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TITLE: Counterpoint, Movement VII - Rubato AUTHOR: Daffodil Bolger BETA: Shadow PAIRING: Frodo/Merry RATING: NC-17 SUMMARY: The boys get their first clue as to what they might be facing. ILLUSTRATION: 'Not Tonight' by Daffodil Bolger
Rubato: a style where the strict tempo is temporarily abandoned for a more emotional tone.
* * *
RUBATO
* * *
It had all gone very wrong and far too quickly. Certainly, Frodo had been on his guard and watchful but he hadn’t truly believed that danger would show its face before they’d even reached Buckland. In truth, he hadn’t thought much at all about the trip from Hobbiton to Buckland; it seemed unbelievable and perhaps even impossible that servants of the Enemy could even enter the Shire, as if there were some magical barrier at its borders, which prevented any who meant harm from entering. Nonsense, of course; Wolves and Plague had visited in the past and a dragon once, as well, and even now, Frodo had heard tell of Big People causing troubles to the South. Still, it had all seemed so far away before and he hadn’t truly believed that trouble or danger would present itself so soon.
Now, of course, he had little choice but to rearrange his thinking on the matter. Those Riders certainly meant little good, or Frodo was no judge, and regardless of the fact that there had not been a single word spoken, he knew, without a doubt, what and whom they were seeking.
Sam said they’d been looking for ‘Mr. Baggins’ and the thought of those creatures actually speaking – or hissing – his name and only steps away from his own home, no less, gave him a shudder and a chill. They knew his name – his name! How could that even be possible? He was no one, just a plain hobbit, and it was unthinkable that creatures such as these and the one they served should even know of the existence of hobbits at all, let alone one in particular. It wasn’t that he hadn’t believed Gandalf when he’d told Frodo of Gollum’s treachery – it was only that… well, he hadn’t really believed. The knowledge had never quite made the journey from what Frodo knew to what he knew and it was a small distinction, to be sure, but there nonetheless. He felt suddenly naked, exposed, and the night itself held a heavy expectancy, as though the name ‘Baggins’ was lit bright with invisible flame above his head as a beacon and it was only a matter of time before the Riders spied it and…
He dipped his hand into his pocket, fingered the Ring. Though it felt the same, still smooth and round and heavy in his hand, it didn’t give him the sense of calm it normally did. Then again, that really shouldn’t surprise him, he supposed; it wasn’t the friend he’d always thought it, after all, was it? Before this past spring, it had been nothing more than a pretty trinket, one which held the remembrance of Bilbo reflected in its fine, gold surface. Frodo knew how much it had meant to the old hobbit and he’d found himself pleased and touched beyond words to find that he’d left it behind for him, even after Gandalf’s warnings. And though he’d taken Gandalf’s words very much to heart that night so very long ago, he’d never truly believed it anything but a bit of magical memory left to him by one who’d touched his world with a larger magic and then left him behind to find his own.
He hadn’t done anything of the kind -- instead living in the memories of times past and allowing his life to grow stagnant and stale, surrounding himself with those who gave him spark from their own bright flame, so as not to let his own die for lack of fuel. What would Bilbo say? Would he be disappointed? He’d left behind a legacy of adventure and belief in things that could set a mind soaring to the heavens and beyond. And Frodo had believed all of it, every word, and still did, with all his heart. Yet, still, he had allowed himself to idle and Bilbo’s legacy of wonder and love for New and More to wither for lack of use. It wasn’t until he’d little choice that he’d actually felt the flame begin to grow inside him again – a flame that had damped and guttered with Bilbo’s departure and Frodo’s own resulting melancholy and was even now tempered with regret and fear.
Well, he would be a fool not to be afraid, he supposed. And regret lay as thick as fallen leaves beneath one’s steps, regardless of which path a person took. Still, Frodo would rather have regrets for the things he’d done, instead of those he’d chosen not to. The excuses for doing a thing were many and varied but there was really only one for not doing a thing and, regardless of how it was worded or rationalised, it all boiled down to that one excuse in the end: fear. Fear of losing one’s comforts, wealth, loved ones, life… All very good reasons, he supposed, but not quite good enough when one had been the chosen heir of Bilbo Baggins. Frodo felt shame heat his cheeks a little each time he considered the fear Bilbo must have swallowed to manage the great deeds he’d done.
Still, for all of Bilbo’s challenges and all of the fears he’d faced down and conquered, Frodo didn’t think he’d ever once had to fear for his sanity. It was an odd thing, feeling as though your mind had been touched, carded through by ghost-fingers, and your body made to follow commands not your own. Frodo felt as though the commands were coming from the Ring itself and, though that seemed complete nonsense, it also seemed somehow entirely right and he now had to wonder if Bilbo had ever felt anything like it. Had his desire to once more set out East been his own wish? Or had the Ring perhaps been longing for Its home?
It would actually be sort of nice to think the latter. It somehow lessened the sting of having been left behind that still lingered within him.
Frodo decided not to think on it. If he did reach Rivendell and if Bilbo was there, as Frodo hoped desperately, perhaps he would ask the old hobbit. Perhaps Bilbo could tell him how it was that the thing seemed to take over his mind when the Riders were near and was it the Ring or was it the Riders that hissed those whispers in his head? Could the Riders call to his mind, command his hands and trick him into revealing himself to them? Or was it the Ring itself that recognised the dark presence that sought him as kindred to Its own and called to him to go to them?
Or worse, was it all in his own head and the compelling force was nothing but his own weak will and desire to keep the thing as his own? Not for the first time since Gandalf had told his tale, Frodo wondered how Gollum had got to be the wretched, hateful creature Bilbo had encountered all those years ago.
The Ring felt warm against his fingertips and he dropped It quickly, removed his hand from his pocket and shuddered as though he’d found a spider lurking in its depths. He thought it would be easier if he had, easier if the thing had been ugly and foreboding, sent a shudder down one’s spine just to look at It, Its voice a harsh, malignant croak. As it was, Its beauty was fair and pleasing to the eye and Its voice far too much like his own for his liking.
“Well, that frown could frighten Lobelia right out of her knickers.” Frodo blinked, turned to Pippin, who was suddenly walking beside him. “Oh, wait…” Pippin stopped, gave his head a quick shake and shuddered. “I think I’ve just frightened myself!”
Frodo shot him a quick glare and kept walking. Pippin was not so easily put off and he easily caught up again.
“I’m really not in the mood, Pippin,” Frodo warned.
Pippin only grinned. “Ooh, what dark thoughts are we entertaining this time, eh? Shall we tell stories of ghosts and ogres ‘round the fire when we stop? Lighten the mood?”
