West of the Moon

A Tolkien Fanfiction Archive



Enough Rope
Tug-of-war and sex.
Author: Cassiopeia
Rating: NC-17


This story was written for the hobbit_smut Livejournal Community "Games Hobbits Play" Challenge.



"PIPPIN! No!" Frodo looked at the younger, copper-haired hobbit with all the shock he could muster.

"Oh, why not, Frodo? It's so boring here," Pippin said sulkily. "I'm sure if you asked them nicely..."

"Can you really imagine Gandalf doing that...or Legolas?" Frodo picked up a grape and dropped it into his mouth. "And Aragorn? He's the king, for goodness' sake."

Pippin stretched out his long legs and leaned back in the chair. He kicked the table with his toes, rattling the cups of tea and crocks of butter and toast and bowl of green grapes. The morning was dawning bright and fair in Minas Tirith: birds were going about their usual business of singing, and the sun was beginning to pour its warm rays through the windows of the house they shared.

The house was one of the few to sustain little damage in the battle. Frodo had been pleased that he could enjoy the time following his great task with his close friends, who he had thought he'd never see again. He and Sam shared a bedroom next to Merry and Pippin's; Gandalf had his own room, while Legolas and Gimli shared a pretty little room at the back of the house. For the moment, Frodo and Pippin were alone. Sam and Merry had gone to collect some milk and eggs and other vittles, Gandalf had gone to consult with King Aragorn (as usual) and Gimli and Legolas were still sleeping (at least, that's what they said; others had different opinions.)

"Ask Sam." Pippin's voice had begun to take on a sly tone that Frodo was thoroughly used to and rather sick of. "I'm sure he'd like it."

"Why," Frodo asked, mild as milk, "would Sam 'like it'?"

"Hmmm." Pippin placed a finger on his mouth, tapping it oh-so-thoughtfully. "Your backside will be pressed against Sam's -- or the other way around, you'll be doing quite a bit of tugging, we'll most likely fall in a heap... What's not to like about that?"

"You are going to be the death of me, Peregrin Took!" laughed Frodo, amused. "Sam and I don't need a silly game, I'll let you know. We're perfectly content by ourselves."

"But it's fun..." whined Pippin. "Don't you remember playing at Brandy Hall?"

Frodo shuddered. "A little too well. Nobody wanted a skinny, pale hobbit on their team; I was always the last to be chosen. And when some poor sod felt sorry for me and picked me, my team always lost, and I'd end up covered with mud from foot-fur to head."

"We're not at Brandy Hall now, Frodo, we're in Minas Tirith," Pippin pointed out intelligently.

"Thank you, Pip, I would have never known otherwise." Frodo delicately took a sip of his tea. "Besides," he put down his cup and waggled his fingers, "I can't because of this." The stump was perfectly healed, but it caused him trouble now and then. It had taken Frodo a week or so to learn how to write legibly.

"Pish," Pippin snorted derisively. "Don't be a baby, cousin."

"Where's all the sympathy for the Ringbearer now?" said Frodo. "When you first laid eyes on me, it was all 'Can I do this for you, Frodo? Would you like another pillow, Frodo? Do you want me to massage you feet, Frodo?'"

"Of course you have my sympathy, Frodo dear." Pippin leapt off his chair -- sending it sprawling and clattering across the tiles -- and smacked a wet, cousinly kiss on Frodo's cheek. "But you have been healing so well. And -- and I am trying to help you. Getting you involved in activities, rather than being holed up in this house all day. Please, please, please will you? I love you so much." Large, doleful, too-brown eyes assaulted Frodo's view of the world. "Please?"

Frodo relented his position, sighing in defeat. Perhaps it would be a good thing to take a break from his writing. And the Ring still leaped into his mind occasionally, in dreams and waking, like a lurking darkness waiting to embrace with its cold hug. "All right. But you have to convince Merry and Gandalf and Aragorn and Legolas. I'll speak to Sam."

Peregrin jumped up, clapping his hands together in joy. "Splendid! It will be easy for me to convince Merry -- as easy as it will be for you to convince Sam." Pippin gave a licentious wink in the vicinity of where Frodo was sitting. "Let me work on the others."


"He's in!" squealed Pippin, bursting into Frodo's room like a raging bull. Frodo looked up from his writing, cursing as the whole parchment before him was been ruined by a smear of ink streaking across the page.

