TITLE:  Choices

AUTHOR:  Daffodil Bolger

BETA: Shadow

PAIRING:  Frodo/Merry

RATING:  NC-17

SUMMARY:  A game of rugby leads to more interesting activities.

(Okay, give me a break, yeah?  It was my first slash fic.  I've gotten better at it since then.)

Authors Note:  This was written as a gift to Willow-wode with no intention of ever posting it publicly.  It was, therefore, written with characterizations from RoP in mind and even goes so far as to borrow characters from Willow's fic.  It is being posted now with Willow's permission and encouragement.

This is NOT intended to be seen as part of the RoP universe nor is the direction this fic. takes and the actions of the characters necessarily where RoP will eventually take them.  This author has no pre-knowledge of where RoP is going and has only come up with this scenario by allowing the events of RoP (thus far), Nexus and Symbiosis do their work on the imagination.  This was inspired by RoP - it is not to be considered a part of RoP.  If this were part of RoP, it would come after Nexus.  But since it's not then it doesn't.  Besides, I'm sure Willow has much more interesting things up her sleeve.

* * *

Frodo stopped in his tracks and gaped at his cousin in open amazement.  "I cannot even believe you," he grated.  "You can't stand the sod and now you're defending him simply because he's your center!"

Color rose to Merry's cheeks and he threw the stick he'd been twisting into the grass.  He stomped over to Frodo, hands clenched into fists. 

Frodo stood his ground, refused to flinch even as Merry's angry face came within inches of his own.  He felt the blood rushing through his veins and into his face, pulsing at the gash along his cheekbone and filling the bruises along his back and thigh with yet more liquid fire.

"You'd best have a care, cousin," Merry ground out.  "Don't think I didn't see that bit of maneuvering in the scrum.  You're lucky we didn't get another penalty kick after that little stunt."

"I'm the hooker, in case you'd forgotten," was Frodo's furious reply.  "I'm supposed to maneuver."

"I don't recall legal maneuvers including jerking your knee into your opponent's sack!"

"Anything's legal in a scrum, Merry!  How long have you been playing this game, anyway?"

"Long enough to know a cheat when I see one!"

Bugger!  Merry winced and knew immediately he had gone too far.  Much too far.  Frodo's eyes bulged in their sockets and his face went almost white in cold fury.  His hands clenched at his sides and his arms shook with the strain of keeping them there.  Merry waited for the...ah, there it was.  Frodo's lip twitched and his nostrils flared and Merry turned tail and bolted.

* * *

Merry knew from the first play of the game that Girry was going to make this personal.  Having the benefit of being large, but not overly so and quick on his feet to boot, he was the perfect choice for center, though Merry was loathe to admit it.  Merry, himself, being the largest on his team, was playing fullback and so spent most of the game watching Girry joyfully go after Frodo and take full advantage of the fact that this might be the only time he was officially sanctioned to give the Baggins runt every ounce of his wrath out in the open for all the world to witness - and there wasn't a thing that Merry could do about it.  Oh, he could have tackled the lout had he wanted to but since Girry was on his own team, he didn't think the rest of his teammates would be very pleased about it.  So he had watched Girry clout his cousin mercilessly; a bloodied lip, a face full of grass and dirt, full body tackles at every opportunity and he once even had to watch as Girry actually picked Frodo up off the ground, lifted him to at least the height of his chest and threw him down to a sickening thud in the dirt.

And Frodo - and this is what Merry could not for the life of him comprehend and made his blood boil beneath his skin - kept coming back for more!  If the ball threatened to go out of play, Frodo was there to scoop it up and move it up the pitch.  If he was tackled - which happened every single time the leather touched his hands as far as Merry could tell - his uncanny ability to get the ball to the ground and curl around it to prepare for a ruck every time ensured that every player on the opposing team moved in for blood.  It was all his teammates could do to force the line back and allow Frodo enough room and time to put the ball back into play.  On those few occasions when a ruck was impossible, he made sure to drag his opponent out of play and force a line-out.  When the opponents faced each other for the line-out, Frodo was front and center; even to the point where Merry once witnessed Rollo - the biggest player on Frodo's team and the largest tween Merry had ever seen to his recollection - pick his cousin up and toss him into the air above the heads of the rest of the hobbits on the pitch, with Frodo catching the ball when it was thrown back into play and somehow emerging from the pile of bodies to begin his run toward the uprights.  Girry, naturally, was right there to intercept him, clotheslining Frodo so effectively that Merry had actually started running toward his cousin to see if he was still breathing.  He had stopped short, not sure whether to be relieved or furious when he realized that incredibly, Frodo was not, in fact, unconscious, but holding the ball to the ground and readying for the ruck.

