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TITLE: Counterpoint, Interfolio - Sonata Form AUTHOR: Daffodil Bolger PAIRING: Frodo/Merry RATING: Adult (Um… very. Just sayin'. *whistles innocently*) SUMMARY: Exposition and development masquerading as a PWP. Or vice versa. Depending on your perspective. But hey, either way—bondage!
Sonata Form: a complex piece, usually serving as exposition, development, or recapitulation.
A/N: Many thanks to Rosina, for her patient endurance of my manic babbling, and to Willow-wode, for the occasional smack in the head.
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Frodo looses a fairly embarrassing little yawp of surprise as he's flipped to his back and pinned by every inch of Merry's rather considerable weight.
"You've been slinging sex about all bleeding night like you're pitching horseshoes," Merry growls, "and now you're going to tease me?"
Well, yes, all right, teasing had rather been the plan, and Frodo wouldn't say he'd been 'slinging sex'—and what an odd way to put that at any rate; horseshoes?—but he might have been… well… lobbing it a bit, and up until this very second, Merry had seemed happy enough to go along with it. Merry's always happy to go along with it. Well, not happy, really, since the teasing is designed to make him pissy and twitchy, but Frodo rather thinks the mind-blowing sex that always results serves to tame Merry quite nicely for days afterwards. Or not tame him, as it were. It's just better when Merry's irritated, when he's driving into it like he's trying to blot everything from Frodo's mind but himself—when he's out to prove something. And he always proves it damned definitively.
The second the silk goes about his wrist, Frodo knows that this time, he has seriously miscalculated.
"We'll just see about teasing, won't we?" Merry says, almost to himself, it seems, muttering something through his teeth about 'busy hands', eyes dark and mouth set, hands rough and almost-cruel.
Before Frodo even really realises what's happening, he's got one wrist wound in Merry's tie, jammed up against the spindles of the headboard.
And everything just sort of… shifts.
This isn't teasing anymore, and it isn't any sort of game, and maybe that's it, maybe that's why Frodo's chest is suddenly constricted and why his stomach has cramped up and gone cold. There's suddenly something close to outrage pounding against his temples, knocking relentlessly against the even more sudden and thoroughly confusing flash of erotic hunger that's gone through his groin and turned him so hard it actually hurts. And that makes it all much worse, more mystifying.
A bitter little shard of angerbetrayal spikes through him, something sharp and hot that he doesn't take the time to identify, but it almost feels like adding vague-insult to imagined-injury: he'd hated that tie from the moment Merry had donned it, one of those ugly, long-droopy-wide things that look like one has hung a flour sack about one's neck, and from the moment Merry had mulishly refused to change it, Frodo had spent a ridiculous amount of time all afternoon and evening thinking about how he was going to find a way to burn it later. And to not only find himself abruptly held down like this but to find himself held down by that bloody ugly tie. He has no idea what to do with the jumble of visceral emotion rapidly hazing his vision red, so he directs the anger at the tie and at Merry, but something in him knows it isn't that simple; the clash of sudden and inexplicable burning lust against something that feels like real and too-deep fear sends his mind retreating, even as tumblers roll and click in his head, unlocking something he doesn't know if he wants to let loose, forcing him into a place he'd been happy not to go five seconds ago.
'…there are some things,' Merry had said once, tie dangling loose between long fingers, 'I would never joke about,' and yet he had, however inadvertently, he had, 'You left this at mine,' and it had all taken on more meaning then, and less, and turned into the sort of lock Frodo didn't dare try to pick because he hadn't a clue what he might set loose if he did; but Merry isn't joking now, Frodo can tell, he's dead serious, and the conflict in Frodo's gut is making it curl and clench, even as his free hand is curling and clenching itself into a tight fist.
He can see the moment when realisation flashes through Merry's mind, the moment when everything that's just flared hot and bright through Frodo's head hits him, and Frodo wonders if it burns Merry, too, this scritch of fearwant that blitzes his senses and makes it hard to breathe. The dark, heavy lust in Merry's eyes goes wavery and chaotic, awareness flitting through a stormy grey-black haze, and they both go still, breathless, the air suddenly far too heavy for Frodo to suck in a good gulp of it, and weighted, like there's an anvil on his chest. He can hear the trepidation in Merry's ragged breathing, can see it in the askingdemanding in Merry's eyes, can feel it in the lurching slip-thud of his own heart, and his skin goes all clammy, like a wash of cold oil is misting up from his pores.
Frodo bucks up, tries to pull himself out of Merry's hold, but Merry doesn't move, doesn't let go, and somehow it goes right to Frodo's groin, sends tingling heat through him, and he almost hates Merry for it, for making him feel it, for making him know it. The resistance is instinctive and feral, something so fundamentally a part of Frodo that he doesn't even really think about it, can't really think about it, it won't make definable shapes in his mind. But the profound craving is no less basic, deep-seated and near-brutal, and that makes it all somehow frighteningly mortifying.
Hold me, make me yours, prove it, just for now, just for right now, it thrums through Frodo's blood and he flinches away from it, and Trust me, I won't let go, and we can pretend it doesn't mean anything tomorrow answers him back in one small hint of a tear trapped in the lashes at the corner of Merry's eye.