"Pippin, dear," said Frodo, blotting his quill, "I'd rather not know about Legolas and Gimli right now -- actually not ever, thank you very much."

"Not Legolas and Gimli, you silly hobbit!" retorted Pippin, looking horrified. "Gandalf."

Oh. Frodo had forgotten about the morning's conversation with Pippin -- or had at least repressed it to some deep, dark pocket of his mind that housed other disturbing memories.

"Gandalf," said Frodo slowly, relishing each horrific word as it crawled off his tongue, "said yes?"

"That's what I said," Pippin answered breezily, sitting on Frodo and Sam's bed. He bounced on it a few times.

"And how did you manage that?"

"I said I'd have a talk with Elrond when we get to Rivendell, perhaps. It seems Gandalf has a little crush on him."

Frodo choked. "How do you know that?"

"Didn't you see Gandalf all over Elrond at the King's wedding? Dancing with him long into the night? Practically pouring ale down his throat in some attempt to get him so drunk he'd not remember if Gandalf gave him a long kiss goodnight?"

"No," mumbled Frodo, again thinking of that dark pocket of his mind.

"Hrmphh!" Pippin's legs swung gaily. "Shows how much attention you pay. As I recall, you and Sam had to duck to the privy an awful lot at the wedding. Which reminds me," Pippin tapped his chin thoughtfully, "I must remember to ask Sam why he managed to knock all the ladies out of the way and catch the bridal bouquet."

"Uh, yes. So, er, have you convinced anybody else to play tug-of-war?"

Pippin shrugged noncommittally. "Merry was easy enough. Emphasis on the word 'easy', dear cousin. So," he began ticking off his fingers, "that's me, Merry, you, Gandalf and Sam--"

"I haven't asked Sam yet; he's still at the market!" protested Frodo.

"He's in," said Pippin firmly. "That leaves Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli. Looks like I'll need to use my playful charm and good looks to convince them. Ta-ta, cousin." Pippin sprang from the bed and left in a flurry of arms and legs.

Frodo stared blankly at the desk.


"Do I have to?" Sam looked perplexed. "It seems a bit...silly, if you don't mind me saying."

Frodo divested Sam of his breeches. "Pippin's heart is set on it, I'm afraid."

The lid belonging to a phial of oil was breached. Oil was dripped and splashed over certain places.

"But the elves...other men -- oh, that feels good -- will be watching," Sam complained.

Something else entirely was breached.

"Oooh! Let me put...two more...oh yes, there..." Sam panted.

After a few minutes of wriggling, Frodo put himself into a receiving position. "Sam, will you?"

"I...don't...don't know..."

Something incredibly hot touched a very intimate part of Frodo. "Sam?"

"Please...need to be...inside..." Sam squirmed and lifted his hips.

"I need an answer," Frodo purred, smearing oil around Sam's hard flesh.

"Yes, yes, yes. Just let me..."

Frodo lowered himself and let Sam. He really, really hated it when Pippin was right.


Later that evening, Sam and Frodo were once again occupied in their bedroom.

"It's on!" Pippin burst in, heedless of the custom of knocking before entering somebody's bedroom.

"Ngghh?" Frodo let Sam slide down the wall and extracted his tongue from the warm, wet recess of Sam's mouth.

"Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli all said yes," Pippin exclaimed in delight.

"And how did you manage that?" Frodo asked, fumbling to pull breeches buttons through their proper holes. Sam wiped his mouth, blushing.

"Thoughtful reasoning is all," said Pippin, taking a seat on the desk's hard surface. "I told Aragorn he would appear strong and wilful to his loyal servants if he took part. Gimli was convinced when I mentioned that Legolas would get all hot and sweaty with all that straining and pulling. And Legolas wanted to show off his shiny hair and beautiful body. Simple."

"And when will all this happen, Mr. Pippin?" asked Sam, finally finding his voice. He sounded very hoarse.

"As soon as possible," replied Pippin. "I must be going now." He leapt off the desk. "Things to organise, you know. Bye-bye."

Sam looked at Frodo warily when Pippin had left. In response, Frodo pulled Sam onto the bed, tackling his handsome friend.


