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buffonia.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fellowshippers2003-02-24 11:04 pm
buffonia.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2003-02-24 11:04 pm
Dorli, R
Title: How to Bed an Elf (In Six Easy Steps)
Pairing: Dom/Orli
Rating: R
Summary: Dom wants something, but there's a process
Disclaimer: This only happened in the mind of a sick
little fangirl
Notes: For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mcee, who beta'd, and for mcee
just because
* * *
Step One: Choosing Your Elf
The first time you see him, Orlando is fresh off the
plane and stretching his long arms up into the air.
Fingers interlaced, connecting the hands, palms to the
clouded sky. He's stretching and stretching until the
belly of his shirt rises to flash some skin.
You squint across the landing area, studying the
gleefully exposed muscles and hip bones before the hem
of his shirt falls back into place, meeting the pants
like a curtain crashing upon the stage's lip. Orlando
begins tilting his head from side to side until, you
assume, his neck gives a few satisfying pops.
While Orlando rolls his shoulders in slow, small
circles and charmingly carries on an out-of-earshot
conversation with a dufflebag-perched Billy, you
decide that you fully enjoy the act of Orlando
releasing his tension.
*
Step Two: On Courting
You tell your fellow hobbits that it will be something
of an initiation. A means of welcoming Orlando into
your close knit circle. You assuage their skeptical
squints with a smile as you speak. Just a trick, a
joke, a gag, you tell them. You're all very good at
pranks and the newcomer will come to understand how
it's really sort of a compliment that any of you would
waste your energy on him.
Billy, as usual, needs very little explanation before
jumping on board with your plan. He nudges Elijah with
his elbow. "C'mon, it'll be a riot."
"What if he freaks out?" Elijah's expression is
bordering on fearful Frodo territory.
You slap a hand onto your worried friend's shoulder.
"Never fear, my dear. If we're caught, we'll deny you
had anything to do with it."
"Jesus, Lij," says Billy, hooking an arm round
Elijah's neck. "We're not murderin' his first born."
Elijah nods with a laugh, giving up like you knew he
would, as he always does. "Alright, alright. I'm in."
That night, as an unsuspecting Orlando drinks and
dines with a conspiratorial Viggo, you lead your mates
down the hotel hall. Under your command, the three of
you break into Orlando's room. Well, not so much break
in, but you do open the door (the door that Viggo
promised would be unlocked) damn sneakily. His trash
bag eagerly empty, Billy follows you in and Elijah
stays behind to keep watch.
Ever obedient, Billy rushes about; rifling through
drawers and suitcases, stuffing the agreed upon bounty
into his bag. You take your time and touch the
knickknacks that Orlando has already unpacked and you
wonder why such items were chosen to travel with and
how they came into his possession. Because you like to
nose around in other boys' things and Billy's getting
the dirty work done well enough without you.
Elijah's overly loud "Hey man! How was dinner?"
signals the approach of Orlando.
Billy pulls you away from the bureau, laughing and
hissing a victory cry in your ear as he drags you out
the door. Elijah has skillfully turned Orlando in
conversation so that only his back can bear witness to
your danced retreat down the corridor.
At the end of the hallway, you spin on your heels and
press into the stairwell door, swinging it open with
your rear. A wink to Elijah before you disappear
behind the click of metal.
Taking the steps two to three at a time, you clamber
to the nearest exit, where Viggo ought to be waiting
with the car. Billy struggles with the bag that he's
slung over his shoulder like a perverse Saint Nick and
you desperately wish you could be there to see
Orlando's face when he realizes he's missing every
single one of his knickers.
*
Step Three: Practice
Stroke. Tug. Pull back. Release.
Orlando's fingers tickle down the hard shaft before
finding a suitable grip. He doesn't even have to look.
His hand knows the way after much training. In a
slow, deft motion of reaching back and pulling
forward, he has the arrow in place.
You smile as he lets it fly because you're watching
him again. And it's so easy to do. He leaves himself
very open to spectators. Everything he does is like a
presentation; big and showy and slow with experience,
but always in a subtle way that makes it come off as
realistic.
This time you aren't watching from far away. You're
right next to him with your hands shoved deep in your
pockets like you do when you're trying to act casual.