Frodo scowled, rolled his eyes. “Peregrin Took, only you would think to invent something frightening to take a person’s mind off of something already frightening enough.”
“Frightening? Those Riders? Bah! More annoying, I’d say.”
Frodo’s eyebrows rose. “Annoying?”
“Well, certainly,” was Pippin’s cheerful response. “If it hadn’t been for them, we’d have spent last night tucked up under a roof at the Perch and filled to our eyebrows with good, cold beer.”
Frodo couldn’t help but chuckle. “So, they’ve inconvenienced you, is that it?”
“Oh, aye,” replied Pippin with a wink. “No beer, no bed and they’ve got you scowling at your feet as though you’ve stepped into one of the huge steaming piles their horses leave behind. You’re not being any fun a’tall and I blame them entirely. They’ve gone and ruined my walking-trip, you know.”
Frodo shook his head with a mock-frown. “The nerve!”
“Honestly!” Pippin agreed then pondered, looked to Frodo with a mischievous lift of an eyebrow. “D’you suppose that’s what they’re sniffing at, I wonder? Maybe one of them’s gone and got their boots all mucked and can’t figure where the smell’s coming from, eh?”
Frodo snorted, rubbed at his brow. “Pippin,” he said fondly, “you are the only person I’ve ever known who could take the worries of the world and reduce them all to a pile of horse manure.”
“The worries of the world?” Pippin rolled his eyes. “Oh, my; dramatic and morose. I see I’ve caught you just before you took a turn into maudlin. Shall I go bother Sam and let you get on with it, then?”
Frodo flushed, smirked. “And what sort of friend would I be to Sam if I allowed that?” He linked his arm with Pippin’s. “No, I think you’re needed right here, cousin. I think I need a lesson on the finer points of manure and you’re just the one who can give it to me.”
Pippin was silent for a moment then, “There’s an insult in there somewhere but I’ll be buggered if I can tell exactly where.” He grinned at Frodo. “Now, the first lesson on manure,” he began, pointing imperiously to the sky, “is: if you’re the one spreading it, it is of utmost importance and for the good of all.” He turned to Frodo and nodded seriously. “However,” he went on, “if someone else is spreading it, it’s just a big smelly pile of dung.”
Frodo lifted his face to the sky and laughed right out loud.
* * *
Black Riders, Elves, more Black Riders… or mayhap the same Rider over and over again -- who could tell? Botheration but Sam had seen more than he’d ever dared wish and more than he cared to on this trip already and they hadn’t even got to Crickhollow yet.
Elves were wondrous fair, as he always knew they’d be, but the touch of annoyance he felt both concerned and confounded him. High Folk they were and had feted Sam just as well as if he were right up there with Mr. Frodo and Master Pippin. No one in the world would ever believe such a thing, whether he was sitting over a couple of brews at the Bush or stone-cold sober at Highday supper when he told them. Samwise Gamgee supping with Elves, for the love of all that’s blessed – who would believe such a thing?
Oh, but he’d have some stories to tell and not all of them the babbling exaltations he himself would have expected. Fair and fine indeed, but also, to Sam’s annoyed chagrin, too close with their secrets and hardly any help at all with important matters. Too few answers to the questions his master had – even those he’d asked flat-out – and even the answers he did manage to pry out of that Gildor had been rife with new riddles.
The Riders – who they were, what they were after; those were the questions screaming loudest for answers right now and Sam actually came near to launching himself at the tall elf and boxing his pointy ears for him when he’d given that non-answer to Mr. Frodo last night. The choice is yours, indeed! Well, they already knew that well enough, didn’t they? It had been all Sam could do to keep his snickers hunched back in his throat when Mr. Frodo had answered the elf back as he’d done in that ‘Master of Bag End’ tone he dragged out when he was feeling especially irritated.
No laughing matter, this, though. Serious business, it was, and getting more serious by the minute. Sam knew well enough what them Riders were after and he had no doubt his master did, as well. Master Pippin were a deep stream when he wanted to be and gave no hint that he had a clue what was what. But Sam knew he couldn’t be unaware that those Riders were after Mr. Frodo and what he had in his pocket. For all Master Pip’s light-hearted talk and inappropriate jokes along the way, he bore Mr. Frodo’s impatience and occasional snipe with an easy smile. Mr. Frodo might not know it were a deliberate show and an attempt to keep his cousin from sinking into fear but Sam did and for that he’d never be able to thank Master Pippin properly. Getting Mr. Frodo out of one of his moods wasn’t something Sam had ever had a talent for and he was bloody grateful that Master Pip were so good at it. Now, if only someone could get Sam out of his own mood…
Sam peered across the table at his master. Mr. Frodo was deep in thought, the warm-gold flicker of the lamps and kitchen fire sliding quick and halting over his drawn brow.
Sam didn’t mean to stare but sometimes it was just too hard to try and figure what his master was thinking. He had to admit to being just a little bit glad that Mr. Frodo was too preoccupied to notice, else he might start to think the same things Sam knew Mr. Merry were thinking. Master Pippin… well, you could never really tell what that one thought. He had a true talent for appearing the shallow jester at times but, if you really paid attention, you could tell that weren’t the case at all. Master Pippin knew things, saw things and too many times had Sam felt as though he were wearing nothing but his drawers – if that much – beneath that penetrating gaze. Sam would have to be extra-careful around that one, else he might find himself packed off back to Hobbiton; Sam remembered his father’s caution to him all too clearly.
And Master Pip was awfully close to Mister Merry as well; as fair as the young hobbit’s manners were to Sam and as much effort as he put into making Sam feel as though they were all friends, Sam knew full-well which side Master Pip would come down on, if it were thought that Sam was trying to reap from Mister Merry’s crops… or so to speak.
Sam pushed it aside. He already had his hands full worriting over how Mr. Frodo was going to take the news that he and Sam wouldn’t be travelling alone – he didn’t need to make it worse by getting himself all worked up over whether Mr. Frodo’s cousins were seeing more in his attentions than what he meant. And he was worried, more than he liked; there was the very real chance that Mr. Frodo might fire him on the spot and stalk off by himself that very night. What they’d do then, Sam couldn’t begin to guess but he knew he would at least be following, come what may. He could be quiet as any hobbit in the Wilderness and Mr. Frodo didn’t necessarily have to know he was there in order for Sam to keep an eye on him.