Merry had just stood there in shocked disbelief as he watched his cousin curl around the ball then climb to his feet and lurch up the pitch.  He was stopped in his tracks when Girry and his big barrel chest somehow ended up right in his path and Merry's shock deepened as he witnessed his cousin disappearing within the maul that ensued.  Bodies everywhere and Merry had quickly lost sight of the dark head that had only a moment before been pressed up against Girry's chest and locked within the crook of his elbow-- before the maul was declared a failure and play was stopped.  Frodo had emerged with blood running from his nose and his cheekbone, glaring daggers at Girry and stalking resolutely to take his place in the middle of the scrum.  That was when his knee had wandered directly into the groin of the opposing hooker.

Merry had had enough.  This was not an action that a Frodo who was thinking clearly would have taken.  Dirty tricks were not his cousin's style and Merry knew that Frodo had almost reached his limit.  He had called time, spoken to Griffo Boffin, who was officiating, and had Frodo pulled from the game.  Griffo was none too pleased about the position that Merry had placed him in, being well aware of the wrath that Frodo Baggins was capable of when the occasion merited, but there were not many who would gainsay the future Master of Buckland - tweener or not.

Frodo had been livid and argued furiously with Griffo, his shouts ringing across the field and probably halfway to Hobbiton if Merry had to guess.  Griffo remained steady, although he could be forgiven for the occasional pleading glances shot Merry's way throughout the ordeal, citing an obscure rule that Merry was fairly certain he had made up on the spot-- that any player who was bleeding from the head must cease play until such time as said bleeding stopped.  Frodo, at first, refused to leave the field, pointing out that at least half the players from both teams were bleeding in at least one place located on or about their heads.  The only thing that finally got him to remove himself from play and allow a substitute player to enter was Griffo's threat that if Frodo did not remove himself from the pitch and right now, he would award the opposing team a free penalty kick.

Frodo had fallen silent, gritted his teeth, let his clenched fists move slowly to his sides, straightened his back... and looked at Merry.  Anger and disappointment raged in his eyes and Merry had no choice but to look away.  Frodo, half-lidded eyes pinned on Merry, walked steadily off the field and play resumed.  Merry felt those blazing eyes crawling all over him and was probably the least effective fullback in the history of the sport for the remainder of the game.

* * *

And now, here he was, running like a hobbitlad being chased by wolves from his cousin who was at least a head shorter than himself and half his weight to boot.  Although, taking cautious (and very quick) glances over his shoulder, he decided that running from wolves was not an entirely inaccurate comparison.

Frodo's face was locked into a livid mask, streaks of crimson stained across at least half of it and running after Merry like grim death was on his heels.  Merry turned back to focus on his path, realizing that he didn't think he'd ever been as downright petrified of his deceptively gentle cousin as he was right this moment.  And worse...he was beginning to tire.  His lungs sucked in great gulps of air in increasingly shorter gasps and his legs were beginning to cramp.  His only hope now was that Frodo was suffering similar difficulties, but one glance over his shoulder crushed that wish much more effectively than Girry's attempts on Frodo could ever hope to be.

They'd entered a grove of trees now and Merry began zigging and zagging around the trunks and leaping over piles of bracken in a vain attempt to elude the ferocious beast that had, up until a few hours ago, been his best friend and tweener playmate.  But that hobbit who could make his knees weak with want and his skin burn with need bore no resemblance to the maniacal creature that currently slathered at his heels.

'Mad Baggins, indeed,' Merry thought to himself, having no breath left with which to mutter it.  'They don't know the half of it.'

