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bodice_laces2003-07-06 01:21 am
potatofiend.livejournal.com) wrote in bodice_laces2003-07-06 01:21 am
Entry tags:
FIC: Not With Us (Stel/Rosie/Dinny, for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
hyel
I did it, hyel! I wrote it! Stel/Rosie/Dinny, with Rosiesamfrodo in there too because that's just the law, this being East of The Sun. Nobody else even look at my bad lesbian sex. Move it along, nothing to see here. *brandishes trout*
Title: Not With Us
Author: Janette Le Fay
Pairing: Stel/Dinny/Rosie, (Rosiesamfrodo)
Rating: R, I think
Disclaimer: Hobbits belong to Tolkien, I really don't get paid for this. Duh.
Notes: East of the Sun.
Not With Us
They were talking about Frodo. Rosie could see it in subtle droop of Sam's shoulders and in the haze of bittersweet melancholy that shadowed his face like a veil. Their voices were low, sometimes heated and sometimes idle, always underwritten with the wistful affection reserved for speaking of those long loved and long gone. Merry's eyes were dull and lifeless, the candlelight flickering over them as over the glassy irises of a child's doll; Pippin's hand rested lightly on Merry's shoulder, distractedly twisting the copper-spun curls about his fingers while he chewed at his lower lip, his contribution to the discussion minimal. They were talking about Frodo, and there were tears on Rosie's face.
Their voices were a polytonic murmur of senseless sound, private and unintelligible; only the cool rim of the wineglass under Rosie's fingertip was real. In some sort of idle fascination she stared at it, the voices low and constant in her ears, running a slow finger around and around the rim until it rang. The high-pitched hum wove through and about the voices of the menfolk with a sort of fierce clarity, bright and new and real, a tether.
This was their darkness, something not quite secret that Rosie could never quite understand, but the ring of the glass was bright and certain, a truth that her finger circled with increasing intensity until somebody's hand clutched at her own, stilling it, calming.
"Rosie…" And that was Stel's voice, heard as if through deep water. "Rosie, stop that. Rosie?"
She blinked furiously, tears welling, pearlescent, to spill over her reddened lids. "Stel -" She caught at the hand, feeling that soft palm that had never known labour, and in the moment between the end of the sound and the beginning of the touch it was as if she were flying unchecked through an unbounded chaos. Stel's face swam into view and Rosie mused idly that she was beautiful, candlelight pooling over her cheekbones and sheening her hair.
"Rose, let's leave the menfolk be, shall we?" And that was another voice, softer; Dinny's. A smaller, whiter hand moved to cover the tangle of Rosie and Stel's fingers, Dinny's long ringlets brushing, whisper-soft, against Rosie's collarbone as she moved. "They're talking about the journey again, and you know how that gets them."
How it gets me. Rosie nodded, drawing her mind with an effort from the outer reaches of that strange black whirlpool. "Yes, the - the air is sad in here."
She had half-expected laughter, but none ensued; Dinny shivered slightly and rose to her feet. "My room is nearest. Let's talk of brighter things."
Never, Rosie told herself dazedly, never would she ever be fully used to Brandy Hall, with its seemingly endless succession of passageways and corridors and the strange habit it seemed to have of presenting one with a room or hallway that had surely not been there before. Rosie tracked the other two blindly, following the soft swish of their skirts and the glow of the candle Stel carried.
"I don't know who starts them talking about that damned journey," Stel remarked as Dinny fumbled with the lock. "It only gets the lot of them upset, and you as well." Absently she rubbed at a stray tear on Rosie's cheek with the pad of her thumb.
"I think they have to talk about it sometimes," Rosie remarked fairly, as the door gave with a soft click.
"Well." Stel gathered her skirts about her and followed Dinny into the guest bedroom. "It's just that it seems they always have to bring up the subject."
Rosie stood awkwardly, eyes fixed on the floor, not knowing quite what to say and not really wanting to say anything.
"I'm sure Frodo's all right," Dinny said after a moment. Rosie regarded her pensively for a second and then sank onto the bed in one sudden motion as if her legs would no longer hold her.
"He is," Stel assured her, kneeling in front of her without bothering to scoop up her skirts in the process.
"With the Elves, you know," Dinny added, settling beside Rosie and giving her shoulders a reassuring squeeze.
"But not with us," Rosie said softly, catching at Stel's fingers. "Not with Sam and I. Not - " She bit at her lip, not trusting herself to say any more. Four months without Frodo, without his wistful smiles and rare laughter, without his clever fingers and soft curls and sharp cries panted into Sam's mouth. No more warm, comfortable fullness on winter evenings, the three of them entangled in a bed that would never feel right again, two mouths against her neck and four hands tracking the soft curves of her body.