And where was that Gandalf, anyhow? He’s the one got Mr. Frodo into this in the first place and for him to just not show… It didn’t make sense and Sam didn’t know whether to be angry over it or scared. His master was right worried, Sam knew, and that Gildor hadn’t helped with that, neither. Blasted elves – adding more worry when you asked them to take some away. Honestly!
Anyway, Sam was set on the thing, had been since Mr. Merry had first approached him and would be until his last breath. Yes, Sam loved his master with everything in him but that weren’t all there was to it; it would take more than snuffling shadows and possibly angry masters to keep Sam from what he was only just beginning to discover was his purpose in life. He hadn’t quite worked out yet exactly what that purpose was but he knew it was all tangled up with Mr. Frodo somehow. And he would not be torn from it, come what may.
Mr. Frodo looked up then, caught Sam staring and gave him a soft, absent smile before turning to the farmer. And while Mr. Frodo calmly listened to Maggot’s advice and then made up his mind to do what he thought best anyway, Sam watched the firelight glow warm over his face. Sam hadn’t bothered listening to the debate – if Mr. Frodo listening patiently and then sticking to his own advice could be called ‘debate’ – for he knew quite well that his master’s mind was well made up already and would not be swayed. And Sam wouldn’t have it any different. Mr. Frodo were the smartest hobbit Sam knew and, though he maybe couldn’t be trusted to do what was for his own good, there wasn’t anybody in all the world who could be trusted more to do what was good for those he loved.
Mr. Frodo knew what he was doing. Dark though this journey may get, Sam had never felt so sure of anything in his life.
* * *
“I don’t like this, Merry. I don’t like it one little bit.” Answered only by silence, Freddy turned from the window, peered at Merry, who sat slumped in Bilbo’s chair, brooding into the fire. “Merry?”
“I heard you, Freddy,” Merry responded evenly, his eyes never leaving the flames that wavered merrily before him and cared not a whit for his worries.
Freddy shifted from one foot to the other, chewed on a thumbnail. He turned back to the window, squinting into the gloaming that revealed to him nothing but an empty expanse of lawn. The silence unnerved him and he turned back to Merry.
“But, surely they should have been here by now? You don’t suppose--”
“I don’t suppose anything, Fatty,” Merry said through clenched teeth. He glared up at his companion, his eyes flashing warning. “And neither will you.”
Freddy only gazed back steadily. “Right, then,” he said then turned back to the window.
Merry was in no mood to assuage Fatty’s all too obvious fears, not when he had plenty of his own to keep him occupied. They should have been there by now, hours ago, in fact. What could be keeping them?
He shifted restively in the chair, tapped a thumb absently against his thigh. Regardless of what Gandalf might have got his cousin into, they were still in the Shire and Merry didn’t honestly believe anything could happen while they remained within its borders. But the reports of strange Men lurking about those borders had been enough to cause him worry weeks ago; Merry didn’t like to think about Frodo, Pippin and Sam happening upon a chance encounter with one or more of them. None of them were armed; would have laughed at him had he even suggested such, but now Merry found himself regretting that he hadn’t insisted that Pippin take along his bow.
You’re being stupid, Merry told himself. If anything at all happened along the way, it would be something as simple as a turned ankle and nothing more. Easily enough done, he knew, especially with them doing the bulk of their walking after dark. The terrain between here and Hobbiton was not always kind and too often a leg-deep rabbit burrow could look like a simple shadow.
He shifted again, crossed and un-crossed his legs, rested his chin on a fist. The moon was hidden by fog – not much light to see by but Frodo knew his way well enough in the dark. They were simply taking their time, was all. Pippin had been hoping for an overnight at the Golden Perch, he knew, and it was quite possible that he’d got his way, as Pippin so often did. Sore heads made for poor walking companions, as Merry well knew. It was as simple as that.
Stop being an idiot. Nothing has happened. They’ll walk through the door laughing any minute and Freddy will be right to embarrass you for being such a twitchy fool.
He took a long, deep breath, willed himself to relax, told himself once again to stop worrying… then completely ignored his own advice.
“Oh, sod it all!”
Merry stood abruptly and, without another word, marched to the cloak rack and took up his cloak. He paused, peered into the gloom then took up his scarf as well. Fatty looked startled.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going out to find them,” Merry replied, his tone edged razor-thin. “Have the baths ready for when we get back.”
Then he turned and made his way out into the night.
* * *
With the first clop of hoofs, Frodo knew it was over. The Enemy was upon them and the last thing he would see would be whatever horrifying shadow lurked beneath black robes. His heart must have stopped, for he felt nothing. Nothing. No fear, no resignation, no sorrow… Nothing but the surreal numbness that seeped in through his skin from the very fog that surrounded him, smothered him, choked him with its oppressive weight until the fact that he’d stopped breathing registered only dimly through the white haze his mind had fallen into.
“You’d better be hidden,” Sam said anxiously. “You get down in the waggon and cover up with blankets, and we’ll send this rider to the rightabouts!”
Sam’s voice came to him as though from miles away and when he pushed Frodo back to the bed of the waggon, Frodo just… just let him. Told himself he had to. Told himself this was the responsibility he'd taken on when he'd told Gandalf he'd take the Ring from the Shire's borders. Told himself the Ring must be protected and he had no choice but to heed Sam’s direction. And he believed it, he did, but...
Or did he? Was it the Ring he was really trying to protect, or his own skin?
All of it was just… wrong. He was the one who carried It; Pippin and Mr. Maggot didn’t even know what they were dealing with, for pity’s sake, and Frodo was allowing them to stand between him and whatever might come down upon them.
And the vehemence with which Sam had spoken… it gave Frodo a nasty turn. The lad spoke as though he had every intention of throwing himself on a sword, should one be levelled at Frodo, and there was yet another revelation about Samwise Gamgee that Frodo was not entirely happy to discover. Suddenly, here was yet another person who might be all too willing to step in front of danger – and for him! Pippin’s teasing prattle of the other night all at once sounded less and less like prattle. And here was Frodo, hiding in the back of a waggon, allowing it all to happen. What was he doing?
He hadn’t been prepared for this, not so soon and not before they’d even left the Shire. Could he really remain here and just hide while his friends were slaughtered just paces away? No, he didn’t think he could and the revelation that he just might put the lives of his friends before the fate of the world was unsettling, to say the least. But worse, he thought that yes, it might actually be possible that, should it come down to it, he really might leave his friends to their fate if it meant the Ring did not fall to the Enemy.
Are you so sure it’s the Ring you’re trying to protect?
And that thought was not unsettling – it was utterly horrifying.
