Fic repost.

[danachan.livejournal.com]

Title: Five Things that Probably Never Happened in Frodo Baggins' Bed: Part One: Linens
Author: danachan
Rating: R
Characters: Rosie/Marigold, Frodo/Rosie/Marigold
Warnings: Femslash, sexual content, het but not really, cheerful pwp
Word Count: 3,135
Summary: Rosie distracts Marigold from her chores at Bag End. But Frodo doesn't mind too terribly much.
Author's Notes: This is just a repost of a story that first was posted on the_danamark. It is the first of a five things, but I will not be posting the pther chapters here - this is the only one that contains content appropriate for the community. *grin* Also, this is for sophinisba, as ever.


'Not here, Rosie!'

When Marigold tries to shrug Rosie off, Rosie sticks to her like wet linen. Her arms are wrapped tight about Marigold's waist, and her mouth is slow, somewhat damp, and thoughtful, as it kisses its way down Marigold's throat. But she's more thoughtful, then, though Marigold can hear the teasing smile in her voice, when her mouth draws back a breath, 'Where ought we, then?', and she hears that warm against her ear.

Marigold shudders, as it's not the feel that she's disliking, only the timing and the place. So, she presses hard to control her voice, though she's more than certain as she speaks, 'Back in your own bed, or in mine if you're not for waiting, if my old Dad's still out with Sam as he ought to be', that Rosie can hear the faint tremor of her voice.

And Rosie pleads, with Mr Frodo's room warm about them, sunlight at their feet, and the bed only half-made. 'Oh, but Marigold – ', and Rosie gives a squeeze, only to pull back and work at the tie of Marigold's apron. Marigold turns, and frowns, though the frown's hardly real and she knows that her Rosie can tell that, as Rosie looks at her, hands on her hips, and grins.

'Not here, Rosie-lass, not here on Mr Frodo's fresh linens, when he could walk in at any minute and find us, and you with your hands so eager to get up my skirts – well, you could bet your buttons that he'd send us both out, and me without my job!'

And Rosie only says, 'I've no buttons.'

Marigold, finding that it's far too difficult to frown, controls the twitch of her lips (no good to smile now, or go so far as to laugh) and sets her own hands firm upon her hips. 'Yes, well, that's hardly the point.'

One eyebrow lifts, and then the other, and Rosie smiles and advances on her, her face glowing like the sun. And softly, 'Marigold. My Mari. I love you quite dearly, and I want you right now.'

Then her mouth is on Marigold's, and Marigold's not got breath or room to complain or even pull away, and Rosie's hands finish off the work they've started, her arms looped about Marigold's waist and the tie of the apron falling free. Then, sharply, when Rosie draws back and Marigold's still catching her breath, and with her knees feeling as good and solid as wax dripping down from the candle's flame (and that is to say, not solid at all), Rosie says: 'Bugger Mr Frodo – well, only not, and don't you take offense in that, Marigold, as you know I am fond of him in my own dear way, but he's off at market with those cousins of his, and they'll not return for, well, a long enough while.'

Then Marigold finds her breath, her voice and her tongue, and she holds Rosie's face between her hands, like a cherished thing. 'Rosie. That the stars above could give you patience...'

Rosie presses closer, hands moving, mouth against Marigold's ear and her voice low and hot. 'Oh, but I am patient, Marigold, lass.' Then she looks up, her eyes sea-glass worn, and Marigold opens her mouth to speak.

And she only gets so far, 'I – mmph', before Rosie's mouth has found its way back to hers, and Rosie's tongue is doing a bit of eager exploration. The drive of it sends them rocking, and then they fall, back onto Mr Frodo's half-made bed. Marigold would like, dearly, to complain, to push Rosie away. But she's hot where Rosie touches her, all that flesh, but all that cloth in the way.

Surely, Mr Frodo'd not return at any good moment, and not for a long enough while.

Rosie's mouth moves, and her hand moves down Marigold's side, then pushing up underneath her skirt and pressing, firmer, against her skin. There's light in her eyes and her mouth is sweet and pink, her curls all tousled and her cheeks pink with glow. 'There now,' she says, still hot and low, 'not bad at all, is it?'