And you're pulling it off rather nicely, even making
light conversation. Orlando's eyes never leave the
target, yards away and full like a pin cushion with his
successful shots.
It's just as well that he doesn't look at you because
this way you don't have to hide the way you watch him.
You have a dangerous smirk, you can feel it on your
lips, and it's comfortable to wear it while you're
looking at him. Maybe part of you wants to be caught,
wants him to flick his gaze to you and see the
intentions that are plainly written on your face with
that slutty grin of yours.
His latest arrow is lodged deep in the blue ring, just
on the edge of the center circle.
"That was close," you say. "You're getting damn good."
"Could've been better." His words are hard because
he's hard on himself. Always the perfectionist. You
want him to lighten up a little, not care so bloody
much about every little task, not squint and frown and
assess every situation. But then he wouldn't be
Orlando, so you don't really want that at all.
His sleeveless t-shirt lets you catch the way his
muscles flex when he pulls the arrow against the
resistant bow. When he holds it there, his jaw
tightens in anticipation. You want to lick it. The
jaw, the arms and especially the legs that he has in a
powerful archer stance.
Your jeans feel tighter, and with your hands in the
pockets, they're pressing even harder against your
erection. You want to groan. You really do. There are
a lot of things you want right now, and all of them
are being presently denied to you. It's terribly
frustrating.
"Everyone's going out for drinks tonight." You
inconspicuously pull each hand backwards in their
respective pocket, bringing an even harder press of
tension to the front of the stiff fabric.
Only because you've been paying attention do you
notice that there's a bit of a delay in Orlando's
arrow loading technique. "You're going?"
You shift forward, further grinding into your secretly
sinful wall of denim. "I'm game if you are."
Orlando nods and releases the arrow. It lands closer
to the bullseye than all the others. He reaches back
for another attempt at perfection.
Stroke. Tug. Pull back. Release.
*
Step Four: The Chase
The bar of the night isn't nearly as dark and gritty
as what you would have chosen. But it was Elijah's
pick and you'll have your turn next weekend. And the
atmosphere isn't important, tonight is all about the
execution. You're leaning against the bar, one elbow
propped up on the counter and your other arm snaked
around a cute girl's waist.
A clear path lies between Orlando's seat at the table
and your cozy arrangement at the bar. He's chatting
with Elijah. Actually, the poor bastard is listening
to Elijah ramble on after far too many drink specials.
Elijah's very into whatever he's going on about, using
his hands emphatically, his eyes widening when he
enunciates a word that you can't make out over the
crowd. Orlando is nodding and occasionally grinning,
but the latter is probably out of amusement at
Elijah rather than with him.
You know all this because you're taking liberal
glances at them out of the corner of your eye whenever
the git of a girl looks down and gulps some of the
fruity drink you bought her. You also know that
Orlando has been stealing looks towards the bar at
exactly the spot where you stand. You know that
everything is going to work out just the way you hoped
and so it's easy for you to flirt with this Chrissy or
Krista or Kinny bird. Her name's not important.
She giggles and calls you, "Duminic" and playfully
slaps your chest. Her hand lingers where it hits and
her little sly smile makes you grin. She's perfectly
adorable and couldn't have been doing a better job if
you'd paid her and explained the circumstances. And
all it cost you was three little drinks.
You lean in to kiss her and you can almost taste the
berry liqueur on her lips until a hand on your
shoulder pulls you out of the embrace. When you turn
to see who it is, you almost fall on your arse with a
victoriously evil cackle. You settle for a surprised
yet curious expression.
Orlando is kind of shifting from one foot to the other
and he's got one hand rubbing the back of his neck.
"Hey, man, sorry to interrupt but we best get Elijah
home. He's absolutely tanked."
You both look over at your group and Orlando winces
while you stifle a laugh. Elijah is demonstrating some
form of Russian line dancing on the tabletop, all
crouching and kicking and popping up at certain points
to throw up his arms and exclaim "Hey!"
Everyone's laughing; even John has got a stuffy smirk.
Viggo and Sean are clapping to keep Elijah in rhythm
and Billy takes a pause from his laughter to
animatedly insert some bills into Elijah's pants.