Frodo hadn’t been so glad to hear Merry’s voice in all his life and he sprang from the waggon the instant he recognised it, though at the relief of having his fears turn to naught or to escape his own thoughts, he didn’t dare consider. He strode quickly over to greet Merry on legs that trembled more than he cared to admit.
“So there you are at last!” said Merry and Frodo let the relief wash through him, let it turn him near giddy with its false – and, he knew, temporary – sense of liberation. It was dark and he was cold and he wanted nothing more at this moment than a warm fire and to allow Merry to curl a firm arm about his shoulders, pretend that Gandalf would be waiting at the house when they got there and that he would never again have to face such choices as were still all too present in his mind. And, he decided, for a little while, he would actually allow himself to believe it.
* * *
PART TWO
* * *
Well, there it was -- Sam hated him. All right, perhaps ‘hate’ was too strong a word. Then again, ‘dislike’ didn’t seem quite strong enough. Surely someone who merely disliked him wouldn’t be putting him through such torture.
Merry unclenched his jaw, peered at Frodo – who, by the way, was looking none too pleased his own self – and forced a smile before turning to Sam. Sam stood blinking at Frodo expectantly.
Merry held the pan he’d been pretending to wash very firmly over his trouser-front. “Thank you, Sam, but I think we can manage between the two of us.”
Sam barely even glanced at Merry. “Are you sure?” he asked, appearing not at all convinced that two gentlehobbits could manage to clean up an entire kitchen all by themselves without causing a flood or forest fire or massive cave-in or insert-your-preferred-freak-of-nature-here. “Because I don’t mind none, you know. I’m used to such and it wouldn’t be--”
“Really, Sam,” Frodo cut in and Merry had to admire that he’d somehow managed to twist himself into a natural-looking position where he was looking directly at Sam behind him, while still keeping his groin pressed against the cupboard in which the washbasin sat. Good thing, too, since Merry happened to know that Frodo’s trousers were completely undone and, were it not for his braces, would be pooled about his ankles and then there would be no position into which he might contort himself that would hide the fact that Merry had just almost been caught with his hand in the metaphorical biscuit jar. “We’re managing quite well,” Frodo went on pleasantly. “Please go relax and have yourself a beer by the fire while your supper settles. We’ll be out directly.”
“Ah! There you are!” Pippin popped his head around the doorframe, just behind Sam’s shoulder, and peered at his cousins with a grin. He saw what Frodo was doing and looked to Merry, horrified. “You’re not letting him do the dishes on his first night in his new house?”
No, certainly not. I was pretending to let him do the dishes, because Frodo can’t seem to keep his hands to himself since he walked through the door and this was the best excuse we could come up with on short notice. What I was actually doing was giving him quite the hand-job and almost getting one in return with those magical fingers he’s got but Sam here had to bop through the door, using what has to be the world’s worst timing – or best, depending upon whether or not you believe that he hates me – and what I’m now doing is trying to decide whether to start laughing or beat Sam to death with this pan here and bury him in the yard.
“He wanted to,” was what Merry chose to say.
“I told ‘em, Master Pip,” Sam said, ooh, and didn’t he look just a little too cheeky and self-satisfied for that to have been as innocent a comment as Sam seemed to want it to appear? “I said I’d do the washing-up and--”
“You’re just as much a guest here as any of us, Sam,” Pippin told him.
Ha! That shut him up. Good for Pippin!
“But--”
“No ‘buts’, Sam,” Pippin returned sternly. “I’m thinking Freddy’s needing a turn at the basin and I’ll see that he gets it as soon as we’ve had our pipes and all. Right now, we all need to sit and have a smoke and a beer and relax.” He pushed Sam through the doorway then tugged on Merry’s arm. “Come along, now.”
“But…” Merry sputtered.
“I said no ‘buts’,” Pippin insisted and his eyes flashed sharp. “We’ve things to talk about, haven’t we, then?” All of this said through teeth clenched beneath a rigid smile.
Merry blinked, considered. Yes, they certainly had things to discuss but… Well, Frodo wasn’t in this sort of mood as often as Merry would like him to be and Merry would really like the opportunity to take advantage of it. He hadn’t a clue what had been going on during their trip from Hobbiton but whatever it was, it seemed to have had a delightful – in Merry’s personal opinion – effect on Frodo, who had pinned Merry up against the wall of the hallway the very first chance he’d got and demanded to know how soon they could go to bed. Just out of the bath, he’d been, smelling warm and sweet and hot breath whispering over Merry’s throat, rigid heat pressing into Merry’s hip and…
Oh, mercy.
Merry clenched the pan to his front more firmly.
Of course, Sam had chosen that moment to emerge from the bathing-room and had broken up what had promised to be an interesting few minutes, at least. That was when Merry had begun to suspect that Sam really didn’t care much for his master’s Brandybuck cousin. His innocent smile upon his approach looked too… innocent and the way he ignored their quick scramble to pull apart seemed too… polite. Innocent and polite – honestly! As if Merry didn’t know. Ha!
“Can I help you sirs with sommat?”
“No, Sam, thank you – we’re, um… managing well enough. Why don’t you go and see if you can help Fatty with the rest of supper?”
“I’ll do that, Mr. Frodo. You’ll let me know if you need anything, yes?”
“Of course. Thank you, Sam.”
Merry marvels at Frodo’s composed smile as they both watch Sam make his (too slow, damn it all, too bloody slow!) way to the kitchen. Merry waits until Sam has disappeared around the doorway before laying hands on Frodo and trying to drag him back into his former position – that being the one where Frodo is pressing Merry quite firmly into the wall and grinding up against him fast and furious.
But Frodo pulls back with a reluctant smile and a quick adjustment of his trousers and – damn – what lies therein.
“I’m sorry,” he says, a little embarrassed. “I don’t know what’s come over me. I suppose I’m just glad to be here in one piece.”
Merry’s very glad to have Frodo here in one piece, as well. And, though there are some pressing matters to take care of, he intends to show Frodo just how glad he is – providing, of course, Frodo doesn’t haul off and knock his head off after those pressing matters are finally revealed to him. At the moment, he thinks it’s a very good idea indeed to take advantage of whatever Frodo might be willing to toss his way now, before those pressing matters are discussed, because he won’t be able to enjoy much of anything if he’s missing his head later.
“Oh, no worries, here,” Merry says and makes another grab for Frodo but Frodo – annoying sod that he is – pulls away again.
“No, really – we’ve got to make it through supper yet and I really shouldn’t be attacking you and trying to shag you in the hallway.”
Merry starts to protest then he stops, blinks. “You were trying to shag me?”
“And Pippin will be done any moment.”