A second later, he found himself with a mouth full of the slimy leaves he had just finished slipping on when his feet had decided that they had had enough of this nonsense, thank you very much, and had spilled him unceremoniously onto the floor of the grove.  Not a breath later, strong, slender fingers were wrapped about his wrists and pinning them to the small of his back.  Something hard and unforgiving - most certainly a bony knee - was placed squarely between his shoulder blades.

He hadn't even the breath to plead for mercy.  His only satisfaction came from the sound of Frodo's equally harsh gasps just behind his left ear and the knowledge that, if his arms and legs ever decided to obey his command once again, he could easily switch their positions with a twist of his wrists and a quick roll.  At the moment, however, he was just as happy to stay where he was - knee in his back, face in the leaves and all - as long as he was not required to move in the very near future.

"M...Mer...Mmm...M..." Frodo was panting.

"Merry," Merry kindly finished for him.

Dark curls smelling of sweat and dirt with an underlying layer of vanilla and clear rain brushed against his temple as Frodo nodded.  Harsh, hot breaths flamed into his ear and Merry couldn't find the strength to suppress the shudder that moved over his sweated skin.

"Merry," Frodo finally got out, "take it...take...take it back."

Merry was beginning to catch his breath and so decided to take his chances.  "I'll not.  That was incredibly stu - ah!  Frodo, that really hurts!"

Frodo only continued to twist Merry's arms into even more uncomfortable positions and repeated, "Take.  It.  BACK!"  His knee pressed harder into Merry's back.  "Now!"

"Ah!  All right!  You're not a cheat, now let go!"

Frodo released him and climbed off his back, dropping onto his own in the leaves.  Merry rolled over and they lay side-by-side, panting.  He reached over for Frodo's hand but Frodo threw it off and twitched away.

Merry pulled himself up onto his elbow.  "What's gotten into you?" he wanted to know.  "You've been back in Buckland for three days and already I've seen more moods than in all the time you lived here."

Frodo's eyes narrowed at him and Merry felt the glare like a brand to his skin.  "What's gotten into you?" Frodo shot back.  "You had me tossed from the game, Merry!  Don't think I don't know why Griffo seemed to think I was the only one bleeding and that's not even a rule, in case you wanted to know and defending Girry of all people and why you'd stoop to that is beyond my ability to comprehend and then you have the brass to call me a cheat when you're the one mmrph mmrph--"

The kiss Merry had plastered to his cousin's mouth to shut him up or at least get him to take a breath was rudely interrupted by a rabbit-punch to his kidneys.  Merry gasped then rolled away and curled about himself, holding his side and groaning.

Frodo lurched to his feet.  He stood gazing down at Merry for a moment, his face unreadable, then abruptly turned and stalked away.  Merry hadn't even the breath to call after him so he just lay there in the leaves and watched his cousin disappear toward the Hall.

* * *

"Well, seeing Frodo's state when he stumbled back here, I'd thought his team the losing one," Mac stated as Merry approached the courtyard.  "But seeing the dark cloud that's hovering over your head makes me wonder." 

Merry looked up to see his uncle leaning against the Hall's courtyard entrance, arms folded across his chest.  He appeared to be at a loss as to whether to be amused or worried.  Merry was in no mood to deal with anyone at the moment, least of all Mac and so redirected his gaze back to his feet and attempted to brush by him without comment.  He might have known that would be pointless.  Mac's arm moved across the doorway.

"Merry?"

He sighed, resigned, kept his eyes on the ground.  "Just a fight, Mac.  Not to worry."

"A brawl, then, eh?" was Mac's smirking response.  "Imagine that during a rugby game.  And, why the long face?  Did a game break out in the middle of the fight, then?"

"I don't feel like talking about it Mac," Merry snapped and tried again to get by. 

Mac put a broad hand flat against his chest.  He frowned at his nephew, tried to catch his eyes but Merry refused to meet his gaze. 

"Who was fighting, Merry?"

Merry threw Mac's hand off angrily.  "If you're so interested then you should have come and played like Frodo asked you to," he fumed then went on with a sarcastic sneer,  "It could have been Mac to the rescue all over again."  He tried once more to get past his uncle.  

"Hoy, there, laddie," and Merry found himself with his back pressed to the wall and broad hands tangled in the collar of his shirt.  "I'll have you keep a respectful tongue in your mouth.  I'm not some tweener you can impress with your cheek and bulk."  Mac released him and stepped back.  "Now, I'll ask again, Merry and you'd best answer straight.  Who was fighting?"

