West of the Moon
A Tolkien Fanfiction Archive
Three for Breakfast
Third in the "No Ordinary Love" series. The morning after the wedding night of Rose and Sam, with, um, input from Frodo. Pretty much PWP. But they deserve it, don't you agree?
Author: Princess of Geekland
Author's Note: Thanks to Singe, whose story "Blindfold" (part of the Pretty Good Year universe, by Mary Borsellino) started me on "No Ordinary Love," and to Serai, for the excellent and thoughtful beta, as well as the oh-so-warm introduction to slash.
Frodo woke slowly, his eyes still closed, and felt warmth and the weight of bodies. Memory flooded back, prompting blissful tears to form and swim, unshed. Without moving, he let his skin tell him the truth of what was. Himself, part of a jigsaw puzzle of warm limbs.
Here was Sam's arm and firm shoulder, under his neck and ear. Frodo felt Sam's curling chest hairs tickling his nose, felt the quiet, steady rise and fall of Sam's sleeping breath. Sam's other arm was a weight on his ribs, and Frodo's arm was stretched around Sam, met by Rose's arm, coming the other direction to snuggle around Sam's middle as she pressed against his back. Frodo's legs were almost at the bottom of a pile of legs, pressed into the soft feather bed. One knee was nestled in the astonishingly warm haven of Sam's groin, the other had one of Rose's legs hooked around it.
Frodo sighed. From the way the light reddened his still-closed eyelids, it must be full morning. All he could hear was breathing, snug inside their Hill.
He had no wish to move, except to open his lips in a gentle kiss, a taste of Sam. Listening to Sam and Rose's breathing, feeling Sam's heartbeat through his skin, he thought, No dream could be as perfect as this.
Something had surrendered inside of him, in the area of his ribcage, just under his heart, some tightness, some defense no longer needed. He felt loose, flat, safe, as he had not felt since... he could not remember since when. Since before he had carried the Ring, certainly. Even in Minas Tirith, feeling as if he had come back from the dead, and, more recently, on the day his good dreams had been awakened by Rose's kisses, he had not felt this well. As if he would never have a worry again.
Frodo had no idea if the feeling would last, but he found nothing keeping him from reveling in it. It was morning in the Shire. He was home. He had seen Rose and Sam married, and he was included in their love. To have Sam again, and Rose -- like summer after winter, that he had never thought to see again. So much more than he had dreamed or deserved: Sam, and Rosie, too.
She wants me. He could hardly believe it. He had tried his best to put aside his desire for her, tried to be content with knowing that he could love her as Sam's beloved. Before their journey, their paths crossed less and less frequently as she gradually abandoned her childhood lessons and was claimed by women's work on the farm. He had watched Sam shyly court her, encouraging him all he could. He had ached for them both so long that the pain had become a familiar friend. And that last Yule before they left, he had dared to kiss her. Thank the Lady, he had given in, for once. What had seemed like weakness and failure had turned out to be, instead, the key to a triumphant bliss he had never thought would be his.
How the memory of that night and that kiss had comforted him. It was one of the last times he and Sam and Rose had been together before he and Sam had had to leave. And then somehow, beyond all possibility, he and Sam had come through the fire, fused together by their trials. I owe him everything. Everything. If the entire Shire was mine to give him, it wouldn't be all he deserves. Frodo had known with stabbing certainty that his two friends belonged together. What a home they could make, what a family they could found! But until the day Rose had stood before him with those twined flowers in her hand, he had poured all his desires and his longings into them. He was empty; they should be full. He had thought only to make them happy, to make sure they had everything good that life had to offer. He suddenly felt like laughing, like a sparkling flash of sunlight had come to rest in his heart. They both had had something very different in mind than his proper plans. Sam's love he had finally, unworthily, been able to accept. But now he had Rose, too. Strong, beautiful Rose. Relief and joy washed over him again. The fall would come -- October with its cold nightmares, the endless cold winter that seemed to start in his shoulder and spread its message of death outward from there. But now it was summer, and he was surrounded by skin as warm as meadow clover at noon, buzzing with bees, sweeter than honey.
He sighed, felt a niggling need to stretch, and to visit the chamber pot, but he did not want to get up or even move. Not one bit. He kept his eyes resolutely closed.
Rose decided for him. He felt her fingers stroke his arm, heard her yawn. He squeezed her forearm, slid his hand down to tickle her palm to tell her he was awake.
"I'm hungry," she said softly. "I wonder what time it is."
"Who cares?" murmured Sam. Frodo heard the voice rumble against his cheek as much as in his ear, and he chuckled.