“Because you weren’t doing it very well.”
“He’ll probably need help cleaning up all that water.”
“Shagging requires the removal of at least a few items of clothing. And there’s usually a bit of tongue first. You haven’t forgot how to do it, have you?”
“And I’ve gone and put us in a compromising position, right in front of everyone, and I’m really quite embarrassed about it all but I can’t seem to help myself.”
“Because that would make me terribly sad and ruin my evening completely. Though I suppose I could just refresh your memory.”
“No, Merry, honestly – my behaviour has really been quite crude and I’m sorry.”
Merry shakes his head. “I really don’t mind,” he insists, always ready to take one for the cause because he’s just generous that way. He leans forward but Frodo puts a firm hand to his chest, opens his mouth--
“Can I get you sirs a drink or anything?”
Bugger all! How does Sam do that? Merry scowls in defeat and lets Sam drag his master off to do… Merry has no idea what but apparently it has nothing to do with soothing the aching fire in his trousers. Sam is proving a formidable adversary. Bollocks!
“I was thinking about turning in, Pip,” Frodo said from the washbasin, doing a fairly convincing imitation of a person who is paying attention to the dish in his hand and not the fact that if he moved wrong, he might end up with splinters in places Merry would be very sad to see splinters. “I’m really quite done-in and I was--”
“Oh, no you don’t,” Pippin interjected. “You’ll not cheat Fatty and Merry out of the tale about those Riders. And anyway, it’s too early for bed. Have a beer with us first, yes?”
Pippin turned and glared at Merry, his silent accusation of, ‘Can’t you just keep it in your trousers long enough for us to get the Business done?’ shooting right from his eyes and upside Merry’s head, making his ears ring. ‘It isn’t me!’ Merry tried to say with his most artless, wide-eyed expression but he could tell Pippin wasn’t buying it. Honestly – Frodo could probably walk up to Pippin with a smile and a match, set fire to Pippin’s foot-fur and Pippin would still somehow believe it was all Merry’s fault.
“All right,” Frodo sighed and reached for a dry cloth to wipe his hands. “I suppose I can survive through one beer and a few tales.” He turned a resigned, apologetic smile Merry’s way then made to turn from the washbasin.
Merry’s heart did a little flip. “Frodo, wait, your--”
‘--trousers are undone!’ Merry had meant to say but choked it back when Frodo completed his turn and all his buttons were neatly in place. Now, how the blue blazes had he managed that? Glory, he really did have magic fingers. Merry paused in lament that those clever, nimble fingers were not, right this minute, working his own buttons. Bloody Pippin. Bloody Sam. Bloody Fatty. Bloody Conspiracy. Whose bright idea was all this, anyway? Wait…
“Are you all right?” Pippin wanted to know, peering at Merry suspiciously.
Merry coughed, cleared his throat. “Erm… fine,” he replied.
Pippin looked him up and down carefully. “Uh, huh,” he said then, to Frodo, “Come on, then.”
Pippin took Frodo’s hand and led him out of the kitchen. Frodo smiled at Merry as he passed, shrugged then winked a very distinct promise. Merry had to wait a good two minutes before he could relinquish his pan and follow.
* * *
“What if I were to tell you that all of this conspiracy business has made me want to drag you down the hall and show you exactly how glad I am that you’ll be coming along?”
All of this said in a throaty whisper against his ear as Frodo leaned over the arm of his chair with a casual smile. Merry swallowed.
It unsettled Merry, Frodo’s reaction to it all. He’d expected shock and had not been disappointed; had matters not been so serious, Frodo’s hanging jaw and wide, astonished eyes might almost have been comical. But Merry had also expected perhaps a bit of anger, the wilful refusal of unexpected companions, accusations of betrayal… He’d been both immensely relieved and slightly unnerved when Frodo had finally laughed and thanked them. Thanked them! Here, every single one of them had worried and fretted and planned for the possibility that Frodo would storm off on his own in a fit of pique and, after all their anxious months of painstaking planning and agonising over what they might do if Frodo refused their help, he’d just… just thanked them! And laughed!
And now he was making propositions in Merry’s ear, while Sam and Pippin and Fatty laughed and drank around them. It was a little surreal. Merry found he couldn’t wrap his head around it all. He decided not to try overly hard.
“I don’t know,” he replied, his own smile probably more of a leer. “But I might -- just might, mind you -- be forced to then divest you of every stitch--”
“Another beer, Mr. Frodo?”
Oh, he was evil. He might have everyone else fooled but Merry could tell. That innocent smile and helpful attitude were just Sam’s way of making sure Merry didn’t get laid.
“No, Sam, thank you. I think I’ll finish this one and be off to bed.” Frodo said this with a pointed shift of his eyes to Merry’s.
“Oh, not yet!” Pippin cried and blast it all, was he in on it, too? “Fatty was just telling me about his latest encounter with Miss Aster.” Pippin nodded with a mischievous lift of an eyebrow. “In very rich detail.”
“Good grief,” Merry muttered and stood, picked up the ash shovel from the fireplace.
“What are you doing?” Pippin wanted to know.
“If he’s going to tell that story again, I’m going to start tunnelling out now.”
“But we’re not in a burrow,” Frodo pointed out helpfully.
Merry paused. “You’re right,” he agreed then traded the shovel for the poker. “I suppose I’ll just have to knock him senseless.”
“Oh, you’re just jealous,” Fatty grinned. “I daresay you’d do your own share of tale-telling if you had Aster to tell about.”
“It just so happens,” Merry returned, “that I have all sorts of tales I choose to keep to myself, as a gentlehobbit ought. And anyway,” he furthered with a wink to Frodo as he casually inspected his fingernails, “I had a little chat with Miss Aster only a few weeks ago, during which I told her that when she grows bored of you, she only needs to come see me to find out how a real hobbit treats a lass.”
“Oh, aye,” Fatty retorted with a roll of his eyes. “And what did she have to say to all that, pray tell?”
“Well,” Pippin cut in with a sly grin, “there was some speculation on her part as to whether he would know what to do with a lass, if he’d got his hands on one. No worries, Freddy – she won’t be leaving you for Merry any time soon.”
Fatty crowed, slapped his knee. “Well, I could have told you that!”
“Don’t get too smug,” Pippin returned. “She’ll still leave you eventually – just not for Merry. Now, me, on the other hand…” Pippin waggled his eyebrows.
“What?” asked Frodo. “You’ll leave Fatty for Merry?”
Pippin snorted into his beer, while Fatty got up to refill his mug, shaking his head and chuckling. Merry noticed Sam, sitting quietly, appearing a bit confused. Ah, perhaps a bit of revenge was in order.
