Sfumato:
the technique of blurring or softening sharp outlines by subtle and
gradual blending (feathering)
of one tone into another; also,
"vanished in smoke" Warm and rapturously comfortable. He hadn't felt this way since -- well, since Yule. His muscles felt sore, in a deliciously used way. But, something wasn't quite right. The parts of him that should feel slightly sore and deliciously used by this point did not -- in fact they felt quite neglected and needy. Likely because he, being a git, had fallen asleep right in the middle of Frodo's remarkable massage. He opened his eyes warily, hoping Frodo hadn't gone off in a huff -- and caught his breath at the sight before him. Frodo was stretched out next to him on the quilts -- apparently dozing in the heat of the fire. He lay on his side -- one arm curled under his head, the other resting on the knee that was pulled up in front of him. Merry rolled back and propped his head on his hand, gazing at his cousin's still form with admiration. Beautiful was not the right word -- it was too feminine a word for the angular flare of Frodo's chest, the firm curve of muscle in his calves and upper arms, the powerful flex of his thighs -- but there was something that brought that word to mind -- something about the translucent shimmer of Frodo's skin contrasting with the unruly tumble of dark curls, something about the overly lush mouth and generous fringe of lashes, something about the delicate ear tips that blushed when Frodo was aroused -- were suddenly blushing now as Frodo woke and caught Merry gazing at him hungrily. Merry shouldn't have forgotten about the fathomless blue eyes that were so very easy to fall into, or about how those slender, hot fingers felt skating along his cheek. When a thumb still fragrant with oil caressed his lip, he shut his eyes and sank into a long devouring kiss that tasted of wine and caramel and went on and on, leaving him fulfilled and gasping with need at the same time. Perhaps beautiful was the right word for it all. But it just didn't seem to be enough of a word to describe a smoky voice that could make him painfully hard just saying his name, much less breathing out-- "I haven't finished you yet." Merry wanted desperately to say something witty and pointed in response, but he couldn't find his voice, unable to breathe as Frodo pressed him back onto the quilts with an intense look that told him not to move and another probing kiss that made him shudder. Merry flung his hands above his head and tried to relax, but some parts of him moved rather dramatically when Frodo reached for the bottle of oil once more and knelt between his ankles. Closing his eyes, Merry could feel the entire surface of his skin quivering. At the first silky touch of Frodo's fingers on his ankles, he had to grab handfuls of quilt. Then his back arched off the floor at the first firm sweep of fingers up his calves. Finish was a good word. At this rate he would finish if Frodo just breathed on him. But Frodo's touch was firm as he stroked up each side of Merry's leg, then on to the top of his thighs, sweeping back down again, kneading just hard enough at hidden knots of pain in Merry's muscles to keep absolute bliss dancing just out of his reach. Despite the rapid thrum of arousal beneath his skin, Merry found his breathing gradually slowing to match Frodo's rhythmic stroke -- up and back, up and back. When Frodo's thighs pressed under his, lifting Merry's legs and bending his knees, he shifted and grimaced at the odd position, feeling as if his hips were tilted up at an odd angle and he was dangling off of Frodo's lap -- then slick fingers dug and kneaded just at the juncture of hip and pelvis and the twinge made him grunt. How did Frodo know where those sore spots were? It was just enough pain to leave Merry hovering right on the edge of absolute aching need, but it felt indescribably good. When Frodo made some self-satisfied humming noise under his breath -- as he happily kneaded Merry's hipbones -- Merry opened his eyes to gaze at the shifting shadows on the ceiling. His cousin was enjoying all this a bit too much and Merry was about to say so, when Frodo lifted up and pushed further beneath Merry's hips and something hard and decidedly interested poked at Merry's rump. Before Merry could properly react, Frodo's laid his hands on Merry's abdomen, and leaned over to sweep slowly up his chest around and down his sides, his palms brushing across sensitive nipples and his fingers firmly stroking tender spots in the muscles of his chest. But whatever Merry had been about to say was lost in a gasp as the sparse curls of hair on Frodo's stomach brushed over Merry's aching erection. And did so with each stroke -- up and back, tantalizing tingle and torment. Up and back. Merry knew the delicious friction would soon start a fire if not for the moisture leaking out of him, dampening the flames as the thick musky scent of arousal joined the scent of juniper and wood smoke. Dropping his head back to the quilts with a jolt, Merry realized he was lost. There was no contest here. He had forfeited this one long ago. He closed his eyes and stars were dancing in the red dark behind his eyelids. He could hear himself making some strange noise in his throat with each sweeping caress, but he couldn't stop. The ache was edging into pain and he thought at any moment his heels might start drumming on the floor and he might just commence to beg. Merry felt Frodo's fingers on his wrists before he realized that he had moved his hands to touch himself, to touch Frodo, to do something, anything. "Frodo -- please?" he rasped. "Please?" "Hang on to something above your head, love, and stay right where you are. This won't work if you grab onto me." Merry threw his hands above his head, grabbing at fistfuls of quilt once more. This won't work? He looked down to see Frodo pouring more oil into his hands. What was 'this'? More massage? He couldn't take any more massage. Then Frodo looked up, his eyes the colour of midnight beneath lowered lashes as his hand moved unmistakably beneath Merry's hip -- slicking himself with oil. The musky scent intensified in the air and Merry shivered. When his hand emerged to grip Merry's hipbone, Frodo was flushed and sweating. Merry knew what was coming next just from the fierce look in Frodo's eyes -- a