And they're in their dark heart, that place they never talk about, never even acknowledge, but it defines them—Them, FrodoandMerry—that place that only exists when they're inside each others' skins. If they speak it, if they even let themselves think it, it could end them, because neither one of them can admit they want it, need it, burn for it, not even to themselves, especially not to themselves, and especially not to each other.
Yet here it is, threatening to make itself something solid and real between them, and how will they ever deny it if this goes wrong?
He can feel every fibre in the fabric against his wrist, can see every thought that caroms through Merry's mind like it's written in fiery ink on his dilated pupils: It's not the same, and Let me, and I promise…
Frodo wants to believe it, he really does, that hard knot in his belly unfisting itself in the wash of confused ravenous yearning that crashes over him through the stillness and ringing silence like waves over a breakwater. And the fact that he does want to believe it makes the humiliation almost tangible, he can taste it, all sour-sweet and bitter, because this isn’t a simple thing, it could mean everything if it turns out to mean nothing, and what if it does? What if that's all it turns out to be: a moment of abandon that ruins trust forever?
"Don't," Merry breathes, hands tightening, eyes locked to Frodo's, near-black with intensity and wanting and purpose, and he dips down low, nearly blinding Frodo to everything but the gravity and frankness of that gaze. "I know."
And there it is, right there. An eternity of unfurling potential, of maybe, of what if?, this wide, thick swath of possibility that fans out and distends itself, curls through Frodo's chest and just… waits. Because maybe Merry does know, and maybe that's all right, maybe it's even good, and maybe he can stop it from being nothing if he doesn't make it everything.
Merry's eyes change, go all fierce and glittery, and he growls a little. "Stop," he tells Frodo, "stop thinking," and his hands tighten again at Frodo's wrists, push them up towards the headboard, and before Frodo can even make his mind consider what all of it might really mean, Merry's kissing him. Not even kissing him, really—devouring him, seducing his sanity away from him with hot swipes and dips of the tongue, brutal scrapes of teeth that somehow don't hurt but flare fierce craving through him and make his hips lift off the bed, push into Merry, and Merry groans, the vibrations of it careening through Frodo's chest and dragging all through him. It's as if there's this wide chasm inside him and he's been pretending it doesn't exist for so long that it's staggering his mind to have it suddenly filled with all this astonishing possibility.
His hands are useless lumps, lying docile while Merry works at the fabric, only curling in on themselves, and Frodo wonders if it's some kind of blind, arse-backwards lunatic instinct that makes him tense and wary, yet prevents him from doing anything about it. He can get loose, for five more seconds, before Merry completes that last knot Frodo can feel weaving against his skin, he can get loose, and something in him is screaming, Why aren't you? What's wrong with you? and something else is throttling it into silence.
It's this kiss, he thinks vaguely, it's making me insane, stealing my sense, and it is, sort of, because his mind doesn't seem to want to work properly, and all he can seem to make himself do is groan into Merry's mouth, let him take whatever he wants, give him whatever he wants, beg him to take it, and why has Merry never kissed him like this before? It's hot and all-encompassing, Merry's mouth somehow soft and cruel all at once, teeth nipping and tongue swiping, as Merry's hands start to move, begin the process of stripping Frodo of every last bit of will.
They scour down his arms, nothing soft or gentle about the touch, pausing now and then to knead at a muscle, thumbs digging in and grinding tendon into bone, and it makes Frodo arch up, stutter in a sharp breath. Merry has lifted himself away, mouth and hands the only things touching Frodo, and it should be enough, it really should, what with the thorough job of debauchery they're doing, but he actually aches with wanting more. He wants the kiss to go deeper until he chokes and has to breathe it, wants the hands to dig in harder until they start peeling back skin, and every inch of him that Merry's not touching is burning, stinging with want and a tiny seed of rage at the frustration of it all. So he keeps arching, stretching, but Merry's still stroking at biceps and elbows and shoulders, ignoring Frodo's muffled growls and moaning pleas, and Frodo can't do a bloody thing about it because this kiss has made him completely unbalanced.
He can't shake the feeling that he should be abashed, that a mere strip of silk should not spark this vicious lust, should not empty his mind so easily, and what does this make of him, that he's so willing to yield like this? That he's so willing to believe and trust, when he'd once been given every reason not to? And yet one earnest look of significance, one deep, mind-numbing kiss, a few skilful touches, and he's suddenly digging faith from some abandoned abyss and risking everything.
The question winds through him, coils like a spring and tenses his limbs, and something like a strangled little moan lurks at the back of his throat, but he doesn't let it loose. Merry draws back, plots a line of nipping kisses from Frodo's jaw to his collarbone, tongue flicking and swiping, and fingertips following, firm and almost too sensate, like he has every intention of tracing every vein and muscle beneath Frodo's skin.
"Stop thinking," Merry says again, almost a snarl this time, right against Frodo's throat, and it makes him feel ridiculously vulnerable, Merry's sharp teeth right up against his jugular like that, but then Merry's sucking, too, pushing his thigh into Frodo's groin. And yes, fuck yes, that's a superb idea, a bloody brilliant idea, because he really can't think anymore, anyway, not with Merry's mouth so hot and sure and demanding, blocking out everything but the heat of it, and the nonsense whispers Merry's breathing against his skin, almost like chanting, sending him into a state that's thick and enfolding and almost dream-like.
Frodo closes his eyes, tips his head back, and… Just. Stops. Thinking.