Sam took a deep breath and snuggled Frodo closer. Rose rolled closer too, sliding her hand up Frodo's arm as far as she could, stroking the skin, running curious fingers around the knife scar. Frodo finally opened his eyes, tilted his head back to see her smiling at him over Sam's side.
"Good morning," she said.
"Good morning, Mistress Gamgee," he said. And Frodo laughed, for the sheer joy, ridiculousness and impossibility of it all. His thought was an echo: Great glory and splendor -- All my wishes have come true.
"I hate to get up," Rose said, "But I want some tea." She raised on her elbow, leaned precariously over Sam to kiss Frodo, then pressed a kiss to Sam's ear and tousled his hair.
As she slid off the bed, Frodo watched the curves of her breast and ribcage stretch and turn in the morning light, and admired her back with its web of muscles. She stepped towards the wardrobe, and the door creaked as she rummaged inside. She pulled out her robe and disappeared.
Frodo lifted his chin and kissed Sam, who still had his eyes closed but kissed him back, quite enthusiastically. Then Frodo slid away himself. Not bothering to dress, he went down the hall to the bath chamber, pausing only to find his white gem on the floor and hang the chain on the wardrobe's knob on his way out.
He returned wearing his dressing gown, hanging open and unbelted. He carried a mug of water to offer Sam, and found him lying on his back, staring at the carved ceiling beams, arms folded behind his head. Frodo watched him for a moment. The familiar face was as relaxed as Frodo had ever seen it. Sam met his gaze.
Sam said, "You know, I feel home now, more than ever. And I thought I was home before."
He got out of bed, took the mug and drank, set it on the end table and folded Frodo close, his arms sliding easily inside Frodo's robe. Frodo pressed against him, in simple enjoyment of the familiar warmth, the friendliness of Sam's dear skin.
Sam pulled his velvet breeches back on; they were impractical, but at hand. Frodo waited for him, smiling a little at the melted heaps of beeswax under all the candelabra, and followed Sam down the hall to the kitchen.
The kettle was on the fire, but Frodo did not see Rose. Then he felt the touch of cool, moving air, and rounded the corner past the pantries to see her standing in the open back door, wrapped in a robe, looking at the morning glories and the sunshine. When she heard them, she turned her head and Frodo could see the happy tears on her cheeks.
She stepped back into the kitchen and pulled him close, reached for Sam. They stood there, locked in a circle of arms, until the kettle boiled. Fortified by the strong tea and feeling little need to talk, they made breakfast, deftly getting out of each other's way. Rose fried sausage and scrambled eggs, Frodo sliced the cheese, and Sam the bread for toast, and the other jobs divided up as if by magic. The pantry was crammed with gifts of food and leftovers from the wedding feast, enough for ten breakfasts.
Frodo sat across from Sam and Rose, and when he could spare a moment's thought from his eggs and jam and strawberries and sausage, he found himself gazing at Rose, thinking again of what he had learned in the night. He reached across the table to stroke her arm, and she caught his hand to her mouth, kissed the palm and the gap where his finger used to be. He squeezed her hand.
"I didn't know, Rose, that you had waited for us...That Sam was your first."
Still holding his hand, she leaned her head against Sam's shoulder, smiling. Sam pressed a kiss to the side of her head.
Rose said, "Well, in a manner of speaking, you know. Lasses have to worry about the babies coming before the wedding, so we're careful. Surely you remember the games to be played that don't risk that."
"Yes, and if I forget, Sam can demonstrate, with your help, of course."
They all laughed.
Rose said, "We all had our share of tween games, I imagine. But it's a sweet thing, to be thinking of welcoming a child, instead of worrying about it."
They were all quiet, smiling and thinking of the children that would surely come. Eventually, Frodo sighed over his full stomach and looked at the two sitting across from him in the bright kitchen, Rose's shoulder against Sam's bare one.
Rose smiled at Frodo and turned to Sam. "Now it's time to go back to bed."
Sam glanced at Frodo.
"You'll not get any argument from me, my dears," Frodo chuckled.
Rose teasingly reassured Sam, "I think, just this once, we can leave the washing up for later."
"It's only the first of many rules we'll break," Sam said, kissing her.
This time Frodo led the way down the hall. But then, struck again by the unexpectedness of it all and feeling suddenly a bit shy, he pulled the sheet up as he shed his dressing gown and slid into bed. Sam was climbing into bed from the other side, but instead of following him, Rose had settled into the chair they had set for Frodo the night before. She kept trying to control the grin that wanted to stretch her lips, and stifle her excited laughter.