Your snicker dies and you feign concern at Orlando's
worried frown. "You're right, mate," you say. "Let's
get him home." You step away from KellyChristaCarrie
with an apologetic smile. You really deserve a bloody
Oscar for this, screw the movie. "Sorry, pet,
I've got to help a friend in need."
She pouts and you toss a few more bills on the bar and
nod to the tender to buy her another round or two. Her
kitten eyes are so disappointed that you almost feel
bad. But Orlando's nervous presence behind you chases
away anything close to regret and leaves you with only
a lingering anticipation.
You and Orlando make your way to the table and you
almost hate to put an end to the situation because now
Elijah's gyrating mock-seductively to the faint
jukebox music and Billy's singing along and sipping a
beer.
Hopping up onto the table you hold on to one of
Elijah's arms. "Showtime's over, Madonna." You grin
and haul him off the table. The boy's legs are like
liquid and he nearly collapses to the floor upon
landing. Orlando's on Lij's left and you're on the
right and you both drag him to the door.
As you stand outside in the light two a.m. rain with a
practically limp Elijah fumbling for a clove cigarette
at your side and Orlando trying to wave a cab at the
bend of the curb, you glance from one boy to the next
and you wonder how you possibly convinced Fate to make
it all so terribly easy.
*
Step Five: Resisting Temptation
The rain has hardened from a drizzle into sheets of
blinding precipitation. It was a warm, slow ride to
Elijah's place with Elijah seated between Orlando and
yourself. Both of you stare out your windows at the
slick, black pavement because anything beyond that is
near impossible to see. Thanks to the fuzzy, wet glow
of the streetlights, Orlando's profile is reflecting
in your window and you can entertain yourself with
that for most of the way.
With the tinted, bulletproof glass shut and separating
the front and back halves of the taxi, the quick
rhythm of the windshield wipers is nothing more than a
series of muffled thuds. Neither you nor Orlando have
spoken a word, but Elijah's still singing "Like a
Virgin" sleepily while fondling his unlit cigarette,
so it's not complete silence.
The rain has anything but lessened as the vehicle
rolls to a halt in front of Elijah's house. A sharp
push on the door and it gives too easily, making you
realize you never shut it tight enough.
"Hold the cab," you instruct Orlando as you slide out
of the seat and into the cold downpour.
"You sure you've got him?" Orlando looks skeptical,
and for good reason at that. There's a pretty drunk
boy with his arm around your neck, leaning on you,
practically into you.
"Oh he's got me, captain," says Elijah, giggling,
cigarette dangling from his lip. His free hand, the
one not resting on your shoulder, explores the depths
of his jacket pocket before triumphantly emerging with
a lighter. Despite the beating rain, he attempts to
spark a flame.
"I can handle one boy," you reply with a smirk,
shutting the door on one last glimpse of Orlando's
pensive expression. "C'mon Lij, use your feet now.
Excellent. Just a few more steps."
Not producing so much as a flicker from his lighter,
he shakes it furiously and tries some more. "Fuck," he
mumbles, the sopping wet cigarette still perched
between his lips. He shakes the Zippo a few more
times.
"Here we are then." The eaves are splashing some
excess water onto the doorstep and it takes some
effort to avoid it. Not that you aren't soaked through
already.
Elijah grumbles something about fire and water before
spitting the cigarette to the ground and throwing the
lighter like a baseball into some bushes. He turns to
stare at the knob and blinks a few times. "Keys."
"Keys?"
"Keys, keys, keys." He pats down his jacket and his
pants, repeating the word over and over. Elijah bites
his bottom lip and winces at you. He looks like he's
going to laugh too. "Wanna hear something funny?"
"Oh, Christ. Elijah, tell me you have your keys."
"You have your keys. Man, that's a funny word. Keys.
Keeeeeys."
"Elijah." You do your best to not growl out the word.
"Waitaminute, I remember something," he says, index
finger raised pointedly in indication of an idea. The
tip of his tongue curls up over his top lip and he
dives his hand into his rear pocket. "Keys!" The
exclamation is met with a soft jangling of metal. He
holds them up proudly.
With a sigh of relief you take them from him and make
to open the door, leaving him to solidly rest against
the house.
"Funny, funny word," he mutters, shaking his head with
a chuckle. He closes his eyes and his head tips back.
You think he might fall asleep right then and there.