“What’s the matter, Sam?” he wanted to know. “Need a bit of a refresher on the birds and the bees?”
Frodo choked on his beer. “Merry!”
Merry grinned his most endearing, innocent grin, shrugged. “What?”
“No, Mr. Merry,” Sam answered pleasantly enough but Merry could tell he was calculating his next let’s-make-sure-Merry-doesn’t-get-any-sex-tonight manoeuvre. “I was just thinking…”
He paused, shifted uncomfortably. Frodo leaned in, reached over and put a hand to his shoulder.
“Go ahead, Sam. What were you thinking?”
Sam smiled at Frodo – a rather charming smile, Merry had to admit and oh, how was it that Merry was the only one who could tell that those puppy-dog eyes hid the intention of keeping Merry as far away from orgasm tonight as possible?
“Well,” Sam said, “it just seems odd. If my sisters talked about their callers the way we’re doing here – and beggin’ all your pardons for saying so – but there’s some as would call them strumpets and the like. But lads do it all the time.”
See? Now, honestly – it was just impossible that a hobbit Sam’s age could possibly be that innocent. Which just went to reaffirm Merry’s theory that Sam was evil.
“It’s called a double-standard,” Merry told him. “You'll keep it under your hat, if you're smart; lads got the lollypop end on that one.”
Sam merely blinked up at Merry and said nothing. Merry looked back, now noting that the entire room was staring at him in silence.
“What?” he asked, sincerely bewildered. “That was funny!”
“Yes, Merry,” Pippin answered in a more condescending tone than Merry had realised was possible. “No worries, we're laughing on the inside. In fact, I'm falling down in hysterics right this minute. I might have a seizure.”
Ah, ha! So, Pippin was in on it!
“I think that’s a subject entirely too involved to tackle this evening,” Frodo said. He gave Sam a pat on the back then stood, stretched. “I’m for bed, I think.”
“Oh, no!” Fatty pleaded and reached behind his chair for his fiddle. “I thought we’d have a song or three. Come on, Frodo, what say? I won’t even make you play.”
So. They were all in on it.
Frodo turned to Merry, his eyes dull and resigned. He plopped back down into his chair with a sigh.
“All right,” he said. “One or three.”
* * *
“That was absolutely lovely, Freddy,” Frodo told his cousin while collecting a few empty dishes scattered about the room. “You play like no one else, honestly.”
“Here, let me get that, Mr. Frodo.” Sam stood and made to take the small pile Frodo had collected from his hands but Frodo pulled back.
“No, no, Sam, you just sit and relax.” Frodo turned his gaze Merry’s way, let it smoke a little. “Merry will help me and we can finish what we started in the kitchen.”
Let no one ever say that Meriadoc Brandybuck was a hobbit who needed to be hit over the head with a shovel when innuendo would do nicely. Merry hopped up from his chair.
“Yes, absolutely!” he said – probably a little too enthusiastically – then picked up a couple of cups and dishes for show and made a beeline for Frodo. “We’ll take care of this while you all smoke your pipes. No, no, Freddy, you sit down and pour yourself another from that pitcher. I said sit down! All that fiddling’s got you sweating buckets, not to put too fine a point on it. We’ll just…” Merry elbowed Frodo through the door. “You know… the, uh... the kitchen… and… and the, um…” then he scooted through himself.
He didn’t even get to drop his load before he found himself against the wall again – a different one, this time, though Merry wouldn’t be adverse to getting himself acquainted with each and every one in the place – and Frodo’s mouth, hot on his own. Oh, and this time there was most definitely tongue.
Merry let his eyes fall closed, let his mind go blank and the only thing that existed in his world was Frodo’s mouth on his, Frodo’s thigh slipped tight between Merry’s legs and Frodo’s hands…
Wait a minute. There were no hands on him and that simply wouldn’t do at all.
He pulled back, ignoring Frodo’s rather irate growl, and peered down at the dishes they both still held. “Come on,” he panted, planting several slow wet kisses down Frodo’s throat as he spoke. “Let’s get rid of these before we break them all and then they’ll all be running in here, wondering if--”
But Frodo had apparently been enjoying what Merry’s mouth was doing a little overmuch and everything in his right hand went crashing to the floor. Merry began to count.
One… Two…
“What happened?”
Sam.
Oh, bugger me blind.
“Just a bit of a mishap, Sam,” Frodo assured him, already on the floor and scooping up shattered crockery. “Nothing to worry over, I just got a bit clumsy and managed to--”
“Mr. Frodo, stop that right now!” Sam commanded, horrified, then shot an accusing look to Merry before taking hold of Frodo’s arm and dragging him to his feet. “You shouldn’t ought to be doing that – you’ll cut up your hands something fierce!” He knelt beside the pile and began collecting the shards himself.
“Sam, I have been cleaning up after myself my whole life, you know, and worse messes than this. I really can manage.”
“’Course you can, Mr. Frodo, but Sam’s here now, so why should you?”
Merry received another pointed glance from Sam at this point, then frowned down at the dishes still clutched in his own hands and wondered what Sam would do if Merry dropped it all and opened a vein in the process. He rather suspected that Sam would toss a handkerchief at him and then inspect Frodo for splinters while Merry bled to death. Because Sam, after all, was evil.
“Sam, really,” Frodo insisted as he knelt beside his gardener, “I made the mess, it’s only fair--”
“I’ve got it, sir,” Sam told him firmly. “Why don’t you go on off to bed and let me take care of this, like I wanted to earlier?”
Frodo shook his head, opened his mouth before a light flared in his eyes. He stopped, glanced quickly at Merry with a little grin. Merry was forced to re-think his theory that Sam was evil. In fact, if this got them to the bedroom in the next two minutes, Merry just might be inclined to start tossing rose petals at his feet.
“Well, I am awfully tired,” Frodo said, rather over-doing a yawn. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“I said as I didn’t, sir,” Sam replied. “Go on ahead, now. We’ve a long ways to go tomorrow.”
Frodo grinned up at Merry and Merry had no choice – he grinned back. He dropped his load of dishes to the table and helped Frodo to his feet.
“Thank you, Sam,” he said and meant it more sincerely than he’d have suspected only a few minutes ago. Then, not daring to wait for a reply, he hurled Frodo out the door of the kitchen and pushed him up the hall.
* * *
“Oh, I thought they’d never… mmm… oh, a little… yes, like that.”
Frodo was the one pressed to the wall this time and he didn’t seem to be minding much. Merry pushed in close, ran his tongue up Frodo’s throat. Frodo responded with a small, quivering cry and a slow grind.
