#samdo

Well, you look like yourself But you're somebody else Only it ain't on the surface

Sam is in love with frodo. I could talk about all the sines, and stuff but mine book is in portuguese and im not gonna translate. 

mine real point come to the fact that everybody thinks that people that are in love can not be friends, they can be friends. Its a real thin that sam can be in love with frodo and don’t whant to be with him in a romantic way. 

it’s because they’re guys that it’s immediately platonic (which is another whole issue that im not going to be getting into) we have plenty of platonic male friendships in media, the reason why people ship so many of them is that we’re often queerbaited (not the case w LOTR but still) with no follow through, and since we don’t have enough representation we make our own via fanon. im sick and tired of the same “but you saying you ship x and x means you’re objectifying male friendships and solidifying that to be intimate with someone means it has to be romantic!” i see where you’re coming from but look around, the media is full of strong male friendships now more than ever. the problem does not lie with starved queer fans who have to make their own representation in popular media. it lies w the large companies that refuse to give the queer community enough content to accurately represent their interests in media, forcing them to turn towards strong platonic ( or ‘platonic’ in some queerbait-ish content) friendships and create their own little niche.

so either give us strong, platonic friendships between male and female characters (which is WAY more rare than friendships between men), or give us one (1) mlm ship in a show that isn’t all about coming out/coming of age/discovering your sexuality that the masses of ravenous queer folk can focus on.

(based on this Tumblr post)

Their pitiful fire had finally winked out of existence, reduced to nothing but faintly smouldering coals that offered no real heat unless one was to shove their hands straight into the ashes. The barren lands around them were just as devoid of heat, jagged rock and unyielding stone laying exposed to the unfriendly sky like bleached bones, merely the echo of a land once living.

The night had grown bitterly cold, the ground offering no comfort nor promise of lingering warmth from the day. Not a ray of precious sunlight had touched these lands to heat the hard rock and gritty soil in a long age, leaving only oily weeds and the rare skeleton of an ancient tree, all signs of life long since leached from their weathered trunks. All that was left was an empty husk of what had once been good and full of all manner of creatures.

Frodo could feel the light being squeezed from within him, just as it had been from the land.  With every heavy step they took towards Mordor, the Ring whispered to him. Frodo had begun to feel like a beast carrying a great load, marching knowingly onwards to his own slaughter. A bitter taste arose in Frodo’s mouth, anger and fear and desire clouding his thoughts the closer they came to Mordor’s black lands. He wanted to be free of the yolk that the Ring had become. Not for the first nor last time, Frodo wished more than anything that the Ring had not come to him, yet he knew now that he would never be able to part from it while there was strength yet in his limbs.

It was like two sides to a coin, the desire to own the One Ring of power, to keep it as his and hurt anyone who were to try and take it from him. And yet, at the same time he wished just as violently that it would be cast away from him, into the hands of some other poor unlucky soul who could march it to the fires of Mount Doom while he and Sam could go home. Home, to the green fields and bright brooks of the Shire, far from the smoke and ash of Mordor.

A violent shiver wracked Frodo’s body at the mere thought of the dark lands they were all too steadily approaching. Or, that they hoped to approach. It had been nearly two days, or as near to two days as one could figure in the sunless land, and the two hobbits had been travelling in circles.

“Mr. Frodo?” Frodo started at the familiar voice, sitting up to turn towards his companion. “What is it Sam?” he answered, swallowing down the bitter taste as best he could, the feeling laying coiled in his chest like a snake ready to rear its ugly head.

“You’re shivering something awful. I’ve got plenty a’ warmth left in my limbs yet, you take my cloak an’ layer it up there.” Frodo smiled at the hobbit, a gentler look in his eyes than had been there but a moment ago. The stout hobbit had been shivering himself, but hastily had put on the guise of warmth for the sake of his friend.

“Oh Sam,” Frodo said softly, gazing at Sam with a warm sort of affection in his eyes. “And what will you use to keep you warm then? You keep your cloak, I’ll be alright.” he wrapped the elvish fabric around himself tighter, as if to prove his point. They had faced worse than the threat of a long, cold night in the wilderness. Surely he could endure one night.