Cheeks burning, Merry shuffled his feet and dug his toe into the ground.  "Frodo and me," he mumbled.

"Glory, Merry, did you do that to his face?  What in blue blazes has--"

"No, Mac!" Merry started then faltered.  He lifted a hand to scrub at his brow.  "No, I didn't do that to his face.  Of course I didn't!  How could you think--"  With a little more venom, he spat, "Girry did that, the bloody wanker."

"Watch your tongue, lad.  Your mother hears that and--"  Mac paused and took a good look at his nephew.  He cocked an eyebrow, shook his head.  "All right.  What have you done?"

Merry flashed a quick glare but Mac just looked back with a level stare.  "You might as well spill it.  You're not so big that your old uncle can't still take you on if you're going to be stubborn about it.  Come on, then.  Out with it."

Merry was caught between wanting to pour out every detail to this uncle who used to be so very good at solving his problems and jealously keeping everything of Frodo as his own, out of everyone else's reach - especially Mac's.  But there was no one else and Merry wouldn't be surprised if Mac really did decide to beat it out of him.  Nothing was unheard of where Merimac Brandybuck was concerned.  So with shoulders slumped, he sighed and surrendered but could not bring himself to meet his uncle's eyes as he said, "I... I asked... I made Griffo pull Frodo from the game."

"You..."  Merry finally managed to bring his gaze away from his feet and glanced at his uncle.  Mac stood just gaping at him for a moment, eyes wide, jaw hanging.  Slowly, his hand lifted to his mouth.  Merry watched Mac's brows quirk and was appalled to realize that the choked sounds coming from behind his hand were snickers.

"It isn't a laughing matter, Mac!" Merry nearly shouted.  "I knew it was a mistake to try and talk to you, of all people.  You've no idea--"

"Oh, don't I, then?" Mac chuckled.  "You had your cousin tossed from the game because Girry appeared to be killing him slowly and now he's fit to chew nails and spit tacks."  He allowed a rumble of genuine laughter to flow from his chest before going on to say, "How two young hobbits can be so different and yet so alike is entirely beyond me."

"We're nothing alike," Merry retorted.  "He's too stubborn or stupid to know when it's time to turn tail and run while I--"

"While you're too stubborn or stupid to know when to let people make their own choices," his uncle finished for him.

"Mac, they were killing him!  And he just wouldn't let up, he kept coming back and I just couldn't watch it happen, I had--"

"Had to bully your way in and make his choices for him."

"Bully?"

"Yes, bully," Mac said and whacked him upside his head.

"Ow! Mac!"

"You two are so intent on protecting each other that you give not a single care to what the other wants or needs.  All you see is what you want for Frodo, not what he wants for himself."

"And if he wants to get the tar whipped out of him by Girry and his lot over a lump of leather hide, I should just watch him get pummeled into the pitch and take the score?"

"Yes, Merry, that's exactly what you should do.  It's no less than what you would want him to do for you."  He stopped and scrubbed at Merry's tangled hair, soothing the spot he'd just whacked.  "Merry, you need to learn to let people make their own choices, whether you approve of those choices or not."

"And what am I to do when they've made a bad one?"

"'Tis not for you to say what's a good or bad choice.  Heir to the Master you may be, but that gives you no right over the minds of others and don't you forget it, boy."  Merry bent his head further, looking utterly miserable.  Mac took pity, placed a warm hand on his shoulder.  "It's all right, lad.  I know you mean well.  But if someone chooses the difficult road then stumbling is almost a certainty and there isn't a single thing you can do about it.  All you can do is watch and wait and be there for that person, lend what help they'll allow you and prop them up when the fall comes."

"What's so wrong with trying to ease the way, prevent the fall, if I'm able?" Merry asked, a little more bitterly than he'd intended.  "What's so wrong with making sure someone you love doesn't get hurt if you can help it?"  You've certainly never let anything stop you from putting yourself in Frodo's road... or his bed, Merry wanted to further but wisely kept that tucked behind his teeth.