"Rosie…" Somehow her eyes had drifted closed and she wasn't quite certain whose voice that was, ghosting over the tip of her ear, but it was soft and warm and wordlessly she turned her face until the mouth brushed her cheek. Her hand glided, seemingly of its own accord, into the somebody's hair, and the somebody was Stel, and Stel whispered, "He loves you, Rose."
"I know," she said softly, and found that her words were captured in Stel's mouth. She meant, for a moment, to tug away, but then Stel's fingers twined themselves into her hair and all protests were forgotten. She tilted her face and pressed into the kiss, making it deeper and wet, and Stel's mouth tasted like nothing she had ever known.
Hands were tugging at the lacings of her bodice, but both of Stel's were tangled in her hair and for a moment Rosie's dazed faculties struggled to make sense of the situation. Then Dinny's lips brushed the back of her neck and all of a sudden it seemed perfectly logical, those deft hands from behind drawing the laces fully from her bodice so that it didn't have to be manoeuvred over her head.
Blindly she slid her hands from Stel's hair to her neck, fingers tentatively sweeping over her exposed collarbone. Stel chuckled a little, low in her throat; Dinny seemed to have disposed of the bodice rather efficiently, for now there were four hands radiating a soft heat into Rosie's skin through the thin linen of her shift. She wriggled a little, shrugging it from her shoulders as Stel tugged the unwieldy buttons free. The air was cool suddenly on her skin, but then Dinny's mouth pressed against her shoulderblade, and that was warm and wet, her hair brushing Rosie's back as she moved.
Rosie whimpered into Stel's mouth, fingers sudden and impatient at the laces of Stel's bodice, and then Stel's hands were at Dinny's ties and the soft vibrations of Dinny's chuckles reverberated warmly down Rosie's spine to the base of her back. "Shh, Rosie!" Dinny hissed, voice laughter-laced against Rosie's skin.
"Dinny…" Rosie twisted her face away desperately, her breath sharp and erratic against Stel's cheek. "Dinny, don't…"
"Sssh, Rosie!" Stel echoed, her fingers tracing goosepimples down Rosie's flank. Somewhere along the line Stel's shift had been shoved down to pool about her waist in ruches of rumpled cotton; moved by an impulse Rosie leant forward, pressing her face against the curve of Stel's throat, laving her tongue down to flicker across her collarbone and over the soft roundness below. Stel made a strangled sound and clutched at Rosie's hair; Dinny giggled and shifted away, the absence of her mouth sudden and uncomfortable on Rosie's back.
Rosie opened her mouth to complain, half-turning, but Dinny was merely struggling out of her skirts, still giggling. "Come on, Stel, get onto the bed; it's draughty down there on the floor."
Stel smiled and obediently struggled up to join them on the overstuffed mattress. "Budge along, Dinny."
Dinny kicked her skirts untidily onto the floor and shifted up towards the pillows, tugging at Stel's wrist. "Then don't - oh -" Stel dipped her head laughingly to Dinny's neck and Dinny's eyes drifted closed; Rosie shuffled up to join them and Stel's hand floated out to glide blindly down her front. Awkwardly she edged nearer and then there was Dinny's mouth on hers and Stel's hand shifted to push up her skirt.
"Why is this still on?" Stel demanded laughingly against Dinny's neck and the three of them giggled, fingers fumbling with buttons and laces until Rosie's homespun linen lay tangled with their lace and silks, dangling askew from the bedpost.
And then there were Dinny's lips in Rosie's hair and Stel's mouth on Rosie's own, hot and fierce, and he loves you, Rosie in her ears. Her hands drifted over warm curves, across Dinny's ribcage and Stel's hip, trailing her fingers along the soft skin of her thigh. Absently she disentangled her lips from Stel's, watching her tilt her face until Dinny was there instead, their mouths meshing effortlessly. They were beautiful, she thought idly, soft and young and pliable, soft scar-puckers on Stel's thigh like those on her own stomach and hips. Rosie glanced down at herself, at the little wiggled lines of silver-white where the moonlight caught them. These were scars of her evolution from girl to woman, of her baby, of everything that was good and right and beautiful, and for that they were beautiful in themselves, soft under her fingertips.
Stel's mouth felt a little different, too, on that scar-tissue on her stomach to the way it felt against her neck and breast and side; a little warmer. Rosie remembered pressing warmth with her tongue into Frodo's cold, cold scars, silver scars on his white skin, but Dinny's mouth was on hers now and Dinny was bucking against Stel's hand and there was a slow ache building low in Rosie's belly like starfire spinning from the warm wetness of Stel's tongue.
They tumbled together afterwards in a tangle of warm limbs and slow gasping, the spatter of rain against the half-open window becoming steadily louder as their breathing quietened. He loves you. He loves you. Stel's hand stroked gently over Rosie's stomach and Rosie tipped her head towards the window, watching the shimmer of moonlight on the water droplets and thinking of Frodo gasping against Sam's neck as he came.