The day of the game dawned cloudy and misty, but by mid-afternoon, the clouds had departed and the sun shone brightly. Frodo found himself standing in a courtyard, surrounded by curious onlookers and the sound of chuckles. Sam waited patiently by Frodo's side, equally disquiet and nervous.

Aragorn, Merry, Legolas, Gandalf and Gimli were also with Sam and Frodo, conducting a conversation about who should be on which side. Pippin was nowhere to be seen.

"We must do this by weight!" grumbled Gimli. "Each team should be the same weight, or it won't be fair."

"Then there should be two hobbits on each side; they weigh about the same," intoned Gandalf, nuzzling a long, smoking pipe.

Legolas flipped his gorgeous blonde hair, haughtily. "I weigh about the same as a hobbit." He gave a twirl, showing off his body. "I'm all lithe muscle, not one ounce of fat!"

"How about Gimli and me with two hobbits, and Legolas and Gandalf with the other two?" suggested Aragorn. "That is fair, I deem."

Legolas looked at the king sceptically, as if trying to decide whether Aragorn was calling him fat or not. He probably never worked it out, because at that moment the crowd parted and through stumbled Pippin, lugging two large buckets in either hand.

"Oof! They're heavy," he complained, dumping the buckets onto the ground.

Frodo eyed the buckets' contents with suspicion. "Oh no, Pip," he exclaimed. "No, no, NO!"

"What do you mean 'no'?" asked Pippin, not one bit discouraged.

Frodo dipped one finger into a bucket. It came out wet. He dipped the same finger into the other bucket. It came out black. "Water and dirt make mud," said Frodo slowly. "Mud makes one very dirty. I don't want to be dirty."

"Mud!?" screeched Legolas, sounding horrified. "You mean I might get...get filthy?"

"Possibly," said Pippin. "But it's part of the game. You can't play tug-of-war without a big puddle of mud for the losers to fall into. It wouldn't be right."

"I -- I--" Legolas spluttered. He gestured to his perfect dark green tunic. "Do you know how much this cost? Do you?"

Gimli stepped forward. "Leggy," he said quietly, taking the elf's elbow and steering him away. Frodo caught the words "bath", "soap" and "backrub." With a sigh, Legolas stepped forward. "All right, I will take part in this silly game. But if my clothes are ruined, I will expect some sort of compensation in return."

Pippin grinned, and began to sprinkle the dirt in a large circle. When that was done to his satisfaction, he tipped the water over the dirt, stirring it with his feet. Soon there was a big, sticky, smelly, muddy mess in the middle of the courtyard.

"Rope!" called Pippin, and through the crowd dashed a young lad of about nine summers.

"Here you are, Master Hobbit," said the boy, handing Pippin a long, creamy-coloured rope.

"Thank you, Bergil," said Pippin. "Off you go to find a good spot to watch the game." The lad nodded his head and ran off.

Pippin pulled the rope through his hands. It looked silky and soft, quite like the elves' hithlain rope. Sam, indeed, was looking at the line with interest. Frodo smiled, a secret, dark smile. He had a rather good idea pertaining to the rope, and an attractive hobbit as well.

"Hoy! Hoy!" Pippin was trying to attract the crowd's wandering attention. He waved the rope around his head like a lasso, and ended up whacking himself with the soft material, which drew titters from the throng. "Ow..." Pippin rubbed his head. "Uh, I'll just explain the rules, then we'll start. Me and Merry here will be on a team with the King and Gimli, and Sam, Frodo, Gandalf and Legolas -- who is looking very fair today, ladies -- will be on the other. Each team will stand on one side of the pile of mud, and will proceed to pull on the rope till one team falls into the awaiting dirty, sloppy muck. Let the game begin!" Pippin finished with a flourish, sketching a grand gesture with his hand. The crowd whooped or laughed -- probably laughed, Frodo decided sullenly.

The four hobbits, one man, one elf, one dwarf and one smiling wizard positioned themselves accordingly. Pippin danced around, making sure everything was done just right. He had been quite involved in the tug-of-war games in Buckland, too, shouting orders and running around like an anxious hobbit organising his birthday party. In what was a welcoming move, Sam stood behind Frodo as they both held the rope. The rope was awfully velvety in Frodo's hands, and Sam pushing up against his bottom provided a fine distraction from the silliness of the event.

"Should the strongest -- that's me -- be at the front?" asked Legolas, curling a luscious piece of gold hair around his finger.

