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TITLE: Counterpoint, Interfolio - Capriccio AUTHOR: Daffodil Bolger BETA: Trianne PAIRING: Frodo/Merry RATING: R SUMMARY: The boys have been drinking. A lot.
Capriccio: A quick, improvisational, spirited piece of music.
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CAPRICCIO
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"'s crook-- crook--" A pause; a hiccup. "'s not straight," Merry said. Slurred. Whatever. He emptied his mug in a long swallow, burped. Snorted. Forgot what he was snorting at and peered into the bottom of his mug with a mournful sulk. A bony elbow jammed into his ribs and Merry yipped, blinked. "Hoy."
"I know it's crooked," Frodo told him, and Frodo might think he was sooooo good at… well, everything, and he sort of was, which annoyed Merry sometimes -- like now, actually -- but he was rot at trying to hide laughter. Merry could tell Frodo was laughing -- deep in his chest and not out loud but his eyes were laughing and his mouth was quivering and right, like Merry didn't know. Pffft. Frodo was laughing at Merry and Merry with no more beer to dull the sting. He upended his mug, turned the full effect of his mournful sulk on Frodo; Frodo was also rot at resisting Merry's charms, especially when Merry… wait. He reached down, casually flicked the top button of his shirt open. There, that should do it. Wait… Did another. Just in case. He dangled his mug on his fingers, jutted his bottom lip; Frodo only smirked a little and made no move towards the pitcher sitting in the middle of the floor, too far for Merry to reach, and he could probably move… maybe… but if he could get Frodo to do it for him instead…
"You're s'posed to be helping me get it straight."
Merry's sulk turned to a scowl. "'r'you not going t' get me another? Thought you…" And now the scowl sort of melted, turned to a frown. "Get what straight?"
Bloody wretched Baggins -- he wasn't even trying to hide the laughter any more. Which was sort of all right because when he laughed his face got all red and his eyes got bright and gah, he was like walking sex -- all right, he was actually sitting at the moment, but still -- and had Merry not had three glasses of wine before his… however-many mugs of beer, his need to shag Frodo through the floorboards might be more urgent than his current need to piss. Since he had had three glasses of wine before his however-many mugs of beer, the pissing was at the moment taking precedence. He should take care of that. As soon as someone carried him to the loo and made sure he didn't fall in when he got there. Because if he were to move, the pitcher was actually more important than the pissing -- being that it was closer and had beer in it and Merry really wanted more beer -- so if no one carried him to the loo, he just wasn't going to go, and when had he started thinking 'beer' and 'piss' at the same time because that was a little disgusting if he thought about it, and why did the thought of one make the need of the other all the more urgent? And really, if he planned on doing any proper shagging, the pissing should come first. Then the beer. Or it could be piss, shag, beer -- the order of which would work just as well, actually. In any case, the pissing should come first and why was Frodo still laughing at him?
Oh, bugger. He wasn't talking out loud, was he?
"The helm, Merry," Frodo told him, pointed across the room at the wall and the--
Oh, yes! They'd managed to get the shield mounted without much problem but the helm had proved a bugger and a half. And it was Frodo's fault, really, because it would have been done in five seconds had he let Merry just drill a hole in it to mount it but nooooo! Couldn't mar it, Frodo'd said -- shrieked it, actually, but that was probably because Merry already had the drill in one hand and the hammer in the other, raised and ready for a first strike, and he'd already had the wine and really, it might be a good thing to remember in the future that Merry should refrain from playing with pointy things while under the influence of wine. He lifted his hand, tried to focus on his bandaged thumb.
After Frodo had seen to his wound -- 'war injury' Merry kept insisting because it made Frodo snort every time and he had, after all, got it whilst attending to a battle helmet -- he'd steered Merry over to the bed, tried to sit him on it but Merry had missed and ended up on the floor, leaning back against the side of the bed, laughing so hard he'd given himself the hiccups. And hadn't really tried to move since. Which would be all right, except--
"I haven't any more beer," he told his cousin, tried out the pout again.
"Probably just as well," Frodo answered, leaned over and kissed Merry's cheek, laid his head on Merry's shoulder and slouched down, examined the opposite wall. "'s not so bad," he said, eyed the new decorations critically.
