Sometimes - not often, but often enough to notice - there is a flinty flatness to Frodo's quiet stare. Like flint, it sparks, but instead of hearths and bonfires it makes Sam think of dark places and searing heat inside old mountains. Frodo's soft, kissable mouth twists up at the corners, a wider smile than his usual amused grin but not as welcoming.

It's not that he ain't himself when he's in these moods. It's still Frodo, still buried in a book or watching the flicker of the fire. But this is a Frodo whose fingers aren't gentle in their touches, whose private words for Sam and Rosie's ears aren't pleas so much as they are orders. Harder. Faster. More.

This mouth doesn't lap the tongue onto candle-lit skin, it nips with even white teeth and draws bruises up in the soft hollows of throat and wrist. Frodo watches them, watches Sam kiss Rosie's breasts, and Frodo's expression is as still as a predator's.

Later, when he comes back to himself, Frodo always seems a little frightened of himself, but Rosie and Sam do their best to keep the worries at bay. They'd never say it to him, for it's not a thing he'd like to hear, but their hearts beat a little faster on those nights when their lover's eyes are cold.

~

Pretty Good Year | email Mary