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On their last night before entering Mordor, Frodo hummed a tune he heard from a techno-goth band in Bree, and gazed at the sleeping Samwise. Sam's nose ring glistened in the moonlight and his tatoos shimmered like a woman's ass. Frodo reached down and took a drop of spit from Sam's mouth and tasted it. It was sweet, faintly tasting of pipeweed. What am I doing, he thought, tasting hobbit spit when we are about to enter Mordor. Tomorrow, they might be captured by Orcs and slowly tortured, their blood drained, their skin flayed and roasted and fed back to them. But tonight they had only each other, and Sam looked so very beautiful and perfect in the night. He crept up from the stuffed Elf head he was using as a pillow, and slowly reached his hand into Sam's breeches...