Mac shook his head and gave an exasperated laugh, turned his gaze to the sky, shook his head again.  "That cousin of yours hasn't done anything the easy way his entire life," he said, looking back to Merry, "and he's got the scars to prove it.  You keep trying to smooth his path for him when he doesn't want you to, you're likely to give him a few more yourself."  He paused and pressed a kiss to Merry's forehead.  "Have a little faith in your cousin, lad.  He's got his own reasons for doing the things he does in the way he does them.  Just because you might not understand them doesn't make them wrong."  He gave Merry's shoulder a squeeze and chuckled then turned to make his way across the courtyard.  "He's in his old room," he called over his shoulder.  "You'd best get yourself up there."

* * *

"Why didn't you just stop?" Merry asked quietly from the doorway.

Frodo sat on the windowsill, daylight washing across his newly cleaned face, making more prominent the angry gashes and bruises that scattered across it.  He didn't move, didn't even acknowledge Merry's presence, just sat staring across the landscape that moved with its own life below him.

Merry took a cautious step into the room and quietly pulled the partition closed.  "Frodo?"

Frodo took in a deep breath and turned his head slowly.  "Stop what, Merry dear?" he asked softly.

"Stop..."  Merry shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, "...going."

Frodo gave him half a wry smile.  "And why should I have?"

Merry would have thought that would be obvious.  "Have you looked in the mirror, cousin?"

Frodo laughed a little at that.  "Yes, and I've sat on my backside as well.  A little uncomfortable, but it'll be gone soon enough.  And these," he said, pointing at his face, "are a badge of honor.  I shall wear them with pride."

"Pride?" Merry asked incredulously.  "What kind of--"

"Yes, pride," Frodo asserted, moving slowly from the window seat and limping over to his cousin.  "They'll say that I didn't stop when the odds were against me, that I didn't give in." 

"But you should have given in!  You were beaten, you just didn't know it.  He's twice your size, he could have killed you if I hadn't stopped it!"

"Yes, he's bigger than I am and yes, he can pound me into the ground whenever he chooses, but he didn't beat me, Merry.  You did."

"I did?"

"Yes, you did!  You told me and anyone else with eyes to see that you couldn't trust me to know my own way, to make my own decision.  You've known me all your life, Merry and still you think I haven't enough sense to know my own mind."

"Sense," Merry scoffed.  "You haven't enough sense to know when to steer clear of someone who's trying with their last breath to remove your head from your shoulders and I should trust you to make your own decision about which part of the field you'll let him do it on?"

"That's my choice, Merry, not yours!  You cannot keep trying to save me when I don't want or need saving.  I'll tell you when I need your help."

"Frodo Baggins, you wouldn't ask for help if you were in the middle of a pool of quicksand and I had the only stick in the entire world."

"And if I chose to sink to the bottom instead of reaching for that stick, that would still be my choice, Merry."  Frodo moved closer, placed his hand behind Merry's neck and drew his forehead to his own.  Looking steadily into his eyes, he said, "But I would trust you to offer that stick, Merry.  You must trust me to know when or if I should reach for it."

Merry looked into his cousin's eyes and realized his entire field of vision was drenched in blazing blue flame.  He forced a hoarse whisper into the stillness:  "I trust you."

"Do you?" a whisper returned, soft, warm breath against his mouth. 

Merry decided that words had not entirely been his friend thus far, so he eschewed them and turned instead to action.  He moved, only slightly, and very slowly, brushed his lips against Frodo's.  Soft, yielding and willing beneath his mouth and Merry plunged, immersed himself in the kiss.  Fire tore through him and everything lay forgotten in a dusty corner of his mind, everything but the mouth beneath his own and the body pressed against him.  Salt and the taste of cider swept across his tongue while his hands reached for, took hold of bone and sinewy flame that moulded to his fingers, reached into his core and held him, entrapped in a sea of fire he found himself all too willing to drown within.

Oh, but he was hard - didn't think he'd ever been so hard and Frodo's body pressed against his own in response. He slid his hands around Frodo's back, let them wander beneath the waistband of his breeches then pressed him closer.  Frodo answered with a slow, thorough grind and Merry had to speak sternly to his knees to prevent them from buckling.