"I don't think it should matter," said Gandalf, having finally given his pipe to a man in the crowd, who was now sucking on it happily.

Legolas tapped a finger on his chin. "Yes, of course, you are right, Gandalf. Perhaps the hobbits should be separated. It may prove beneficial."

Frodo shot a look at the elf. "No, it probably won't matter," said Legolas. Relieved, Frodo sighed.

In the end, Frodo was at the front, behind him Sam, followed by Gandalf, and last of all was Legolas, who wanted to be as far from the mud as possible. On the other side of the treacherous pool of muck were Gimli, Pippin, Merry and Aragorn, in that order. Frodo quietly prayed to Elbereth that all this would be over quickly and he'd be able to -- well, the state that Sam was in proved that there was only one thing they'd be doing after all this. And it certainly wouldn't be a celebratory drink of ale with Pippin -- win or lose -- at the local inn.

With a whistle from Pippin, the game began.

Frodo pulled with all of his might, toes digging into the ground, heals scrabbling for purchase, fingers twined around the rope in desperation. Sam was grunting behind him.

"Pull! Pull!" Legolas shouted behind Frodo.

"Harder Merry!" Pippin called encouragement to his fellow team mate. "Pull!"

"I -- uh -- am, Pip!" cried Merry.

"Yes!" rumbled Gimli. "Come on, lads!"

The rope was burning Frodo's fingers, chafing, flickers of flame heating the delicate pads. His feet hurt, his arms ached, and he was hot and bothered. Behind him, Sam whispered, "Come on, Frodo-love. Just let Mr. Pippin have his fun, and then we can."

Frodo grunted in reply, shaking his head to throw off the sticky sweat from his brow. The crowd was cheering, clapping and shouting approval. Frodo bent over, his bottom pressed against Sam's front parts, and Frodo was momentarily distracted from the pain by how nice that felt. Before him, the muddy puddle loomed like a dark gathering of wickedness, so wet and dank and smelly...

Slowly, Frodo was being dragged towards that smelliness. His team was losing.

"Heave!" Legolas shrieked. "Pull!"

Frodo yanked the rope as hard as he could; he stuck his heels into the ground; he gritted his teeth and strained every muscle he could find. Moaning with a desperate tiredness, he cried with dismay as he was drawn ever closer to the mud.

"We're winning!" shrilled Pippin. "Pull! Pull!"

Bit by bit, inch by inch, Frodo's team was heading towards the muck. Bitter sweat dripped into Frodo's eyes, the rope bit into his hands; still he heaved.

"Pull!" cried Legolas. "Not the mud...not the--"

His shrieks were cut off. Slopping, cold mud curled around Frodo's toes, stuck in his foot hair. The soles of his feet became black. He was slipping and sliding in the sludge, dragged reluctantly -- despite his great effort. Mud squelched and squirted up around him; dots of dirt peppered his shirt and breeches, as if they were dusted with a fine seasoning. Sam, too, was in the mud; Frodo could hear the urgent stomp of Sam's feet as they sought to gain purchase in the viscous material.

Biting his lip, Frodo gave one last great effort. Miraculously, Pippin's team gave a little ground; Frodo took a step back. But it was momentary. Pippin rallied his side, urging encouragement. And Frodo stumbled forward and cried, for his foot slipped beneath him, and Sam gave a shout. Something struck Frodo in the back, somebody screamed, and Frodo was falling, falling face down, down... Rushing up to meet him was blackness, and stickiness, and putridness...

"Frodo? Frodo?" A concerned voice buzzed somewhere near Frodo's head.

"I'm -- all right," Frodo groaned, sitting up and rubbing his head. Wetness met his fingers. A hand brushed away the hair mashed on his brow. "Ugh, I'm covered in mud," he said in a disgusted voice.

"We all are," Sam smiled. Indeed, now that Frodo studied his lover, he could see Sam's weskit was stained with mud, his hands fairly covered in the stuff, and finger-smears of dirt streaked across his cheeks. Sam's head tilted. "'Cept Legolas. He managed to jump out of the way in time."

The elf and Gandalf were a few steps away, talking. Gandalf's fine white clothes were marbled with mud, the hem ringed with a black circle. Flecks of brown-black were spattered on his snow-coloured hair. The crowd was clapping and whistling and laughing. Frodo blushed with embarrassment. He stood up slowly and removed himself from the mud pile. Sam followed.

