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Counterpoint, Movement I
Interlude: a short piece inserted between the parts of a longer composition
Author's Note - With sincerest thanks to ConnieMarie for giving me that Homer 'Doh!' moment and to Lobelia Sackville-Baggins and Willow-wode for creating Loud!Frodo and allowing me to amuse myself with him.
* * *
It is only less than a day since Merry watched Bilbo disappear into a flash of glaring white light. Now he watches Frodo -- forehead pressed to the smooth wood of the door, hand clenched on the knob -- and Merry wonders what sort of light it will be when Frodo disappears. He is more than a little bit surprised at himself, since this isn’t an idea that he’s ever, even once, allowed to solidify into a genuine thought. But, he is one of the few who knows how Bilbo had pulled off his little joke and he has seen the chain that loops from Frodo’s waistcoat pocket and he’s fairly certain that there is no innocent watch at the end of it.
Soft light, he thinks – a soft, radiant light, more gold than white, warm and beautiful where Bilbo’s was cold and garish. Not that Merry has ever thought Bilbo either cold or garish… it’s only that he’s finding it difficult to have a kind thought for the old hobbit and his selfishness, considering that he is in the process of watching Frodo crumble as a result of that selfishness.
Not that Frodo would actually allow Merry to see him crumble, oh, no, not ever and Merry thinks a little bitterly on rivers and boats and relatives with all sorts of good intentions and not a single clue between them. But he’s quite certain that, if Frodo knew Merry were standing here behind him, those shoulders would not be shaking and that head would not be pressed to the door as if he’d like to push himself though it and follow after Bilbo.
Merry doesn’t think he’s ever been so terrified.
He thinks he probably ought to leave, just turn and sneak back down the hall to the parlour, allow Frodo his solitude so that he can stop fortifying that dam and perhaps just let it collapse instead, flow over with the burst of emotion that Merry knows Frodo won’t allow himself until he is completely and utterly alone. But somehow, he can’t seem to turn away. He doesn’t want to leave Frodo alone, even if he is just down the hall and even if it is probably the right thing to do and even if he is being selfish in just keeping close. And he finds he really couldn’t care less about any of those things and that all he really wants to do is smooth the tension out of those tight and trembling shoulders with his hands, kiss away the frown lines at the corners of that mouth, wrap his body around that slender frame and not let go until the only things on Frodo’s mind are more and harder.
Merry’s hands feel far too empty and he steps forward to fill them.
“You know,” he murmurs into Frodo’s hair as he wraps his arms around his cousin’s waist, “staring at the door won’t make him re-appear.” Frodo slumps a little, leans back against Merry’s chest and Merry drops a long, soft kiss just below his right ear. “I’m sorry, love.”
Frodo sighs and unclenches his hand from its grip on the doorknob. He folds his arms over Merry’s, strokes his wrists gently beneath the cuffs. Merry can feel the tension vibrating from his cousin’s frame, telling him that whatever outward signs of composure Frodo might be trying desperately to maintain, his heart is in the process of shattering right here in front of him.
“It’s all right, Merry,” Frodo tells him softly and Merry marvels that not even a slight quiver makes it past the steady tone of his voice. “It’s been coming for quite some time.” He shrugs and pulls loose with a pat to Merry’s arm. He turns, leans his back against the door, crosses his arms over his chest, bends his head. “It isn’t as if he hadn’t warned me. It’s only… Oh, I don’t know. It’s been an awfully long day and I suppose with Gandalf gone, it’s rather sinking in and entirely too quickly.” He laughs a little, shrugs again, this time in apology, and pulls himself away from the door. He starts for the kitchen.
“Gone?” Merry frowns after him. “You mean gone, as in, went out for a smoke? Or…” Merry’s brows lift and he follows Frodo down the hall. “You mean he’s gone off after Bilbo?”
“I mean neither, Merry,” Frodo answers as he reaches into the pantry for a bottle of wine and some cheese. “He’s left all right but not after Bilbo, though I suppose there’s some chance they may meet on the Road.” He stops, gives a little shrug then turns to place the cheese on the table, his face pinched and tight. He pulls two mugs from their hooks in the cabinet and fills them both with wine, placing one in front of Merry and taking a long drink from his own as he flops to the opposite bench. “He was quite mysterious about it all, actually. Wouldn’t tell me what had got him so twitchy. But he left and right quick and… well…” He pauses, tips his mug for another swallow then shakes his head, resigned. “There we are.” He empties his cup then snatches up the bottle and refills it.
“A wizard – twitchy?” Merry chuckles and he takes up the bottle, gives himself an unnecessary refill then casually moves it down the length of the table and out of easy reach. “I might have paid to see that. You should have called me.”
Frodo only smiles a little and pokes at some crumbles of cheese on the board. He plops his chin onto his fist, looks at Merry with over-bright eyes.
“I’m glad you’re here, Merry,” he says and it’s as soft and tremulous as his smile. “I’d rather I weren’t alone tonight.”
Merry reaches out and takes up the hand that is busily shredding the cheese into bits. “You needn’t ever be alone, Frodo,” he answers sincerely, though he knows that Frodo somehow always will be. “I’ll stay as long as you wish – as long as you’ll have me.”
“And what if I want to have you always, love?” Frodo asks with a smile that tries for cheeky and accomplishes only melancholy. Merry decides he likes cheeky better.
“Have me?” He waggles his eyebrows and leans in. “Why, Frodo Baggins, are you propositioning me?”
Frodo shoots him a wry glance. “As if you’ve ever required a proposition,” he returns. “A warm breeze would turn the trick with you.”
“Oooh, and now we’re turning tricks. You’d best watch yourself, love, or you’ll wind up bent over this table, warm breeze or no.”
“It is quite possible, cousin-mine,” Frodo drawls, “that I might be the bender and you the bendee.”