Hours might have passed for all he knew and in all that time he had forgotten to breathe.  He pulled back with a gasp, filled his lungs.  Sweat plastered the linen of his shirt to his chest and he shivered with the damp heat that raced through him.  He reached up, took hold of Frodo's shoulders, concentrating all of his energy into his next question.

"Do you trust me?"

Wanted this, oh, he had wanted this, even since before that first glorious kiss but always it had been Frodo who had pulled back, told him it was too early, he was too young.  And perhaps he was right, Merry couldn't be sure, but it didn't matter anymore, nothing mattered except offering his very being to the person who stood before him, giving it to Frodo and taking his in return - blurring away their separate existences, erasing the miles between them when respective family or duty called one to return without the other.  He wanted to possess and to be possessed, to have and to give.  He wanted this.

And then he looked into the depthless pools of blue and knew that Frodo wanted it too.  Had wanted it - probably just as long as Merry had but that damnable control he kept locked like a band of steel over his heart wouldn't seem to let him acknowledge the wish, give it air, let it breathe, for then he'd be forced to admit that it had a life and a heartbeat all its own and would no longer be denied.

"Trust me," he whispered.  "I want this," and he drew Frodo closer, let his tongue trace a searing path up the cords of his throat.  His hand slid down Frodo's side, moved with intent and purpose to the hard bulge in his breeches and Frodo groaned into his shoulder and pressed into his hand.  Frodo's head dipped to the side and Merry took full advantage of the expanse of skin it exposed.  Lips and tongue worked the throat, the neck, wandered to the earlobe and nipped at the tip and all the while the only thought in Merry's head was mine.

Frodo shuddered under his touch and strong hands gripped Merry's arms.  Merry felt Frodo's shoulders tense, felt him begin to withdraw so he tightened his grip around Frodo's back, grasped his length harder, rubbed his thumb up and down the rigid swell of him, let his breath flow warm and moist against his throat and Merry felt Frodo's knees give.

Oh, it could steal his breath, this knowledge that he could send Frodo reeling with his touch.  It was powerful, exhilarating but humbling at the same time.  For Frodo held him just as surely as he did Frodo and it might take no more than a simple word to shatter either or both.  A gift, he held in his hands and all he could give in return was everything he was.

Another kiss, a well-placed nip and a skillful turn of his hand and he could almost feel that band of steel snap within Frodo's chest.  Frodo shivered and Merry felt it move through his own skin, racing with lightning speed to beat at his brain and he poured every ounce of the sensation into his touch and gave it back full measure.  Oh, let me have this, please, let me have this.

"Merry," Frodo choked and pulled away, panting, wavering on his feet.  His mouth worked soundlessly and he looked at Merry as if he'd never seen him before, couldn't fathom where he was or what he was doing.  He stumbled backward and Merry reached to catch him but he was already moving, turning away and Merry was struck with a panic so deep and sharp that it clawed at his mind.  He couldn't make his mouth move to utter even Frodo's name as he watched his cousin lurch across the room.

Frodo stopped at the foot of the bed, stooped and retrieved something out of his pack.   Merry was so entranced in his own tumult of emotion that he couldn't even begin to wonder what Frodo was doing until he moved back to Merry and held a small bottle of oil out to him, offering it up in his open palm. 

"I trust you, Merry," was all he said.

Merry could have wept in relief and sheer joy.  He looked from the bottle to Frodo's face, seeing his own expectations, his own fears mirrored in that gaze, soft and unrelenting all at once.  He reached out for the bottle, took it in his hand and pulled Frodo to him for another one of those kisses that made his head spin so deliciously.

But Frodo seemed to have decided that the kissing and caressing was done now.  He resisted Merry's reach and instead, with no further hesitation, he began to shed his clothes.  Buttons were undone in a mere breath and shirt, breeches and underbreeches were in a pile on the floor before Merry could so much as make a move to help.  And there Frodo stood before him, a study in contrasts of smooth ivory and sleek sable, light and shadow merged into one being who was both flesh and bone and ethereal mist.