"Hoy! Good game, cousin!" Pippin came up and gave Frodo a pat on the back -- where there was no mud, of course.

"Thank you." Frodo gave a weak smile. "Congratulations."

Pippin beamed. "Want to come to the inn for a celebratory drink? I'll buy you an ale, for being such a good sport and all."

Frodo had to decline. The mud was rapidly drying between his toes; it would be a horror to pick out if he left it any longer. "No, thank you, Pip. I'm feeling rather awful in these dirty clothes. A soak in the bath should do me well."

Pippin winked. "Sam's dirty too, I noticed." He glanced around. "Where is Sam, by the way?"

"Here I am!" Sam came up behind them. "I was looking at this rope we used. Where'd you find it, Mr. Pippin? It's elven rope, I'd wager."

"I found it in a store room, Sam. It's not particularly interesting."

The rope fell over Sam's hands soft and light, like rainwater. "I'd like to keep it, Mr. Pippin. My Uncle Andy'd be mighty interested."

Pippin shrugged. "All right with me," he said, and went to join his winning team mates.

Sam curled the rope around his arm. He nodded to Frodo's sodden clothes. "A bath?" he asked.

"For two," promised Frodo.


Hot, steaming water nuzzled and caressed Frodo's body. He slid further into the silky warmness, dark tendrils of hair floating around his face like a halo. The water covered the top of his belly. A long shaft of sunlight fell into the small bathing room, glittering in the slightly brown water -- dirtied from the mud on Frodo's body. He sighed with a deep contentment.

"Careful," warned Sam. He came in with another piping hot bucket of water. Cautiously Sam tipped the bucket's contents into the bath, in the space between Frodo's feet. A thin ribbon of smoking water poured out from the lip of the wooden bucket, and slowly the water around Frodo heated.

"Right?" asked Sam as the stream finished.

"Perfect. Except for one thing. Samwise, will you join me?"

A flicker of a smile graced Sam's lips, and he peeled off his clothes. The bath was man-sized, which meant that it could fit two hobbits comfortably, even side by side. Which was where Sam came to rest beside Frodo, sliding down into the bath until the water began to lap at his dusky nipples.

"I'm so muddy," murmured Frodo. "I wish Pippin didn't come up with such nonsense."

"Ah, but then we wouldn't be in here right now, would we?" Sam tipped his head back, wetting his golden curls till they darkened to a dark honey-brown.

"No," agreed Frodo, and touched his mouth to Sam's, tasting the condensation formed on Sam's lips by the hot water. He sneaked in a slip of tongue into the slickness of Sam's mouth, rubbed his water-mottled body against Sam's. The response of Sam's nether regions made Frodo groan slow and long in his throat. His own shaft was hard.

"First, Sam, we should clean ourselves," said Frodo purposely, extracting himself from his lover's embrace. He produced a cloth and sweet-smelling soap from beside the bath and cleaned his chest and shoulders, working his way down to his legs. The hair on Frodo's foot had become matted, though the water had loosened some of the mud away. By massaging soap into the coarse curls, he managed to rid himself of most of the dirt. Little specks of black floated around in the bathwater. Sam watched with interest, chin on his breast, lapped by water.

"Your turn," said Frodo, handing the soap and cloth to Sam. Dismay darted across Sam's eyes before they were lowered. Sam took the cloth and rubbed it over himself; he was less muddied than Frodo, and his foot hair was not quite as dirty. It wasn't long before he was clean, though the bathwater was worse for it.

"Looks like chocolate soup," Sam commented, dumping the soap and cloth onto the tiles.

"Mmmm, chocolate." Frodo's ears were underwater, and Sam's voice was muffled. "Remind me to fetch some Gondorian chocolate later. It's delicious."

Sam wriggled very slightly beside Frodo. Frodo closed his eyes. Oh, he shouldn't, but he loved to tease dear Sam. Even since they had started lying together -- two years it had been now, starting back in the lovely land of the Shire -- Frodo had found delicious ways to tease Sam. There was nothing nasty about the teasing -- indeed Sam had confessed he quite liked being teased, and Frodo found he couldn't deny his lover very much at all. Besides, a quick glance down the lake of chocolate soup to Frodo's hips would prove what was on Frodo's mind.