And Merry thinks it is quite possible that Frodo has now, indeed, achieved cheek.
Merry feels a warm thrill move through him and he puffs out a few quick breaths. “Oh, my, I do believe you’ve just… increased my interest.”
A smirk works its way through Frodo’s frown. “I’ve had more difficult chores.”
“Oh, now, you wouldn’t keep me around if I didn’t have my uses, would you?”
Frodo stops, gives that sad smile again. “You have many uses, Merry, and that’s not the least of them.” He rubs his thumb over Merry’s wrist, stares at the table. “Right now you’re most useful to me right here, in whatever way you choose to be.”
Merry understands that, while Frodo is playing along nicely, his heart really isn’t in it, so he broadens his grin, tries harder. “Then I’ll be here always. I’ll move in!” and his voice sounds overly bright and just this side of silly, even to himself, but it’s almost working on Frodo and that’s the important thing.
Frodo releases a reluctant chuckle and he reaches across to tweak Merry’s nose. “Somehow I think your mother and your father and, indeed, the whole of Buckland might have a few objections to their future Master holing up in Hobbiton with the queer Baggins whelp.”
Merry waves a hand dismissively. “Phhfft, bugger Buckland,” he retorts. “Not a one of them has eyes I could fall into and drown in and I somehow doubt that there is another soul in all of the Shire who is so wonderfully expressive and raucous that I could come just from hearing them do it.”
Frodo scowls. “Merry, I hardly think that I--”
“Oh, don’t you even try to deny it, Frodo, my love,” Merry interrupts and maybe he’s pushing a little too hard but the only alternative is not pushing at all, which really isn’t an acceptable alternative anyway, so he presses on. “You howl so loud that wolves run for cover and birds drop from the sky.”
“I do not how--”
“Oh, but you do!” Merry looks down into his lap then gives a slant-eyed leer to his cousin. “Well, what do you know – I’m rising just thinking about it!” And that’s no joke, actually, he really is and he thinks he should be surprised but he’s not.
The furious blush on Frodo’s face gives Merry enormous satisfaction… right up until Frodo gives his shin a swift kick beneath the table.
“Ow! Hoy!” Merry rears back and feigns hurt. “Oh, I like that!” he grouses. “Here I am, swearing my love and you near break my leg with that big, clomping foot of yours!”
“Oh, so now we begin to hear it, eh?” Frodo remarks with a cynical frown. “A moment ago I had eyes you could drown in and now I’ve great, clomping feet. What else is there that you’ve not told me yet?”
“Well,” Merry begins and slants a smirk to his cousin, “now that you mention it…”
Frodo rolls his eyes and shakes his head and Merry is extraordinarily pleased that Frodo is smiling.
“Oh, this ought to be good,” Frodo says. “All right, let’s have it, then. What horrible peculiarities have I been forcing you to put up with -- poor, besotted wretch that you are?”
“Well, I certainly wouldn’t say horrible,” Merry offers with a twinkle. “But peculiar might be fairly apt, since you’ve brought it up and all.”
“Peculiar isn’t anything new, cousin,” Frodo answers wryly. “I assure you that my smallest oddities are examined quite thoroughly in every pub, inn and sewing circle and I am certainly not lacking for sage advice from every mother with a daughter to marry off. I’d hazard that there isn’t a farthing in the Shire in which you will find two souls who aren’t of the opinion that your cousin is most peculiar indeed.”
“Frodo!” Merry gasps. “Have you shagged that many? When ever do you find time to sleep?”
Frodo stares blankly at him for a moment before his mouth drops open. “So, I’m peculiar in bed? I think you’d best explain that one, cousin, and right now or you’ll find more assaulted with my great clomping feet than just your shin!”
“Let me think a moment.” Merry looks thoughtful and ignores Frodo’s indignant protest. “Only two hobbits per farthing… four farthings…” He makes a great show of counting on his fingers then directs a wide-eyed glance across the table. “Why that only leaves eight souls you haven’t debauched!”
“Oh, I understand now,” is Frodo’s dry retort. “You’re trying to distract me with your dazzling mathematic skills.” He gasps and places a hand dramatically to his forehead. “I do believe it’s working.” He feigns a yawn. “Take me, oh take me now, oh please, oh please.”
Merry is fairly certain of two things: one, that Frodo’s smile a moment ago was genuine and that if Merry just works hard enough, he can pull it forth again and maybe even make it stay for a while; and two, that even though Frodo couldn’t be less serious about the ‘take me’ part right now, Merry will be changing his mind and right soon and the only thing left to argue over will be who will be doing the actual taking.
“Is that counting gaffers and gammers as well?” Merry asks, training his expression into one of concern, “Surely you’re not that lecherous?” because everyone in the Shire knows that there isn’t a more principled and upstanding hobbit in the four farthings than Meriadoc Brandybuck and that’s so funny that he nearly snorts his wine through his nose. He is grasping at straws and he knows it but that doesn’t stop him from grasping this particular straw with both hands and poking at Frodo with it until that smile comes back again.
“You,” Frodo says with a twist of his mouth, “are disgusting.”
“I,” Merry returns reasonably, “am not the one boffing the Shire.”
Frodo just stares at Merry for a moment before his head drops, his shoulders begin to shake and he folds his arms on top of the table, rests his head on them. Merry is slightly concerned for a moment, wondering what in the world he’s said that would make Frodo actually break down and cry. Then he hears low snorts coming from within the little fortress of his cousin’s folded arms and realises that Frodo is snickering… which is good – excellent, even. But Merry wants to see the smile that goes with those snickers, so he reaches over and runs his fingers through the dark curls that lay in silken tumbles, scattered over Frodo’s sleeves, and for some reason, the black of Frodo’s hair against the snow-white linen of his shirt strikes Merry as exceptionally beautiful. Frodo’s head pops up at his touch and Merry sees that his face is flushed and his eyes are dark and shining just a little and yes, there is indeed a smile gracing that mouth. But Merry thinks it looks just a little bit desperate and bloody damn, but why won’t Frodo just let him in?
