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The Empty Bed and the Full (LOTR, NC-17, interspecies & gender swap)
Title: The Empty Bed and the Full
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Aragorn/fem!Frodo; Sam & Frodo, Queen Arwen
Summary: So it was that through all her stay, in the sweet nights between the days of happiness, Froda never slept alone.
Content Advisory: Always-female gender swap, interspecies romance, hints of non-monogamy.
All Thanks To:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
bowsie22, who requested this grand prompt.
Disclaimer: This fanwork has been created for pleasure only and not for profit.
The Ringbearer had a wide bed in Minas Tirith in which she never lay. When the King had called her back from death's brink by his will and his love, he bore her himself into Minas Tirith, seated before him upon his saddle and cradled in his arms. Samwise paced steadyingly by her side, Merry and Pervinca tall at her back, as Aragorn himself led them into the house prepared for them. That first night, facing their beds, Froda and Sam shared a single instant's glance before he tugged the oversized pillow down from hers, and she laughed as she made him let her help carry it over to his. There they curled up between those pillows like bolsters, and she slept in his arms as she had upon leaves and stone and ash and grass all throughout their journey.
The next night, after seeing Sam well content with Elves singing to him, Froda lingered after the feast until she saw her kin and Faramir bear Sam off laughing; then, when the King slipped away she stepped after him, tucking her hand within the breadth of his. He favored her with the broad uncomplicated grin he'd shown too few times upon their travels together, his hand enveloping hers with gently protective strength. "Good evening," he greeted her, and she smiled in her turn.
"Lovely," she answered him, "and not done yet."
Aragorn's eyes widened and softened, shining deep blue like a calm evening sky, and he led her by quiet dim passages to his own bedchamber, where a single lamp laid warm light upon his tome-heaped table and wide bed. There he knelt before her, folding his hands around her as he had when bidding her farewell on Amon Hen, and asked her carefully, "Froda daughter of Drogo, what would you have of me tonight?"
Froda smiled, and leaned forward to lay her answer upon his wide soft lips. He caught a quick breath through his nose, surprise tensing his fingers around hers, but then he sighed and tipped his head and joined the kiss in earnest, and oh, the breadth of his mouth, the soft strange rasp of beard, the hesitant flicker of his tongue over her lips, the sweep like flying when he gathered her up and lifted her effortlessly, whirling her around and laying her upon his bed. Froda moaned soft encouragement and Aragorn answered with a broken hungry sound and an encompassing kiss, his flexing tongue filling her mouth and how she wished for him to fill her up so, brimful and overflowing with delight.
He bent low over her, but the moment she shifted her grip into a push against his shoulders he shuddered to a stop, lifting his head, settling back on his knees. "Froda?"
"I should undress, if it pleases you." She blushed now, like the tween she'd not been for long years, thinking of how thin and marred she was beneath her sumptuous gown.
But Aragorn had been her healer before he'd become her king, he knew her every scar; his smile was wondrous as he said, "Let me," and lifted her dress off, then her underdress. Below those she wore bloomers from home and the breast-binding Pervinca had learned from Merry's beloved Eowyn, and Aragorn's face was a study in concentration as he unfastened the broad ribbon and drew it off in a high loop.
Once more Froda wondered what strange fancy had possessed her to offer herself to Aragorn when she must be a mere morsel to him, and now he banished those thoughts entirely with his featherlight touch, cupping her small high breasts in his palms, running his fingers lightly as a breeze over her ribs and hips, down her calves and through her foot-curls. She opened eyes she hadn't known she'd closed to look upon his face between her feet, and had to smile, almost laughing with the surge of joy.
"You are exquisite," Aragorn told her, truth in his eyes, his hands engulfing her knees. "So lovely. May I?" He gestured at her bloomers, her last garment.
"Only if you disrobe as well," she asked, feeling mischief crease her cheek; then she was surprised by how swiftly Aragorn could undress when he had a mind to, his jerkin and tunic and breeches all falling to the floor, and then astonished by his lean muscular grace, the breadth of his chest and the dark straight hair ranged across it, the power in his long arms and legs and oh, her breath caught as she regarded his prick in its nest of wiry hair. Its size certainly sorted with the rest of him, but with hers -- she doubted her hand would fit its girth, and reached out to try.
Smiling, Aragorn sat as Froda leaned forward avidly and took hold of him, finding her guess correct. "If I were Pervinca I should make a joke about scepters," she said to win another one of those grins, and when he drew her close against his warm firm side she sighed with pleasure. "I would like very much to feel this."