“I know,” Merry replied. “Very in demand tonight, weren’t you?”
Frodo chuckled, throaty and low. “And a poor excuse for a host,” he said then, “Ah! just like that!”
Merry smiled a slow, smoky smile and twisted his hand, cupped, squeezed and oh, the sounds that dripped from Frodo’s throat were--
“Whoops!”
Merry hadn’t even heard the door open but he looked up at the exclamation, not at all surprised to find himself staring into Sam’s wide, astonished eyes.
Oh, you have got to be bloody kidding me!
“I’m so sorry, sirs!” Sam cried, quickly looking down and trying to make his way back out of the door by touch alone. “I thought this was--” he whacked his head against the edge of the door as he tried to back through the doorway, “ow! thought this was--” then his heel into the doorjamb, “blast! thought this was the room Master Pip showed me and--” and his wrist to the knob as he made a desperate grab for it, “owbuggerdamn! and I was only trying to find my pack, you see, as it has my weed satchel in it and all and I thought this was the room, honest, I wouldn’t dream of—well, wouldn’t dare, sirs, really, I’m so sorry, I wouldn’t never--”
“Sam,” Frodo said, fond and amused, and laid a hand to Sam’s shoulder. Merry was right – Frodo really did have magic fingers, in more ways than one, because his touch seemed to instantly calm Sam. “It was just the wrong room, is all – no need to be sorry. It happens.”
“Yes, sir,” Sam whispered, though Merry could now see that he trembled a little.
“Yours is the one three doors that way,” Merry told him and pointed out the door and to the right – a gesture completely lost on Sam, who seemed unable to unglue his eyes from the floorboards.
“Thank you, Mr. Merry,” Sam croaked. “You’re very kind and…” He shrugged helplessly, seeming dangerously close to tears. “I’m sorry, sirs,” he repeated morosely.
“Honestly, Sam,” Merry said as he placed a hand to Sam’s shoulder and gently steered him to the door. The poor sod, he really was upset. All right, so Merry supposed Sam wasn’t entirely evil. Just in love, he supposed, and resolutely did not think about which was worse. “Don’t worry over it. Frodo’s right – it happens. Get your weed and have yourself a smoke – you’ll feel better.”
“Right, sir,” Sam answered, his voice calming and the trembling beneath Merry’s hand subsiding considerably. “Thank you, sir. Good night to you both.”
And then Sam was gone, scuttling down the hall and to his own room. Merry didn’t wait to see if he got the right one – he closed the door firmly then turned back to Frodo, stared for a moment before turning again and throwing the lock. He nodded, satisfied, then turned once again to Frodo, paused… spun about and stared at the deadbolt.
It was silly. The lock would be enough to keep anyone out – no need for a deadbolt, for pity’s sake. Anyone trying the door and finding it locked would have to knock. They’d be ignored, of course, but they’d eventually go away.
Still… considering the evening they’d just had…
No, it wasn’t as if someone would actually break the door down or something. He was being silly.
Still…
Merry stared at the deadbolt, almost lifted his hand, blinked, cracked his knuckles. It really was silly. He shook his head, made to turn when Frodo suddenly pressed into Merry’s back, his arm snaking over Merry’s shoulder, his hand landing on the deadbolt and turning it with a firm ‘click’.
“Oh,” Merry breathed as he rested his head to the door in profound relief. “I so love you.”
No answer, just a low chuckle as Frodo moved away and the warmth at Merry’s back was gone. He turned, saw Frodo backing away slowly, his hands at his buttons and a small knowing smile spreading over his face.
Merry leaned back against the door, his own mouth pulling into a small smile of its own, though his felt more uncertain, and all at once, he felt vaguely confused. Alone, finally alone and he’d been waiting for this all night, so why was he suddenly feeling wary? He peered at Frodo closely. Now they were finally alone – no gardeners appearing out of nowhere, no cousins demanding attention – Merry found all of the revelations of the evening that had been tripping over themselves and muddling about in his head were clamouring between his ears for attention and he couldn’t decide which to consider first.
Merry had never had much trouble tripping Frodo into bed before, that was true, but this…
The fire that smouldered behind Frodo’s eyes held almost a hectic cast and Merry couldn’t remember ever seeing it there before. Then again, he’d seen real fear in those eyes back by the Ferry and Merry hadn’t ever really seen Frodo afraid before either, so this night had been full of the new and unusual already. Still, this urgency was unlike Frodo and Merry couldn’t help but wonder at it.
He watched Frodo as he finished unbuttoning his shirt, slipped it neatly over the back of the chair and Merry found himself wondering if Frodo’s antics this evening might be some ruse, meant to knock him off his guard long enough for Frodo to slip away when the house settled down for sleep. Perhaps the entire evening had been just one long--
“You’re staring at me.”
Merry blinked, straightened, shook his head a little. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.”
Frodo smiled wickedly, lifted an eyebrow and slowly pushed his trousers from his hips. A bit confused and already somewhat off his game, Merry could do nothing but follow their progress. His head might be in a jumble at the moment but his body had been waiting all of this strange evening for this and by-bloody-damn, he meant to have it. He licked his lips, swallowed.
“All right. I’m not sorry, then.” Which was absolutely true; he eyed Frodo’s lithe form, all sleek and sinewy and moon-misted fire, and Merry thought he’d probably never been less sorry for anything in his life.
Frodo stepped in close, smoothed his hands over Merry’s shirtfront. He leaned in, breathed hot and moist to Merry’s throat, and a wave of bright-soft flame covered Merry from head to toe.
“Want you,” Frodo whispered against his skin and Merry thought he might actually swoon.
“Well,” Merry breathed and his hand came up, shifted over thigh then haunch then backbone, “you do tend to get what you want with some regularity.”
Frodo slicked his tongue, hot and slow up Merry’s throat, over the line of his jaw, and Merry’s head fell back as though the bones in his neck had melted entirely. He moaned; his head rolled on his shoulders. He felt dangerously close to coming in his trousers and Frodo hadn’t even laid a hand to him yet.
Speaking of hands and trousers and… Oh, yes, that was better; Frodo’s fingers skimmed over the bulge in his breeches, traced him through the cloth, cupped and stroked and Merry had now officially had more than enough of slow and gentle.
He moved his hands, quick and forceful, took hold of firm muscle then laid his mouth to Frodo’s. He pressed in deep, held on and Frodo let him, opened to him, melted to liquid fire in his hands. Merry pulled him in close, ran his hands roughly over every inch of skin beneath them.
