Title: Triangle Author: Diamond ( juweldom@yahoo.com ) Rating: NC-17 Pairing: Sam/Frodo/Rose Warnings: Graphic Sex, Threesome, Het content Summary: When Rose discovers Sam and Frodo's relationship, things become a lot more tangled in this love triangle . . . Disclaimer: The characters are Tolkien's; Rosie's thoughts are mine. :D Feedback: Yes please! My first fanfic, slash story Story Notes: As others have said, Rose always seemed to be thrown in at the last moment, and yet we must accept that Sam not only marries her but has 13 children wit her! I'v tried to stay true to events in ROTK and the appendixes in working to explain what must have been a very complicated relationship. Triangle Rosie had never considered Sam very well experienced in the ways of love—after all, growing up he’d hardly ever even asked her to dance, much less fool around behind the Old Mill. He’d blushed to his toes when he’d asked her to marry him, and she’d just assumed she’d have to be the one to lead him on their wedding night. He had surprised her. Behind his bashful country bred manners, he was a passionate (and most surprising of all, *dominating*) lover in bed. She loved his rough hands, his tender brown eyes, his strong sure lips—she was the luckiest girl in Hobbiton to be married to him. He was such a loyal soul too, taking care of both her and Frodo in the cozy hobbit hole at Bag End. She did wonder, however, how he had come to be such an experienced lover, especially given that no girl she had ever asked had shared so much as a stolen kiss with him . . . . ***** It was the spring of 1420, a scarce two weeks after the glorious wedding that had been held under the blossoms of the young mallorn tree in the Party field; flowers that only now very slowly were beginning to drop, filling the air with a fragrance of honey and spice. Rosie stooped to pick up the dishes left from elevensies; she grinned as Sam leaned in for a quick peck on the cheek and a wink; Frodo on the other side of the table was busy at his book again, writing away and ignoring the fact that his shirt sleeve was stained with ink. Sam noticed the ink about the same time as Rosie. “Master Frodo, you’ve got your sleeve again—here, let me get you a fresh shirt,” He said, rising and licking the last vestiges of strawberry cream from his thumb—the strawberries were absolutely the best Rosie had ever tasted this season, all thanks to Sam, as she liked to tell anybody who asked. “Sam, you’ve got strawberry all over your hands-here I can get Master Frodo’s shirt,” she offered, wiping her hands on her apron and heading towards the closet in Frodo’s room. Sam gave her a mischievous look, and the next thing she knew they were both racing to the room to get it first, laughing as they jostled each other in the narrow hallways. Sam picked her up as they got to the bedroom and set her down behind him so that he was able to reach the wardrobe first, but Rosie managed to yank the shirt from his hands before he could leave a trace of strawberry on it. They walked back to the kitchen arm in arm, as giddy as tweenies. “Here, Frodo, let me launder that one and you can wear a clean one,” she said, helping Frodo to stand and quickly removing his suspenders—they were dressed very casually this morning as there were no official mayoral duties for him to attend today, and the weather had turned rather warm despite the open windows. He let her remove the shirt and shrugged into the fresh one, his gaze turned inward. She’d been warned not to brush either of the scars. They pained him a great deal. Once he was buttoned up, he returned to his notes, hardly glancing at either of them, his brow furrowed. Rosie had heard much of the story of what had happened to Sam, Frodo, Merry and Pippin—in particular the hurts that Frodo had suffered and why it was so important for Sam and her to take care of him, but she had to wonder at his standoffish attitude sometimes. He was beautiful, like a porcelain doll with his ivory skin, but just as lifeless and cold now, since the journey. She was grateful the experience had not marred Sam to the same extent. Sam was watching Frodo, a shadow of fear and concern crossing his face. He looked up to Rosie, and she could tell he was going to ask her for a favor, for his eyes became those soulful puppy dog eyes that had first melted her heart years and years ago. She crossed her arms and waited. “Rosie, I know we were going to meet with your brother and sister-in-law for a picnic, but I think Mr. Frodo here needs rest . . . do you think perhaps you could stand in for us? I’ll make it up to you—I promise,” Sam asked, taking one