And suddenly this amazing creature, real and unreal all at once, was coming toward him, reaching for him and Merry went willingly.  Frodo took Merry by the arms and steered him over to the bed.  He set to work on Merry's clothes, moving with the same swift ease with which he had attended his own, and Merry found himself divested of everything he had been wearing within the space of a heartbeat.  Long, wiry fingers were grasping his shoulders and pushing him down onto the bed.  He went along without complaint and ended up sitting on the edge of the bed with Frodo, slender and sweated, straddling him.

Oh, and this was lovely, this push and glide of length against length.  He fastened his hands to Frodo's hips and pulled him more firmly against himself, lithe, slick heat moving in sinuous rhythm to the urging of his own increasingly demanding thrusts.  Merry lost himself in the crush and press and the touch of that body against his, the ripple of muscle and sinew in his hands.  Now Frodo abandoned that rhythm and took up a grinding undulation that sent Merry's mind rocketing right out of his skin and he was dimly aware that he was groaning and digging his fingers into Frodo's hips but he was well beyond caring at this point.  All he could think was what he was going to do, what he was going to own and give and mine and it was all he could do not to throw Frodo down onto the mattress and mount him before he lost what little control he still clung to.  Close, he was all too close and he wanted to stop before it was too late but, oh, he couldn't make his hands stop guiding the body atop him into a more urgent rhythm, couldn't stop his hips from thrusting faster and his eyes from rolling helplessly to the back of his head and...

Frodo suddenly stopped and Merry was torn between punching him right in the mouth and smothering him in grateful kisses.  But it didn't matter because Frodo was moving now, reaching around behind Merry.  His bare shoulder was right there in front of Merry's mouth and what else was Merry to do but latch onto it and then let his mouth work its way down to the dark, flat nipple.  A sharp intake of breath as Frodo bucked against him and hissed the breath back out through his teeth.  Merry took that as an encouraging sign so he shifted Frodo a bit to his right and then paid the other the same respect.  Frodo writhed against him, buried his hand in Merry's hair and clamped his eyes shut.  He threw back his head and just panted in Merry's grip until sense returned and he pulled himself away.

Merry thought to complain but the bottle of oil was back in Frodo's hand and was once again being offered to him, this time with no evident trepidation and a great deal of purpose.  Frodo took Merry's hand and pressed the bottle into it.

"Do it," he said, "If you're sure," and Merry had to close his eyes and clench his teeth to keep himself from going off like a firecracker.  He took several deep breaths, willed his hands to stop shaking and uncorked the bottle.  It was warm and slick and Merry drizzled it over his fingers, impossibly even more aroused at the knowledge that Frodo was watching every move he made with rapt attention.  Fingers covered to his satisfaction, he shifted his eyes to meet Frodo's and reached around, traced the cleft then slowly, carefully inserted a finger, found the spot that he was looking for.  Frodo's eyes rolled back and he moaned and dropped his head to Merry's shoulder, broken whispers coming from his lips and fluttering across Merry's shoulder blades in drafts of heated air that sent shivers warm and wavering up his spine.  He moved and stroked and Frodo moved with him, threw his head back and begged for more and Merry gave it to him.  Another finger and Frodo bucked into him, growled and ground his erection into Merry's and Merry knew he would not survive this sinuous dance for much longer.  Amazed at this reaction that he could suddenly pull from this wondrous creature of light and shadow that writhed at his touch, Merry watched every twist of the brows, every twitch of the lips, every crease of the forehead and thought he'd never been so completely aroused in all his life.

More, Frodo wanted and Merry could only acquiesce, moving his fingers within the tempo demanded by the body that twisted and thrashed against him.  His, all of this was his, the unrestrained reaction, the wildness only hinted at that now writhed and snarled atop him and it was all for him and he took it, held it and made it a part of himself.  He was taking, giving and now he wanted to give more so he pried his hand from Frodo's hip and moved it to stroke his length and Frodo stopped abruptly with a sharp cry, jerked Merry's hands away.  He was still for a moment, clutching Merry's wrists in a fierce hold, panting and shuddering then he looked up, laid hold of Merry's gaze and pummeled him with his own.

"Now," he said.