Sam had slid to the middle of the bed, close against Frodo.
"Oho! Your turn to watch, is it, wife?"
She didn't answer, only nodded, still trying and failing to repress a grin.
Frodo's eyes widened as Sam snuggled to a comfortable spot in the pillow and pulled Frodo close. Without hurry, he began to kiss Frodo's cheek, moving around to his jaw, his temple, his ear. Frodo caught his breath, but as his head turned he caught sight of Rose, watching, and a wave of that chilly shyness swept over him.
"Rose, I can't. Come on. Come over here," he said apologetically, leaning toward her, stretching out his hand.
She immediately crawled onto the bed, letting her robe trail off her shoulders as she did, stretching across Sam's legs to hug Frodo.
As Sam stroked her back, she kissed Frodo's cheek, his lips.
She said, "I'm very hungry for seeing you together; I don't know why. I've thought about it so much, I guess."
"Not from so far away. It makes me awkward, somehow."
"This is better, love?"
She slid under the sheet with him, slid across him to curl against his back, leaning on her elbow to meet Sam's eyes over Frodo's shoulder. She ducked her head, nuzzled Frodo's neck. He sighed, content, and reached back to caress her. With her skin against his, somehow he didn't mind that she was watching. Certainly he had enjoyed watching them.
Sam pressed against him once more, his hot breath on Frodo's ear. Then Frodo felt his tongue gently tracing the delicate edge, around the tip and nibbling toward the lobe. Warmth swept through Frodo and pushed aside the chill shyness as quickly as a grass fire.
Frodo whimpered and Sam snuggled closer. Frodo could feel him already hard against his thigh. Sam kissed and nipped at Frodo's ear and then kissed slowly down his neck to his shoulder. Frodo lay back, tangled his hand in Sam's hair, his eyes closed, and felt another set of lips press a kiss to the scar on his left shoulder. A soft hand feathered its way down his side.
Frodo was melting, the food making him sleepy, the sensations of skin on skin transporting him to a floating realm outside time, where all that could be done was rest, sink and let these sounds, these moans and gasps, trail out of his mouth to be caught by Rose's lips. He could feel her pressed against his side as Sam's hot mouth continued down, lingering on his nipple, making him flinch and gasp.
He heard a whisper of laughter from Rose as she shifted and there was her mouth, mirroring Sam's on the other side, on the other nipple, and the doubled sensation made Frodo arch his back and moan. He bit his lip.
This attention to both his nipples went on for an excruciating amount of time, as Frodo grew harder and harder and began to leak and then feel that he would have to demand, right away, that some one lend a hand and touch him. Not that he wanted to complain or seem too greedy, but his hips were writhing and he had one hand in Sam's hair and the other over his head, scrabbling at the headboard, and then Sam took pity on him and moved his mouth slowly downward.
Each rib got a kiss. Rosie lifted her head to watch as Sam's hand, rough where Rose's was soft, found Frodo's thigh, and he buried his face in the curling hair for a moment, kissing the crease where leg met groin, then took Frodo in his mouth.
Frodo began to breathe in deep gasps. He opened his eyes and thought of the tengwar, of the names of all the items they had had for breakfast, of the exact names of the flowers planted in the window boxes, the Sindarin names, if possible, because he didn't want this to stop, and he needed a serious distraction.
Here was one. Rose, her cheeks flushed, bent to kiss his mouth.
"Oh my," she said, and kissed him again, and he knew it was no distraction. It was too late, his tongue sliding into her mouth, his fingers finding her nipples, the impossibly soft, warm skin curving back from them, and he couldn't help it, couldn't stop it. He moaned into her mouth and came, and he wrapped his arms around her neck and kept moaning as the last spurts followed the first flood into Sam's mouth.
The world was gone, was nothing but the tea and jam taste of Rose's mouth, the spent warmth between his legs, cradled by Sam's hand, now so gentle and slow, and he opened his eyes. They were both watching him, heat and love in their eyes.
Hard as it was to move, he did, wanting to thank Sam, to show him, to give him -- to show Rose -- oh, no words for it at all but he had to move, had to slide his way down Sam's body, his heart still hammering from the climax. Sam was leaning on his elbow, all the beautiful, golden front of him turned toward Frodo, and as Frodo moved down to put his lips against Sam's wet tip, he felt Rose again at his back and knew she watched.
He didn't care a bit anymore and he closed his eyes and slid one arm around Sam, the other hand between his thighs, and tasted Sam's cock, took as much of it in as he could, tongued it, his hand playing between Sam's legs, his other arm urging Sam closer.