But when the locks click with success and the door
gives in after a turn and a push, his eyes open and he
grins, falling back onto you for stability.
On your way to the living room, because there's no way
in hell you're even going to attempt to drag his sorry
arse up the stairs to his bed, his weight seems to
increase tenfold. You think maybe he's passed out,
until you realize he's pushing you. Into the wall.
Your back meets with a closet door and his mouth finds
yours. It's a sloppy kiss, and flavored with gin, but
it's warm and biting and there's still rainwater on
both of your faces. He nudges your nose
affectionately before moving his cold, wet lips and
warm, generous tongue down over the curve of your
chin.
When his knee meets the wooden door behind and between
your legs, his thigh pressing into your crotch, you
wonder where the hell this coordination of his was a
minute ago. God, he feels good against you. And if
this were another night, any night you didn't have
Orlando waiting in the backseat of a car, you'd have
Elijah on the couch and screaming every name in the
goddamned bible.
It takes some mental discipline to push Orlando's
worried look to the front of your mind. But once it's
there, it's clear and your gut responds quicker than
anything in your pants ever could. A pang of guilt in
your belly gives you the strength to push Elijah off,
not hard enough to shove him down, but enough to break
his lips' contact with your neck.
His smile falls to confusion at your apologetic wince.
"Not tonight, man. Can't."
Elijah steps back, blinking at you a few times; his
expression is blank. Maybe he's thinking. You can't
quite tell. Unsure of his reaction, you swallow and
wait. Finally, after an agonizing moment, his face
breaks into a bright, lopsided grin. "No worries. That
was just a thank you."
You grin back, glad that he can understand through his
stupor. "Well, then you're welcome."
He stumbles towards the sofa, jacket sliding off his
arms and to the floor. He simultaneously steps out of
his shoes, standing on the back of one while pulling
his foot out, and peels off his shirt before crashing
onto the cushions. You watch him curl up to the pillow
and you know he'll be asleep by the time you let
yourself out.
*
Step Six: Enjoying Success
For an actor, Orlando doesn't hide his relief very
well. Or maybe he just doesn't calculate his emotions
like you do. But when you slip into the cab, water
dripping off of you, it's fairly obvious that he's
surprised you actually came back.
"Where to?" You ask the million dollar question
because you might as well be obvious too.
Orlando's nervously turning a penny over in his
fingers. He shrugs. "Doesn't matter."
"Bet it matters to him," you say, nodding to the
driver.
"Doubt it. I already paid."
You can feel the arch in your brow. "How much?"
"Enough." He looks up from fidgeting with the coin, a
smile highlighting his cheekbones. "I'm an excellent
tipper."
As the car pulls from the curb and sets off down the
slippery street, you realize that there is now a
muffle of music playing over the speakers. "Lucky for
him."
"Yeah, lucky." Orlando leans in, his hand meeting your
thigh, his lips meeting your own. His mouth presses
softly, keeping still a moment and then opening to
take your bottom lip. A perfectly sober kiss; you
nearly forgot what those were like and how
well-executed kisses could be when you have your wits
about you.
A groan you've been reserving for him and repressing
for days, finds its way to freedom into his mouth. He
laps it up, his tongue appreciating all you have to
offer. His hands are warm on your chest under your
heavily drenched shirt and you're grateful for the
lustful fever his touch sends throughout your chilled
body.
He moves slowly, letting you recline under him.
Orlando's very gentle with his control and it's
something you're not used to. But you're pretty sure
you like it enough to grow accustomed to it. You're an
adaptable fellow like that.
Your hands hold his hips, their bones buried beneath
layers of fabric. He's so eager, his movements fluid
and seemingly not impulsive. It almost makes you
wonder who had been playing who all along.
* * *
END
Pairing: Dom/Orli
Rating: R
Summary: Dom wants something, but there's a process
Disclaimer: This only happened in the mind of a sick
little fangirl
Notes: For
mcee, who beta'd, and for mcee just because
* * *
Step One: Choosing Your Elf
The first time you see him, Orlando is fresh off the
plane and stretching his long arms up into the air.
Fingers interlaced, connecting the hands, palms to the
clouded sky. He's stretching and stretching until the
belly of his shirt rises to flash some skin.