The shield was placed perfectly, but Merry supposed it would be really difficult to hang a circle crooked anyway, so he didn't pat himself on the back too much over that one. Frodo had polished it to a high gloss and it really would make a fine mirror. The helm… Merry was beginning to hate that helm. Ever since he'd tripped over it coming out of the storage room, it had been out to get him. First, the spike on its crown had jabbed right into his anklebone and then when he'd been holding it up so that Frodo could secure it to the wall -- without marring the metal, thank you -- it had -- and he swears this is true: it had literally slithered out of his hands, slid down the wall then launched itself square onto his toes… which didn't feel any better at all for the kick he levelled at it. Because it was really hard. And bloody ow!
If Merry ever met another dwarf, he was going to box his ears just on general principle. Or maybe not; they were still bigger than he was and their boots looked rather heavy. His toes curled a little in defence.
Bloody Bilbo the bloody packrat. Not only had he left a figurative mess behind for Frodo to clean up, there was a quite literal one as well. Merry had been trying to help with organising and sifting and packing things up for donations to the Mathom House and Frodo was trying to pretend like it didn't make him sad to go through all of the old things and they'd both drank more than they probably should have done and…
And damn it, Merry really needed to piss.
He opened his mouth to say as much, peered down at Frodo, who chose just that moment to peer back up, and bloody damn as if there wasn't already enough going on in Merry's trousers! Caught, trapped, slave to those eyes and Merry really had to wonder if Frodo had any idea at all what he could do to a person just with that seemingly-casual flick of a glance. Was it a talent or a skill and could he use it at will or was it only for Merry? Merry chose to believe the latter and the pissing thing took a quick second place to the shagging-through-the-floorboards thing.
"All right there, Merry-lad?"
That would depend entirely upon one's definition.
There was a small smile quirking at the corners of Frodo's mouth and there was suddenly nothing more urgent in Merry's world than finding out how that smile tasted. He didn't answer Frodo, only leaned in the few inches necessary, ran his tongue, slow and slick, over Frodo's lips then covered that smile with his own mouth, sucked and nipped at Frodo's bottom lip. Beer, of course, perhaps a bit of a sugar-tang from the cranberry-apple cobbler they'd had for afters and maybe even a hint of the dandelion wine they'd shared over supper and which still had Merry's head spinning dizzily. Or maybe that was Frodo making him light-headed, because Frodo really did seem to have that effect on Merry and Merry would feel at least a little silly over it but with Frodo's tongue dipping into Merry's mouth and Frodo's hand sliding up Merry's chest and throat to tangle into his hair and with Frodo humming softly against Merry's teeth and the vibration of it slamming every bit of the blood from Merry's brain down into his groin, making him ache and tingle all at the same time--
Had there been a point?
Merry found he could move after all, even when beer wasn't involved, because Frodo was better than beer, anyway. He wrapped his arm about Frodo, tugged, and Frodo came along, slid a leg over Merry's thighs, took hold of Merry's hair in both hands and plunged deeper into his mouth. Shimmied his way up until his knees were pressing into Merry's hips, pushed his own hips forward, and Merry gasped, folded both arms about Frodo and hauled him in and down, jerked himself up and--
"Mmm," Frodo rumbled, pressed down harder, gave several stuttered little thrusts that made Merry growl, take hold of Frodo's hips and shove him back.
Stars and fire, his head really was spinning and he could probably blame it on several things at the moment but he thought probably the one thing that was really responsible was the fact that Frodo seemed to make it hard for a person to breathe. Mercy, just the way he moved and the way his hands almost literally took possession of a person, bent Merry to his will without saying a single word, and Merry was sure it would make another person blush, the way he knew without doubt that he would do anything Frodo asked him to, anything, and bollocks to pride, but it only made Merry groan, clench his teeth and trytrytry to hold back for just a little while.
Merry bowed his head, breath coming harsh and fast, heart knocking like a hammer in his chest. Glory, if he didn't get hold of himself fast, he was going to end up needing to change his trousers and not because of the pissing thing.
"What," Frodo asked, breath warm and moist to Merry's ear, "do you want?"
And oh, right, like Merry was supposed to be able to keep his head over that. And he almost retorted that he would like less of the talking thing and more of the shagging-through-the-floorboards thing but in truth he liked the talking thing, liked how Frodo's voice seemed to move right through him, slip through his ribs and dip hot and slick into his belly.