of her hands in his and rubbing it gently, in a way he surely knew made her stomach do odd little flip flops. He was good. Oh, everyone thought him a bit on a dull side. Rosie knew better. He also knew she had to go—her sister-in-law didn’t know how to mix the dyes right from the spring flower harvests—as the daughter of the Cotton family Rosie knew everything there was to know about cloth and dyeing—it was why she insisted on grabbing Frodo’s shirt while the ink was still wet. Much easier to clean that way. The picnic today was simply a reward for her help at their little hole down on the other side of New Row. She couldn’t wave it off. Putting on what she hoped was her best pout, she wagged a finger at Sam. “You *will* owe me.” Then she smiled. “Tonight, perhaps. “ With a good flounce of her skirts to punctuate her statement, she went to get her straw bonnet and basket waiting in the foyer. Once she was well down the road and away from the possibility of Sam watching out for her, (that was one thing she always had to keep in mind about shy types like Sam—he loved to watch her, secretly, protectively; she doubted he ever missed watching her come and go from the house), she let the frown show on the outside where it belonged. Frodo had been her friend before his leaving, but now he was not the same person, and it irked her. Even more irksome was Sam’s loyalty to him. She understood that he needed care, that he had done a great deed, but there was some tension in the air in their home; a tension very out of place for a newlywed couple. Would she always have to step aside for Frodo? ***** ***** Dyeing took far less time than Rosie had figured on, thanks to some additional help from an unexpected appearance by Aunt Brown—her mum’s sis. It was hardly afternoon when they had lunch out by the apple orchard—amazing that so many trees had been uprooted, replanted, and were doing so well this year. Rosie sat beside her aunt and Lily her brother’s wife, chatting about the wedding and how things were getting on at Frodo’s place. “I heard that Molly Proudfoot is expecting! And her being married not a month now, and leastwise having their new home only up this fortnight! It’s a wonder, it tis—like the green earth is agiving her blessings up hundredfold this year,” Lily announced, sucking the flesh out of a ripe tomato and wiggling her toes in the thick green grass. “Any possibility you might be expecting yet, Rosie dear?” Aunt Brown asked in a sly voice—she was a gossip known thrice over near Bywater. Rosie choked on her lemonade. “Not possible yet—just had a moon cycle last week,” she managed to get out around her coughs. Trust her aunt to bring up delicate matters. “Tis the season, tis the season—you’ll have beautiful hobbits, just like your mother,” Aunt Brown went on, and thankfully turned to other matters such as the plans for a big midsummer’s day festival and a few other weddings she’d been invited to over the past few weeks. She had a point; love was certainly in the air. Now she was more eager than ever to get home, so after only half filling herself with pie and custard (shocking, really!), she begged leave to depart early (to the expectant arms of her husband, Aunt Brown had to chime in to her dismay), and as the little belltower down in the marketplace called out the second hour after midday, she took her basket and made the walk back up New Row, noting with pride the handiwork of her husband in every garden and every tree shooting up from the ground to replace the lost splendor. She’d surprise Sam—he wouldn’t be expecting her until 4 bells at the soonest. Frodo would no doubt be sleeping as he often did in the afternoons, and she could grab Sam and take a little tumble in their wing of the house. Then maybe a nice walk—Sam loved to tell her the secrets of growing each species of flower and she in turn loved to tell him which would produce colors that stayed true—it was a little game of theirs. Best of all, they could be free of Frodo for a bit. As she drew close she took care not to make any sound—it was another game of hers to see if she could come upon the house without Sam noticing her—not that she’d ever been successful yet, but she liked a good challenge. As she drew close, an odd noise brought her up short. She listened hard for a moment, as the sound was coming from somewhere on the other side of the house, through what must be an open window—soft, breathy noises, a thump, a moan. . . . The earth seemed to fall away from her feet. That was Sam! Those were *his* noises, and she knew them well enough now to know exactly what he was doing—and not with her! A sob