It doesn’t have to be so cold though, a little voice told him, Frodo’s eyes flicking towards the place where Sam lay. Sam wouldn’t mind it. Frodo was horrified by his own train of thought. He knew Sam would do anything for him, had done everything for him without a word of complaint. How could Frodo ask something like that of him knowing no matter what Sam truly felt, he would say yes? He closed his eyes forcefully, hand reaching to his neck to clutch the heavy weight of the Ring as was his habit. It was cool to touch, and weighed heavily in his grasp. An icy cloud began to form in his thoughts as he held it.

He was startled from his daze by the voice of Sam, its tone tentative and uncertain. “There’d be no right sense in letting us both freeze Mr. Frodo. We could… well we could share our cloaks, if you’d be alright with it.” The gardener blushed red as a beet, warm brown eyes darting anywhere around the pitiful campsite but Frodo’s face. “I- I hope I’m not crossin’ no line there sir, it’s just that you look so cold an’-”

Frodo cut him off there, nodding silently while unpinning his cloak to hide his own steadily reddening face. It was just to stay warm. They had done the same during the cold nights braving the mountains, this was no different. Except it felt different. More intimate in a way, just the two of them huddled together against the long dark of the night. Intimacy with Sam (his Sam, as his mind wanted to say) was something he found himself… craving. And it made him feel dirtier than he felt after long months trudging through the wilds of the world.

They awkwardly moved close together, layering their cloaks and curling into each other to keep all appendages underneath the fabric as best they could.

There was silence for a good long while, neither of their breathing slowing down into sleep. Sam had tentatively wrapped his arms around Frodo’s thin frame, pulling him close to his body, like the dark-haired hobbit was something precious and fragile. In the space where the Ring occupied Frodo’s chest, Sam’s heart beat steadily, the reassuring thrum a welcome change of background noise from the constant ill-whisperings of the Ring. And then a realization struck him, a thought so out of place in those dark lands that it caught him by surprise.

Frodo felt safe.

Even here in the very shadow of Mordor, where they were separated from the Fellowship in unknown and hostile lands, without even a path to follow. Even here, he felt safe, so long as Sam was near. At the realization, unexpected tears sprung to his eyes, his shoulders shaking with a sudden emotion that he could not explain nor control.

“Frodo?” Sam adjusted his arms, loosening his warm hold to prop himself up on an elbow, his other arm resting lightly on Frodo’s side. “Is it the Ring?”

Frodo sat up for the second time that night, tears so dangerously close to spilling that he was afraid to blink should they fall. “No Sam it… it’s nothing.” How could he explain to Sam what he was feeling? Here he was, so close to Frodo, so good and pure and whole. Frodo was broken, already he could feel the conflict inside of himself. He was not the carefree hobbit that had left Bag End, nor did he expect that he ever would be again. There was something dark inside of himself now. Something that came from the Ring, yes… but perhaps something that was all his, and only just now starting to come to light. It was a fear that plagued Frodo’s thoughts in the shadows of the night. Sam did not deserve a friend such as himself, far less something- something more.

And Frodo would never be something more. Would never let himself be something more, would never initiate something with Sam that he knew the gardener might not turn down only because he loved Frodo enough to do anything for him- despite a lack of truly reciprocating the feelings.

“Pardon me for prying sir but it doesn’t seem like nothin’ to me now.” Sam’s face was stricken with concern. He pushed himself off of his forearm, coming to sit up so that he was eye to eye with Frodo. The gentlehobbit had been quiet for too long a pause, his normally pale skin flushed even more colorless in the scattered moonlight. Frodo’s side of the double-cloak had slipped from his shoulders when he had sat up, and he was now once more shivering.

Sam reached out to touch him, to bring him back down to the warmth of their shared makeshift bed, but the other hobbit flinched. At this Sam pulled back, a crescendo of emotions passing over his face before his features settled on just one: hurt.

“I’m sorry Mr. Frodo, if I said something out of line. I weren’t trying to pry or nothin’ I ‘as only worried about you.”

There was a heavy pause, before Frodo began to answer. “I’m sorry too, Sam. I know you were only worried about me, you- you’re honorable, and loyal.” He paused, taking a shuddering breath before he continued. “And I don’t deserve to have a companion such as you.” Much less, something more. His heart ached, or perhaps it was only the wound in his chest, it was hard to separate the pains that he had sustained on this quest. “And you deserve far better than me, Sam. I’m sorry to have brought you so far from home, from the Shire. It was selfish.”