Merry needed no further instruction.  In one supple move, he had Frodo on his back and he hovered over him.  He cast about for the oil and then Frodo was pushing it into his hands and how Frodo was keeping track of its whereabouts Merry couldn't spare the thought to guess, but he was only too happy to let him continue to do so.  He fumbled with the bottle, almost let it squirt right out of his hands before taming his shaking and tipping it to drizzle some into his palm.  He found Frodo's hand there instead and so poured a good amount into that willing grasp which immediately found its way to his erection and oh, merciful heavens but how in the world was he going to survive all of this sensation all of this feeling all of this amazing awareness of this body beneath him and those eyes upon him?

"Now," Frodo repeated, this time with more demand in that throaty voice and Merry moved, pushed, closed his eyes and waited to die.  This was too good, too much - he couldn't possibly be expected to survive it but Frodo was moving beneath him, reaching up to pull Merry down and Merry found himself drowning in Frodo's mouth, immersing himself in Frodo's body.  It was the merging he had wanted, the oneness he had imagined, craved and he gave himself over to it, melding his skin into Frodo's, pulling Frodo into his heart and wrapping it around him.

Hot and tight and oh, stars! there were no words for it; there was no description adequate, no poetic phrase that could capture its essence.  It was just this and it was all he had wanted, all he had dreamed and he looked to the blazing eyes beneath him and for the second time thought he might weep.

"Move," Frodo husked and Merry moved.  Slow at first, careful and tender, eyes held fast by Frodo's and breath coming long and slow.  Sweat trickled down his neck, dripped from beneath his hair and his arms shook with the strain of self-control.

Move, breathe, another kiss and Frodo pushed him back and said, "Now."

A single word that lit fire to his skin and then it was a hammering staccato thrusting that he couldn't stop, wouldn't stop and Frodo moved with him, met him with each pounding drive, lifted his hips with the pace that Merry set, wrapped his legs around Merry's back.  Wordless cries and breathless moans and Merry didn't know and didn't care from whose mouth they came.  More and harder and Merry went with it, gave Frodo what he demanded and took what was offered.  Please and Merry was lost in the rhythm.  Nothing existed but the body around him and the eyes that drove into his and he was helpless within it all, driving himself deeper and faster, pounding harder...and Frodo met each move, each breath, digging his fingers into the muscle of Merry's thighs, hips pushing and grinding.

Frodo released a hand from Merry and grasped his own erection, letting go a hoarse shout as Merry's hand enveloped his and joined it to the established tempo their bodies already moved to.  Push and thrust and a low growl began in Frodo's chest, worked its way up and Merry watched in fascinated awe as his face twisted, went slack and he came into both their hands with a series of moans and cries.  The wet warmth seeping into his skin was all he needed to push him over the edge and Merry lost himself, forgot the world and everything in it but Frodo and this and came with a guttural groan shouted at the rounded ceiling.

* * *

He lay curled about Frodo, one leg thrown over his hips and an arm draped across his ribs.  His breath had found him eventually and he felt fairly confident that he would be able to move again in the near future.  Frodo stirred a bit and Merry reflexively tightened his arm about him.

"How long are you staying for?" Merry asked his cousin.  "You never did tell me."

"I'm off for the Smials in another fortnight," Frodo replied sleepily.  "I'll be there for perhaps a week or more and then back home for at least a few months."

"What are you going to Smials for?" Merry wanted to know.  "Pippin and Paladin are going to be visiting here and there aren't any parties planned that I know of."

"Not everyone only visits their relations when a party is promised, Merry dear," was Frodo's teasing rebuke.

"You forget how well I know you, cousin," Merry said and poked Frodo's ribs, earning himself a yelp and a thwack to his head.  "Tell me why you're really going to Tuckborough or the next time Girry comes after you, I'll hold you down for him."

"Hmph," Frodo said, plainly unimpressed.  "If you must know, the Chubbs are holding a soccer tournament and I told Reginard I'd play for the Tooks."

Merry bolted up and looked at Frodo in alarm.  "Soccer?!"  His eyes raked over the gash on Frodo's cheek, the bruised and increasingly swollen nose, the various bruises mottled up and down the length of the pale skin...  He opened his mouth to protest but one look into Frodo's eyes and his mouth snapped shut.  He flopped back down onto the mattress beside Frodo and let loose a resigned sigh.  "Soccer," he repeated.  "Bugger!"
 

* * *

END

Feedback

BACK to Main Page