nearly escaped her lips; she clamped a hand over them to keep them still, though her heart and her eyes were burning with inexpressible rage and loss. Who was she? How long? Rosie staggered around the hill towards the window towards what had been designated as Sam and her bedroom, blinking away moisture as it threatened to cloud her vision and clutching her mouth to keep from screaming, but as she approached the open window it was obvious it was not the source of the noises; in fact as she peered in, the room was empty. She continued silently walking through the grass around the hobbit hole, the sun now perilously bright above her, threatening to throw her shadows into the windows if she wasn’t careful, the flowers threatening to crack under her feet and reveal her presence. The sounds were coming from Mr. *Frodo’s* room?! Some of the rage dropped away, replaced by bewilderment. Perhaps she had been mistaken; maybe it was Frodo she was hearing and not Sam at all. This would be a pleasant turn of events, actually, if Frodo had taken a lover—‘twould do him a world of good, and perhaps lessen his dependency on Sam . . . She reached Frodo’s window. Huddled beneath the sill in a bed of high lavender and heather, she wrestled with the thought of peeking in, possibly exposing herself and in the process getting an eyeful of something she wasn’t sure she wanted to see. She breathed deeply, trying to dispel the awful churning in her stomach; her hands were shaking. “Ah, that’s it, love, just like that!” Sam’s voice. Her heart stopped. “So good—so good to me!” *Frodo’s* voice?! Horrified, Rosie slowly stood, clutching at the round smooth sill of the window, and peered in open-mouthed. Sam’s broad bare back was easiest to see; he was on top, and playing ram. Frodo was beneath him, also turned the other way, thankfully, his dark head buried into his pillows in a tangle of curls, his hands clutching at the bed posts as the two of them rocked back and forth. What probably surprised Rosie the most was the amount of caressing Sam favored Frodo with, down his pale slender legs, up his back, with a tender nipping kiss behind his ear. Her heart was pounding so hard it was a wonder they didn’t glance around to look at her. Her hand was still clamped over her mouth—and a good thing too; she was beginning to pant almost as much as they. Her womanhood was betraying her—far from being sickened by the whole thing, she was aching with a sudden desire to join them. She almost couldn’t blame Sam—Frodo *wa*s as pretty as any maid, and the thought of lying with him had crossed her mind a time or or a dozen. Her breasts were pushed up against the window now as she leaned in for a better view, and they longed to be free of her bodice. She bit back a moan as Sam cried out in pleasure, rubbing herself against the grassy side of the hobbit hole and the window. Her hand had left her mouth to travel southwards. “Oh Frodo, oh that’s it, I’m coming!” Sam leaned forward, the muscles in his ass and down his legs flexing oh so beautifully, and Frodo reared up against him, grabbing at his thighs, his head thrown back against Sam’s shoulder as the two contrived to kiss at the same time as spilling their seed. Frodo moaned, shaking his head, and Rosie had to dive for the cover of the lavenders underneath the window for fear that he would open those periwinkle eyes just a slit and see her. Thus it was as they finished she could not see the looks of fulfillment on their faces, but she could imagine it and did, as their ragged breathing began to calm. She heard one or both of them collapse onto the bed; she was writhing now in want and need, but no satisfaction would she find. “Sam, thank you—you always know when I need you most.” “I love you. I will always love you, till the ends of the earth; you know that.” And just as suddenly the desire was gone, and a hot tear fell down Rosie’s cheek at the depth of emotion expressed in those words. He *had* gone to the ends of the earth for Frodo; he had left her alone for almost a year. She suspected if forced to choose she knew which one Sam would stay with. She was still getting to know him really; he was only just now starting to really open up with her and be comfortable enough to share all of himself with her—or so she’d thought. But again thanks to his shyness—with ladies only, apparently!