You squint across the landing area, studying the
gleefully exposed muscles and hip bones before the hem
of his shirt falls back into place, meeting the pants
like a curtain crashing upon the stage's lip. Orlando
begins tilting his head from side to side until, you
assume, his neck gives a few satisfying pops.
While Orlando rolls his shoulders in slow, small
circles and charmingly carries on an out-of-earshot
conversation with a dufflebag-perched Billy, you
decide that you fully enjoy the act of Orlando
releasing his tension.
*
Step Two: On Courting
You tell your fellow hobbits that it will be something
of an initiation. A means of welcoming Orlando into
your close knit circle. You assuage their skeptical
squints with a smile as you speak. Just a trick, a
joke, a gag, you tell them. You're all very good at
pranks and the newcomer will come to understand how
it's really sort of a compliment that any of you would
waste your energy on him.
Billy, as usual, needs very little explanation before
jumping on board with your plan. He nudges Elijah with
his elbow. "C'mon, it'll be a riot."
"What if he freaks out?" Elijah's expression is
bordering on fearful Frodo territory.
You slap a hand onto your worried friend's shoulder.
"Never fear, my dear. If we're caught, we'll deny you
had anything to do with it."
"Jesus, Lij," says Billy, hooking an arm round
Elijah's neck. "We're not murderin' his first born."
Elijah nods with a laugh, giving up like you knew he
would, as he always does. "Alright, alright. I'm in."
That night, as an unsuspecting Orlando drinks and
dines with a conspiratorial Viggo, you lead your mates
down the hotel hall. Under your command, the three of
you break into Orlando's room. Well, not so much break
in, but you do open the door (the door that Viggo
promised would be unlocked) damn sneakily. His trash
bag eagerly empty, Billy follows you in and Elijah
stays behind to keep watch.
Ever obedient, Billy rushes about; rifling through
drawers and suitcases, stuffing the agreed upon bounty
into his bag. You take your time and touch the
knickknacks that Orlando has already unpacked and you
wonder why such items were chosen to travel with and
how they came into his possession. Because you like to
nose around in other boys' things and Billy's getting
the dirty work done well enough without you.
Elijah's overly loud "Hey man! How was dinner?"
signals the approach of Orlando.
Billy pulls you away from the bureau, laughing and
hissing a victory cry in your ear as he drags you out
the door. Elijah has skillfully turned Orlando in
conversation so that only his back can bear witness to
your danced retreat down the corridor.
At the end of the hallway, you spin on your heels and
press into the stairwell door, swinging it open with
your rear. A wink to Elijah before you disappear
behind the click of metal.
Taking the steps two to three at a time, you clamber
to the nearest exit, where Viggo ought to be waiting
with the car. Billy struggles with the bag that he's
slung over his shoulder like a perverse Saint Nick and
you desperately wish you could be there to see
Orlando's face when he realizes he's missing every
single one of his knickers.
*
Step Three: Practice
Stroke. Tug. Pull back. Release.
Orlando's fingers tickle down the hard shaft before
finding a suitable grip. He doesn't even have to look.
His hand knows the way after much training. In a
slow, deft motion of reaching back and pulling
forward, he has the arrow in place.
You smile as he lets it fly because you're watching
him again. And it's so easy to do. He leaves himself
very open to spectators. Everything he does is like a
presentation; big and showy and slow with experience,
but always in a subtle way that makes it come off as
realistic.
This time you aren't watching from far away. You're
right next to him with your hands shoved deep in your
pockets like you do when you're trying to act casual.
And you're pulling it off rather nicely, even making
light conversation. Orlando's eyes never leave the
target, yards away and full like a pin cushion with his
successful shots.
It's just as well that he doesn't look at you because
this way you don't have to hide the way you watch him.
You have a dangerous smirk, you can feel it on your
lips, and it's comfortable to wear it while you're
looking at him. Maybe part of you wants to be caught,
wants him to flick his gaze to you and see the
intentions that are plainly written on your face with
that slutty grin of yours.
His latest arrow is lodged deep in the blue ring, just
on the edge of the center circle.
"That was close," you say. "You're getting damn good."
"Could've been better." His words are hard because
he's hard on himself. Always the perfectionist. You
want him to lighten up a little, not care so bloody
much about every little task, not squint and frown and
assess every situation. But then he wouldn't be
Orlando, so you don't really want that at all.