Frodo blinks, clears his eyes and Merry can see him tuck away the grief that’s just laying in wait for a time when Frodo is alone and Merry decides that isn’t going to happen for a very long time, not if he has anything to say about it. He has a sudden image of Frodo, sitting right here, right in front of him, and dissipating into nothing but soft light, holding form just long enough for Merry to actually see inside his soul, to show Merry something so beautiful that he thinks he’ll go mad with the wanting of it, and then disappearing into mist and shadow. Merry suppresses a shudder, paints on a bright smile and drops a lewd wink.
Frodo gives a half-scowl/half-smile and leans on his elbows. “I’ve a difficult enough reputation to live with,” he teases his cousin. “I don’t need you adding this sort of thing to it or I’ll have hobbits at my door day and night and will be forced to entertain and won’t ever get any peace. I am irresistible, you know. Once word spreads that I’m shagging the Shire, they’ll be lined up down the Row and up through Bywater and then--”
But Merry is laughing so hard by now that neither he nor Frodo can hear what Frodo is saying so Frodo stops talking and starts laughing. They’re soon both nearly collapsed over the table and shaking it so hard that the wine in the bottle sloshes and the wine in their mugs splashes over the rims.
Frodo recovers first, looks seriously at his cousin and says, “You know, you must tell me what this peculiarity is. If I’m to be boffing my brains out, I feel it only fair that I warn people ahead of time.” He nods his head soberly and manages to hold both his solemn expression and his cousin’s gaze for several long seconds before the snorts burst through and they are both laughing again and Frodo can’t stop snorting and Merry can’t stop laughing at the way it sounds and the way it makes Frodo’s cheeks flush.
“I’m quite serious,” Frodo warns after a moment or two spent trying to catch his breath. His smile is genuine now and Merry thinks that maybe he has actually succeeded in taking Frodo’s mind and heart away from thoughts of Bilbo – at least for a little while. “I want to know what this peculiarity is and I’ll have you tell me right quick or…”
Frodo can’t seem to come up with anything threatening enough, so Merry lifts an eyebrow and seizes the opportunity that is in the process of dropping into his lap.
“Or…?”
“Or…” and Frodo squirms a bit then stills, raises his eyes to Merry’s and Merry takes careful note of the smirk that curls at Frodo’s mouth. Frodo lifts his foot beneath the table and presses it between Merry’s legs. Merry yelps and makes to scramble up but Frodo presses harder, pinning him to his seat. Merry stills, looks thoughtful for a moment then lets a smile tug up the corners of his mouth. Although, it's quite possible that it's a leer. He moves his hips a little.
“Oooh… This isn’t so bad, then.” He grins at Frodo.
Frodo grins back with a sly wink. “That’s all you get until you give on the peculiarity,” he warns. “I am well past the point of curiosity and quite far into the need to know. Give,” and he rotates his ankle and flexes his toes.
“Ngah,” Merry replies then adjusts his hips a little more and lets his eyes roll to the back of his head.
“Tut, tut, now, lovely Merry-lad,” Frodo admonishes, his voice taking on a husky tone. “You’ll have to do better than that if you want more than just enough play to make your bits ache. Spill it.”
“I just might,” Merry wheezes and rocks forward in his seat. “Just gives us a moment or two, eh?”
Frodo stills his foot and Merry growls in outrage. Frodo only gives him a serene smile and the lift of an eyebrow. Merry swallows, takes a long, deep breath and directs a pitiful, pleading look to his cousin. Frodo just smirks and oh, if Frodo thinks he’s going to get away with this most cruel, most base of teases…
Well, all right, so it would seem that he will be getting away with it. For now.
“All right,” Merry rasps. “But you’ll have to show me.”
“Show…” Frodo frowns, shakes his head. “I’m to show you? I don’t understand. I thought it was something I did. How can I show you if I don’t know what it is?”
“Come to bed with me,” Merry answers, low and smoky, “and I’ll tell you when we get to that part.” Merry’s eyes are glittering and his breathing has a ragged edge.
Frodo isn’t exactly unmoved himself. “You mean,” he says, allowing his foot to resume its activity and watching Merry’s eyes drift shut, “that I should just do as I normally do and you’ll alert me when we get to the peculiar part?”
Merry’s mouth moves but no sound seems to want to emerge from it but a high-pitched moan so he bobbles his head in assent. He rocks his hips in a matching rhythm to the foot that is working wonders below deck. Ooh, yes right… a little to the…ah, yes there…
“Mmm, that’s… oh, very nice,” he hears himself saying and, “normal is not entirely… ahrightthere,” and that’s the last semi-coherent thing he manages before he just starts repeating “bed, bed, bed,” over and over again and Frodo laughs, takes pity and leads him down the hall.
* * *
It amazes Merry, how every time is new and fascinating and just so searingly good. They’re nearly to the bedroom and he really should be able to wait just another minute or two but his hands are feeling empty again. So he reaches out, fills them with heat and bone, presses his body into it and plunges his hands into silken sable. He has Frodo pushed to the curved wall, thinks he maybe ought to let up a little and let him breathe, but Frodo isn’t seeming to mind, so Merry decides to see how easy it might be to pry Frodo’s lips apart with his tongue. It turns out to be very easy indeed.