Merry gives a little Mmm of approval, like he knows, and that's somehow comforting, helps the springs to uncoil a bit and knock down the tensile humming in Frodo's chest a few notches. He concentrates on the heat of Merry's mouth, how he can tell when Merry takes a breath because that heat disappears for a millisecond, makes Frodo's skin prickle with the loss of the intensity, and then ripple hot with its return.
Merry's hands travel down the sides of Frodo's ribs, palms flat and fingers splayed, like he doesn't want to miss touching anything, thumbs hooked around and sweeping over chest then ribcage then belly, stopping just short and only grazing the dark thatch beneath Frodo's navel, even when Frodo rocks his hips up in subdued demand. Frodo swears he can feel the whorls on Merry's fingertips as they slide across the small of his back, dig in just a little bit, just enough to make Frodo gasp in a juddering breath, before moving on to sweep his torso, all laggard and leisurely, like Merry's got all the time in the world and Frodo isn't in the process of vibrating right out of his skin. The slow sweeping anticipation of it fizzes through Frodo's chest then screws in and tightens when there's no reward, only Merry's hands gripping tight to his hips for a quick second before travelling down his thighs.
And all the while, Merry's mouth moves over him, tongue swiping hot stripes over his collarbones, stopping to investigate the dip between them before taking a teasing bite just above Frodo's left nipple. Frodo arches up, he can't help it, lets a little gasp loose from his throat, and almost snarls when Merry only chuckles a little, then slides his tongue in a wide circle, never touching the nipple, flaring the want in Frodo's belly and chest into something hard and humming.
Hands curving slow and light along the insides of Frodo's thighs, Merry's mouth dips down lower, pauses at the narrow valley of Frodo's breastbone, drops kisses like a small storm of feathers there, as his fingertips trail and tease at the crease where Frodo's thighs meet his groin. A hot gust of breath billows over his erection, so close Frodo can feel the moisture from Merry's mouth settling over him, all prickly and sanity-stealing, and he sucks in a harsh breath, hips lifting all of their own, but all he gets is a breathy little chuckle from Merry and broad hands over his hipbones, pushing him down. Merry's touch keeps going from hard and ruthless to soft and teasing, and the disparity of it is snatching at Frodo's sense, making him coil and contort himself, trying to anticipate which touch is coming next and where and when, and why won't Merry just touch him?
Frodo groans frustration, pushes up again, but Merry grips the thick muscles of his thighs, presses him down, and stops moving. And then draws away.
Nonononono, don't go, don't leave me here like this, Frodo can almost hear the warbling half-tones of it, and it's stupid, it's bloody absurd, but he only just keeps it locked behind his teeth. To go from near-overwhelming sensation to all this nothing is almost more than he can take, and he clenches his jaw, tries to calm himself before he starts begging Merry to touch him, just touch him, damn it, why won't Merry touch—
"D'you want to stop?"
Frodo's mind stutters. His eyes snap open, narrow at Merry; Merry only looks back steadily from beneath his tangled fringe, firelight catching the gold and sparking it into honeyed-sienna. He is propped up on his arms now, hands flat to the mattress to either side of Frodo's ribs, knees snugged to either side of Frodo's hips.
Frodo hadn't even really thought that he could stop—wasn't that the whole point of the tie?—and some part of him wants to snarl and snap at Merry for giving him the option, because what is he supposed to do with it? Yes, I want to stop feeling the amazing things your mouth and your hands can do to me before I even find out how much more amazing it can be, or No, this makes me too raw and powerless and I don't know how much more I can take before I lose something important.
But here it is, here's that control that he'd thought defines him, and it's being put back into his hands—his bound hands, his useless hands—and by someone he'd doubted mere moments ago he could trust with it. Something in him wants to feel shame at the doubt but something else can't be bothered with it; there's too much happening in the ephemera that surrounds them, too much meaning within everything they're not saying, because they can't say it.
Frodo locks his gaze with Merry's, tries to look deep and right into his heart, and everything goes still again. Frodo can feel the sweat sliding down his temples, can feel it sheening his whole body, sticking his shoulders to the soft linen of the pillowcase. He can hear the slow flicker of the fire, smell the sooty-grey scent of it, watch the echoed dance of the flames in the shadows slide-slicking over Merry's chest. And he's just so amazingly lovely, that Frodo almost can't believe he's here, with him, and looking at him with that broad question in his eyes, turning this night into something almost too significant.
This was supposed to be another rollicking shag, a night of growled laughter and tumbling about on sweat-damp sheets after a day of patent innuendo in a place where Merry could do nothing but fume quietly until Frodo finally got him home and in bed. And now look what it's become. Something big and full of implications Frodo's not sure they're ready to define.
"You're thinking again," Merry says softly.
It startles him a little. Frodo thinks it's odd, because Merry should be smiling or smirking when he says that, but he's not. He's only looking and waiting.
It's like a bright-white flare of coherency inside a storm of chaos. Frodo hadn't known ten seconds ago what his answer was going to be, but he knows now. Perhaps there are things they can't speak, but not everything has to be defined, not everything should be defined, and Frodo decides this is one of those things.
Merry's gaze is sombre and expectant, but there is no judgement inside it and no hint of what he wants Frodo's answer to be. Frodo really does believe that Merry will accept his answer, whatever it is, and that belief is like all of the tumblers in all of the locks inside him turning all at once.