The scent of bayberry entered his world and pipeweed and exactly how did Frodo always manage to smell vaguely of rain? He found he really didn’t care much as Frodo’s tongue sounded his mouth and Frodo’s hands drew flame from every single bit of skin they dragged over. He pulled at the small of Frodo’s back, rocked his hips and decided his clothes had remained on his person for far too long.
The problem, as Merry saw it, was that, in order to solve the issue of his clothes, he would have to actually remove his hands from Frodo’s skin and he found himself completely unwilling to do so; in fact, he was finding it damn-near impossible. So, he just cast himself deeper into the wet warmth of Frodo’s mouth, tightened his grip and let loose with a low, pleading groan. Somehow, Frodo understood; his hands worked their way into the almost non-existent space between them, slid their way up Merry’s chest and began to smooth open buttons.
Merry finally had to tear his mouth away, suck in a gasping gulp of air. So many different thoughts, different emotions running through his head and heart and all of it in the space of only a few hours. Merry found himself feeling as though his mind had come loose from its moorings and he was unable to gain a proper anchor. Moreover, he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to.
Frodo’s body surged hot against his own, Frodo’s hands scraped over his chest and Frodo’s mouth glided warm and wet over his skin, and Merry had to wonder what was so bloody all-fired important that it couldn’t wait to be worried over until he’d had his fill of skin and heat and smooth, rippling muscle. Ah, but he’d never really have his fill and, knowing that, he threw himself into the moment, took what was offered and gave back what was his to give.
He leaned in, fastened his mouth to Frodo’s throat and Frodo groaned, low and wild, drove himself into Merry and pitched hard against him. Merry drew hard hands over Frodo’s back, took hold of his arms then moved them both and pushed him roughly onto the bed. He finished what Frodo had started with his buttons, loosed them all with lightning speed, his eyes never leaving the luminous, shameless gaze that glittered back at him.
Frodo was panting, lips parted moist and swollen, his chest surging and glistening with sweat and firelight. His hand moved slowly, teasingly, over his breastbone, down his belly to hover enticingly for a long moment then settle firm between his legs. Merry couldn’t move, couldn’t take his eyes away. Frodo’s mouth curved into a misty smile, his hand curling about himself, pumping leisurely, and he was beautiful and scintillating and too bloody close to wanton and Merry couldn’t tear his clothes from his body fast enough.
He growled, kicked away his trousers then slid to his knees on the bed, moved feral and fierce up Frodo’s body, pausing to sink his teeth into a hipbone, scrape his nails over skin so hot it near singed his fingertips. And Frodo thrashed and pitched beneath him, snarled and groaned and made Merry’s blood boil with a slow swipe of his tongue over the dusky rose of his bottom lip.
“What do you want?” Merry grated through his teeth then closed his lips around a brown nipple and sucked it hard into his mouth. Frodo arched, panted and his hand moved faster, his hips rolling, and he reached in with his other hand, took hold of Merry.
“You know what I want,” he answered low and his foot came up, his leg slid around Merry’s thigh and pulled him in. His fist tightened around Merry and Merry threw his head back, bucked his hips. “Merry!”
Oh, and yes, Merry knew perfectly well what Frodo wanted and Merry was more than willing to give it to him and as hard and fast as he wanted it. He reached to the nightstand, yanked the drawer out and blessed his own foresight for having made him think to place the bottle of oil within. He caught it up, quickly un-corked it and drizzled it fast and messy over his erection. Frodo’s hand was still there and he smoothed it, spread it and Merry pressed himself into Frodo’s grip, rocked through slippery-smooth pressure. Frodo threw him a smouldering glance, leaned up, ran his tongue over Merry’s collarbone.
“Want you,” he hissed again, low and sibilant, then curled his fist around Merry, raised his knees and guided Merry in.
A swelling torrent and fire and tight and he pushed and oh, he almostalmostalmost lost control then and there. He squeezed his eyes tight, didn’t move, dared not breathe, just clamped his teeth down on the swell of heat that moved beneath his skin, skittered loose and tingling up his backbone, down his thighs. He willed himself to calm, took in a wheezing swallow of desperately-needed air. He pried his eyes open, found Frodo watching him with that same wicked glint and Frodo pushed down, smiled at Merry’s gasp and moan.
Two could play at that; Merry shifted, slid his hands down over Frodo’s arms, took hold of his wrists and pinned them to the mattress above his head. Frodo arched, rippled from head to toe and a low, liquid cry spilled from his mouth. He groaned, rocked and sent a dark, pleading glance to Merry. Merry quirked an evil little grin.
“Is this what you want, love?” and he dipped his mouth to Frodo’s throat, snapped his hips hard. Frodo loosed a rough shout, arched further. His breath was coming fast and harsh and Merry bucked again, harder. “Tell me.”
“Yes, just... bloody move!”
Merry bit down on Frodo’s shoulder, pulled out slow, “I want to hear you say it,” then slammed in again.
Frodo sobbed out a stuttering curse, twisted his wrists. “Yes!” he panted, tossed his head. “What I want, this is what I want, move, now, please!”
Merry feathered his lips over Frodo’s ear, dipped his tongue. “Say it better,” and he tightened his grip on Frodo’s wrists, pulled back again.
Frodo growled, tried to push himself down. “Merry, I'm begging you, all right? Move!” Frodo's teeth clenched tight and he groaned and, when Merry hovered an almost-kiss over his mouth, pushed in again, achingly slow, Frodo clamped his thighs around Merry’s hips, bit Merry’s lip hard, dropped his head back to the pillow and snarled, “Would you just bloody fuck me already?!”
And Merry felt his mouth curl into a wicked little grin and his eyes dropped to half-mast; the world took a little shift beneath them and Merry felt a rolling rush of fire thunder through his veins, clenched his teeth, breathed, "Oh, yes, there it is." And fucked him.
Hips driving down, hard and fast, slamming into sleek-sweet heat. Already he was caught up in the fiery-slick swirl of sensation, pounding his hips to the measure set by the jackrabbit beat of his heart, his mind spiralling to the stars and his body burning up, incinerating, bursting into glorious, shameless flame.
Frodo moved with him, against him, thrusting up and dropping back and grinding himself down, straining into the rhythm, crying out in hoarse curses and demanding that Merry move faster, damn it, harder. Merry ground his teeth, sped the tempo, surged and thrust. His hips moved in a cadence that set his skin to flame, movement and blinding friction that sent fire to pulse hot and fierce behind his eyes. And Frodo pounded against him, moon-pale skin flushe |