Frodo’s hands move across his shoulders, down his back then sweep lower and then he is arching into Merry, pulling him in, grinding against him and still Merry’s mouth is sealed to Frodo’s. He thinks he really should pull back because air might be nice, after all, and then decides that breathing is rather over-rated anyway and sinks deeper still. It strikes him as a little ironic that only a moment ago he had thought his hands empty and now there is so much he wants to fill them with, so many things he wants to touch all at once but he’s only got the two. He satisfies himself with keeping one to its current chore of figuring out just exactly how soft Frodo’s hair could really possibly be and allows the other to turn to matters of buttons and fastenings.
It is right about there that Frodo decides he really does need to breathe after all and he pulls his mouth away from Merry’s with a wheeze, thumps the back of his head against the wall, panting. Oh, now that really couldn’t be any more perfect and Merry runs the tip of his tongue up the exposed throat and Frodo groans and presses harder into Merry. Little white sparkles of light are going off behind Merry’s eyes and his hips are thrusting with more urgency than they ought to be, seeing as how they’ve not made it to the bed yet. And even though this little interlude was his idea in the first place, he seems to recall some references to either bending or being bent and while all of this is very nice indeed, he wants the bending part a little more than he wants the grinding part.
Merry stills and there is a small noise of disappointment that comes from Frodo’s throat, so Merry soothes that away with kisses before he pulls back a little. One of his hands has somehow gone and got wedged behind Frodo and is currently gripping a very firm and nicely-rounded bottom. The other has kept to its task of undoing buttons and Merry is pleased to see that every last one of said buttons has been set loose from its mooring and while his mind is still running mental pictures of the whole bending thing – and he does plan to get to that part and very soon – this just cannot be allowed to pass without the proper response and since that hand has finished its business and now sits idle… Well…
Merry moves his hand over the smooth expanse of Frodo's chest and pauses to run the side of his thumb over a nipple. Frodo answers with a small gasp and he closes his eyes, lets his head fall back against the wall again. Merry smiles a little, bends his neck and brushes his lips then his teeth then his tongue over first ivory then dusky brown and Frodo’s small gasps turn to full-out moans. He is arching, seeking, but Merry still wants to get to the bending some time soon, so he chuckles a little and teases a lot until Frodo growls, grabs a fistful of hair with each hand and jerks Merry’s mouth back up to his own, presses against him with firm demand and urgent need.
Merry can feel him trying to turn them, trying to reverse their positions and make it so that Merry is the one pressed up against the wall. But he knows that if he allows that, the bedroom will end up being just a fond wish and they will be searching the hallway come morning for hastily shed and subsequently lost articles of clothing. Merry still hasn’t found the green waistcoat he lost somewhere in the kitchen a few months back and he’s rather partial to the plum-coloured one he’s wearing now, so…
He takes hold of Frodo’s shoulders, pushes them to the wall. Frodo looks at him with one part bewilderment, one part frustration and about eight parts red-hazed lust that turns quickly to a white-hot blaze when Merry slides his hands down Frodo’s arms, takes his wrists and pins them to the wall above his head with one hand. Frodo’s eyes roll back and his lips pull into a bit of a snarl and Merry can see the white of his teeth flash in the dimness and Frodo’s wrists twist in Merry’s grip. Merry can’t decide if he’s going to end up getting the shagging of his life or eaten alive but he’s quite certain that either way, he’s going to end up one very tired and very happy hobbit within the hour.
His mouth returns to its business on Frodo’s chest, blazing a path from collarbone to ribcage, pausing to run his teeth over a nipple and then circle it with the tip of his tongue when it rises. He doesn’t allow himself to get too involved in Frodo’s reaction. Ragged breaths and bucking hips are all very exciting but right now they’re more of a distraction, so Merry does not allow himself to get overly-involved in the feel of those wrists twisting and that back arching and that groin pressing… just… mmm… And blast, now he’s gone and got distracted again, so he shakes his head to clear it, tightens his grip on the wrists and plunges his other hand down into Frodo’s trousers.
Frodo reacts as if a lightning bolt has just run through his spine and the hoarse shout that escapes is almost enough to do Merry in. It combines with the rigid heat in his hand and the sudden, increased ferocity of Frodo’s thrusts and it swirls about in his brain, confiscates almost every drop of blood from the area and sends it pounding through his veins to pulse hot and fiery between his legs. Merry decides he really needs to do something fast or they really are going to end up tupping in the hallway.
Merry knows that if he allows Frodo enough time to gather his wits, that control of the situation will shift and, while that’s not exactly a bad thing, Merry’s really liking the idea of being in charge. So he bends his knees, lets loose his grip on Frodo’s wrists and with fluid, practiced agility, he has Frodo’s trousers pulled down and away from his hips before Frodo has registered the fact that his hands are now free. Merry allows him no time to put those hands to use before he is on his knees and taking Frodo deep into his throat. Frodo actually screams and Merry has to lay both hands to his hips to keep him from thrusting himself forward and knocking Merry to his arse which, as it turns out, is actually a good thing because he feels Frodo’s knees buckle and Merry’s grip is now the only thing preventing them both from ending up a tangled heap on the floor.
He tightens his grip for a moment and Frodo stills, draws in a shuddering breath and Merry rewards him with a swirl of his tongue. Frodo responds by emitting a high, sharp yowl, arching his back and trying to climb backwards up the wall, his fingers digging into Merry’s shoulders. Merry stills again, presses harder at Frodo’s hips. A soft, low moan from above and the fingers clenching Merry’s shoulders soften their grip. Merry would smile but… Well…
Gentle and slow for a moment or two until Merry feels the trembling in Frodo’s thighs ebb and then all bets are off and he is hollowing his cheeks on the uptake and allowing a quick scrape of teeth on the downstroke and curling and twisting his tongue all the while in between. He allows one hand to venture inward, caressing and cupping then kneading and stroking. The effect is immediate and blindingly arousing as Frodo twines his fingers into Merry’s hair, whispered endearments turning quickly to choked moans and edging into actual near-sobs.