Merry could only groan again -- all right, maybe it was more like a whimper -- dig his fingers into Frodo's hips and resist the impulse to drag him close and just start pushing and writhing. And Frodo was bloody amazing because he could have waited for Merry to say what he wanted, which would have been not so good because Merry had no sodding idea what he wanted, only that he wanted it now and he wanted it all and what that entailed made his head spin even more. And really -- how could he be expected to form a coherent thought when Frodo's hands were moving everywhere, undoing buttons and pushing aside linen, and his hips were rocking slow and sure on Merry's thighs and his mouth was travelling over Merry's throat, down his chest, tongue swiping and teeth nipping ever so gently and bloody damn, Merry knew there had been a question back there somewhere and a pretty important one, too, he was sure, but with the head-spinning thing, he'd gone and let it fly out his ears. So he only whimpered again and Frodo really was amazing because he knew, whatever it was Merry had been whimpering about, Frodo knew it and he slide-turned Merry until Merry was flat on his back, watching the ceiling do lazy little reels above him and feeling nothing but slick, white-hot fire engulfing him.
"Yngh!" Merry said then, "Bugger!" and then couldn't say another word, couldn't make another sound as Frodo's tongue swirled then flattened then swirled again and Merry's mind blanked, went white and his ears buzzed.
It was too much. Surely his head was going to explode? Or other bits, which was more likely, now that he thought about it. Frodo was just too bloody good at this and Merry had once or twice thought of asking him where he'd learned that and yow, yes, because wherever he'd learned it should become a shrine to All Things Oral and every male in the Shire would bow down and pay tribute at its altar. But Merry had never asked and knew he never would because when Frodo was doing things like this to him, he wanted no mental picture of another in there bollixing up the works. And anyway, he preferred to believe that Frodo had been born with the talent.
Gah! and then Frodo did that again, dipped down deep, and Merry thought it was quite possible he was going to snap himself in half with the force with which his back was arching.
He was never going to make it five seconds, could already feel orgasm creeping through him, setting his nerves to buzzing and snapping up his backbone, his blood to racing hot then hotter and bubbling to a frothy little fizz in his brain. Frodo's hands moved, fingernails scraping up Merry's thighs, long fingers cupping and stroking, and oh, sweet merciful heavens, those lips tightening and sliding -- up and down, up and down -- and that tongue flicking and hot as coal-fire; Merry's hips rocked and jerked helplessly and his hands moved instinctively, wound through Frodo's hair and gripped probably harder than necessary but if Merry didn't hang on to something, he might literally fly right out of his body, which would be bad because his body happened to be where all the fun was right now.
And then Frodo hummed, vibrations moving right through Merry, curling over his skin and up his spine to settle back heavy and wound taut in his groin, a knot coiled tight and tense. A little slip-slide of the tongue, a firm roll and stroke of the fingers and the knot snapped, white light pounding through Merry's brain, blanking his mind. His mouth released a steady stream of reedy incoherent babble while his body twisted and writhed, his head slamming back into the floorboards, his back arching up off the floor while release tore through him, flushed hot and tingling through his limbs and sent his mind reeling into oblivion.
Oh, bless Frodo for being so bloody good and for knowing exactly what Merry wanted, and bless talented tongues everywhere, and bless the stars that were spangling behind his eyes for being so pretty and yellow and purple, and bless the floor for being so strong and not letting him fall through it, and sod it, just bless everyone and everything, and most especially, Frodo Baggins of the Amazing Mouth.
Merry had a vague notion that he was yanking quite hard at Frodo's hair but since his body had locked up tight and Frodo only kept swiping that wicked tongue, Merry decided Frodo must not be too terribly cross about it. He wilfully relaxed his muscles, blew out a long, slow breath and a tiny little moan escaped with it. One last flourish of that tongue and Merry hissed a little, too much sensation rippling through him, as Frodo pulled back, hovered over Merry until Merry opened his eyes, blinked a few times, gave his head a quick shake to clear it.
Frodo smiled, asked, "Was that what you wanted, love?"
He looked far too self-satisfied than was good for him but Merry couldn't do anything but snort a little, pull Frodo down for a kiss -- a quick one because Merry hadn't yet got his breath back and he needed every ounce of air now just to get his mind to work enough to allow him an articulate thought or two. He could, after all, only think with one brain at a time and right now, the one in his head seemed to be somewhat useless.