—they didn’t yet have the depth of friendship she’d hoped they would develop over years of marriage. He and Frodo had been friends since childhood, when Frodo came to Bag End and Bilbo. It didn’t matter how long they’d been intimate, for it had to be far far longer than time she had spent with Sam. How could she compete with that? Lost in her misery, she stayed beneath the window, hidden in the grass and lavender for close to an hour. In the bedroom she heard the two talk of times past, chuckling over some prank Merry or Pippin had played on Sam once before he’d grown close to them—apparently around the time of Bilbo’s disappearance. They talked about Rivendell, Lothlorien—names of places she knew next to nothing about, and would probably never see. Over and over Sam tried to draw out answers from Frodo about his condition—was he in any pain today? Rosie noticed she was conspicuously absent from the conversation, almost as if they were avoiding the subject of her. Finally they got dressed and by the sounds of it made the bed, making it clear with one statement: “she’ll be home soon,” that this had all been planned when Sam got her out of the house this morning. She clenched her teeth, glaring at a little ‘tater bug crawling up her leg, and with a satisfying crunch, she crushed it. She’d be having a little chat with Sam on the ‘morrow. Finally when all was quiet in the bedroom, she stood, dusted off the lavender, grass and heather from her hair and skirts (if he asked, she would tell Sam her brother had tried to wrestle her at the picnic—he’d seen her do that a time or two), and very carefully made her way back to the front, ducking under every window. Her basket was still at the gate, fallen over to one side. She picked it up. It felt much heavier than when she had carried it here. Everything felt heavy. Especially her heart. “Rosie! You’re back!” Sam opened the door and walked out and she barely had time to school her features from heartache to a hopefully passable smile as he swept her off her feet in an embrace. Was it all an act, or did he really love her as well? Deception seemed so foreign to that face of his; she was still trying to fathom how it was possible. “You missed me?” she asked, and she knew her voice sounded a little petulant, but she couldn’t keep all the emotion tucked away. In the study she caught a glimpse of Frodo, glancing at them from his writing desk with a little half smile on his face. Well of course he was smiling. She forced herself to concentrate only on Sam. Sam set her down and helped her put away the leftovers in the basket, and his warm brown eyes were as open and inviting as ever. “Well o’course I did—you know I really did want to come with you, but I think the rest here did Mr. Frodo good—you can see he’s gained his color back now.” “Mm hmm,” was all Rosie could say to that. She decided to test just how far Sam wanted to go with this. “I’m home a little bit early—I was hoping you and I could go for a walk down the lane, maybe retire early . . . if you know what I mean . . .” She caught him glancing at Frodo. “Well-er-sure, I think that would be lovely, though you must be tired after the picnic. I’m sure I can help you relax later this evening,” he grinned, blushing, and put his hands on her shoulders to softly knead them. Even though she was ready to slap him, she couldn’t help but feel a hot rush of expectation at the thought. How did he do this? She was more impressed with each passing moment. Since she’d asked for the walk (despite the fact she really was rather tired now), Rosie smiled and tried to act happy and gay as Sam got his walking stick and led her down the pathway, pointing out the newly blossoming plants in every garden. How she managed to keep her smile and her laughter during the walk, she could never afterwards recall, but it was perhaps the longest afternoon she ever had to endure. Later that evening, under his strong skilled hands massaging the whole of her back, she fell asleep, undoubtedly just as he’d intended, so she never did get to learn if he’d been ready to perform again after his previous show. **** By the next morning she was in deep confusion about the whole thing. His attitude towards her seemed genuine; he hung on her every word just like a hobbit deeply in love, and he’d even tried to get her into a tickling match as she dressed, demonstrating most effectively by the bulge in his trousers that he was fully ready to participate in anything she had a mind for, at her request. He seemed so sad when she politely refused that she almost told him then about the previous afternoon, but she wasn’t quite ready yet. There was still some investigating she wanted to do. Today Sam had duties inspecting the harvests and mediating disputes on the prices of various goods—something that really Frodo should be doing as mayor, but Sam knew a bit more about this aspect of the job and of course would not