It’s a very small matter to establish a rhythm and Merry builds it slowly, working his jaw with each bob of his head, matching that with the press of his fingers here and… here and he thinks about pressing in and up right… there. But Frodo’s reaction to that is usually to arch his back so hard that he almost bends himself in half and Merry thinks that might not be such a good idea, what with Frodo up against the wall as he is, because he wouldn’t be surprised if Frodo actually put his head right through that wall and then complained when Merry stopped to see what all the noise was about. Besides which, that would require some moisture and Merry doesn’t want to remove his mouth just yet. Instead, he swallows then twists his finger just… so and then he hums and Frodo does that howling thing that he swears he doesn’t do.
Merry would like to use both hands but the one is still on Frodo’s hip, holding him up, and Merry is fairly certain that if he releases it, Frodo will end up a boneless heap on the floor. And actually, now that he thinks about it, that’s pretty much what he’s been working towards anyway, so he stills all movement, pulls his head back. Predictably, Frodo voices very loud and very incoherent protest then slides down the wall, ends up face-to-face with Merry, and Merry thinks it’s quite possible that he will come undone in the next few seconds if he doesn’t tear his eyes away from that heavy, hazy gaze.
He leans forward, brushes his lips against Frodo’s and smiles. He finds one of Frodo’s hands, grasps and pulls gently.
“Come on, love. There is so much more and I want every last bit of it.”
Frodo responds by latching onto his mouth, diving deep, and it’s sweet-hot and maddeningly perfect and Merry is quickly becoming lost within it. His trousers have become painfully tight and Frodo’s hand is travelling along his thigh and he thinks how nice it’s going to be when that hand reaches its target. Frodo will work the buttons, dip his hand and Merry will let him and he really shouldn’t because what he really wants to do is to get out of this bloody hallway and into the bedroom. So, he intercepts Frodo’s creeping hand, grasps it firmly and tries to pull away. But Frodo shakes off his grip and is sounding his mouth, plunging both hands into Merry’s hair, and Merry is falling, melting, lifting with the warm, golden waves of pleasure that are sluicing through him. Frodo is bending him backwards and Merry is going with it and blast it all but he’s doing it again!
With an enormous effort of will, Merry pulls back. Frodo resists, strengthens his grasp on Merry’s skull but Merry is determined. He manages to get Frodo to release his hold without sacrificing too much hair and with more strength and balance than he ever thought he possessed, Merry stands and yanks a dazed Frodo to his feet.
“I want it all, Frodo,” Merry rasps. “And I want it all right now.”
Refusing to waste one more ounce of energy on anything that is not likely to get him roundly and thoroughly laid, Merry takes hold of Frodo’s arm and hauls him into the bedroom.
* * *
That appears to be the last of Merry’s control -- for a while at least -- because Frodo has now latched onto him with the wiry strength that Merry knows so well and has backed him up against the bed. This is the very same bed that Merry has been so very eager to get to but now that he’s here with the backs of his knees pressed up against the mattress and Frodo pressed from shoulder-to-knee in a slender line of heat and sweat and silver-sharp sensation, Merry thinks that he just might want to reclaim that control that has somehow slipped away from him. He widens his stance, pushes forward but Frodo knows his weaknesses and he plasters his mouth to Merry’s once more, runs his tongue along his teeth. His hands move swift and hard to Merry’s groin, squeeze and knead, and that’s just about it for Merry’s knees.
He plops to the bed and Frodo follows, straddling him, pushing him down. Merry feels the soft, cool feather coverlet at his back and fire and hard muscle at his front and thinks that control isn’t really all it’s cracked up to be anyway.
Frodo is grinding himself against Merry and Merry is grinding right back and it’s only dimly that he feels quick, fluttering movements at his chest. It takes him a few moments to realise that Frodo is in the process of undoing the buttons of his shirt, wonders briefly how he missed the ones on his waistcoat coming loose then decides that he really couldn’t care less as cool, slender fingers slide against his skin. They’re on their way to his trouser buttons and he thinks he really ought to probably help out a little, but there’s a blisteringly hot mouth on his, you see, and a tongue delving deep and fingers pressing into the fire in his groin and he doesn’t think he could really be blamed for floating into pure sensation for a moment or two.
He’s drawn from it just a little when Frodo pulls out of the kiss and Merry feels Frodo’s breath, hot and moist against his cheek. Merry starts to move his mouth towards that heat, wants more of that kiss, but words are starting to wriggle in through the pounding in his ears, so he concentrates on that mouth and the panting whispers coming from it.
“Peculiar, Merry,” Frodo is saying. “Tell me,” and Merry chuckles breathlessly and shakes his head. Frodo dips down, captures a nipple in his mouth and... bites. Merry jumps, hisses a sharp breath that turns quickly to a moan as Frodo soothes the bite with several slow swipes of his tongue. “Tell me,” he repeats as he moves across Merry’s chest and hovers over the other one.
Merry smiles, whispers, “You haven’t done it yet, love,” and is rewarded with a low growl and another bite. He’s ready for this one and all Frodo gets for his effort is a groan and an arch of Merry’s hips and then Frodo’s hands move some more and it’s all about feeling again.
Sensation only intensifies as the last of Merry’s buttons comes loose and those fingers, now hot and searing against his skin, skate beneath his underclothes and oh, but he thought he was hard before! Now he’s fairly certain that if that hand doesn’t show him some mercy and cup and pull and start pumping and right quick, he might just explode into a million little pieces of very horny hobbit and that would really be a shame because it would make an awful mess of this lovely feather coverlet that he’s very quickly melting into.