*************
.
hyel! I wrote it! Stel/Rosie/Dinny, with Rosiesamfrodo in there too because that's just the law, this being East of The Sun. Nobody else even look at my bad lesbian sex. Move it along, nothing to see here. *brandishes trout*Title: Not With Us
Author: Janette Le Fay
Pairing: Stel/Dinny/Rosie, (Rosiesamfrodo)
Rating: R, I think
Disclaimer: Hobbits belong to Tolkien, I really don't get paid for this. Duh.
Notes: East of the Sun.
Not With Us
They were talking about Frodo. Rosie could see it in subtle droop of Sam's shoulders and in the haze of bittersweet melancholy that shadowed his face like a veil. Their voices were low, sometimes heated and sometimes idle, always underwritten with the wistful affection reserved for speaking of those long loved and long gone. Merry's eyes were dull and lifeless, the candlelight flickering over them as over the glassy irises of a child's doll; Pippin's hand rested lightly on Merry's shoulder, distractedly twisting the copper-spun curls about his fingers while he chewed at his lower lip, his contribution to the discussion minimal. They were talking about Frodo, and there were tears on Rosie's face.
Their voices were a polytonic murmur of senseless sound, private and unintelligible; only the cool rim of the wineglass under Rosie's fingertip was real. In some sort of idle fascination she stared at it, the voices low and constant in her ears, running a slow finger around and around the rim until it rang. The high-pitched hum wove through and about the voices of the menfolk with a sort of fierce clarity, bright and new and real, a tether.
This was their darkness, something not quite secret that Rosie could never quite understand, but the ring of the glass was bright and certain, a truth that her finger circled with increasing intensity until somebody's hand clutched at her own, stilling it, calming.
"Rosie…" And that was Stel's voice, heard as if through deep water. "Rosie, stop that. Rosie?"
She blinked furiously, tears welling, pearlescent, to spill over her reddened lids. "Stel -" She caught at the hand, feeling that soft palm that had never known labour, and in the moment between the end of the sound and the beginning of the touch it was as if she were flying unchecked through an unbounded chaos. Stel's face swam into view and Rosie mused idly that she was beautiful, candlelight pooling over her cheekbones and sheening her hair.
"Rose, let's leave the menfolk be, shall we?" And that was another voice, softer; Dinny's. A smaller, whiter hand moved to cover the tangle of Rosie and Stel's fingers, Dinny's long ringlets brushing, whisper-soft, against Rosie's collarbone as she moved. "They're talking about the journey again, and you know how that gets them."
How it gets me. Rosie nodded, drawing her mind with an effort from the outer reaches of that strange black whirlpool. "Yes, the - the air is sad in here."
She had half-expected laughter, but none ensued; Dinny shivered slightly and rose to her feet. "My room is nearest. Let's talk of brighter things."
Never, Rosie told herself dazedly, never would she ever be fully used to Brandy Hall, with its seemingly endless succession of passageways and corridors and the strange habit it seemed to have of presenting one with a room or hallway that had surely not been there before. Rosie tracked the other two blindly, following the soft swish of their skirts and the glow of the candle Stel carried.
"I don't know who starts them talking about that damned journey," Stel remarked as Dinny fumbled with the lock. "It only gets the lot of them upset, and you as well." Absently she rubbed at a stray tear on Rosie's cheek with the pad of her thumb.
"I think they have to talk about it sometimes," Rosie remarked fairly, as the door gave with a soft click.
"Well." Stel gathered her skirts about her and followed Dinny into the guest bedroom. "It's just that it seems they always have to bring up the subject."
Rosie stood awkwardly, eyes fixed on the floor, not knowing quite what to say and not really wanting to say anything.
"I'm sure Frodo's all right," Dinny said after a moment. Rosie regarded her pensively for a second and then sank onto the bed in one sudden motion as if her legs would no longer hold her.
"He is," Stel assured her, kneeling in front of her without bothering to scoop up her skirts in the process.
"With the Elves, you know," Dinny added, settling beside Rosie and giving her shoulders a reassuring squeeze.
"But not with us," Rosie said softly, catching at Stel's fingers. "Not with Sam and I. Not - " She bit at her lip, not trusting herself to say any more. Four months without Frodo, without his wistful smiles and rare laughter, without his clever fingers and soft curls and sharp cries panted into Sam's mouth. No more warm, comfortable fullness on winter evenings, the three of them entangled in a bed that would never feel right again, two mouths against her neck and four hands tracking the soft curves of her body.
"Rosie…" Somehow her eyes had drifted closed and she wasn't quite certain whose voice that was, ghosting over the tip of her ear, but it was soft and warm and wordlessly she turned her face until the mouth brushed her cheek. Her hand glided, seemingly of its own accord, into the somebody's hair, and the somebody was Stel, and Stel whispered, "He loves you, Rose."