"It seems to me," Aragorn said, more strain in his voice than when she'd heard him shout battle-orders, "that you are feeling it."
Froda laughed, and leaned forward to kiss the head of her double-and-more handful, listening to him sigh, and dared a lick along springy flesh, listening to his breath rush that much faster. "I would feel this within me," she murmured to it, her lips brushing it. "I want you to tup me." That won a shudder. Of course, she saw as she tipped her head to look up at him, he would try to say her nay, but she could feel his pulse beneath her lips, she knew his desire. "I'm not afraid."
"I am, my lady." Aragorn was trying to be stern, but Froda had seen his true sternness, and could see the smile in his eyes now. "I would not harm you."
"You're a healer." She turned round from beneath his arm -- even he forgot how swiftly she might move -- to straddle one of his thighs, pressing herself down onto solid muscle and pleasantly rough skin. "You will not harm me. Please, my King." She leaned in, pressing her breasts to his belly so his hair tingled her nipples, her chin to his keel bone to watch his eyes flutter wide. "My fellow walker. My friend. Please fill me with the pleasure I see-eek!"
For she had also forgotten how swiftly he moved when he had a mind, his hands meeting round her waist as he lifted her to the bed, his hair brushing her face as he kissed her hard and swift; he laid tingling kisses to her throat and between her breasts, a little too roughly for deliberation, a little too wildly for calm. Froda gripped handfuls of Aragorn's hair and let her voice rise in wordless encouragement, arching up as he closed his mouth over her entire breast to suckle it till her nipple peaked, then licked over her heart to the other. "Yes, please yes," she chanted softly as he kissed over her belly until it felt not flat but sleek, as he drew her bloomers down and his tongue along the margin of her mound, as he parted her thighs and kissed them twice each in turn. And then he licked her open, his nose pressing hard against her as he sucked and laved each fold, caressing her tenderest flesh with his flexing tongue. Froda couldn't hold back, she arched and screamed, and when Aragorn sucked the last fold between his tender lips she peaked. He moaned as she did, and licked her very entrance, up to her nub and down again, huge and hot and wet. Pushing her thighs up he thrust his tongue within her and she squeezed around its thickness, pushing back against the press of his huge hands, and peaked again, spread open and helpless to him.
He went on relentlessly, till it was almost too much, till she felt her head would burst, licking her nub ceaselessly while he drew one hand down to slide a finger into her, thick as a hobbit's prick but firmer and rougher. He stroked faster and faster within her, pushing her thigh back further and suckling her nub, and she tossed her head and thrashed her spine and peaked for him till she felt melted down into quaking jelly. There were tears on her face, she couldn't breathe for gasping, and he pulled his finger out to thrust his tongue within her again, till she writhed on it, or tried to, but he held her fast by both knees and drank her pleasure till she peaked like her heart would explode. At length she subsided, trembling and gasping; he kissed her thighs, kissed her belly, and knelt up, and she lay limp and trembling amidst his fine sheets, breathing in their mingled warmth, trying to open her eyes.
"Froda," in Aragorn's voice, brought her eyes open, brought her up on one elbow to look up and see his eyes keenly fixed upon her, even as his red tongue poked from his mouth to run along his mustache and she shuddered with the memory of it, her flesh still twitching.
He touched her cheek, his fingers firm and damp, and she breathed in her own musk on them as she tilted her face into his touch and thought quite clearly that she must have him or she'd die of the wanting. "Please," she breathed, hearing her voice shake, watching the flame dance in his eyes. "That was glorious, but please, I want to lie in your arms as you lie within me. Please tup me."
Aragorn squeezed his eyes shut, lurching back from the bed, damp-drizzled cock flushed and bobbing, and Froda told herself she shouldn't enjoy this so even as power beat within her like wide wings. "Salve," he said to himself, and when he turned to fetch it she sighed appreciatively at the sight of his strong scar-flecked back and muscular buttocks.
When he turned back to her he smiled like a tween, and she grinned and wriggled and moaned for him, reaching up as soon as he was close enough, burying her fingers in his damp beard, tasting herself on his lips as she tugged him close. "Patience, patience," he murmured to her, and she laughed, her heart soaring as she ached happily for him, and pulled him to her again, listening to the slick sound of greasing, the groan deep in his throat, the clatter of the discarded tin.