tantalizing slide of slippery fingers around Merry's buttocks and down -- a slick thumb caressing and tugging at sensitive skin and hair. He had to bite his lip to keep from groaning aloud as one finger pressed into him -- a tentative probe and then a firm push. "Yesssss." It was less a word than an exhalation of sound from Merry as he hung on, shuddering while Frodo's finger moved inside him slowly, burning. Frodo made a slight noise -- a sigh of sound -- and Merry was caught in the intensity of his gaze. Frodo moved his hand just slightly and a second finger joined the first. Merry couldn't help it. He threw his head back and closed his eyes, torn between pulling away from the tormenting fingers and impaling himself on them. Again, another whisper of sound from Frodo and a third finger slid in. This time Merry groaned -- a long low sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest and go on and on. The burning slid into bliss and he felt the fingers move, twisting. He was hanging on the edge of something -- about to slide over, when the pressure and pleasure disappeared, leaving him empty and bereft. He was about to protest, loudly, then he felt Frodo's hands on both of his hips, lifting him, pulling him into position, and-- "Merry." Frodo whispered his name, a long drawn out sound, and then Merry lost track of everything as Frodo entered him -- filled him. Burn and white hot bliss. For a long moment, Frodo was quiet --unmoving except for delicious little shivers that Merry could feel all the way to his toes. He knew that he could feel ever twitch, every shudder, all the way to the ends of his hair. His arousal had only faded a bit with the bite of pressure and fullness, but that would change. For a moment, Merry thought that he was imagining things. The sensations were so exquisite that everything felt magnified and sensitized. Frodo was pulling back, almost lifting him up. And Merry felt a breath of moist air where it was impossible for moist air or breathing to be. His eyes flew open. Just seeing what Frodo was doing, or trying to do, almost sent him flying over the edge -- stuffing his knuckles into his mouth seemed the only way to respond. Frodo was rather flexible and had been known to scratch his nose with his toe to make the little ones laugh. Merry had seen him attempt to put his ankle around his neck from time to time, when he was rather soused. And once when Frodo was doing some odd tricks of that sort for the fauntlings, Merry had overheard a tween cousin sneer -- 'Bet he can suck his own knob, that'un.' Merry hadn't understood it then, but now he did. However, this wasn't Frodo's knob. This was very much Merry's knob. And when Frodo's tongue swiped slow and hot over Merry's flagging erection just as Frodo pulled part way out, Merry understood why Frodo had ordered him to hang on to something. If Merry hadn't had his fingers in his mouth, they likely would have heard him in the kitchens. There would be payback for this -- involving ropes and caramel sauce and-- and paintbrushes. He might even require Frodo to show him if the tween cousin was right. Yes, payback would be required -- if Merry lived. Then Frodo was inside him once more -- the pressure sliding into something that sent heat lightning sparking up Merry's spine. Merry found himself tensing and arching as Frodo pulled slowly out. Then Frodo engulfed him in slick heat and suction and there were strange ragged cries, which Merry realized were actually coming from his own throat. When Frodo's head finally lifted, Merry nearly drew blood biting down on his knuckle as he was seared from within once more. Stretched taut -- pulled between two points of excruciating sensation -- heat thrusting into him and being sucked from him -- back and forth -- Merry managed, somehow, to find Frodo's face in the simmering blur. The expression there -- intent and feral, lips wet and swollen like some beast feasting on prey -- sent his head back onto the quilt and his hands above his head scrabbling for purchase. He was going to die. There was a whispered sound -- an intake of breath -- and the rhythm changed -- shifting into something faster, more urgent -- leaving Merry wet and cold, aching and arching blindly up for the heat of Frodo's mouth while scorching tendrils of fire raced -- unquenched -- up his spine with every thrust. Hips questing upward, gasping desperately, Merry heard harsh breathing in counterpoint. He opened his eyes to see Frodo, head thrown back, the tendons of his throat rigid, mouth open and panting. "F--frodo." It was all he could manage, but Frodo's fierce gaze scorched him only for a moment. Then Frodo's head dipped impossibly down again with the next thrust, mouth open, and Merry was engulfed, swallowed up in soft wet heat and reamed with fire at the same time, again and again. Desperate noises of need and want and stop and don't stop and red-black flames dancing behind his eyes and waves of fire shimmering on his skin and sliding down his spine and filled and stretched and aching and tight and-- Merry shattered, screaming, hanging on a fulcrum of fire. When he could breathe once more, Merry was spent and shaking -- barely able to pull up his knees as Frodo pushed over and into him slowly and leaned to press wet, hot lips to his. Merry tasted himself on Frodo's tongue and moaned, feeling the aftershock to his toes. "So good," Frodo whispered against Merry's mouth, touching his forehead to Merry's and driving into him again, breathing hard. "So hot." Kissing Merry's temple, his hair, his ear and thrusting again. "So beautiful." Sliding his lips down Merry's neck, and pushing in once more, until Merry, shuddering and twitching, shifted and pushed back. "Mine," Frodo snarled and stroked in once more, then stiffened and buried his face in the crook of Merry's shoulder, muffling his shout of release. Merry closed his eyes and shivered around the heated pulsing within him, then wrapped his legs around Frodo just as Frodo slowly, inexorably, sagged forward. Merry managed to spill them both onto their sides, Frodo limp and unresisting in his arms -- tousled hair, swollen mouth, wet cheeks -- so very beautiful. Merry leaned forward and pressed a kiss to each eyelid then touched his forehead to Frodo's. "Mine," he growled. ***
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