- Lobelia Sackville-Baggins
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My Frodo shines in the moonlight, skin the color of new snow, a purer white than the shirt that eases down from his shoulders; expensive that linen might be, but it's not near as fine or as lovely as he is. All the times I've seen him like this over the past couple of months, every time we can both sneak ourselves out of our bedrooms in the night, and the moonlight on that beautiful skin of his still makes my mouth go dry and my breath hitch like it was the first time I'd seen it. He likes to come down here to the back garden so Bilbo won't hear, where the trees give shelter and shadow. It's hard to tell sometimes, just looking at his face, what's leaf-shadow and what's hair-shadow and what's shadow-dark hair; but it's easy enough for fingertips or a loving mouth to tell those things apart, or at least to tell hair from shadow.
He always acts like he's not sure he really wants to get undressed, and maybe he isn't sure. Even in summer, that ground can be chilly, and he never thinks to bring a blanket. That hesitance always gets soothed in the end - it doesn't take as long as all that to whisper and stroke him out of his clothes - but I can't see who would ever want to rush things when they were undressing him, not with every inch of skin needing to be kissed like it does. As soon as his shirt comes off and drifts to the ground there are leaf-shadows on his skin, and so those need to be explored as well; and if during that exploration a gently stroking tongue should happen to fasten on his nipple - well, he likes that too, my Frodo does, he arches into it and gasps and whimpers, and his head falls back and spills soft, thick hair down past his shoulders. His eyes are so dark in the moonlight, heavy with a sort of drowsy desire. It's maddening. I've never wanted anyone - or anything, come to that - as much in my life as I want him with that desire in his eyes and that little half-smile on his face. It makes my heart stop in my chest sometimes, when he's finally out of his clothes and on his back in the soft grass, looking up with an expression on his face like Well? What are you waiting for? Isn't this what you want? Oh, it is. It is. So much that it hurts, because even the softest, quickest touch will make him sigh and move and make his breath quicken, will make his head tilt back and expose a soft throat made for kissing, and sometimes I can't even look at him and still keep control of myself. And it's easy to believe Mr. Bilbo's old tales of faerie rings here with the moonlight glowing from Frodo's body, because it don't seem as if hobbits have any business being as beautiful as Frodo is when he bites his lip to keep back a cry and pushes upward for more touching; and I could lose myself in his body against mine and never find my way back, I could drown in the thick silver moonlight with his limbs twined around me like one of Ulmo's children drawing shipwrecked sailors to the kingdom of the Lord of Waters. His cries are lovely, soft and urgent, too lovely to muffle with a kiss. And it's strange, because Frodo is forever dropping things and tripping over things (but just ask me if I mind when he does it near me and I can catch him tight to me just for a second, right there in front of the whole world), but even when his control starts stretching thin he moves with so much grace that it puts me in mind of columbine blossoms drifting on the breeze, still soaked with the warmth of the sun captured and held before they bloom in the twilight. I love to watch him when he comes, watch his face as he cries out, watch his muscles flex as he bucks and tenses and sobs. I love him so much that it tears me apart inside sometimes. His laugh is different somehow, nights like this, just a bit; maybe because there are sighs in it too, and soft sweet murmuring, and low cries that sound like Elvish, like music. Ah, that voice of his; it makes even simple things sound like something you could set to a tune and dance to, if there was a tune in all the world sweet enough to hold it. Simple things like Good morning, Sam. Stay for dinner, Sam. Those roses are glorious, Sam, how do you make things bloom like that? Things like Please understand, Sam, you're far too young. But I'm not too young, Mr. Frodo. I'm not. I'm almost nineteen. And I wish it was me you were with.
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