And then he was on his knees between hers, so broad and tall over her, their roughened breathing more eloquent than words; Froda filled her eyes with the sight of Aragorn panting and enthralled and immense above her, looking down like a starved man at a feast, and she knew better than ever that feeling. She looked up at him, slicked and gleamingly ready, and briefly quailed, but she wanted it, she wanted to know, to feel. So she reached up to brace her hands against his arms as he covered her, spreading her thighs as wide as she could as he nocked the blunt heat of his prick to her.
It was wet with his rousedness and slick with salve, she was open and sopping, but still--- but then the head breached her so she keened and shuddered. The feel was incredible, stretch and crackle as she strained to fit him, as he puffed and kept pushing, his prick sliding impossibly deep within her. It hurt, it ached, it was glorious. She dug her nails into his arms and concentrated on opening herself to him as he pushed, sinking effortfully deeper and deeper, as all her sinews stretched taut. And still he pushed this great huge prick within her, her flesh stretching and tugged by it, until his hair scoured her nub to tingling as his heavy eggs thunked against her arse.
They paused, then, both of them gasping and shaking, Aragorn buried in the strained depths of her body, her feet suspended in the air by her wide-spread legs and her breath almost crushed out of her by his weight on her even as he held himself up. And then he pulled out, her flesh clinging along his, all the way, tugged and sticking, and pushed in faster, and Froda threw back her head and screamed for sheer overwhelming joy.
And Aragorn laughed for that same joy, his eyes alight with wonder before she shut hers and deliberately squirmed around him, drawing him on. Faster and faster and up to a full gallop; it was overwhelming and shattering and wonderful beyond believing. It felt like her womb were bouncing off her lungs with each blow, her heart thrust up into her throat, and she arched off the sheets, screaming and clutching him, peaking till lightning sizzled through her wits. "Yes, more, yes," Froda demanded, and her King groaned a laugh and obeyed her, tupping her immensely till she couldn't tell if she peaked or not, until she peaked again, and again, her whole body reverberating around him.
Aragorn's head hung as she'd never seen him bow it, his hair damp silk when she reached up a hand to clutch it, and he gasped to her, "I won't last, Froda, I won't last."
"Then peak for me," she gasped to him, the words rasping her scream-scoured throat, and she might have said more but his hands spanned her hips, his fingers crushed flesh against bone. She gloried in the ache of it, whipping up the fire in her blood as he finally let himself loose and knocked all the air from her until he began to shake; he slammed one hand to the bed, holding himself up on that trembling pillar as he jerked through his peak, and she felt every pulse, pleasure plunging through her like a sword, her blood roaring like Rauros falls in her ears.
"Oh," Froda heard herself whimpering, over and over, as Aragorn panted over her, chest rising and falling. He loosed her hip, hissing as he pulled from her clinging flesh with an incredibly wet sucking sound, and she keened; he slumped to the bed, gathering her up in his arms, and she found his chest sheened with sweat and oven-hot, found herself laughing in breathless delight. "Oh, Majesty," she said when she could speak, and looked up to find Aragorn regarding her with narrowed eyes and a deeper red painting his cheekbones.
"Oh, my valiant lady," he replied, laying his hand over her heart, fingers curved to her breasts either side. "Thank you."
"I should thank you, I think." Froda's thighs slid against each other, her fingers spread across his chest, she lay in Aragorn's arms damp and replete and tingling within and without. "And beg pardon for my bossiness." Not that she could bring herself to even blush for it.
"An unnecessary pardon which I gladly grant." Aragorn kissed her brow, and her eyes fell shut as her smile widened. "On the condition that you now sleep."
"There are hours and hours yet," she countered, but it was a bluff, the pleasure suffusing her weighted her down to drowsiness. Aragorn merely chuckled and kissed her again, on her cheek, and she was asleep before he could reach her mouth.
So began an alternation between sleeping in Sam's arms and in Aragorn's, between gentle rest and renewing joy. Still, Froda knew this Idyll must end eventually, for like all the city's residents she awaited the arrival of the Queen.
Upon Midsummer, as Queen Arwen Undomiel paced through the crowd come to greet her, Froda stood waiting with heart pounding against her fragile ribs; the Queen stopped before her, looking upon her as she curtseyed, as Merry and Pervinca and Sam made their obeisances behind her, and she almost thought she'd faint. But then Arwen winked, a flash of merriment, and bent to kiss Froda upon her brow, and now her head spun indeed with relief and delight.
It was two long, brief days later when a gliding maiden knocked at their house's door, come to fetch Froda. Squeezing Sam's hand, she left him to climb to the Palace, where she found waiting for her the King and Queen, bare as birth and open-armed. So it was that through all her stay, in the sweet nights between the days of happiness, Froda never slept alone.