"Frodo?"
Merry's expression hasn't changed, and his voice is just as steady and patient.
Frodo can't help noticing how defined Merry's body looks in the wavering light, how the silky shifts of muscle beneath his skin chisel strength across his chest and down his shoulders and arms. Frodo wants to touch them, trace the shadows in their dips and rises, taste the contrast as they flex, tighten and ripple, then relax. For a second or two, the need is high and brilliant, making his mouth water and heat pool in his belly. If he wasn't tied to the bed, he thinks he might just wrench himself up and eat Merry alive, rip him apart just to get down to the core of him.
He only shakes his head, says, "Kiss me."
Merry leans down, his thigh almostalmostalmost brushing against Frodo's erection, and the heat baking off Merry's skin nearly shakes Frodo to the bone. "Say it," Merry tells him.
Frodo almost doesn't know what Merry wants him to say, but he opens his mouth and, "I don't want to stop," comes out of it, and that must have been the right thing, because Merry does kiss him, deep and hard and possessive, and it drags so far down inside him that Frodo thinks he might actually die if it stops.
Merry groans, low and needy, and he shifts, wood and ticking whining and squeaking beneath his weight, and somehow the sounds they're making—low moans and heavy breaths and the sticky susurrus of skin-on-skin—are so bloody full of sex that it's a brand new assault all by itself, slicking over his skin and making him twist and writhe. And Merry's barely even touching him.
Oh, Frodo reallyreally wants to sink his fingers into Merry's hair, hold on and not let him move away, drag him down on top of himself and just keep pushpushpushing, grinding his pelvis into Merry's hip until this excruciating want buzzing in his chest is finally sated. He wants Merry to keep kissing him like this, sucking his soul out, making him dizzy and euphoric, almost disembodied, and that's all right, even the vertigo is all right, because he doesn't mind being lost in this, in the heat of Merry's mouth, the desire coming off him in waves and washing all over Frodo, spiking his own desire up through his chest like he's breathing it.
But Merry draws back, and Frodo almost cries, he really does, he almost lets a few tears squeeze out from the corners of his closed eyes; not only because the loss is close to devastating, but maybe tears will make Merry take pity on him and let him have some more, just a little more, please—
And then Merry's hand is between his legs, slick and warm with oil, and how did Frodo not hear Merry opening the drawer, how did he not notice the sharp smell of rosemary, how did he not—?
"Oh, bleeding— gah, Merry!" is all Frodo manages as Merry's finger slides inside of him, and he arches up off the bed as it twists. It's like an explosion inside him, crushing through his chest and all up his backbone, spiralling out and out until every inch of him is tingling with it. Effervescent heat sluices all through him, jinks him about until Merry has to grip his hip and shove him back down.
Frodo has some vague notion that he's leaking obscenities, spilling them out like steam from a kettle, but it's all garbled and breathless and even he can't understand it, so he concentrates on more important things. Like how he's going to shatter and fall apart pretty soon, if Merry doesn't stop teasing and fuck him. Like how Merry's hand is making his insides pool all hot and liquid like lightning is splintering up his spine and melting him from the inside-out. Like how his erection feels tight and heavy, like he just might come any second, and Merry hasn't even touched him yet, has made it a bloody point not to touch him. Like how Merry's teeth and tongue, all hot and slick and finally on Frodo's nipple, are making him nearly lose his mind, making him wild and near-feral so that Merry has to actually lay a leg across Frodo's knees to keep him from bucking himself right off the bed.
Like how this overwhelming feeling of abandoned lust is exactly what had terrified him so when that silk had slid up against his wrist, and yet the yammering voice of the fear has transmuted into the wandering, mumbled curses falling from Frodo's own mouth.
Because right now, Merry could ask of him anything, ask him to stand on his head and quack like a duck, and if it would get Merry to just fuck him, pleasepleaseplease stars and fire, fuck him already, Frodo would, he'd do it, he'd do it gladly and not care that he was standing on his head and quacking like a duck. Merry could make him beg, and Frodo would, he knows he would, and it isn't like Frodo hasn't begged for it before, but not like this, not when it means something, not when the potential for humiliation is almost a living, breathing thing.
But Merry won't, and maybe that's why this is all right, maybe that's why the silk of the tie isn't burning him and stripping his skin raw, maybe that's why he feels open and exposed, but not as afraid as he thinks he might. Merry won't, and they both know that right now, Frodo would let him, but Merry won't, because cursing and writhing and sweating—that's not all this is.
This is more, this is everything, and Frodo almost can't even remember why he'd been so afraid it might be turned into nothing.
Merry twists his wrist again, judders his hand a little, and the jarring shock of sensation rolls a thick shout from Frodo's throat, shatters all through him—tiny, pinpoint explosions of frothy, blissful agony beneath his skin. This shouldn't feel so new, but it's like nothing Merry's ever done to him before, like he's invented some new torturous manoeuvre designed specifically to drive Frodo out of his mind, fingers curling and twisting in a way that's driving Frodo to a state just short of delirium, and jerking reactions out of him that he didn't even know he had in him. It's this spectacular, white… thing, there just aren't any words, and it blazes all through him, makes him coil and scream, and why has Merry never done this before either? Some miniscule part of Frodo's mind that still insists on clinging to lucidity marks the manifest unfairness of having lived all these years without even knowing this kind of ecstasy existed, but the rest of him is busy babbling yesyesyes and trying to twist his body into any shape that might get him more. He tries to lift his hips, tries to rock a little, but every time he moves, Merry stops, goes still, and the frustration is like a live thing, squatting on Frodo's chest, making him growl and snarl and curse.
