Wind and rain in the night usually passed the inhabitants of Bag End by completely. Thick walls and snug covers meant that they'd oftentimes wake the next morning none the wiser of the storms they might have missed.

On this night, though, the catch on the window wasn't quite clicked into place, and blew open with a crash and a gust of icy air. Frodo woke with a shout, clawing at his neck for the white gem hanging there, and Elanor began to cry.

Rosie raced to shut the window against the chill, and Sam, after checking Frodo was himself, went to comfort Elanor. Lighting a little fire in the grate and putting her palms close to it to warm them, Rosie rolled her shoulders and smiled sleepily. Rain outside when you were inside was always a lovely situation.

"Bring her into the bed here, Sam." She ordered, climbing back under the covers and drawing them up to her chest.

"She didn't wake fully, it were just a muttering in her sleep. She'd been keeping good hours lately." Sam explained, snuggling in beside Rosie.

"Yes, she's growing up fast." Rosie and Frodo said at the same time, then laughed at the jinx. The firelight painted their faces with autumn colours and shadows, making their eyes shine as they watched the flames. The bed was warm, they were comfortable but not quite sleepy, and the sounds of the rain were heavy and loud.

"Were you having a nightmare before you woke?" Sam asked Frodo, who simply nodded. Rosie moved forward and lapped her tongue along the small red welt Frodo's blunt fingernails had left at the curve of his throat. His breath caught when the warmth and wet touched him, and Rosie smiled against his skin.

Sam's hand moved down the line of her back, slipping between the soft curves of her thighs, touching her with the careful strength that defined his nature. She couldn't help but arch into the feeling, tipping her chin up as she rolled her head back. Frodo whimpered at the loss of her lips on his skin but then got his own back, enmeshing his fingers into her hair and nuzzling at the pulse in her jaw below her ear.

The steady drum of the rain outside drowned out the soft cracking sounds of the fire; the world seemed a very large and dark place around their bright little room.

Rosie rolled onto her back, pulling Sam so he lay half-atop her, squirming until her hand was pinned against the pillow under Frodo's shoulder blade. Her nails weren't much longer than his, kept short by hard work and smooth by vanity. Still, they were enough to tease along the planes and edges of his ribs and spine.

One of Sam's hands lay palm-flat across her breast, moving just enough to make Rosie wish for more. The other cupped at her buttocks, lifting her up. Frodo rained feather-kisses across their shoulders, down Rosie's arm to where her hand clutched at Sam's solid side, then up the faintly sweat-salty body to the nape of Sam's neck.

Sam, breathing guttural and fast, moved his hand down from where it rubbed at Rosie's nipple and pulled Frodo up to where their mouths could meet, sleep and warmth and home and happy endings on the taste of the slick slide of their tongues together, loss and pain and despair and gentle cleansing autumn storms.

"Sam." Rosie said again and again, the word spilling over itself and into nonsense, sometimes becoming 'Frodo' and sometimes no word at all, matching the movement of their bodies.

Lightning outside and low in Rosie's belly, flickering shots of brightness that felt so good they hurt, the dull ache of being filled and warm and pressed against clean linen sheets.

Frodo was biting at the lobe of Rosie's ear now, suckling at the skin and worrying it between his teeth with enough pressure to nip.

Sam could remember every time he'd been filled up to bursting with love, whether it be out in the orchards with mud between his toes all cold and full of growing, or in terrible stone towers better forgotten. He'd never found a thing as filling as this, though.

A little of the rain had come down the chimney, making the fire smoke, but it had a nice herbal smell to it and tickled at the throat like a laugh.

Sam moved away a little as Frodo snaked his hand down to rub against Rosie. She hissed at the clever cool fingers, bucking up against the heel of his hand as Frodo moved again, now using the same clever fingers to make Sam arch and groan, slicking his length with Rosie's wetness.

Rosie and Sam kissed again as Frodo moved to position himself on Sam, Rosie's teeth gnashing together with a sharp sucking breath as Frodo's hand returned to its earlier task. She imagined how his fingers would taste, the flavour of soap and ink still strong under the ripe earthy scent of herself.

Sam's mouth was bruise-hard against hers as Frodo slid onto him. Rosie rocked with the movement of them, Frodo's hand still making teasing little pinches and strokes. The rain outside was pounding down hard now, the fire and smoke and humidity inside making the air as lush and heavy as in a jungle.

They looked so opposite, Sam golden and glowing with health, Frodo almost silver-white, luminous with an unreal kind of grace, yet they fitted together like they'd been made as a matched set. Rosie knew with astonishing clarity that she'd kill anyone who so much as tried to hurt either of them.

Sam was lost inside the feeling of Rosie's body against his side, the way Frodo looked with his head tipped back and his mouth open slack. His Rosie. His Frodo. Everything that had happened in the world since time began had happened to lead them all to this moment, this place, the overwhelming familiar heat of it all.

Rose and Sam kissed and kissed, their mouths sharing secrets without words. Frodo's own lips flushed with the want of them, the wish to be part of that kiss.

It was his kiss even without him though, for every part of them was his. Rose's unimaginable heat around his hand, Sam pulsing and hard and strong inside him.

Their voices moaned and gasped and choked together, closer and closer to release with every breath, like the edge of a dark warm cliff looming before them.

Then, with a final arch and press and push they all tumbled together, voices in choral harmony as they all vowed 'mine' at the same moment, eyes spilling over at the depth of love they felt in that instant, the promise and the threat and the truth one little word could hold.

'Mine, mine,' they said again between soft kisses, until speech faded to whispers and then to sleep. The rain pounded on, a lullaby to send them into dreaming.

The storm had passed by morning, leaving the world scrubbed clean and fresh. They sat on the bench by the front door, Frodo sipping on hot sweet tea, Rosie feeding Elanor, Sam raking up the wet leaves that had been blown about. Out in the sky, arcing down to the limitless green of the fields, was a rainbow.

~

Pretty Good Year | email Mary