So we may, dearest," Sam said as calmly as he could, and hugged Frodo 
to his shoulder, stroking his soft curls and breaking away from his gaze. 
His heartbeat raced thundering in his ears. Sam hadn't said one word about 
Lady Arwen's grim certainty that the quest wasn't over. It still might turn 
out not to be true. Even if it was -  

No, he couldn't be sad now. "Time for second breakfast," he announced, 
brushed a kiss over Frodo's cheek, and got up to dress and head for the 
kitchen. 

******************************************** 

It was after elevenses. Frodo flicked his pink tongue along Sam's fingers, 
removing the last traces of apple butter.  

"You have a smudge here, sir." Sam applied a spit-slick finger to Frodo's 
cheek, trying not to think too hard of where else it might fit. 

"Mmmm," Frodo agreed, grasping Sam's hand and closing his lips around 
the finger. His body was curled warmly into Sam's. He couldn't miss the 
effect he was having. 

Frodo gave Sam his hand back, looked up and turned. The movement left 
his suddenly unbuttoned nightshirt in a pool around him. Sam saw with 
surprise and a flush of pride that he was having an effect on Frodo, too. He 
asked, shyly but certain of the answer, "Is that for me?" 

"I hope so, Sam." The name was a caress. 

Sam answered with caresses of his own, more sure of himself than a few 
days before, but stopped with one hand on Frodo's trembling belly. "I don't 
know that I know how, not for certain." 

"Of course you do.  Mine likes what yours likes." Frodo lay his hand over 
Sam's. "Come on, Sam." 

Carefully but eagerly, Sam lowered his head and came on.  

Not too long after, so did Frodo, with a moan so loud he surprised himself 
and with countless sweet dissolving shudders. When his senses returned, 
Sam was kissing him again, tasting of himself. Frodo laughed. "Dearest 
Sam, you know more than you let me believe." 

"Um, I only guessed," Sam murmured, shy again, but also with pride. 
"Seeing as I do have all the same." 

"You guessed right." Frodo caught Sam's lip briefly between his teeth, and 
then added breathily, "My love, my own."  

Sam stroked Frodo's curls, as reverently as if it were their first touch ever. 
"I knew - I thought it was too late - I, " he barely whispered, "knew I was 
in love with you as soon as I thought you were gone." 

"I knew it as soon as I saw you again." 

The next kiss was as soft as if it had been their first, and as long as if it 
might be their last. 

Finally Sam thought of cleaning Frodo up. At his touch, Frodo's member 
stirred to life again. "Look," he laughed, his eyes sparkling, "it loves you, 
too." 

It hit Sam hard: He had never meant so much to anyone, not in so many 
ways. Thinking about that, and what it might come to, he felt the need of 
some strengthening. He reached around for Frodo's nightshirt, and started 
to wrap it around him, explaining, "I can't do no more without some 
luncheon." 

"Luncheon?" Frodo protested, only half-joking, and threw his arms around 
Sam. "But how can I think of food when I'm only hungry for you?" 

"You don't have to think, love," Sam chuckled, gently disentangling 
himself. "You just have to eat." 

"Tease," Frodo pouted. 

*********************************************** 

On his slow way to and from the kitchen, Sam quietly returned greetings 
from a few folk who noticed him, and fielded some of Pippin's jokes. But 
all the while it was on his mind, what Gandalf and Elrond and the other 
great folk might decide. If anything were only settled, for good or ill, Sam 
could settle down to preparing. 

Lady Arwen had been right, after all: Frodo was stronger and happier than 
before Sam first kissed him, but any fool could see that he wasn't made for 
heroism. When they'd left the Shire, Sam had expected Frodo to be the 
leader. That idea lasted less than a day. 

So Sam had taken more and more on himself, and the more he took on - 
Well, even with Strider to count on, Mr. Frodo was Sam's to care for, and 
in so many ways it fairly dizzied him, like the thought of having to sleep 
upstairs. 

Sam had slept upstairs now, more than once, and lived to tell the tale. He 
would go where else he must and do what else he must. He only wished he 
knew what that was. 