He has a sudden and searing sense of just exactly how much power he's handed over to Merry, how much control, and he could reach for it back, could snarl a command and Merry would follow it, Frodo knows that; somehow he doesn't want it, and that would have seemed anathema just an hour ago, but the thought of wresting that control back now almost makes him sob, and even that doesn't embarrass him anymore.
It feels like he's been hard for hours, tied to this bed and writhing forever, strokes of pleasure burning through him until he thinks he might go insane. And every time he thinks it can't possibly get better, he can't possibly feel any more, it does and he does, and Merry takes him a little further into mind-numbing bliss.
His body and his mind both coil and warp into new contortions that bend his concepts of reality, stretch the fabric of his Self, but none of it seems important now somehow, because he doesn't think he's ever felt so blazingly alive as he does inside this moment. There's this incredible, ironic freedom in all of this, and he thinks he might be laughing, something a little crazed and euphoric, but his mind won't fix and latch onto any one thing for more than a fleeting second, so he's not really sure, and that's not important either.
He's somehow managed to push off Merry's hold on his legs, lifted his knees, and he has no idea when that happened, but there they are, and he digs his heels down into the mattress, rocks down onto Merry's hand.
"Please," he whispers, and his voice sounds strange, hoarse and broken, so he must have been screaming, and Huh, isn't that funny? he thinks, but he's not really surprised and he really doesn't care. "Please," he says again, "want you, please."
And Merry draws in a long breath, leans down. "Soon," he says against Frodo's lips.
"Beautiful," is all Merry whispers, voice calm and low, and in direct contrast to the filthy things his fingers are doing to Frodo's sanity.
This is it, right here, this is what love is: knowing that you'd give anything, do anything, be anything, and you'd regret it later, but being sure that it won't be asked of you anyway, so it's all right, it's all right to want, to take, to give, to know.
His heart beats behind his ribs like the wings of some crazed bird, bashing itself mindlessly against the bars of a cage. Skittering sensation on him, in him, way down deep inside, and it feels so amazingly good it actually bloody hurts, but not like pain, not like a discord of nerve-endings battering against one another; it's a burn that could eat him up, could push him right to the end of himself, could send him rocketing to the ends of his own borders, a lunatic laugh caught blunt in his throat while he explodes into nothing. And the scariest part about it is that he just might smash through that end-barrier himself, with his own hands, batter and bloody them, if it meant he could go on feeling this blinding rush of almost and ohfuckyes and one more push, help me, take me, keep me, don't let go.
But he doesn't have to, because Merry is over him now, drawing his hand away, and Frodo would protest because the loss is almost painful, it really is, but Merry's pulling at Frodo's leg, sliding it up and over his shoulder, so Frodo just shuts up and goes still, because he doesn't want to do or say anything that will make Merry stop what he's doing. He watches with rapt attention as Merry drops more oil into his palm, almost shatters into a million little pieces when Merry's eyes close and his head falls back and his mouth opens, as he smears a hand over himself, pumps and slides it once, twice, and stutters out a little groan.
Frodo realises the whimpery little noises in his ears are coming from his own mouth, and he clamps it tight. He's gorgeous, just bloody gorgeous, all broad with his brown skin glistening with sweat, biceps flexing and catching at shadows as he moves his hand on himself; Frodo wants to touch him, he really wants his hands just for a moment, just so he can touch him, his fingers nearly burn with it. For the first time, he seriously considers asking Merry to let him loose, just so he can sate the prickling, itchy want in his fingertips, satisfy at least one desire right now, touch everything he's been denied and fill himself up with it. Instead, he slides his foot over Merry's calf just to remind him he's here and waiting, waiting, waiting, please don't make me wait any more, it's burning me to look at you and I'm bloody dying here!
Merry peers down, locks his gaze to Frodo's, smiles something soft and lovely at him. Frodo wants to bite that smile from off his lips, wants to gnaw away Merry's calm, make him feel just as out of control as Frodo does, just because it's so bloody fucking good that he wants Merry to feel it, too. And then Merry's taking hold of himself with one hand, gripping Frodo's hip hard enough to hurt with the other, and guiding himself in. And Frodo forgets what control is.
He arches, screams, the leg dangling over Merry's shoulder locking up so that his heel is grinding into the thick muscle beneath Merry's shoulder-blade, the other curling up tight to Merry's ribs, digging in and trying to draw him in deeper, harder. His hands are splayed, knuckles brushing against the smooth wood of the spindles, and his head is arched back so far that he can see the veins in his arms standing out as he strains against the silk holding him down. He doesn't need to see it; he can feel it, so he closes his eyes, concentrates on sensation.
Merry is hard and hot inside him, grinding in slow at an angle that whites Frodo's mind, scrapes spangling pressure all through him with each minute shift of Merry's hips. Merry's hand, fingers hot and palm filmed a little with sweat, drags down Frodo's thigh, almost scalds him, sweeps a stuttering light touch over his erection, and Frodo almost comes out of his skin, frothy spangles of blistering intensity sparking all over him and thumping down deep into his belly. It's the first time Merry's actually touched him, and it threatens to send him over the edge, just that quick.