She winds her arms up about Rosie, pushes somewhat eagerly when Rosie's hand press against her under linens, 'No, not bad at all, quite good, in fact, but I – oh,' and Rosie's fingers tease up and under. They could tease more, but they press into wetness, stroke, and Marigold pushes up, wanting more. Rosie's other hand is at the nape of her neck, her breath moist and wet and her lips parted, her mouth inviting. Marigold reaches, wants her kiss, and moans and shudders and thinks of the mess they're set to make.

And Rosie says, in a sensible sort of way, as she's sensible as well as bold, 'Would you rather I not, then? I'll go no further, if you'd rather not.'

And Marigold shudders, finds it hard to speak or even breathe, but she gasps out, voice shaking. 'Well, you've a good start all – oh.' Rosie's hand stops, one finger circles, presses. 'Do that again, won't you, lass?'

'Very well,' and Rosie does. 'I'll just be taking that as my yes.'

Marigold gets that kiss she'd wanted after, that and more, with the press of Rosie's hand and her thigh as well, pushed up against Marigold's own. She wants to take hold of Rosie's hand, wants to whisper what she wants against Rosie's ear, or even gasp it out loudly, unable to contain herself. But she can't manage that, can't move her hand to do anything more than grip at Rosie's curls, pull her down and kiss her hard. She moans against Rosie's mouth, moans and shudders and she'd not mind more, and having it now.

With her free hand, Rosie pushes at Marigold's skirt, pushing it up. Marigold pushes up, arches as much as she can, closes her eyes tight and pulls her mouth back, licking her lips.

'Oh, you'll not get away,' Rosie says, catches her mouth up, and Marigold laughs and moans and Rosie's finger quickens, then pushes lower, slick and wet, then stops. Marigold lets out a shaky breath, and Rosie's hand is casually touching her bare thigh.

'Rosie!' she gasps, curls her toes and pushes her feet against the floor.

And over Rosie's low hum, Marigold hears the door as it opens; and when she turns her head, it's Mr Frodo she sees through her messy curls.

'Mr Frodo!' and that's louder than she'd gasped before, and if she could work her body then she'd topple Rosie and move.

But as she can't, and Rosie laughs so low and hot and sweet, rocking forward a little and saying, 'oh, but I thought you – '

Silence, and there must be something wrong. No, not quite wrong, but the vague sense of panic, and Marigold looks at Rosie, as Rosie turns her head. Follows where Rosie's gaze leads her, and...

'Mr Frodo.'

Marigold sees him too, and him just standing at the door, hands down at his sides. Rosie, as if she can't, doesn't stop, as if she's caught up in his gaze, only says, 'well then, that's a nice surprise, and you home so very early,' though Marigold can hear the fright in her voice.

Of course, Marigold's body chooses that moment for itself, and she cries out, voice sharp and sudden and then dulled, shutting her eyes again and seeing white then black then stars, pleasure all crashing down as she comes.

There's dull quiet after that, with her heart pounding in her chest, wanting to escape, and she can feel Rosie on her, her dress somewhat damp and Rosie's hand sticky, and everything so subdued and warm.

Then there's air in her lungs and she can feel, and she pushes up on weak arms and makes herself sit. And Rosie looks at her, looks her in the eyes, and Marigold nods and Rosie turns and looks at Frodo, and Marigold's left wondering if the both of them are cracked, daft. Then she reaches for Rosie's cheek, brushes her fingers backwards, and leans forward. When Rosie looks at her, Marigold kisses her lips.

She looks at Frodo, over Rosie's shoulder. 'She's a pretty one, our Rosie, isn't she, sir?'

Frodo's hands have balled into fists, and he snaps back into focus, then, looking at Rosie, no, looking at them both. And Marigold only says, 'would you like to join us, then? I'm sure our Sam won't mind, nor your cousins, if that's your concern.' Bold, just like Rosie is.

Then Mr Frodo's face has expression once again, more than shock, the sharp but thin shape of his mouth as he grins.

'Ought to be a learning experience, if nothing else,' he says.