allow Frodo to be in the middle of any disagreements (which occasionally happened when no one could settle on a price), so he’d been taking the role every market day. He’d be gone until the evening meal, while Rosie stayed behind to care for Frodo. A perfect opportunity to ask him a few questions. It was impossible (not to mention impolite) to bother Frodo at his study; there was a great literary work he was writing with an almost frantic need, as if trying to expunge something from him, get it over with. Therefore Rosie quietly did chores around the house, trying to form her words, and only at lunch did she dare speak. “Sam loves you, doesn’t he.” There, let him answer to that in whatever fashion he chose. Something about her tone made him pause between bites. He pierced her with those crystalline eyes of his, pinning her to her seat. There was a power about him that no hobbit liked to speak of; he made everyone uncomfortable in the rare occasions he went out. She had all but forgotten about it herself, until now. “Yes, he does. It bothers you,” he replied, and it was not a question but a challenge, as if he guessed the twinges of her heart. For all his delicate fine limbs and elfin face, he could intimidate far beyond his small stature. But she was not an easily cowed lass. “Yes, I have to confess sometimes it does—it’s something I don’t understand, though he’s tried to tell me of your tale, Master Frodo. I support his loyalty to you, and I don’t feel it a burden to care for you; we’ve always been friends. But this is deeper. He loves you. In more than one way. I saw that pretty clearly yesterday afternoon, when I heard an odd noise and peeked through an open window . . . “ that was all she could get out before the blood rushed to her face, but it was enough—she saw he immediately understood. He went as pale as glass; she rushed forward to support him in case he fainted, holding his fragile thin body in her arms. She was already sorry to have spoken; the look of agony on his face was tearing her apart. He whispered, “I’m so sorry—I just knew you would find out one day, but so soon . . . I should leave . . . I’ll only cause more hurt . . .” This wasn’t the reaction she’d expected at all; suddenly Sam’s love was making some sense to her. “No, I apologize—for prying and for confronting you here alone like this—I’m just very confused. After all, I’m the new one in this household—but why did he marry me if he . . “ Rosie let Frodo go as emotion threatened to engulf her instead, and ironically it was Frodo who held her when the hot tears began rolling down her face. He patted her hair, whispering in her ear, “Shh, Rosie, don’t cry. He loves you very much; he has for years, you know. It’s just he’s always felt so awkward around girls; I’ve tried to help him with that. It’s all a little muddled for me now, how it started for us, but it was based on need, mutual need. Mine mostly, these days. I think it is more loyalty than anything else for him, now that you’re here. I’m jealous of you. You bring him joy.” Amazed, she looked into his face, and it was all there to read, there in his eyes. What a funny pair they made, each jealous of the other and trying to share the same hobbit. It almost made her laugh; she saw an answering smile in his eye and for one precious moment his face lit up to the young hobbit she remembered; breathtakingly beautiful. He kissed her full on the mouth, passionately. Rosie thought it must have startled them both, for they each quickly pulled away, but not before the feel of it flooded her body, imprinted itself on her mind. She suddenly envisioned herself pulling away his clothes, taking him, imprinting herself on him in some kind of mirror to Sam’s print on him, as if that could somehow heal things between all of them, but he was already retreating, taking the rest of his lunch into the study and blushing hotly. Before he closed the door, he muttered, “I think we should talk to Sam tonight.” Rosie groaned in agreement. What a mess this was turning out to be. *** As the evening approached, Rosie paced the confines of the kitchen, making final touches on dinner—rabbit stew, one of Sam’s favorites. Frodo’s presence in the dining room was a persistent hum to her senses; what was wrong with her that she was thinking such thoughts about him—oh yes, she was probably near to her fertile days. What blasted timing. She literally jumped when Sam came through the door, swallowing in a throat gone dry and trembling all over. He gave her a brief kiss, brushing back her curls, and she fought the urge to throw her arms around him and never let go, but she just smiled at