"All right?" Merry asks, voice low and heavy, like he's got gravel in his throat.
And Frodo has to think about it, has to really concentrate to make sense of it, and what kind of stupid bloody question is that, anyway? Is he all right? No, he's not all right, he's about to bloody die of sex, for pity's sake, and he grinds his teeth as he realises Merry has gone still and is actually waiting for an answer.
His emotions are stretched out and bowed, joined and blurred together in the middle, and he can't tell which is which; fear, lust, anger, love—it all feels the same, fearlustangerlove—and it makes his heart thud and his blood pulse hot through his veins until it reaches his brain and scour-scalds his mind. He is a great, jittering mass of feeling, of raw nerve-endings, like his skin can't even contain him and hold him together anymore, he's just a big puddle of sensation, and that's all right, good even, hot and good, but there's still something cold and oily beneath it all, and he doesn't know what it is.
Frodo tries to catch his breath, locks his jaw, because he thinks that if he tries to speak, a stream of insult and invective is likely to spill out his mouth, if anything he says is even intelligible, and he really doubts that's the answer Merry's looking for. He calms the gulping that's not really helping him breathe anyway, tames it down to a semi-steady in-and-out. Nods.
"Say it," Merry tells him.
And this time he's pissed, he's really bloody pissed, because Merry has driven him to a state that's as close to senseless as he'd ever imagined he could be, and now he wants coherent conversation? Frodo clenches his hands into fists, squeezes his legs as together as they can get until one knee is digging into the side of Merry's neck and the other is grinding into his ribs so hard that Merry chuffs out a sharp little gasp.
He narrows his gaze, says slowly and clearly, "If you leave me here like this for much longer, I will twist your head off with just my legs, and when I tell the Shirriffs what happened, they will shake my hand and commend me to the Mayor, and the whole of Hobbiton will throw me a parade." He lifts his head, lets his mouth pull into a bit of a snarl, growls, "Don't. Stop."
Merry's eyes go dark, narrow, and his jaw sets. A small, buzzing assault of nerves slicks through Frodo at that look, and he lets his head drop back, swallows, because he has no idea what he's just let himself in for; he's not the one in control, after all.
A small, evil little smile, and Merry does something twisty and wicked with his hips, makes Frodo scream so loud his throat almost locks up.
"'s all I wanted to hear," Merry slurs.
Frodo doesn't really hear it, what with his blood slamming against his eardrums as it is, thudding through his head and chest, as Merry drives into him so hard that Frodo has to lock his arms, grip the headboard to keep himself from being rammed through it. It's hard and rough and driving, and it winds everything inside Frodo into a thrumming, fiery coil.
And this is all right, this is good, and maybe Merry handed him back that tiny bit of control just when he was about to lose it completely, or maybe it was just an accident, but it doesn't matter, because he has himself back now, and he can have that at the same time he has this. It somehow puts the world right, makes this into the everything he'd suspected, instead of the nothing he'd feared.
It's like some great weight has been lifted from his chest, and relief swamps him that he can breathe again. He can feel everything—the sheets clinging to his back and scraping lightly at his skin as Merry drives him up towards the headboard and then pulls him back down; the maddening little breeze over his erection that Merry stirs as he slams his body into Frodo's; the stretch and burn of strained muscle in his arms and shoulders; and for the first time, he lets himself feel—really feel—the slick-rough bristle of the silk about his wrists. Maybe he'd been afraid to let himself accept the sensation before, he doesn't know, but now he revels in it, lets Merry enwind his whole body in a corporeal bond, as silken as the tie itself, for all that it's coarse and almost-harsh.
He relaxes a little, lets go the headboard, tug-twists his wrists; he isn't sure if he's testing to see if he can get loose if he wants to, or making sure he can't, and the uncertainty of just that one thing is like a burst of warmth in his chest, chitters white noise through his head, sideswipes him and sends a slurry of buzzing animal want all through him. "Fuck," Merry breathes, low and shaky, and Frodo opens his eyes, tries to focus, sees Merry's eyes locked to the movement of Frodo's own wrists, watches them flare and widen with each curl of his fingers, each pull of his arms. And yes, fuck, that's what it is, there's just no better word for it, the half-drunk look in Merry's eyes, like Frodo himself is some sort of opiate and Merry can't help it, can't help but want him, want him with everything in him and with a ferocity that might be exhilarating or terrifying, it can go either way, and there's an astounding brilliance in knowing that it won't.
Merry flicks a look at him, something sharp with little razor-teeth, and he smiles a bit, a small, wicked thing, and he drags his fingertips over the bunched muscles of Frodo's forearms, skitters them over the slippery silk of the tie, and the gasp it draws from Frodo makes that smile curl at the corners, deepen into something murky and intense. Merry's eyes nearly glaze over, only just bright enough still to gleam dark in the tossing shadows from the fire. A hard, jolting snap of his hips, and Frodo's whole body arches, a shock of fizzy euphoria arcing out from Merry's body and into Frodo's, sparking through from the dense core of him and exploding through his chest in a hungry, guttural cry.