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Aragorn/fem!Frodo; Sam & Frodo, Queen Arwen
Summary: So it was that through all her stay, in the sweet nights between the days of happiness, Froda never slept alone.
Content Advisory: Always-female gender swap, interspecies romance, hints of non-monogamy.
All Thanks To:
bowsie22, who requested this grand prompt. Disclaimer: This fanwork has been created for pleasure only and not for profit.
The Ringbearer had a wide bed in Minas Tirith in which she never lay. When the King had called her back from death's brink by his will and his love, he bore her himself into Minas Tirith, seated before him upon his saddle and cradled in his arms. Samwise paced steadyingly by her side, Merry and Pervinca tall at her back, as Aragorn himself led them into the house prepared for them. That first night, facing their beds, Froda and Sam shared a single instant's glance before he tugged the oversized pillow down from hers, and she laughed as she made him let her help carry it over to his. There they curled up between those pillows like bolsters, and she slept in his arms as she had upon leaves and stone and ash and grass all throughout their journey.
The next night, after seeing Sam well content with Elves singing to him, Froda lingered after the feast until she saw her kin and Faramir bear Sam off laughing; then, when the King slipped away she stepped after him, tucking her hand within the breadth of his. He favored her with the broad uncomplicated grin he'd shown too few times upon their travels together, his hand enveloping hers with gently protective strength. "Good evening," he greeted her, and she smiled in her turn.
"Lovely," she answered him, "and not done yet."
Aragorn's eyes widened and softened, shining deep blue like a calm evening sky, and he led her by quiet dim passages to his own bedchamber, where a single lamp laid warm light upon his tome-heaped table and wide bed. There he knelt before her, folding his hands around her as he had when bidding her farewell on Amon Hen, and asked her carefully, "Froda daughter of Drogo, what would you have of me tonight?"
Froda smiled, and leaned forward to lay her answer upon his wide soft lips. He caught a quick breath through his nose, surprise tensing his fingers around hers, but then he sighed and tipped his head and joined the kiss in earnest, and oh, the breadth of his mouth, the soft strange rasp of beard, the hesitant flicker of his tongue over her lips, the sweep like flying when he gathered her up and lifted her effortlessly, whirling her around and laying her upon his bed. Froda moaned soft encouragement and Aragorn answered with a broken hungry sound and an encompassing kiss, his flexing tongue filling her mouth and how she wished for him to fill her up so, brimful and overflowing with delight.
He bent low over her, but the moment she shifted her grip into a push against his shoulders he shuddered to a stop, lifting his head, settling back on his knees. "Froda?"
"I should undress, if it pleases you." She blushed now, like the tween she'd not been for long years, thinking of how thin and marred she was beneath her sumptuous gown.
But Aragorn had been her healer before he'd become her king, he knew her every scar; his smile was wondrous as he said, "Let me," and lifted her dress off, then her underdress. Below those she wore bloomers from home and the breast-binding Pervinca had learned from Merry's beloved Eowyn, and Aragorn's face was a study in concentration as he unfastened the broad ribbon and drew it off in a high loop.
Once more Froda wondered what strange fancy had possessed her to offer herself to Aragorn when she must be a mere morsel to him, and now he banished those thoughts entirely with his featherlight touch, cupping her small high breasts in his palms, running his fingers lightly as a breeze over her ribs and hips, down her calves and through her foot-curls. She opened eyes she hadn't known she'd closed to look upon his face between her feet, and had to smile, almost laughing with the surge of joy.
"You are exquisite," Aragorn told her, truth in his eyes, his hands engulfing her knees. "So lovely. May I?" He gestured at her bloomers, her last garment.
"Only if you disrobe as well," she asked, feeling mischief crease her cheek; then she was surprised by how swiftly Aragorn could undress when he had a mind to, his jerkin and tunic and breeches all falling to the floor, and then astonished by his lean muscular grace, the breadth of his chest and the dark straight hair ranged across it, the power in his long arms and legs and oh, her breath caught as she regarded his prick in its nest of wiry hair. Its size certainly sorted with the rest of him, but with hers -- she doubted her hand would fit its girth, and reached out to try.
Smiling, Aragorn sat as Froda leaned forward avidly and took hold of him, finding her guess correct. "If I were Pervinca I should make a joke about scepters," she said to win another one of those grins, and when he drew her close against his warm firm side she sighed with pleasure. "I would like very much to feel this."