---

Rosie pulls away, sits to the side, and Marigold looks up at Frodo as he approaches (not that he moved right away, first taking off his good jacket and then putting it up to hang). Looks up him, like this might be a dream, a dream that she won't be wanting to forget. She can feel heat on her cheeks, her blush, but she doesn't look away, doesn't let her gaze falter.

'Rosie,' Marigold tells him, too bold for her own good, when she feels that he must be approaching her, or at least that he isn't quite sure where he ought to be starting. 'You ought to kiss Rosie.'

Rosie looks at Marigold, puzzled, but Frodo is grinning, and Marigold sees them both together. The sound Rosie makes, soft and not so puzzled as her expression was, Frodo's hands on her shoulders, Frodo's mouth on hers.

Marigold watches, the way their mouths meet. Rosie lifts her hands, as if to pull Frodo close. Oh, and what a lovely kiss it is, and the both of them so lovely, too, Rosie bright as sun and day and Frodo's hair as dark as night.

And Marigold sits there, thinking on how she's known Frodo since she was only a child; and how he'd been good, always good and kind, and in that spirit so like old Mr Bilbo. Only, they were not the same, nor would she want to think of Mr Bilbo in such a manner (the manner that Mr Frodo is currently involved in, that is, and Marigold watches as Frodo kisses her Rosie). His mouth drops away, and Rosie's eyes go wide as it finds its way to her throat, where it must nip and then kiss. Her arms clutch at his back, as he kneels at the edge of the bed.

'Mr Frodo,' Rosie gasps, shuts her eyes,

Is he happy, then, kissing Rosie's neck? It is sweet there, and Marigold has marked it, many times, herself.

The thing is, though, she has known Mr Frodo almost all her life, and he is pushing at Rosie's skirts, now, and Marigold reaches out, her voice rasping, and she says 'no'. And that surprises her quite enough, but it surprises her more, all but stops her heart in her aching chest, when Frodo stops.

'Marigold. My dear. I know what I am doing here.' Mr Frodo grins, but then that grin is better suited to a smile. 'But it seems that there is some hesitance here, and I – '

'No, sir, not that,' she says, and she moves closer, feeling weak but gathering her strength. 'No sir, it's not that I'm not wanting you to kiss my Rosie, and to do more than that, as well, as you'd like – but it's rather… I know what she likes, you see, and perhaps you ought to follow after that.'

'Well then. Shall you take the lead?'

'No sir. But I'd, well, I'm bold as all could be pleased, but I'd rather you – '

'Oh, I think I know,' he says, and she does think he knows. 'What shall I do with your Rosie here, then, Marigold? '

'For now, she's our Rosie,' Marigold rasps, tangles her hand in Frodo's hair and kisses him, kisses Rosie off his mouth. 'And I'd like that you'd kiss her, more, and do more with her skirt.'

Rosie, breathless and with Frodo's arm about her, opens her mouth to protest, but that protest falls short and she kisses Frodo's cheek, then pulls Marigold close, all but onto them. 'Oh, but I'd not think you'd had it in you, Marigold, lass.' Her cheeks are pink, her eyes are wide. One kiss, taking Frodo's mouth, and he must know what he's doing, at least when he's kissing, because it does seem he can kiss. Then he turns, and it's Rosie that he kisses, and he mutters, 'Oh, but you'd be right not to tell Sam about this, I reckon – he'd not ever forgive me, I think,' and Marigold doesn't know which is dearer, that Frodo thinks that Sam would not forgive him, or that she knows he would.

Marigold watches as they kiss, her own hand on Frodo's thigh, then bunching in his shirt. It is hot in the room, the sunlight still sparking gold, and she leans close and whispers, so Frodo can hear.

Kiss her like that, undo the laces of her bodice like that to get to the flesh beneath. Touch her gentle-like, at first, first with hands and then with tongue. Rosie's bare chest beneath Frodo's mouth and tongue, breasts trembling with each shaking breath. She doesn't say a thing, only bunches her hands in Frodo's shirt and twists beneath him, flat against the bed but arching up. Rosie likes it like that, good and slow, not teasing but not hard. And Frodo listens to Marigold, and so well.