Merry's hand drags down his arm, over his chest, and even though Frodo knows it’s coming, has been waiting for it for what seems years, he still can’t help but jolt and nearly choke on a gasp when Merry finally lays that hand to him. The touch is firm and hot, and still a little oil-slick; Frodo feels like it's enfolding the whole of him, gripping him together so that he doesn't fly apart.
Merry rocks steadily, each push a little bit harder than the last, building the pleasure, one sensation atop the other. It scrapes at Frodo's sanity, sending white-hot flares of feeling up his backbone and swathing through his chest. The sweep of Merry's hand keeps rhythm, adding a shock of friction with each pump and slide, until it all bashes together, hot like a solar-flare, building to an explosion that threatens to scatter him to nothing.
It feels like he's been hard forever, like he's been so close to the edge of orgasm for so long that he's forgotten how to let himself fall over it. Spiralling pressure builds up and up, flares through his limbs, pushes behind his eyes so they burn and sting, and he almost feels like weeping. Right there, and almost but not quite, and it's like he's hanging over a chasm by his fingertips, his own weight dragging on his body and stretching him out, tight and taut, and if he just lets go, lets himself drop, and why can't he just let go?
He's vaguely aware of Merry's free hand tracing up and over his arm, sliding towards his hand, and yes, maybe that's it, maybe if Merry just touches the silk, burns it into his skin, he'll be able to fall and this cruel-sweet ache will coalesce into euphoria before he can lose what's left of his mind. But Merry doesn't touch it—he skims right over it, twines his fingers with Frodo's instead, holds on tight.
"C'mon, love," he pants. "Do it, let go, I want to feel it."
And that's it, that's just it, that's all he can take, it all goes splintery and wobbly, and he lets go of everything with a throat-ripping scream. He doesn't hear it, he doesn't hear anything but the rush of blood pounding through his head; he only feels, so much sensation that he really thinks he might die of the overload. And he doesn't care. Merry's still driving into him, still scraping bliss up his spine, dragging him through ecstasy like it's a whole new world and he means to show Frodo every last acre of it before he lets him die of rapture. It's wild and it's sharp, a raw nerve-ending swaddled in acute pleasure, and he writhes, bends and twists, arches so hard he vaguely feels the knobs of his spine popping and cracking in protest before his body locks itself into an arced bow, every nerve awake and hot, and blinding white light pounding behind his eyes.
He can't move, but it doesn't disturb him like he would have thought it would; his body feels all fizzy-warm, every inch of him aware and wallowing in sensation, shuddering and twitching as something deep within him listens to Merry groaning release, feels the last jerky thrusts of his body against Frodo's, and he thinks he smiles. There's an odd kind of peace in the frothy stillness inside his head, where the hour is none and nothing else exists in the world but the two of them.
His mind has gone blank, everything has gone blank, narrowed down to a pinpoint of warm nothingness, and that's all right, too, because it's not a scary nothing; it's too full of everything to be scary. It could be hours that he floats in this luxurious serene sort of limbo, but he thinks it's probably only minutes or even seconds, and the next thing he's aware of is Merry collapsed atop him, panting like a bellows and shaking. Frodo wishes he could stroke him, soothe him, run a caress up and down his back; even as he gives his arms a shaky, experimental little tug, he's surprised to find them lying limp at his sides. He lifts them up, vaguely feeling a slow-sloughing burn work its way from his forearms down to his shoulders and curling around over his back, but that's for later. He blinks and squints, then stares dumbly at his right arm for a moment, the tie still wound about loosely and dangling from his wrist, but no longer attached to the headboard. Huh.
"Whenna niss—?" he starts to ask, realises he's mumbling and shuts his mouth, absurdly amused that he's lost the power of speech. When did this happen? was what he'd meant to ask, but decides he doesn't really need to know.
"Mm?" Merry hums back.
Frodo only smiles a little and doesn't try to repeat the question; it's really not important.
Merry takes a long, dragging breath, slowly props himself up on his elbows and peers down at Frodo. Frodo can't read his expression, which is odd—he can usually tell what Merry's thinking just by the sort of smile or frown he's wearing—but something inexplicable winds through Frodo's gut, lays a tiny shrill of unease over him.
Don't make light, don't crack wise, not now, don't make it into nothing, and don't say it's everything, don't say it out loud, don't say it at all, just let it be…
Merry reaches over, takes up Frodo's left hand, draws it close and inspects his wrist. Frodo's eyes are still a little crossed and blurry, and lighting a lamp was rather low on the priority list when they'd stumbled into the room, so he can't really see what Merry's looking at, but he's got a pretty good idea.
Don't, don't, please don't…
But Merry only lays a light, feathery kiss to Frodo's wrist; Frodo can tell it's raw and abraded by the small flare of heat from the contact, and he suspects he'll probably have to be careful about who might be about before rolling his sleeves up for a couple of days at least, but he's paying too much wary attention to what Merry's doing for it to really register. He's holding his breath, tense, and he doesn't know what he's expecting, fearing, but it never comes; Merry simply lays his hand back down to the sheets, draws back up onto his knees and gently prods Frodo's hip.
"Turn over, I'll rub your shoulders."
