Work Text:
Ten years. In ten years, a tiny apple seed could grow into a proud tree, fruitful and lovely. Frodo gasped, arching his back even higher, drawing his knees sharply up. In ten years, a babe could become a sturdy fauntling, laughing and running free through the fields. Unconsciously, he dug his heels into the bedclothes, and, with a fervent moan, pushed down with all his strength. In ten years, rocky fields could be cleared, tilled, and made fertile and lush, until no one would remember their previous barrenness. He knew the edge was there, so close, but still he resisted, holding on to the moment, and the wild balance between desire and craving, and gratification. But he could not hold it forever, he never could, so with a choked cry, he surrendered to liquid heat, within and without, his body quivering with release until he lay under that dear weight, suddenly relaxed against him. In ten years, want could become need, as necessary as breath itself.
"Happy anniversary, me darling," came that sweet voice in his ear, as he lay, all needs satisfied for the moment, with his arms tight around all he had ever wanted.
Oh, Sam…