He doesn’t even have the presence of mind to register the fact that Frodo has moved and pulled his trousers from his hips before a slick tongue is lapping at him and hands are cupping him, pushing a knee up. Frodo had apparently thought of the moisture factor because when he inserts a finger, it is warm and wet and slides home, quick and easy. At the same moment, Frodo takes him into his mouth and Merry cries out, clamps his eyes shut and flashes of light go off behind them.
There is not a single thing in Merry’s world but the heat surrounding him and the sparks of spectacular pressure inside him as Frodo expertly finds and utilises that spot that nearly obliterates him every time. Oh, he’s very close now and Frodo knows it; Merry can tell because he feels a chuckle rumble up from Frodo’s chest, vibrate through him and send sparks up his spine and did Merry ever really think he had control here?
He is completely helpless, his body a plaything that Frodo can twist and contort to his whim. And my, but what a fine job he’s doing of it, Merry thinks as he feels his hips begin to rock and his hands drift down to tangle into Frodo’s hair and he’s not sure if it’s just for the pleasure of filling his hands or if it’s to prevent Frodo from moving away but he doesn’t really see the point in pondering it, not when the brush of Frodo’s fingers is sending his mind rocketing to the ceiling and the twist of his tongue is sending his nerves along for the ride.
Oh, that mouth is spectacularly talented and the body attached to it is equally so and what Merry really wants to do is to have more than just hair in his reach, so he slides a hand down, grips Frodo’s shoulder. He is dismayed to find fabric there and hadn’t they already solved the issue of clothes? Apparently not because Merry realises that his own shirt is tangled and bunched beneath him and he thinks he might feel a trouser leg clinging to his foot. He lifts his leg, starts to kick it in a weak and very ineffectual attempt to rid himself of the trousers at least but that results in Frodo redoubling his efforts, swiping his tongue and sucking so hard that Merry would not be surprised if he managed to jostle loose a lung or two.
He dimly realises that his movements have been steadily shifting him towards the edge of the bed, which doesn’t seem much of a problem, seeing as how Frodo is right there on his knees, between Merry’s thighs, and actually falling doesn’t seem to be much of a danger. It is, however, preventing him from the efficient use of his feet, one of which is digging into Frodo’s thigh and the other of which is currently tangled in his trousers and scrabbling for purchase on the edge of the mattress. So, he tries to pull himself back, adjust himself so that he has a little leverage without disturbing that amazing mouth from its current activities.
It is an abysmal failure, as he not only manages to get his foot even more tangled in the trousers, but Frodo stops his movements, pulls away. Bloodydamnbuggerbollocks! Merry curses loud and long and tries to arch back into that slick heat. But Frodo only chuckles, sits back on his heels and eyes Merry with a knowing grin. And that just isn’t going to do because Merry remembers that he is the one in charge here and a smirking Frodo really doesn’t fit into that picture. He growls and in one quick and forceful movement, he launches himself at Frodo, takes hold of him and drags him onto the bed and on top of himself.
The look of surprised lust on Frodo’s face might be comical if Merry could concentrate on anything besides the pulsing heat between his legs. But he thinks it’s really too much for anyone to expect of him to keep a coherent stream of thought at the moment and since Frodo’s face has quickly lost the surprise and kept the lust, he decides that coherency is just as over-rated as control.
He pulls Frodo into another one of those kisses that he never seems to tire of, flips them over and pins Frodo beneath him. Frodo doesn’t seem to mind. Indeed, he writhes, pulls at the small of Merry’s back with both hands and strains up into him. Merry is fairly certain that he’s not going to hold out much longer and there is still the matter of that peculiarity to set to rest.
His hand shoots out to Frodo’s bedside table, manages to somehow yank open the drawer, and he is in the process of locating and grabbing up the bottle of oil within when Frodo notices that they both still seem to be wearing too many clothes. He wriggles out of his own shirt and waistcoat, begins plucking at Merry’s and panting ‘Off,’ when Merry’s hand finally lands on the small glass bottle. Merry obliges quickly because there really is no time to spare now and that just might have been a seam tearing that he just heard but since the bottle is in his hand and Frodo is trapped below him, shredding his clothes seems rather less important than shedding them.
Finally, skin-to-skin, heat-to-heat and Merry can’t resist laying the length of his body to Frodo’s and just feeling for a moment. He looks down at Frodo, sees desire, love and wanton need in those lovely eyes, and he dips his head for a kiss because honestly, he really will never tire of these.
He lingers only for a moment because it isn’t a question of tiring but of needing a thorough boffing and right now, before squandering the very last of his resistance and exploding before he can stop himself. He pulls himself to his knees, yanks the cork from the bottle with his teeth, spits it across the room without thinking, pours it warm and slick into his hand and…
Um…
Oh, bugger.
Well, now he’s a bit stuck, isn’t he, and he eyes the corkless bottle dubiously. Frodo is snickering at his dilemma and Merry thinks about being miffed but that would run a little at cross-purposes to the release that his body is clamouring for, wouldn’t it? He’s just beginning to wonder how much of a mess it would really make if he were to just send the bottle sailing after the cork when Frodo takes it from him, stretches over and places it on the edge of the nightstand. Oh, and if that isn’t a sight to set his nerves humming, that lithe, limber body, pulled taut and stretched to its limit beneath him…
Merry shudders, closes his eyes tight for a moment, takes a deep, calming breath. He closes his oil-slick fist around Frodo and Frodo jolts, cries out and stars above but that’s almost, almost enough to send Merry into climax right there. He lays hold of the very last of his resistance, takes in every line and angle of the body beneath him then scoots up on his knees, adjusts himself and takes Frodo in.
Frodo cries out again but doesn’t move, only waits, panting and trembling and digging his fingers into Merry’s arms as Merry breathes through the pressure, adjusts himself to the pleasure-pain. The discomfort soon gives way to a sweet-hot ache and then Merry is rolling his hips, groaning and rocking.