Frodo didn't realise it was possible to feel so many emotions within such a short span of time, but it seems like he's felt everything it's possible to feel over the past however-long-it's-been, and yet here's a new one. He's not sure what this one is; he thinks it feels a little like gratitude, and he has this odd impulse to thank Merry, but he thinks that might somehow be insulting, so he keeps it in. His mouth is twitching, and he thinks it wants to smile, but if he lets his eyes crinkle, they might start to leak, so he keeps that in, too. He doesn't really know what to do with himself, so he only does what Merry has asked and turns over.
It's wonderful, Merry's broad hands on him, stroking peace back into his skin, and drawing serenity up with careful fingers. Just lovely, there's no better word for it, and Frodo relaxes into the soothing touches, lets Merry manipulate strained muscles and coiled tendons from his arms to his shoulders and on down his back. It almost seems more intimate than what they've just done, the quiet wrapping itself inside him, stilling everything that threatened chaos and taking it down to a low, melodic hum behind his eyes.
It's times like these that he really and truly understands how much he loves Merry, and that usually scares him so badly that he only looks at it for a second or two before pushing it into his back-brain; right now, he takes it out, peers at it closely, and decides it's worth savouring, even if this is the only time he'll let himself do it.
"Are you going to want a bath?" Merry asks; his voice is soft but awake and clear.
Frodo almost growls. Because he's so bloody exhausted he doesn't know if he'll ever move again.
"Mmrph," he replies. Let Merry make of it what he will; Frodo will go along with it, whatever it is.
Merry snorts a little. "Well, since you always want a bath, I'll take that as a yes."
And that's just… it's just right, so quietly right that Frodo squeezes his eyes shut tight, sucks in a shaky breath, and what is all this, anyway? When did he become this raw disarray of emotional penury?
"Not yet," he whispers, "don't go yet," and doesn't even care that he's apparently not done with the needy begging thing yet.
Merry only stretches out alongside him, slides a knee over Frodo's thighs and keeps one hand moving up and down his spine. "Later," he agrees. "I'll put some coppers up and get you something for your throat, shall I? Sounds a little sore."
That makes Frodo smile, small and wobbly, because that's right, too, Merry mother-henning, and a little piece of his world clicks back into place. His throat is sore and just as sensitive as everything else seems to be, and it keeps accumulating these mystifying lumps that Frodo has to swallow down or breathe around, and both are getting more and more difficult. For all that tonight has been astonishing and revelatory, he'll be just as happy when it's over and he can tuck his emotions back inside where they belong, instead of having them dripping out of him like this and him not able to stop the flow.
Frodo takes a deep breath that's a little more steady than the last had been, ventures, "I see my nefarious scheme is working, then," and sighs a little when it comes out slightly mumbled and slurred, but clear enough.
Merry's hand pauses for a moment; Frodo can't see him, can't see anything but the insides of his eyelids, but he knows Merry's eyebrows have gone up and one corner of his mouth is quirked.
"And which scheme is that?" he wants to know. "There are so many, after all."
Frodo stretches, rolls his shoulders beneath Merry's hand; Merry takes the hint and resumes kneading at them. "The one where I get you to shag me witless and then coddle me until I can move and think again."
"Ah," Merry says. "And did this scheme entail tea or port for your throat?"
"Um…" Frodo frowns. "That's… sort of an odd choice, isn't it?" He grunts a bit when Merry's hand cups the entirety of his right shoulder-blade and digs into the muscle.
"When I was a lad," Merry tells him, "Mum always insisted that tea with honey and lemon and a touch of freesia would cure anything from a runny nose to the loss of a limb."
Frodo smiles, relieved that it doesn't feel so shaky anymore. "I remember," he mumbles.
"But Grandmum used to sneak me a glass of port after Mum had gone off. Told me that even if it didn't cure whatever was ailing me, at least it would make me feel like it had."
Frodo chuckles at that one. "And did it?"
"Oh, yes," Merry answers, the smile plain in his voice. "I was—what?—five or so, I imagine, when Grandmum started sotting me with the stuff, and it always did go straight to my head."
"Still does," Frodo observes wryly.
"Whatever," is all Merry retorts. "Anyway, I never was quite sure which did the job, the tea or the port, so you'll have to tell me which." He burrows in a little tighter, mouth resting warm against Frodo's shoulder. "When I get up, that is. Which is not right now."
Frodo is so relieved that they are decidedly not Talking About It that he feels a sudden and irresistible urge to let Merry know how grateful he is. With some effort, he turns his head, lays a kiss to Merry's hair before sinking like a stone back into the pillows; it's perhaps a smallish token, but it's all he can manage right now. Merry's hand sweeps over to Frodo's arm, gives it a light squeeze in acknowledgement before sliding down to stroke firmly over ribcage then backbone.
"You decide," Frodo eventually answers, exhaustion thickening his tongue, spiralling behind his eyes and pulling heavily at his body. Sleep is rolling right over him and he doesn't have the inclination to resist it at the moment, so he just sighs out a long breath, smiles a little. "I trust you," he slurs into the pillow, then gives in and dozes.
* * *
|
"Merry,"
he groans, right into Merry's mouth, and the needy, plaintive tone of it should
be pathetic, but it isn't, because Merry breathes it in, gives a little
twist-jerk of his hand, and only slides the fingers of his other hand into
Frodo's hair when Frodo does it again. "Now, please now," and it tapers off
into breathless, garbled mutters when Merry's thumb slide-scrapes over him.