His sleeveless t-shirt lets you catch the way his
muscles flex when he pulls the arrow against the
resistant bow. When he holds it there, his jaw
tightens in anticipation. You want to lick it. The
jaw, the arms and especially the legs that he has in a
powerful archer stance.
Your jeans feel tighter, and with your hands in the
pockets, they're pressing even harder against your
erection. You want to groan. You really do. There are
a lot of things you want right now, and all of them
are being presently denied to you. It's terribly
frustrating.
"Everyone's going out for drinks tonight." You
inconspicuously pull each hand backwards in their
respective pocket, bringing an even harder press of
tension to the front of the stiff fabric.
Only because you've been paying attention do you
notice that there's a bit of a delay in Orlando's
arrow loading technique. "You're going?"
You shift forward, further grinding into your secretly
sinful wall of denim. "I'm game if you are."
Orlando nods and releases the arrow. It lands closer
to the bullseye than all the others. He reaches back
for another attempt at perfection.
Stroke. Tug. Pull back. Release.
*
Step Four: The Chase
The bar of the night isn't nearly as dark and gritty
as what you would have chosen. But it was Elijah's
pick and you'll have your turn next weekend. And the
atmosphere isn't important, tonight is all about the
execution. You're leaning against the bar, one elbow
propped up on the counter and your other arm snaked
around a cute girl's waist.
A clear path lies between Orlando's seat at the table
and your cozy arrangement at the bar. He's chatting
with Elijah. Actually, the poor bastard is listening
to Elijah ramble on after far too many drink specials.
Elijah's very into whatever he's going on about, using
his hands emphatically, his eyes widening when he
enunciates a word that you can't make out over the
crowd. Orlando is nodding and occasionally grinning,
but the latter is probably out of amusement at
Elijah rather than with him.
You know all this because you're taking liberal
glances at them out of the corner of your eye whenever
the git of a girl looks down and gulps some of the
fruity drink you bought her. You also know that
Orlando has been stealing looks towards the bar at
exactly the spot where you stand. You know that
everything is going to work out just the way you hoped
and so it's easy for you to flirt with this Chrissy or
Krista or Kinny bird. Her name's not important.
She giggles and calls you, "Duminic" and playfully
slaps your chest. Her hand lingers where it hits and
her little sly smile makes you grin. She's perfectly
adorable and couldn't have been doing a better job if
you'd paid her and explained the circumstances. And
all it cost you was three little drinks.
You lean in to kiss her and you can almost taste the
berry liqueur on her lips until a hand on your
shoulder pulls you out of the embrace. When you turn
to see who it is, you almost fall on your arse with a
victoriously evil cackle. You settle for a surprised
yet curious expression.
Orlando is kind of shifting from one foot to the other
and he's got one hand rubbing the back of his neck.
"Hey, man, sorry to interrupt but we best get Elijah
home. He's absolutely tanked."
You both look over at your group and Orlando winces
while you stifle a laugh. Elijah is demonstrating some
form of Russian line dancing on the tabletop, all
crouching and kicking and popping up at certain points
to throw up his arms and exclaim "Hey!"
Everyone's laughing; even John has got a stuffy smirk.
Viggo and Sean are clapping to keep Elijah in rhythm
and Billy takes a pause from his laughter to
animatedly insert some bills into Elijah's pants.
Your snicker dies and you feign concern at Orlando's
worried frown. "You're right, mate," you say. "Let's
get him home." You step away from KellyChristaCarrie
with an apologetic smile. You really deserve a bloody
Oscar for this, screw the movie. "Sorry, pet,
I've got to help a friend in need."
She pouts and you toss a few more bills on the bar and
nod to the tender to buy her another round or two. Her
kitten eyes are so disappointed that you almost feel
bad. But Orlando's nervous presence behind you chases
away anything close to regret and leaves you with only
a lingering anticipation.
You and Orlando make your way to the table and you
almost hate to put an end to the situation because now
Elijah's gyrating mock-seductively to the faint
jukebox music and Billy's singing along and sipping a
beer.