'Hold there, sir,' and Frodo does, mouth on Rosie's belly. He looks her way, curls dark and tumbling, and Marigold sits up straight, and she says, bold as she can. 'Let me touch my Rosie, sir, and you – ' her voice shakes, but she controls it all, somehow, looks him in the eyes. 'I'd rather you'd touch me.'

He doesn't chide her for that, for calling him sir, and that's neither here nor there in the grand scheme of things. She looks at Rosie, mostly undressed, reaches behind her back for the laces of her own bodice. Rosie makes a plaintive sound, and Frodo gives her a kiss, then turns and sits and has Marigold turn, and Marigold does. He kisses the back of her neck and she feels that heat all down her skin, and his arms wrap about her and touch and tease and she lets her head loll back, lets his mouth have its way with her skin.

She can't be getting away with this, must be all a dream, and then she's naked and she thinks on what Rosie had said, before, on how she'd no buttons, and Mr Frodo still had all his buttons done up. And Rosie is waiting for her, pushed up on her elbows and looking at her, and she gasps out loud as Marigold descends, kissing her, legs spreading as Marigold's hand finds what it wants.

Then Frodo watches, and he comes up behind her, wraps his arms about her once again, mouth on her neck. Hands moving, her skin all warm and it must be hands that makes the sensation of it all feel so soft. Frodo's hand, his fingers twitching, and her Rosie sitting there and meeting her and her hand buried at her center. And still, it's Rosie's thigh she feels pressed against hers, but Mr Frodo's fingers, as well, circling and circling and then finding what they're after, and she's damp against Rosie's leg and feeling it all through her, feeling her Rosie and Mr Frodo, too. Gripping at his hand, pressing for more. More, and more, and she can only take so much, his fingers and his touch, and his mouth, and she can tell her Rosie can only take so much, as well. And that she's close, all but crying out, twisting on the linens.

Oh, the bed will be a mess.

She laughs as she comes, but she doesn't slump, doesn't let the exhilaration of it pull her down until her Rosie has cried out, twisted up off the covers, as high as she can, still sitting but clutching at cloth, voice keening out as in sharp, sudden song.

'Oh. Oh.' And she slumps back, lets the joy of the moment pull her down, the pleasure buzzing in her ears and drowning out all else, from the rumble of Frodo's voice to the bell of her Rosie's tired laugh. 'That was. Oh.'

'Oh, indeed,' and Rosie's shaky arms wrap about her, mouth seeking her own, and Marigold kisses her and reaches for Frodo's hand, grips it once more and shuts her eyes, head against his shoulder.

'You are lovely, the both of you,' he says, breath against her cheek. 'And I'll not ask for aught in return.' And that is well enough, she thinks, though she wonders if she is disappointed, too.

---

Doesn't seem like much time at all, when they all untangle, and Rosie does her dress back up, lacing her bodice back together. She looks at Mr Frodo, and Marigold does, too – Mr Frodo, who is still dressed but looking somewhat ruffled, and tells him there's work they need to do, and if he'll be so kind they'll get to it, and now. He does, and kindly enough, doing up his shirt and then taking his jacket back down. He shuts the door, after, and Rosie sits at Marigold's side, takes both her hands in her own, and kisses her palms.

'There now. That was something, then. And here I thought you'd not a bit of fun inside you, Marigold, lass.' She tilts her head to the side, then grins in a wicked fashion, and kisses Marigold on the lips. 'And what do you think of good Master Baggins? Off to tend to himself – he really is a gentlehobbit, you know. And so gentle, ah.'

Marigold only laughs, and kisses her, naked as day and she must be glowing twice as bright, and then she tucks her head into the crook of Rosie's neck.

''Twas a bit of learning, that was sure.'

She lifts her head, looks at Rosie, and Rosie touches her cheek. 'Here now. Let's get you dressed again, and make use of that basin in the corner. And then...' She looks away, and Marigold follows her gaze. Then, she lets a kiss linger at Rosie's neck.

'And then?' she asks, mouth against skin.

'And then,' Rosie says, breathing, glowing, 'we ought to see to making up this mess.'

And Marigold only laughs, once more, and kisses her chin and then her mouth, pushing her back onto the mussed and unmade bed.