him and went to serve dinner. It didn’t take long for Sam to notice the tension in the air. Setting down his flagon of ale, he looked first to Rosie then to Frodo. “Did something happen today?” He studied Frodo’s face in particular. “Are you feeling poorly, Mr. Frodo?” He looked back to Rosie, by his face ready to grill her for answers. “I’m fine, Sam. Go ahead and eat. It can wait until afterwards,” Frodo said in a quiet voice, holding Sam in his gaze in a flash of emotion that made Rosie’s stomach lurch. She could barely touch her own plate. Sam frowned but continued eating. They ate in silence a moment before Rosie had to speak up; growing up with three brothers, silence was too foreign to her, “Frodo and I were discussing today about some tension we’ve had between us.” Sam gave up all pretense of eating. His face looked grave, as if he’d guessed the trouble. “And? Are things better now?” He looked from one to the other, as if unsure which to focus on. Frodo looked down at his plate, and Rosie wasn’t sure of it with that pale skin, but she thought he might actually be blushing. She answered for him, trying not to think of their kiss. “Perhaps. I think we learned a little about each other. That was good.” She was flushed herself, and her hands were still shaking; she hid them under the table. “Oh?” Sam said, and his gaze now turned suspicious—Rosie could hear the wheels churning—oh dear, he didn’t think she’d actually—did he? “I told her you’ve loved her for years. She was just feeling a little uncertain of herself,” Frodo explained, fingering the white gem he always wore on a chain, most often when something pained him, Rosie had noticed. She smiled at his rescue. The tension broke, and Sam let out a sigh. “Ah, well that* was* good of you, Master Frodo. And upon my soul it’s true, Rosie. I know I don’t express myself too well at times, but don’t you never doubt it. You’re my wife, and I don’t make light of a thing like that. You are my light.” Rosie swallowed past the lump in her throat, blinking to dispel tears that threatened. So he did love her. Their marriage wasn’t a lie. So now she just had to figure out some way to make things right between all of them. Rosie chewed her lip, wavering over how to tell him what she knew. “Something else is wrong.” Sam leaned forward, cupping her cheek in one rough callused hand. “I saw you,” she whispered. The room had turned stiflingly hot; her face was burning as she saw again those hands, caressing Frodo up and down his torso, his legs . . . and damn the heat that was gathering in her own thighs! His face was blank; she forced herself to go on, “Yesterday, in Frodo’s bedroom, I saw through the window—you and—” Like Frodo, Sam paled, but his skin was too ruddy, and just as soon as he’d lost blood to his face it came rushing back, until he was redder than a bushel of beets. His mouth was working, but nothing was coming out. She loved his mouth, his wonderful generous mouth—oh gods she could see how torn he was, how horrified at her discovery. Everything seemed to come into place for her; at last she knew her heart. The confusion was gone. “It’s all right—I didn’t understand when I first saw you, but I think I do now,” she rushed to explain, catching hold of him in a fierce embrace. She did the only thing she could to get rid of the stricken look on his face; she kissed him, deeply, trying to show him that she wasn’t upset with him any more, that she accepted this part of him too, plunging her tongue into the wet heat of him. He groaned, almost in pain, clutching at her. Of course an instant later she thought of Frodo watching. Opening her eyes she saw him try to flee, a loss in his eyes she recognized only too well. Sam noticed too, and together they went to him and pulled him into the embrace, first Sam kissing him, just as deeply as Rosie had kissed Sam, then the second he pulled back Rosie kissed him too, first tenderly on each eyelid, then very gently on the mouth, not trying to inspire passion, not yet, just letting him know he was part of her circle now too. She in turn had to pull back when he insisted on more, darting his tongue between her lips in a most pleasant shock. Against her leg he was hard. She wanted to make sure of one thing before anyone proceeded further. “Now you don’t love me, Mr. Frodo, surely.” He smiled, pure joy, as Sam nuzzled his ear while at the same time rubbing Rosie’s back up and down in long smooth strokes with his gardener hands. “I can’t love any woman, truly. But I think I love you, because of Sam. You’re the other half of his heart.” He half closed his eyes as Sam continued his ministrations, and