But, for now, Frodo was going to play a little game. He thought about the tug-of-war, and of Pippin, and of the stretch of rope Sam had been so curious about. That, Frodo realised later, had been his downfall. Frodo's thoughts quickly meandered from the rope pulling softly over Sam's hands, to Sam's hands actually being tied together by said rope, to Frodo doing exciting things while Sam's hands were otherwise occupied by the rope. They had never done that before.

Frodo rolled over so fast the water lashed back and fell over the bath's rim. "Sam, where's the rope you brought in with you?"

"I put it on the bed. Why?"

"Noreason," Frodo mumbled. He folded his fingers over the lip of the bath and heaved himself up and out. The water rapidly cooled on his skin, drew out the heat, and he shivered. Lightly he padded to their bedroom -- luckily the bathroom adjoined it, and the house was empty -- and snatched the rope off the bedspread, and hastened back to the bathroom.

"I have rope, Sam," Frodo said quietly, pulling the pale material taut between his hands.

"Rope!" said Sam. "For what?"

"Tying you up, of course." Frodo gave the rope a few quick tugs.

"Mr. Frodo!" Sam, for the first time in months, reverted back to "mister".

"Come on, Sam. It shall be fun." Stepping forward, Frodo held out the rope. "Please?"

Sam looked a bit confused. "Here? In the bath?"

"Yes, see I can..." Frodo looped the rope around a bar of metal just above Sam's head, used to ease one's weary body from the bathtub. He pulled the knot tight. "See, and I just... Hands above your head, please." Obedient as a pet dog, Sam put his hands in the position Frodo requested. Frodo twined the rope around Sam's wrists, pulling gently till they were bound securely.

Sam wriggled; more water found the floor of the bathroom. "I'm all tied up now." Sam frowned. "This isn't part of Mr. Pippin's plans, is it, Frodo?"

"Oh, no." Frodo walked around the bathtub, slow, thoughtful. "This is my plan. Because you are delicious, Sam-dear. And I love you. And I want you very badly."

Realisation dawned in Sam's eyes. His throat moved. "I want you. Love you. Please touch me."

"Oh, I plan to." Frodo knelt down to stir the water near Sam's feet. The liquid was cooler now, but warm enough. Picking up a handful of water, he sprinkled it over Sam's calves, pitter-pattering over skin.

Sam closed his eyes. "Oh, that's nice."

Frodo cupped more water into his hand, let it rain down onto Sam's lightly furred stomach. Clear droplets slid down Sam's belly and into the bathwater. A little sigh escaped Sam's parted mouth. "Oh, that's nice..."

Kneeling, Frodo leaned over to press his mouth to the curve of Sam's lips. Frodo's fingers gripped the bath tightly. The rope pulled tight as Sam angled into the kiss. Tongues brushed and played games together. A shallow moan. The rope ground against the metal. Frodo smiled against Sam's questing mouth. "Dear, Sam, you're struggling quite a bit there."

"Hop in the bath," Sam begged. "Please."

"Not yet." Frodo drew a lazy, almost bored, finger down Sam's chest. It heaved in response. "You must promise me a few things."

"Anything." A rather pointed length of flesh had emerged from the chocolaty water, very deliciously. Despite being naked and still damp, Frodo was hot and bothered.

"First," Frodo began, "you must promise not to kiss Rosie anymore."

"I never!" Sam protested indignantly.

"You did. When you were saying goodbye to your family...before the quest. I saw you and Rosie behind an apple tree."

"She forced me!"

"Sam," Frodo said reasonably, "I know you liked it. But I would much rather I had you all to myself."

Defeat crossed Sam's face. "All right, Frodo. I reckon her and Sandyman'll get married soon enough, anyhow."

Frodo's finger was now journeying to Sam's belly button, where it paused to dip into the shadowy hollow. "And you shall come and live with me at Bag End when we return to the Shire."

"But my da--"

Frodo picked up a handful of water and dribbled it teasingly over the head of Sam's shaft. Liquid touched liquid. Sam arched his back. Some of the journeying water slipped down into the soft black curls nesting Sam's particularly fine piece of flesh, catching on the hairs like raindrops on grass.

Sam was panting. "Yes, yes, Frodo, I will! Please come in the bath."