Hopping up onto the table you hold on to one of
Elijah's arms. "Showtime's over, Madonna." You grin
and haul him off the table. The boy's legs are like
liquid and he nearly collapses to the floor upon
landing. Orlando's on Lij's left and you're on the
right and you both drag him to the door.
As you stand outside in the light two a.m. rain with a
practically limp Elijah fumbling for a clove cigarette
at your side and Orlando trying to wave a cab at the
bend of the curb, you glance from one boy to the next
and you wonder how you possibly convinced Fate to make
it all so terribly easy.
*
Step Five: Resisting Temptation
The rain has hardened from a drizzle into sheets of
blinding precipitation. It was a warm, slow ride to
Elijah's place with Elijah seated between Orlando and
yourself. Both of you stare out your windows at the
slick, black pavement because anything beyond that is
near impossible to see. Thanks to the fuzzy, wet glow
of the streetlights, Orlando's profile is reflecting
in your window and you can entertain yourself with
that for most of the way.
With the tinted, bulletproof glass shut and separating
the front and back halves of the taxi, the quick
rhythm of the windshield wipers is nothing more than a
series of muffled thuds. Neither you nor Orlando have
spoken a word, but Elijah's still singing "Like a
Virgin" sleepily while fondling his unlit cigarette,
so it's not complete silence.
The rain has anything but lessened as the vehicle
rolls to a halt in front of Elijah's house. A sharp
push on the door and it gives too easily, making you
realize you never shut it tight enough.
"Hold the cab," you instruct Orlando as you slide out
of the seat and into the cold downpour.
"You sure you've got him?" Orlando looks skeptical,
and for good reason at that. There's a pretty drunk
boy with his arm around your neck, leaning on you,
practically into you.
"Oh he's got me, captain," says Elijah, giggling,
cigarette dangling from his lip. His free hand, the
one not resting on your shoulder, explores the depths
of his jacket pocket before triumphantly emerging with
a lighter. Despite the beating rain, he attempts to
spark a flame.
"I can handle one boy," you reply with a smirk,
shutting the door on one last glimpse of Orlando's
pensive expression. "C'mon Lij, use your feet now.
Excellent. Just a few more steps."
Not producing so much as a flicker from his lighter,
he shakes it furiously and tries some more. "Fuck," he
mumbles, the sopping wet cigarette still perched
between his lips. He shakes the Zippo a few more
times.
"Here we are then." The eaves are splashing some
excess water onto the doorstep and it takes some
effort to avoid it. Not that you aren't soaked through
already.
Elijah grumbles something about fire and water before
spitting the cigarette to the ground and throwing the
lighter like a baseball into some bushes. He turns to
stare at the knob and blinks a few times. "Keys."
"Keys?"
"Keys, keys, keys." He pats down his jacket and his
pants, repeating the word over and over. Elijah bites
his bottom lip and winces at you. He looks like he's
going to laugh too. "Wanna hear something funny?"
"Oh, Christ. Elijah, tell me you have your keys."
"You have your keys. Man, that's a funny word. Keys.
Keeeeeys."
"Elijah." You do your best to not growl out the word.
"Waitaminute, I remember something," he says, index
finger raised pointedly in indication of an idea. The
tip of his tongue curls up over his top lip and he
dives his hand into his rear pocket. "Keys!" The
exclamation is met with a soft jangling of metal. He
holds them up proudly.
With a sigh of relief you take them from him and make
to open the door, leaving him to solidly rest against
the house.
"Funny, funny word," he mutters, shaking his head with
a chuckle. He closes his eyes and his head tips back.
You think he might fall asleep right then and there.
But when the locks click with success and the door
gives in after a turn and a push, his eyes open and he
grins, falling back onto you for stability.
On your way to the living room, because there's no way
in hell you're even going to attempt to drag his sorry
arse up the stairs to his bed, his weight seems to
increase tenfold. You think maybe he's passed out,
until you realize he's pushing you. Into the wall.
Your back meets with a closet door and his mouth finds
yours. It's a sloppy kiss, and flavored with gin, but
it's warm and biting and there's still rainwater on
both of your faces. He nudges your nose
affectionately before moving his cold, wet lips and
warm, generous tongue down over the curve of your
chin.