Rosie wondered where Sam’s other hand was, for he’d pulled her over against him instead and she could no longer feel Frodo. She smirked. “Yes, that’s it, isn’t it? That’s what I feel too,” she said and leaned in to kiss Frodo again, exploring him this time, while Sam’s hand on her back sent shivers down her. She reached over a hand to each’s behind and gave a playful squeeze. They both moaned, which brought a responding groan from her. Sam raised his head, cheeks rosy and his breathing coming out in soft pants. “I don’t know how this happened, but I’m so happy it did. I can’t choose between you two.” “Should we all go to our room? It has the largest bed,” Rosie suggested, for her legs weren’t going to hold her up much longer, and she really wanted to continue her explorations. Sam looked at her, some doubt clouding his eyes, so she added, “We can at least try it together. If it doesn’t work we can always go back to taking turns with you.” Frodo leaned over and whispered something into Sam’s ear; Sam laughed, his eyes lighting up. “Never?! Well we must fix that, sir!” Sam blushed as he regarded her. “If it’s all right with you. A hobbit should enjoy at least one time with a lass.” If the heat grew any worse beneath her skirts, she was going to catch fire. She nodded, looking only at Sam. This wasn’t going to change her feelings; it was still him she loved most. The next thing she knew Sam had grabbed both their hands, and they were racing to the bedroom. Once the coverlet had been thrown back and they were all on, there began a mad tug of war to remove garments. Sam concentrated on Rosie’s stays—he was the most experienced at that, though Rosie chuckled when she heard a lace snap. She focused on Frodo; the tie between them was still so new, and she wanted to see him, both the beauty and the scars. It only took a moment to remove his shirt and trousers while Sam struggled to get her out of her dress and petticoats; Frodo was hard at work on the buttons of Sam’s waistcoat and before long the three of them were naked and free to touch one another. Up close, closer than she’d ever been to him, she could see all the damage that had been done to Frodo Baggins; whip scars down one side and along his back, an ugly scar from what must have been the stabbing over his breast, and two pale nubs on one shoulder—she shivered recalling Sam’s tale of the horrible Shelob. If other hobbits had seen just a glimpse of this, there would be no more snide remarks about odd Mr. Baggins. If they ever spoke harshly of him again, she would box their ears. He seemed ashamed of his body, so she hurried to lay hands to it, enjoying the silky feel of his stomach, up his arms, down his legs—his shaft was nice too, long and slender like the rest of him. He sighed when she cupped him in her hand and bent to kiss it. It was a little hard to concentrate—Sam was suckling her breasts, massaging the insides of her thighs, making her feel sure that he loved her more than ever. Just as she was really getting a good taste of Frodo’s member Sam lost patience and rolled her on her back to plunge his head between her legs. She swooned for a moment, then found Frodo hadn’t missed a beat and was now on top of her as well, offering himself for her to continue. She did so gladly, taking as much of him down her throat as she could. When Sam made her come she had to stop, which was probably just as well, Frodo’s body was now covered in a fine sheen of sweat and he slid down the length of her to position himself at her entrance—Sam’s head must still be around there, she thought, but she didn’t know what he was doing, then Frodo was entering her and she didn’t care. Long slow strokes at first, as he tested the feel of her. “It’s so soft, slippery,” Frodo said in wonder. Sam stretched out beside Rosie and began caressing them both, working first one’s nipples, then the other, then each mouth, and she tried to fondle him, but he pushed her hand away. “The Gaffer always said patience is the best path,” he whispered, “I just want to enjoy the sight of both of you.” Rosie let herself be carried along by sensation, guiding Frodo to hit the sweetest spots and gasping in delight at the things Sam did to him to both stretch out their time and enhance his pleasure— it really was beautiful watching them, the contrast of pale and smooth against rough sun-burned skin. She felt her second wave coming over her and clutched at both of them to tell them. Sam licked one finger and put his hand over Frodo’s white cheeks, and whatever he did must’ve been wonderful, for Frodo’s eyes rolled back and he heaved into her, gasping and bucking