Frodo's eyebrow arched in approval. "A fine plan, Sam. First let me warm the water; it's a little cold."

Frodo fetched a pot of water, laying it over the fire. Outside, through the window, the day was drawing to a close. Pink and purple clouds smudged the horizon, and the cool breeze gathered and flicked the curtains of the rooms opposite Frodo's. Still naked, Frodo was completely and utterly blissful. The Ring was destroyed, his lovely Sam was waiting for him to return, and he was surrounded by friends he loved, no matter what awful games they wanted to play.

A snatch of breeze tickled Frodo's skin. He looked down. His erection had quietened, but was still firm, readying to spring when he once again looked upon Sam. There was a smile on Frodo's face as the water bubbled heartedly, and he bore the heavy burden to the bathroom, careful not to splash himself.

Sam was waiting, always waiting for him. "Hullo." Sam opened one eye sleepily. Frodo poured the water into the bath in a slim thread, stirring the water near Sam's feet. After, Frodo dipped a finger into the bathwater; the temperature had risen appreciatively. Not the only thing to have risen.

"Come in," Sam begged, a foot of wet toes emerging from the dark water, wriggling.

With a fond grin, Frodo climbed into the bath, atop Sam, slippery and suddenly hot against Sam's skin. Nestling his lips against Sam's mouth, Frodo said, "Do you love me, Sam?"

"'Course. Forever. How could you think--"

"I know you do, Sam. You showed me, so many times. I do not doubt. I just like hearing it. Over and over."

"I shan't ever stop telling you then."

Fingers tracing the smooth lines of Sam's ribs, Frodo kissed Sam's mouth, then the strong column of his throat, then down his damp breast, finally resting on the bucking of his heart, swift like a pony's fast tread. "I love you," Frodo murmured, and captured Sam's mouth with his own, kissing and kissing and kissing till the want gathered and was near bursting.

Frodo breathed, "I love you--"

"Don't you leave me..."

"Never, ever."


Frodo bared his teeth on the hardness of Sam's collarbone, scraping gently, sucking. Sam let out a word which might have been ohFrodopleaseyes. Frodo flicked out his tongue, like a wavering candle's flame, to soothe Sam with wet heat. Leaning back, Frodo gazed at Sam's face. A damp curl stuck to Sam's brow; Frodo hurried it away with a finger and breathed into Sam's mouth, "Oh, you, you're lovely, my dear."

Next, Frodo concentrated on Sam's arms, raining drops of water on the hard muscles and gingery-golden curls, or stroking them with quick fingers, lovingly.

"Frodo..." The word was nearer a gasp than a word. Rope grated metal.

"Oh, yes."

With his three-fingered hand, Frodo held and stroked and worshipped Sam's erection, and they kissed and cried and tasted each other thoroughly. The rope held Sam in firm bondage, but Frodo held Sam tighter still.

"Oh, Sam...I wish to..." Beneath the water, Frodo's finger slipped underneath Sam's rounded rump, and after a few smooth, inward strokes, he breached the beautiful puckered flesh down there, because he knew that's where Sam loved to be caressed.

"Frodo, oh yes moreplease." Sam groaned and pushed up hard against him, and as Frodo's finger disappeared into darkness, light splashed across Frodo's vision, and they came together, and the darkness was lost forever.

As Frodo lay upon Sam, both of them delighting in the heady glories of post-release, he could hear the water sing and splash around them, a melodious resonance of their love. And as he looked at Sam, he saw Sam's eyes were drunk and his cheeks rosy.

Frodo smiled. "My lovely Sam. You're the true hero of my book, you know."

"No, then you'd be wrong." Sam shook his head, brushed his lips over Frodo's brow. "For without you I'm nothing, Frodo. But you and me together: well, that's more than either alone."

Frodo chuckled and took Sam's chin in his hand, kissing him deeply, and with plenty of tongue as well. "I think you're right, Sam."

They gazed at each over, utterly trusting, amazed at all that had been, and all that will be. Together and always. Their mouths joined again, slow, delicate, loving touches that sealed a promise of forever. The bathwater slowly cooled around them.

"Frodo..." said Sam at last. "My arms are beginning to hurt."

Frodo dropped a kiss onto the tip of Sam's nose and moved to untie the rope.



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