"It seems to me," Aragorn said, more strain in his voice than when she'd heard him shout battle-orders, "that you are feeling it."
Froda laughed, and leaned forward to kiss the head of her double-and-more handful, listening to him sigh, and dared a lick along springy flesh, listening to his breath rush that much faster. "I would feel this within me," she murmured to it, her lips brushing it. "I want you to tup me." That won a shudder. Of course, she saw as she tipped her head to look up at him, he would try to say her nay, but she could feel his pulse beneath her lips, she knew his desire. "I'm not afraid."
"I am, my lady." Aragorn was trying to be stern, but Froda had seen his true sternness, and could see the smile in his eyes now. "I would not harm you."
"You're a healer." She turned round from beneath his arm -- even he forgot how swiftly she might move -- to straddle one of his thighs, pressing herself down onto solid muscle and pleasantly rough skin. "You will not harm me. Please, my King." She leaned in, pressing her breasts to his belly so his hair tingled her nipples, her chin to his keel bone to watch his eyes flutter wide. "My fellow walker. My friend. Please fill me with the pleasure I see-eek!"
For she had also forgotten how swiftly he moved when he had a mind, his hands meeting round her waist as he lifted her to the bed, his hair brushing her face as he kissed her hard and swift; he laid tingling kisses to her throat and between her breasts, a little too roughly for deliberation, a little too wildly for calm. Froda gripped handfuls of Aragorn's hair and let her voice rise in wordless encouragement, arching up as he closed his mouth over her entire breast to suckle it till her nipple peaked, then licked over her heart to the other. "Yes, please yes," she chanted softly as he kissed over her belly until it felt not flat but sleek, as he drew her bloomers down and his tongue along the margin of her mound, as he parted her thighs and kissed them twice each in turn. And then he licked her open, his nose pressing hard against her as he sucked and laved each fold, caressing her tenderest flesh with his flexing tongue. Froda couldn't hold back, she arched and screamed, and when Aragorn sucked the last fold between his tender lips she peaked. He moaned as she did, and licked her very entrance, up to her nub and down again, huge and hot and wet. Pushing her thighs up he thrust his tongue within her and she squeezed around its thickness, pushing back against the press of his huge hands, and peaked again, spread open and helpless to him.
He went on relentlessly, till it was almost too much, till she felt her head would burst, licking her nub ceaselessly while he drew one hand down to slide a finger into her, thick as a hobbit's prick but firmer and rougher. He stroked faster and faster within her, pushing her thigh back further and suckling her nub, and she tossed her head and thrashed her spine and peaked for him till she felt melted down into quaking jelly. There were tears on her face, she couldn't breathe for gasping, and he pulled his finger out to thrust his tongue within her again, till she writhed on it, or tried to, but he held her fast by both knees and drank her pleasure till she peaked like her heart would explode. At length she subsided, trembling and gasping; he kissed her thighs, kissed her belly, and knelt up, and she lay limp and trembling amidst his fine sheets, breathing in their mingled warmth, trying to open her eyes.
"Froda," in Aragorn's voice, brought her eyes open, brought her up on one elbow to look up and see his eyes keenly fixed upon her, even as his red tongue poked from his mouth to run along his mustache and she shuddered with the memory of it, her flesh still twitching.
He touched her cheek, his fingers firm and damp, and she breathed in her own musk on them as she tilted her face into his touch and thought quite clearly that she must have him or she'd die of the wanting. "Please," she breathed, hearing her voice shake, watching the flame dance in his eyes. "That was glorious, but please, I want to lie in your arms as you lie within me. Please tup me."
Aragorn squeezed his eyes shut, lurching back from the bed, damp-drizzled cock flushed and bobbing, and Froda told herself she shouldn't enjoy this so even as power beat within her like wide wings. "Salve," he said to himself, and when he turned to fetch it she sighed appreciatively at the sight of his strong scar-flecked back and muscular buttocks.
When he turned back to her he smiled like a tween, and she grinned and wriggled and moaned for him, reaching up as soon as he was close enough, burying her fingers in his damp beard, tasting herself on his lips as she tugged him close. "Patience, patience," he murmured to her, and she laughed, her heart soaring as she ached happily for him, and pulled him to her again, listening to the slick sound of greasing, the groan deep in his throat, the clatter of the discarded tin.
And then he was on his knees between hers, so broad and tall over her, their roughened breathing more eloquent than words; Froda filled her eyes with the sight of Aragorn panting and enthralled and immense above her, looking down like a starved man at a feast, and she knew better than ever that feeling. She looked up at him, slicked and gleamingly ready, and briefly quailed, but she wanted it, she wanted to know, to feel. So she reached up to brace her hands against his arms as he covered her, spreading her thighs as wide as she could as he nocked the blunt heat of his prick to her.