"You," Merry breathed, smiled and shook his head again, "are bloody amazing."
"Mm," Frodo replied. "I'm also bloody horny and I think -- and I have no hidden purpose whatever in suggesting this -- that you're in serious need of a good shagging."
Merry laughed this time, right out loud. "Oh? And who's going to give that to me, then, eh?"
Well," Frodo retorted with a lift of an eyebrow, "I suppose I could arrange to draw straws for it or ask for volunteers, but since I'm here and all…"
"Going to take one for the team then, are you?" Merry grinned.
"I'm very generous that way," Frodo agreed.
Another kiss and Merry closed his eyes for this one, pulled Frodo down on top of him and very purposefully pressed his thigh up into the distinctive heat and hard in Frodo's trousers. Frodo groaned, pressed himself down, started a slow unconscious rhythm until Merry reluctantly broke the kiss, pushed him back a little.
Frodo gave a bit of a snarl, pushed down harder and Merry might have given it up right there, but while Frodo grinding himself into Merry's hip was quite nice, the unfortunate placement of the rest of him over Merry's bladder was just not going to do. Merry pushed him back again and this time Frodo went, pulled away with a frustrated groan.
"What, what?" Frodo growled and oh, those eyes were dark and full of greedy want and even with all of the wine and beer Merry had consumed tonight and the fact that Frodo had just blown his brain out his ears, he thought it was quite possible he might enjoy a repeat performance this evening. As long as Frodo kept looking at him like that and rubbing that body up and down his own.
"What?" Frodo repeated, a little more impatiently this time, pressed himself down against Merry's hip to remind him of the urgency of the situation, which also reminded Merry of the renewed urgency of his own situation.
"Sorry," Merry told him, hoped his smile wasn't as smart-arsy as he thought it might be. "I've got to visit the loo."
Frodo's hips stopped their sinuous dance; he peered down at Merry, blinked slowly. His mouth dropped open, as though he couldn't decide whether to laugh or scream.
"Now?"
Merry just barely controlled a snort and wasn't it funny how orgasm tended to sharpen the bleary edges of a good piss-up? He grinned, nodded and rolled Frodo off of him with an undignified -- and rather girly -- squawk. Merry stood, only wavered a little and smirked down at Frodo, glaring up at him from the rug.
"Don't move," Merry told him. "I'd wanted to shag you through the floorboards but now you'll have to do it to me instead."
That took care of the glare; Frodo's eyes widened then hazed and colour worked its way up from his collar to his hairline. His breath hitched a little and his nostrils flared.
"Hurry," he told Merry.
Merry did -- well hurried as much as he could anyway, because he hadn't gone in a while and he'd had quite a lot of beer and there was an odd moment or two when he thought he'd never stop pissing and that would have made him laugh, had it not been for the mental image of Frodo lying on the floor and gazing up at him with that lusty, demanding look to him. And that made Merry begin to rise a little again, which was sort of good because it meant that there probably would be a repeat performance and perhaps they could take turns shagging each other through the floorboards; but it was also sort of not good because it's extremely difficult to piss when one has an erection.
Merry clenched his teeth, ran through the family tree backwards; he'd almost reached Gorbadoc before he was finally able to finish. It was amazing how much better a good piss could make a person feel; he thought he must weigh a half a stone lighter and he snorted. He was grinning as he washed his hands, nearly sprinted back to Frodo's bedroom--
--to find Frodo passed out on the floor. Merry frowned, walked slowly over to him, poked him a couple of times with his toe; Frodo only grunted a little, rolled over, slipped a hand beneath his cheek. He muttered something that sounded oddly like, 'Can't get the ferret out of the stove,' then quieted.
Merry sighed. Slumped a little. He thought about just pouncing Frodo, waking him up, but thought that might be a little on the selfish side. Yes, all right, a lot on the selfish side.
He sighed again, looked longingly down on dark hair and a magnificent arse and long nimble fingers that could make a hobbit writhe and weep beneath them. Gave one last hopeful poke.
Nothing but a soft snort and a deep sigh.
Well, he'd had a fabulous evening with his best friend, good food, good drink, an amazing blowjob and an extraordinary piss; despite the 'war wound' and the helm that hated him, he supposed that was more than most hobbits got.
And anyway, now he could have the bed all to himself.
He slept on the floor with Frodo.
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