It wasn't long before Sam was moaning, though the sound was muffled. Perhaps Rose was kissing him, but Frodo didn't look, only tasted Sam, feasted on Sam, loved the feel of him filling his mouth, and then Sam began to quiver and Frodo knew he was holding back the thrusts of his hips by an enormous effort of will. Frodo went on enjoying him, until he moaned again and came, hot and salty and the best dessert Frodo could have imagined.
Frodo sighed, relaxing against Sam's legs, hugging him, feeling his lover's breathing slow and the beautiful tension drain out of him. Then Rose was touching his hair, burying her fingers in it. Frodo rolled onto his back and looked at her, upside down, and an upside down kiss was his reward, as she tasted the remains of Sam's climax in his mouth.
"Frodo-love, now we have to think of something to do for her," Sam said, not yet entirely in control of his voice or his muscles.
"That we must." Frodo was grinning up at Rose and sat up, turned and hugged her, loving the feel of her breasts against his chest, her warm mouth, her blue eyes bright with passion. He kissed her several times, feeling Sam's hand on his back, and then put his mouth to her ear. "Is this real? Are we really here?"
"Yes, I think so," she said, laughing at him, and he took her by the shoulders and eased her down between him and Sam.
Their eyes met over her neck, and they smiled as Rose sighed and shifted. Sam and Frodo leaned together for a long kiss. Then with nothing more than a raised eyebrow and a tilt of his head, Frodo indicated where he was going to start, and Sam, holding back a giggle, slid around her to start at her feet.
"It will be ... like ... a very... slow ... race," Frodo said, between kisses to Rose's forehead and ear. "A race ... to meet ... in the ... middle."
Sam won. But then, he had only the arches of her feet, the lovely curve of calf and thigh to contend with. Frodo had rather more ground to cover, and he wasted any lead he might have had by giving much too much attention to the round, firm breasts, sagging a little to each side, the crinkling nipples that reminded him of nothing so much as her name, to say nothing of the interesting way her stomach curved toward her navel. Yes, Frodo got lost, and Sam won.
Poor Frodo felt rather at loose ends as Sam continued kissing and licking and stroking between Rose's legs in the warmest, wettest corners he could find, his head pillowed on her thigh. So Frodo found an appropriate job for himself when he saw that Rose's moans, her hips by turns pressing into the feather bed and lifting off of it, were making Sam quite hard again.
Not that it was fair to distract Sam, of course, but he found he wanted, needed to have that salty, hot taste in his mouth again. And soon Sam's moans were joined to Rose's. But Frodo, eyes closed and engrossed, felt warm hands sliding up his legs, long curls tickling his thighs as Rose bent at the waist to complete the circle. Frodo thought he would melt as she took him into her warm mouth, her lips and his tender skin humming together as Sam made her moan.
And it was another kind of race then, all of them lost in the divided sensations of lips and lips and fingers and cock.....Rose gave up first, Frodo felt it, as she gasped around him, the gasps coming faster, and finally she had to pull her mouth away, replaced by a kind hand as she writhed and moaned and came, with Sam following her, so hard in Frodo's mouth as Frodo smiled and stayed with Sam until he was spent. And in just a moment, as Frodo slid his head away from Sam's thigh, he felt Rose's mouth again, amazed and grateful that she wanted to help him finish. At the end, when he was arching into her mouth, gasping himself, he felt Sam's lips on his neck, Sam's teeth on his ear, and Rose's hands slid up his stomach. He heard her moaning, too, but then he could hear nothing but the blood beating in his ears and feel nothing but the waves of ecstasy following her hands up his body.
When the waves died away, Frodo took a deep breath and turned his head, reaching to find Sam. Rose was tangled in their legs, her head on his hip. He searched blindly for her face with his fingers, and she pressed a kiss to his hand.
"I love you." Frodo said it first, but soon the sun-washed room was full of soft echoes of those words, those words and three names, one after the other, like one of the old rounds that starts in one place and winds itself into the hearts of all listeners before fading into silence.
Frodo felt himself drifting awake, thinking of sunlight on ripples, the sound of a waterfall -- a scrap of dream blending into the white daylight filling the room.
"Mmmm," he said. Rose slid up the bed between them, curling into Frodo, her head tucked under his chin. His arms slid around her. Sam stirred just enough to spoon against her back.
"It's nice in the middle," Rose murmured. "You'll have to try it, Frodo."
"I suppose I shall."
When they woke again, it was time for lunch.
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