It was wet with his rousedness and slick with salve, she was open and sopping, but still--- but then the head breached her so she keened and shuddered. The feel was incredible, stretch and crackle as she strained to fit him, as he puffed and kept pushing, his prick sliding impossibly deep within her. It hurt, it ached, it was glorious. She dug her nails into his arms and concentrated on opening herself to him as he pushed, sinking effortfully deeper and deeper, as all her sinews stretched taut. And still he pushed this great huge prick within her, her flesh stretching and tugged by it, until his hair scoured her nub to tingling as his heavy eggs thunked against her arse.
They paused, then, both of them gasping and shaking, Aragorn buried in the strained depths of her body, her feet suspended in the air by her wide-spread legs and her breath almost crushed out of her by his weight on her even as he held himself up. And then he pulled out, her flesh clinging along his, all the way, tugged and sticking, and pushed in faster, and Froda threw back her head and screamed for sheer overwhelming joy.
And Aragorn laughed for that same joy, his eyes alight with wonder before she shut hers and deliberately squirmed around him, drawing him on. Faster and faster and up to a full gallop; it was overwhelming and shattering and wonderful beyond believing. It felt like her womb were bouncing off her lungs with each blow, her heart thrust up into her throat, and she arched off the sheets, screaming and clutching him, peaking till lightning sizzled through her wits. "Yes, more, yes," Froda demanded, and her King groaned a laugh and obeyed her, tupping her immensely till she couldn't tell if she peaked or not, until she peaked again, and again, her whole body reverberating around him.
Aragorn's head hung as she'd never seen him bow it, his hair damp silk when she reached up a hand to clutch it, and he gasped to her, "I won't last, Froda, I won't last."
"Then peak for me," she gasped to him, the words rasping her scream-scoured throat, and she might have said more but his hands spanned her hips, his fingers crushed flesh against bone. She gloried in the ache of it, whipping up the fire in her blood as he finally let himself loose and knocked all the air from her until he began to shake; he slammed one hand to the bed, holding himself up on that trembling pillar as he jerked through his peak, and she felt every pulse, pleasure plunging through her like a sword, her blood roaring like Rauros falls in her ears.
"Oh," Froda heard herself whimpering, over and over, as Aragorn panted over her, chest rising and falling. He loosed her hip, hissing as he pulled from her clinging flesh with an incredibly wet sucking sound, and she keened; he slumped to the bed, gathering her up in his arms, and she found his chest sheened with sweat and oven-hot, found herself laughing in breathless delight. "Oh, Majesty," she said when she could speak, and looked up to find Aragorn regarding her with narrowed eyes and a deeper red painting his cheekbones.
"Oh, my valiant lady," he replied, laying his hand over her heart, fingers curved to her breasts either side. "Thank you."
"I should thank you, I think." Froda's thighs slid against each other, her fingers spread across his chest, she lay in Aragorn's arms damp and replete and tingling within and without. "And beg pardon for my bossiness." Not that she could bring herself to even blush for it.
"An unnecessary pardon which I gladly grant." Aragorn kissed her brow, and her eyes fell shut as her smile widened. "On the condition that you now sleep."
"There are hours and hours yet," she countered, but it was a bluff, the pleasure suffusing her weighted her down to drowsiness. Aragorn merely chuckled and kissed her again, on her cheek, and she was asleep before he could reach her mouth.
So began an alternation between sleeping in Sam's arms and in Aragorn's, between gentle rest and renewing joy. Still, Froda knew this Idyll must end eventually, for like all the city's residents she awaited the arrival of the Queen.
Upon Midsummer, as Queen Arwen Undomiel paced through the crowd come to greet her, Froda stood waiting with heart pounding against her fragile ribs; the Queen stopped before her, looking upon her as she curtseyed, as Merry and Pervinca and Sam made their obeisances behind her, and she almost thought she'd faint. But then Arwen winked, a flash of merriment, and bent to kiss Froda upon her brow, and now her head spun indeed with relief and delight.
It was two long, brief days later when a gliding maiden knocked at their house's door, come to fetch Froda. Squeezing Sam's hand, she left him to climb to the Palace, where she found waiting for her the King and Queen, bare as birth and open-armed. So it was that through all her stay, in the sweet nights between the days of happiness, Froda never slept alone.