Frodo’s eyes close, his neck arched and Merry eyes the graceful curve of the throat, bends and puts his lips to it, and the movement forces another guttural cry from deep within Frodo’s chest. No more holding back; Frodo thrusts upward, deep and hard, and sensation sings through Merry’s blood, heats it and he wonders that his skin isn’t steaming. Another thrust and Merry pushes back this time, hard, and captures Frodo’s cry in his mouth, doubles and returns it with one of his own. And this is a different sort of kiss now, all open and wet and yielding but no less intense for all of that. Gasping breaths puff into Merry’s mouth and he thinks he could live forever on just the taste and feel of that sweetness infusing his blood and running away with his mind.
A slow rhythm builds between them and the pulse of it rolls through his body like thunder. Frodo is writhing and thrusting and reaching and Merry matches it all, takes it all, builds on it and gives it all back thrice over. Frodo’s head is thrashing to and fro and the sounds coming from him are low and equally as urgent as his movements. Merry hasn’t spared a glance behind him but he can guess that Frodo’s heels are digging into the mattress with just as much force as his hands are gripping Merry’s arms. Merry knows that Frodo is just as close as he is himself and oh, if Merry can only hold on for a little bit longer, can just have a little bit more…
“Merry, I…” Frodo is panting and it’s fair close to a whimper by now. “I want… want…”
“Yes, love,” Merry grates. “What do you want?” and oh, anything, anything…
Frodo seems to have lost the power of speech because he’s only whimpering again and Merry’s thrusting has increased in speed and it seems all that Frodo can do to grind out the word peculiar between gasps. Merry would laugh but Frodo has just laid hold of him, begun stroking in cadence to Merry’s rocking, and Merry has to take hold of both wrists and force Frodo’s hands away, pin them to the mattress at either side of his head.
“It’s coming, love,”
Merry wheezes, “but you musn’t…”
“Want…can’t…” and Frodo is gritting his teeth, holding back, and Merry really can’t have that so he drives himself down, harder and faster, and Frodo thrusts back helplessly, tries to free his wrists, shouts, “Now, Merry, I can’t…”
But Merry won’t let go, won’t relax his rhythm. “Don’t,” he tells Frodo. “This is it. Don’t hold back.”
And Frodo can’t anymore and his whole body stretches, goes rigid. His eyes close and his head slams into the mattress, mouth open and back arched. His hips buck once, twice then thrust with magnificent strength and remain lifted in a rictus of exquisite release. Merry watches in that stunned wonder that captures him each and every time and stars above, but he’s just so bloody beautiful. Cries, long and loud are forced from Frodo’s chest and out through his open mouth. Euphoria, carefree grace, free and effortless elation, unbelievable beauty, and that’s it for Merry. Heat spreads through his limbs, white light sparks over his skin and then he is crying out as well, back bowing in sweet-hot bliss, head thrown back and release washing warm between them.
* * *
Every single part of his body is warm and singing, each limb is tremoring with a low hum. He lifts his head from where it has dropped to Frodo’s chest, reaches up and wipes the sweat from Frodo’s face. Frodo still has his eyes closed, hasn’t caught his breath yet, but he catches Merry’s hand, presses it to his mouth and kisses his palm. Merry smiles and his eyes burn but he refuses to get all girly here, so he blinks furiously and slides to Frodo’s side, curls around him.
Frodo nestles into him, nudges Merry’s chin with the top of his head until his face is comfortably pressed into Merry’s throat. He wraps himself around Merry and Merry thinks that there is nothing in the world that is quite as lovely as this feeling of being very thoroughly laid and even more thoroughly loved.
All thoughts of rings and disappearing cousins and the possibility of Frodo wandering off into the Blue have receded somewhere into a sex-hazed corner at the back of his brain and he hopes it’s the same for Frodo. And if not… Well, Merry has been known to rise to the occasion more than once in a night before and though he’s feeling a bit wobbly at the moment and doubts his legs will hold him upright for at least another fifteen minutes or so, he has always had an inordinate amount of confidence in himself.
Frodo is a boneless tangle of limbs around him and Merry is fairly certain that it won’t be long before his breath evens to a slow and steady rhythm and sleep takes him. Which seems to Merry to be an excellent idea, now that he’s thought of it. It was rather a workout, after all and Merry is just beginning to wish that he had the energy to reach around and pat himself on the back when Frodo stirs, lifts his head and pierces Merry with those amazing eyes.
“That was rather spectacular, love,” he offers soberly and Merry smirks in self-satisfaction, thinks a little more seriously about that pat on the back. “But…” Frodo pauses, frowns. Merry’s smirk falters. 'But'? There was a 'but'? “There was nothing peculiar about it,” Frodo furthers. He eyes Merry suspiciously. “I think you’ve been having me on just so you could have your way with me.”
“Well, I won’t deny that I’m not above having you on in order to have my way,” Merry chortles, pokes Frodo in the ribs. “I doubt anyone would blame me there. But I don’t know whose way I got, actually, and I’m not terribly interested in thinking it through, to tell you the truth. It was rather good, wasn’t it?”
Frodo burrows into him and hums in assent. His, “But you never showed me the peculiar part,” is terribly muffled but Merry has learned to translate the mumbles through long practice.
“Oh, but I did, love. You just had other things on your mind.”
“Hmph,” Frodo responds. “Didn’t. And I assure you that there was very little on my mind besides you. If there was anything peculiar, I’d have noticed.”
“There was and you didn’t,” Merry confirms.
Frodo growls a little, lifts his head. “All right, then. Fine. I missed it. So, tell me.”
Merry rolls to his back, sets his chin, directs a haughty gaze to the ceiling. “Don’t think I want to,” he says.