as he came. She held fast to him and cried out; but as soon as her senses returned she reached out to Sam and hugged him hard, telling him with her eyes that it was still him that mattered; this was only physical. Now it was Sam’s turn. She thought Frodo would rest a moment, but either he had greater stamina than his thin body expressed, or greater will. He took position on Sam’s other side, across from her, making love with his mouth to every part of Sam he could reach. Rosie tasted his nipples—she’d watched him nibble on Frodo’s and he’d seemed to like it. There was obviously more to this male loving than she knew about; she was dying to learn. She considered helping Frodo with Sam’s cock—large even by generous hobbit standards—but he was going at things a little too greedily, so she satisfied herself with Sam’s mouth, neck, shoulders, arms, down to the tips of his fingers and back up to his mouth again. It wasn’t long however, before Sam’s dominant sexual nature—quite the opposite of his nature out of bed—decided to reassert itself. He reared up and flipped Frodo onto his back and pulled Rosie up against him to insert a finger into her, rubbing over and into her until she was panting with renewed need. Licking his lips, he gave her a questioning look. “Can I, and him—do what you saw earlier? Would it bother you?” It was still odd to her, but she was fast getting used to the idea. “Go ahead; I’ll watch this time,” she answered, twirling her fingers in his sandy brown curls. What he did next quite startled her—he used her wetness to lubricate Frodo. Then in he plunged; obviously they were both used to this, for Frodo seemed to have no discomfort whatsoever, but like a maiden grabbed for him, wrapping his slim muscular legs around Sam’s plump bottom. They moved together in a steady rhythm, and Rosie hesitated, wondering how she should fit in. Well there was one cock out in the open—coming nicely back to life by the look of it, but surely it could use some help . . . she bent her head to tongue it and Sam obliged her by positioning them so that he kneeled upright while Frodo lay prone, giving her plenty of room to work. At first all of them moved slow and easy, but the pace seemed to increase of its own accord, until Sam was quite pounding away, sweating great drops down his temple. Frodo reached blindly to caress anyone and everyone, rolling his head side to side, his curls damp. Rosie was as turned on as they, but she needed just a little help going over the edge; Sam thoughtfully provided her the solution with a rough squarish finger sliding over her . . . She wasn’t sure who went first, but it seemed to snowball after that, until they were all spent and trembling in each other’s arms. About the only thing Sam managed to do was get up to blow out the candles, then the three of then cuddled and fell asleep. *** They spent a few months together like that, freely loving together all at once, before it became obvious that Rosie was pregnant. There was something of a silent question between them, which wasn’t fully answered until little Elanor was about six months old, when it became obvious that her permanent eye color would be blue, a deep blue not found in either Sam nor Rosie’s families. Rosie hoped it wasn’t that which finally made Frodo decide to leave—neither she nor Sam had any ill feelings about it; how could they when Elanor was such a sweet-tempered and beautiful little thing? Elfin, that’s how everyone described her, but luckily they never really noticed the similarity in looks. In her heart, she knew there was much more to his leaving than Elanor—his wounds continued to trouble him, despite the best of Sam and her care. He became more and more fragile, like fine lead crystal, and when Rosie saw the anguish his condition caused Sam she just wanted to scream and hurl something at the awful creature who had forged that Ring and done this to dear Frodo. All she could do was keep strong her half of Sam’s heart and give him the strength to continue. Finally he left, taking Sam on one last journey. She waited in silence, wondering now how Sam was going to choose, now that their circle was being cracked open and split apart. Thank the heavens for Elanor; if Sam left her at least she would have one precious gift of their love . . . Sam opened the door and Rosie held him close, burying her face against his broad shoulders a moment, overcome. She set him down in his favorite chair with Elanor, and looking over Elanor’s head deep into his eyes, she whispered, “He will always be here with us.” In her heart, she could not help but rejoice. He had chosen her. *** The End.