********************************************* 

Elrond and Gandalf were conferring on one of the many balconies that 
Elves preferred to closed rooms for private conversations, being certain 
that their keen eyes and ears provided more safety than any thickness of 
wall. 

"His strength returns," Elrond said, leaning over the railing and peering 
towards the woods above the falls. 

"Yet it will never be great," Gandalf said with a mild scowl. 

"We are all better off for that. Any strength can be corrupted." 

"Any weakness can be exploited." 

Elrond stopped scanning and turned to Gandalf, speaking low but 
intensely. "Weakness gives us the better chance of success. You told me 
yourself how easily Saruman fell into the Enemy's trap, and how Bilbo, 
who you once called a silly old trickster, escaped. Frodo is weaker than 
Bilbo, more frail and more foolish. His only strength is stubbornness. He 
offers the Enemy almost nothing to work with." 

"What he carries, he offers the Enemy every time he is asked!" Gandalf 
snapped. 

Elrond smiled grimly. "His friends prevent him. Their strength is his, but 
beyond his control, a strength that the Enemy can neither use nor easily 
undermine." 

Gandalf slowly lit his pipe and drew on it, eyebrows drawn together. "You 
would trust none of your own people with the burden, then?" 

Elrond drew himself up, colder, more remote. "It is not our fight, for the 
Elves' time in Middle-Earth is over. Your news made that more clear than 
ever." His shoulders sagged a bit as he added, "Nor is it the Elves' choice. 
It is not in my power to force Frodo's decision, only to allow it." 

"And allow it you will," Gandalf said, with only a little more anger than 
sadness. "Very well, I will not discourage him, at or before the council, if 
you, too, will keep your silence." 

"So I will, old friend, if I may still call you so," Elrond answered 
solemnly. 

************************************************** 

Once he was alone, Frodo did what he always did at such times: He 
opened the drawer of the bedside table and checked on It. Still there. He 
was, as always, deeply relieved -- and deeply repelled. More deeply still, 
he was drawn. 

He did not want to touch It. He ran his fingers only over the chain, the part 
that lay curled away from It. It was bright today, glowing as if fresh from 
the fire, yet he knew Its touch would be cool. 

There was a softness to It, as if It wore an invisible satin skin. He 
remembered that. He remembered as well expecting that It would leave a 
trace on his fingers, as of oil so fine it was almost water. 

He lifted the chain. As the delicate links straightened, It slid downwards 
with a slight hiss of friction. It was heavy today, pulling. 

How strange that nothing about Rivendell seemed to weaken It. No one 
ever mentioned It to Frodo, nor apparently had anyone touched It, save 
whoever first took It off his neck. Could It truly be guarded here?  

Light briefly glinted off It. Had a cloud dimmed the sun and passed? Or 
had It winked? 

If only Gandalf would tell him something! 

At the sound of the door, he hurriedly shoved It back into the drawer. 

************************************************ 

Frodo jumped out of bed, looking a startled and a bit guilty. His eyes 
seemed deeper, his lips redder. Sam could tell he'd been looking at the 
Ring again, and uselessly trying to keep it secret.  

Even here, Sam didn't feel safe speaking of it. He busied himself laying 
out and showing off all he had brought from the kitchen. Thanks to good 
old Mr. Bilbo, the Elvish cooks had learned hobbit tastes. Sam had been to 
the springhouse for cheese, butter, milk, and the small remains of last 
night's joint, which he could just see Merry forcing Pippin to leave for 
Frodo. He had broiled up some mushrooms, fetched some raised rolls and 
an apple pie, which were free for the taking, as the Elves had turned out to 
be very good bakers, and filched some crystal ginger from the spice shelf. 
The very act of collecting all that food made him feel more like himself. 

Since the sheets were changed daily, there was no need to be careful of 
them.  The two hobbits laid out all the food as a picnic, using the table 
only to stack used dishes, and ended up eating bits of ginger off each 
other's tongues. Frodo wriggled easily out of his nightshirt and started 
unlacing Sam's Elvish tunic.  