"I know," she said softly, and found that her words were captured in Stel's mouth. She meant, for a moment, to tug away, but then Stel's fingers twined themselves into her hair and all protests were forgotten. She tilted her face and pressed into the kiss, making it deeper and wet, and Stel's mouth tasted like nothing she had ever known.
Hands were tugging at the lacings of her bodice, but both of Stel's were tangled in her hair and for a moment Rosie's dazed faculties struggled to make sense of the situation. Then Dinny's lips brushed the back of her neck and all of a sudden it seemed perfectly logical, those deft hands from behind drawing the laces fully from her bodice so that it didn't have to be manoeuvred over her head.
Blindly she slid her hands from Stel's hair to her neck, fingers tentatively sweeping over her exposed collarbone. Stel chuckled a little, low in her throat; Dinny seemed to have disposed of the bodice rather efficiently, for now there were four hands radiating a soft heat into Rosie's skin through the thin linen of her shift. She wriggled a little, shrugging it from her shoulders as Stel tugged the unwieldy buttons free. The air was cool suddenly on her skin, but then Dinny's mouth pressed against her shoulderblade, and that was warm and wet, her hair brushing Rosie's back as she moved.
Rosie whimpered into Stel's mouth, fingers sudden and impatient at the laces of Stel's bodice, and then Stel's hands were at Dinny's ties and the soft vibrations of Dinny's chuckles reverberated warmly down Rosie's spine to the base of her back. "Shh, Rosie!" Dinny hissed, voice laughter-laced against Rosie's skin.
"Dinny…" Rosie twisted her face away desperately, her breath sharp and erratic against Stel's cheek. "Dinny, don't…"
"Sssh, Rosie!" Stel echoed, her fingers tracing goosepimples down Rosie's flank. Somewhere along the line Stel's shift had been shoved down to pool about her waist in ruches of rumpled cotton; moved by an impulse Rosie leant forward, pressing her face against the curve of Stel's throat, laving her tongue down to flicker across her collarbone and over the soft roundness below. Stel made a strangled sound and clutched at Rosie's hair; Dinny giggled and shifted away, the absence of her mouth sudden and uncomfortable on Rosie's back.
Rosie opened her mouth to complain, half-turning, but Dinny was merely struggling out of her skirts, still giggling. "Come on, Stel, get onto the bed; it's draughty down there on the floor."
Stel smiled and obediently struggled up to join them on the overstuffed mattress. "Budge along, Dinny."
Dinny kicked her skirts untidily onto the floor and shifted up towards the pillows, tugging at Stel's wrist. "Then don't - oh -" Stel dipped her head laughingly to Dinny's neck and Dinny's eyes drifted closed; Rosie shuffled up to join them and Stel's hand floated out to glide blindly down her front. Awkwardly she edged nearer and then there was Dinny's mouth on hers and Stel's hand shifted to push up her skirt.
"Why is this still on?" Stel demanded laughingly against Dinny's neck and the three of them giggled, fingers fumbling with buttons and laces until Rosie's homespun linen lay tangled with their lace and silks, dangling askew from the bedpost.
And then there were Dinny's lips in Rosie's hair and Stel's mouth on Rosie's own, hot and fierce, and he loves you, Rosie in her ears. Her hands drifted over warm curves, across Dinny's ribcage and Stel's hip, trailing her fingers along the soft skin of her thigh. Absently she disentangled her lips from Stel's, watching her tilt her face until Dinny was there instead, their mouths meshing effortlessly. They were beautiful, she thought idly, soft and young and pliable, soft scar-puckers on Stel's thigh like those on her own stomach and hips. Rosie glanced down at herself, at the little wiggled lines of silver-white where the moonlight caught them. These were scars of her evolution from girl to woman, of her baby, of everything that was good and right and beautiful, and for that they were beautiful in themselves, soft under her fingertips.
Stel's mouth felt a little different, too, on that scar-tissue on her stomach to the way it felt against her neck and breast and side; a little warmer. Rosie remembered pressing warmth with her tongue into Frodo's cold, cold scars, silver scars on his white skin, but Dinny's mouth was on hers now and Dinny was bucking against Stel's hand and there was a slow ache building low in Rosie's belly like starfire spinning from the warm wetness of Stel's tongue.
They tumbled together afterwards in a tangle of warm limbs and slow gasping, the spatter of rain against the half-open window becoming steadily louder as their breathing quietened. He loves you. He loves you. Stel's hand stroked gently over Rosie's stomach and Rosie tipped her head towards the window, watching the shimmer of moonlight on the water droplets and thinking of Frodo gasping against Sam's neck as he came.
*************
.
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