When his knee meets the wooden door behind and between
your legs, his thigh pressing into your crotch, you
wonder where the hell this coordination of his was a
minute ago. God, he feels good against you. And if
this were another night, any night you didn't have
Orlando waiting in the backseat of a car, you'd have
Elijah on the couch and screaming every name in the
goddamned bible.
It takes some mental discipline to push Orlando's
worried look to the front of your mind. But once it's
there, it's clear and your gut responds quicker than
anything in your pants ever could. A pang of guilt in
your belly gives you the strength to push Elijah off,
not hard enough to shove him down, but enough to break
his lips' contact with your neck.
His smile falls to confusion at your apologetic wince.
"Not tonight, man. Can't."
Elijah steps back, blinking at you a few times; his
expression is blank. Maybe he's thinking. You can't
quite tell. Unsure of his reaction, you swallow and
wait. Finally, after an agonizing moment, his face
breaks into a bright, lopsided grin. "No worries. That
was just a thank you."
You grin back, glad that he can understand through his
stupor. "Well, then you're welcome."
He stumbles towards the sofa, jacket sliding off his
arms and to the floor. He simultaneously steps out of
his shoes, standing on the back of one while pulling
his foot out, and peels off his shirt before crashing
onto the cushions. You watch him curl up to the pillow
and you know he'll be asleep by the time you let
yourself out.
*
Step Six: Enjoying Success
For an actor, Orlando doesn't hide his relief very
well. Or maybe he just doesn't calculate his emotions
like you do. But when you slip into the cab, water
dripping off of you, it's fairly obvious that he's
surprised you actually came back.
"Where to?" You ask the million dollar question
because you might as well be obvious too.
Orlando's nervously turning a penny over in his
fingers. He shrugs. "Doesn't matter."
"Bet it matters to him," you say, nodding to the
driver.
"Doubt it. I already paid."
You can feel the arch in your brow. "How much?"
"Enough." He looks up from fidgeting with the coin, a
smile highlighting his cheekbones. "I'm an excellent
tipper."
As the car pulls from the curb and sets off down the
slippery street, you realize that there is now a
muffle of music playing over the speakers. "Lucky for
him."
"Yeah, lucky." Orlando leans in, his hand meeting your
thigh, his lips meeting your own. His mouth presses
softly, keeping still a moment and then opening to
take your bottom lip. A perfectly sober kiss; you
nearly forgot what those were like and how
well-executed kisses could be when you have your wits
about you.
A groan you've been reserving for him and repressing
for days, finds its way to freedom into his mouth. He
laps it up, his tongue appreciating all you have to
offer. His hands are warm on your chest under your
heavily drenched shirt and you're grateful for the
lustful fever his touch sends throughout your chilled
body.
He moves slowly, letting you recline under him.
Orlando's very gentle with his control and it's
something you're not used to. But you're pretty sure
you like it enough to grow accustomed to it. You're an
adaptable fellow like that.
Your hands hold his hips, their bones buried beneath
layers of fabric. He's so eager, his movements fluid
and seemingly not impulsive. It almost makes you
wonder who had been playing who all along.
* * *
END
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Oh! You are tricksy, you are! I was like "whoah. it is only step three!" Then I realized that I am a huge perv. *ahem*
That was wonderful. I liked the build up. And you tricked me again with step five! I almost believed he was going to give up Orli for some Lij love. But the pay off was well worth it. Very nicely done. :)
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This was a wonderful 'just gonna check the LJ before bed' present! Thanks
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and thank you!
v. nice
I wouldn't last five minutes patiently, let alone five steps. I like. I like v. much.
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Re: v. nice
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Much with the DomNOrli love!! I love the skillful seductions from both of them, love the easy frienship of Dom & Lij, and *really* love that Dom chose the right man. *winks*
Sweet and hot and very well done.
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finger raised pointedly in indication of an idea. The
tip of his tongue curls up over his top lip and he
dives his hand into his rear pocket. "Keys!" The
exclamation is met with a soft jangling of metal. He
holds them up proudly.
Hilarious :) That was so cute, two thumbs up!
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Bravo! *claps*
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Billy struggles with the bag that he's slung over his shoulder like a perverse Saint Nick because it was too funny! I was very worried when Elijah kissed him, but it turned out well. And!!! the way you described Elijah acting when he was drunk cracked me up!
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