How could he ever forgive himself, if he ruined Sam? If the other hobbit never got the chance to return to the Shire, to marry Rosie or some other like her, to start a life of his own away from Bag End and Frodo and everything to do with the Ring? He could not. Frodo had begun to understand that he would not be returning from this quest, that either the Ring or Mordor would consume him in the end. He could perhaps accept that fate, however dark it might be, if he knew that his friends- his Sam- would live their own lives happily.

He might be leading Sam to his death. Dear, sweet Sam, swallowed by the Black Gates, never to return to the green hills and cozy holes of their homeland. And at this, at last, the tears began to fall, hot in contrast to his cool cheeks.

“No, no Mr. Frodo. How could you be sayin’ something like that?” Sam reached for Frodo once again, this time his rough hands encompassing Frodo’s smaller ones. His thumbs rubbed gentle circles into the dirt-smudged skin, Sam’s eyes alight with a depth of feeling that still startled Frodo from time to time. He was reminded how much this gentle gardener from Hobbiton had hidden underneath the surface. Frodo had not known it, had not had the chance to know it, before this quest. Now he wondered how foolish he had been, to not have seen it before.

“You are the bravest, the most selfless hobbit I know. There ain’t hardly anyone else that’d come this far, Mr. Frodo. Carryin’ that thing you have around your neck. The rest ‘a the Fellowship couldn’t do it, couldn’t even be around it.” Sam’s words were strong, full of certainty and something else that Frodo couldn’t quite make out. He let go of one of Frodo’s hands, reaching up to rest his palm on Frodo’s cheek, pushing past dark curls to cup his face gently. Frodo found himself leaning into the touch despite himself, still shaking from a combination of the cold and repressed tears

Gently , Sam guided them both down, covering them back up with their makeshift blankets. His hand still held Frodo’s face, brushing away the tears as fast as they came. The two hobbits faced each other in the night, eyes blown wide to see in the darkness.

“Sam, you don’t understand what I’ve become. I’m not the same hobbit I was when I left the Shire, and I don’t think I can ever go back. I’ve changed, Sam. I-I have thoughts… feelings that I shouldn't.” The admittance weighed heavily in the air between them.

Sam’s expression was near unreadable, his eyes searching Frodo’s face for something that Frodo did not know if he wanted the gardener to find or not. Finally, he spoke.

“I don’t care, Mr. Frodo. I love you scars or no.” He said softly, shyly, his face flushing red beyond what could be explained away by the harsh cold. “Different or no.” He continued haltingly. “I don’t care if you’re changed now. You’re still my Mr. Frodo, an’ I’d still follow you till the end willingly.” Sam murmured, gaze falling from Frodo’s eyes while his ears burned a brighter red than Frodo thought possible for a hobbit.

Frodo’s heart beat fast enough to burst in his chest, his eyes fixated on Sam’s lips, chapped and red and right there. He wondered what they would feel like against his own, then immediately shut the thought away, along with his eyes.

This was Sam he was thinking about like that, Sam. Sam the sweet, gentle gardener who tended to his flowers and offered Frodo the news of the Shire, who loved Rosie Cotton, who had wanted to settle down with a family of his own and had followed Frodo because he was just like that, loyal and brave and steadfast. When he opened his eyes, he found Sam staring intently at him with a look on his face that he had never seen the gentle hobbit give anyone before.

“Frodo…” he breathed, leaning in to touch their foreheads together. Their lips were so close now, unbearably close. “I meant it. I don’t care. I love you, whether or no.”

And with that, Sam bridged the gap between their lips. The kiss was gentle, Sam’s hand cupping Frodo’s face still while the other searched for Frodo’s in the dark under the cloaks, finding it and lacing their fingers together. When they parted, Frodo breathless and hungry for more, Sam’s cheeks were as wet as Frodo’s own had been moments before.

“Oh Sam,” Frodo’s voice broke, barely above a whisper. He surged forwards and crushed their lips together with far more urgency.

They continued in the dark, kissing and feeling and hungering until they finally came to rest under the starless sky. Frodo lay curled into Sam’s chest, an arm wrapped around his waist, the other clutching the front of Sam’s shirt loosely. Sam held the pale hobbit close, chin resting in a crown of dark curls as his eyelids fluttered shut. There they slept till morning, warm in the others’ embrace.

Safe in each others’ arms, even while under the shadow of Mordor.