Frodo lifts an eyebrow and there is a sudden, sharp pain at Merry’s breastbone and it takes him a second to realise that Frodo has taken a scattering of chest hairs between his fingers and is giving them a sharp yank. Merry is caught between a yelp of pain and a howl of laughter. Either way, he really wants Frodo to let go so he decides to let him win this one.
“All right,” he gasps. “Let off and I’ll tell you.” Frodo does, smirking, of course, and Merry resists the urge to smack him upside his head. He rolls back to his side, reaches over and twines his fingers through Frodo’s hair instead, smiles and brushes the backs of his fingers over Frodo’s cheek.
“It’s this, love,” he says softly, his finger settling over Frodo’s lips.
Frodo’s brow creases and he kisses the tip of Merry’s finger. “This what?”
“This,” Merry repeats and strokes his finger over first the upper lip and then the lower. “And this,” as he skates it over a high cheekbone. “And this,” as the finger moves up to smooth over the frown that has gathered between Frodo’s eyes. “And most especially,” as he traces the hollows of Frodo’s eyes, “these.”
Frodo pulls his head back, gives Merry a sceptical glare. “What in blue blazes are you talking about? Are you telling me that you find me peculiar-looking? Because if that’s what you’re getting at, cousin-mine,” and now there’s a bit of heat behind the frown, “then I can assure you that I wouldn’t dream of subjecting you to--”
But Merry has moved his hand to cover Frodo’s mouth and he’s grinning as he rests his forehead against Frodo’s, looks into those eyes that now have a slight spark of what might be indignation and possibly even anger deep within them. He chuckles a little, shakes his head and Frodo’s frown deepens and his eyes flash and narrow.
“No, love,” Merry says, choking back a rather ill-advised laugh. “I am telling you that you are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on and I find it enormously peculiar that you get even more beautiful when you come.” Frodo’s brow quirks and this time Merry does laugh. “I’ve seen other hobbits in the throes of orgasm, love, and I tell you, it isn’t always a pretty sight. In fact, it is sometimes nearly startling enough to stop up the works, unless you’ve had the good sense to go ahead and have your own first.”
Frodo twists his neck until Merry looses his mouth. “And just how many other--”
And Merry stops that one with a kiss because really, how productive could that conversation possibly be? Besides which, the normal procedure in such a circumstance is for both partners to confess a number and he really doesn’t think he wants to hear Frodo’s. Merry knows he is a bit possessive -- yes, all right, fine… a lot possessive -- and that’s information that he could probably stand to live without.
He draws back from the kiss and Frodo gives him a low, “Mmm…” and Merry thinks that’s got to be better than a number any day anyway. He looks into Frodo’s eyes, feels himself falling yet again and goes willingly.
“You are beautiful, Frodo,” he says. “And you don’t think you are and that just makes you that much more so. And when I see you let go of that restraint you keep about yourself, set yourself free, it just… it makes me… I can’t really describe it exactly but it can make me come without you even laying a hand to me.”
Frodo just stares at him for a moment, eyes liquid and dark. A slight smile plays at the corners of his mouth then he reaches over, lays a kiss, searing, long and deep to Merry’s mouth. To say that Merry is feeling a little satisfied with himself would be the grossest of understatements.
Then Frodo pulls back, looks long and hard at Merry… and smacks him square in the middle of his forehead.
Merry blinks, rears back, stunned and speechless. His mouth works soundlessly and he stares, dumbfounded, at his cousin for a good, solid minute before beginning to sputter indignantly.
“What the bloody blue blazes was that for?” he wants to know.
Frodo smirks. “You could have just told me, you great git,” he says. He lifts his arms and waves his wrists in front of Merry’s nose. “You needn’t have laid bruises to my wrists to prove your point.”
“Well, I don’t recall hearing you complain about my methods overmuch,” Merry retorts as he snatches up Frodo’s hands and kisses his wrists. “You rather seemed to be enjoying yourself.”
Frodo smiles, leans up to plant his mouth to the middle of Merry’s forehead. “Oh, I was,” he assures him. “Don’t you doubt it.” He squirms back down, arranges himself around Merry again and closes his eyes with a deep, satisfied sigh.
Merry squeezes him close, heaves his own sigh and settles his head into the pillow, his nose pressed into rain-scented sable. His eyes drift shut, everything quiet and still for a moment before Frodo squirms again, adjusts himself, grunts, squirms some more then flops a bit. With a quiet oath, he shimmies himself loose from Merry’s grip and sits up.
Merry opens his eyes to see Frodo sitting beside him, his waistcoat in his hand. A long, silver chain loops and dangles right over his nose and suddenly, everything – rings and wandering and disappearing – everything slams home again and nearly knocks the breath from him.
Merry bolts upright and blurts, “Where are you going?” before he can stop himself.
Frodo peers at him for long seconds, misty-eyed and bewildered, before he smiles and shakes his head. “I’m not going anywhere, love,” he says as he carelessly tosses the waistcoat -- silver chain and all -- over Merry’s head and to the floor. “Bloody thing was digging into my ribs.”
Merry lets out a breath that had caught cold and tight in his chest, slumps his shoulders and smiles self-consciously. He leans over, lays a kiss to Frodo’s brow then pulls him back down to the pillows, wraps himself around slender heat and closes his eyes tight.
He growled again, rolled his eyes, peered down at the small tent in his placket. "Behave," he told it. "I'll do the thinking today, if you don't mind." He must have been squeezing just a little too much because Frodo chuckles a little, pokes at his chest and tells him, “Relax, love. You act as though I’m going to disappear.”
Merry only squeezes tighter still, twines his legs more firmly. Frodo doesn’t seem to mind much and soon drifts into sleep, entwining and entwined. Merry begins to drift himself, lets his breathing lengthen, his heart slow. He places a sleepy kiss to the top of Frodo’s head.
“You’d better not,” he whispers.
* * *
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