Sam lay back, pleasantly full, enjoying Frodo's light touch on his chest 
and belly, and the occasional tingling brush of footfur against his bent leg. 
How much better Frodo looked with even a little meat on his bones! When 
he got as far as Sam's trouser laces, Sam eagerly helped, taking time to pet 
the slight swell of Frodo's belly, which, at least right after eating, was 
starting to look like a hobbit's again. Frodo moaned softly and straddled 
him. That alone might have satisfied Sam in an instant, but he didn't want 
to be selfish. 

"I'd so like to feel you inside me," Frodo whispered. 

"Now, Mr. Frodo, you know I'd never fit!" Not that Sam hadn't wondered 
about what sounds and shudders he might gain by trying. 

"Mmmm, it is nice and thick." Frodo pumped it a couple of times to 
illustrate.  

Now it was Sam's turn to moan and arch. Frodo tightened his warm two-
handed grip with a wicked smile. "I'll have you in some part of me," he 
said, flushing.  

"Not for long," Sam panted, for his body's rhythm was taking over, and 
soon Frodo gasped along with him as he spurted all over them both. 

"Oh, now, Frodo dear, that were cheating," he murmured happily as Frodo 
slid lithely down into his arms. 

"Here, taste." Frodo held a sticky hand to Sam's lips.  

Sam took his time nibbling and licking all the way down Frodo's arm, to 
his chest, and finally reached the delicate skin of his throat, leaving a few 
tiny purpling bruises and feeling quite pleased with the way Frodo 
squeaked and squirmed against him. Frodo's satiny skin drew Sam's hands, 
pulling them down his body, and his member firmed up against Sam's 
thigh as Sam's fingers played carefully on Frodo's softest, most secret skin. 
 

Twice in one day, Sam thought happily, looking forward to the taste, when 
Frodo panted, "Sam, I want you inside me." His eyes were even deeper, 
and firey, his mouth wine-red. Sam couldn't stop himself from drinking.  

Frodo wound around him, broke the kiss, and hissed, "Please, Sam, I can’t 
wait much longer." 

"You might take a finger," Sam said uncertainly. 

"Oh, I might!"  

Sam had vague notions of Elvish massage oil, but what was closest was 
melting butter, so melting butter was what he used. It took a bit of figuring 
out, how to slip his mouth around Frodo, while tenderly pushing into him, 
all the while distracted by hands gripping his hair and a sweat-slick leg 
around his shoulder. At last he felt a deep loosening around his finger and 
almost at the same moment Frodo peaked with a cry that Lady Arwen 
herself must have heard. 

This time Frodo was truly spent, lying passive with glowing eyes as Sam 
put him properly to bed. Sam might have been good for another go, but he 
would have to see to himself later. Under the blankets, Frodo nestled 
sleepily against Sam's shoulder. "Oh, Sam, you are so good to me!" 

"And you are everything to me," Sam said quietly, as Frodo dropped off to 
sleep. There were others he loved back home in the Shire - his Gaffer, his 
sisters and brothers. There was Rosie Cotton, too, although he'd always 
been frightened to let her know and now had no idea what he might say to 
her - but he had given them all up to go with Frodo. His heart ached at the 
knowledge that he might never see them again, yet he would not turn back 
now if the offer were made. 

Frodo, without waking, murmured something inaudible and curled, 
burrowing against Sam. 

Poor, sweet, brave Frodo, trying to do what he just wasn't fit for. He was 
made for a life of ease and pleasure. He had neither the strength nor sense 
for the quest that was thrust on him, but he was determined, Sam had to 
give him that. 

If Lady Arwen turned out right, and Frodo had to go on, it would be up to 
Sam to see him succeed. It would be up to Sam to keep his silence. *I'll 
never let you know what I think of you, because I love you so for trying. 
You'll give your all, and so must I. Be she right or wrong, if we ever get 
home, I'll spend all my life making sure nothing terrible ever happens to 
you again.*