AndreaLyn (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
andrealyn) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fellowshippers2003-07-27 01:35 am
andrealyn) wrote in fellowshippers2003-07-27 01:35 am
(no subject)
Title: Dance/Sway/Grind
Pairing: Miranda/Various, Dom/Other, Orlando
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Not mine, never happened.
Summary: Doesn't want/doesn't know/doesn't have.
Notes: For my very own club!fic challenge with much love to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
shanalle for helping me pick which one to write, and Jake for beta-reading.
Orlando dances alone to a silent beat. His hand uncurls, fingers stretching long and lean with polished nails to top it all off. He strokes to the unheard roll of the drum, to the quiet synthesizer mixing the tracks together. His back arches as he hisses a name into the air, and the hushed song hits the climax just as he does.
Orlando indulges in perfect symmetry.
In the club, the music adds a pounding backbone; a soundtrack to his loneliness that isn’t quite an unwelcome feeling. Orlando isn’t exactly sure of the definition of the emotions that rush through him.
What he does feel is a certainty that he isn’t on the prowl; isn’t on the lookout for fresh meat.
Random hands touch temporarily upon his bare shoulders for the briefest of seconds, teasing Orlando with the prospect of a conquest. But the music cycles and beats twice quickly while Orlando rolls his head around and sways his hip to match, and the moment along with the contact are over like they never even happened.
It’s crowded – the kind of crowded that Orlando likes – and he can’t move without colliding into other bodies. He falls into a sea of humanity and promptly loses his identity to the throbbing underbeat of the music. He exhales and lets his bones relax as the breath rushes out of his body.
He allows himself to go slightly limp at the mercy of a lustful crowd with hands that grab too much, mouths that take too much without asking first, and eyes that ravish entire bodies in short seconds.
Orlando moves to the quiet sway of solitude. He goes home alone once more, wanting nothing more than his own silent soundtrack to dance to.
Miranda sways to the cool, sad notes of the saxophone not knowing what she wants; not knowing where to find it. The jazz is cool to her ears just as the air is upon her skin, evoking tiny goosebumps and surprising her with the drop in the temperature.
But her skin burns.
She burns as she sways alone to the heady rhythm of the small, secluded club. Her memory is seared by the faces that will often haunt her dreams and she will blow thankful kisses to whatever force makes it possible for her to dream them over and over again.
Her hair grazes past her bare shoulders; the shawl she had brought fallen off and lost to the ground too long ago now. It tickles the bare skin, and she closes her eyes, considering all the familiar faces in her mind. All the choices, all the possibilities.
The drawn-out note held just above C from the sax filters through her ears and gives her a pleasant chill down her back. She closes her eyes, bites her lip, and feels her dress rubbing lightly against her skin. They’re simply teasing touches that never amount to anything more. She can feel the buzz of other people around her, even with her eyes closed.
The ambient sounds and the feel of wind brushing past her with the presence of others remind her that she is not alone. For if there is one true fact in the end, it is that Miranda’s problem lies not with loneliness, but in the complexity of choosing one from a sea of dozens.
A stranger takes her into his arms and dips her down as the song ends. With the new silence drowning out her world, she doesn’t leave the dance floor. She continues to sway in the interim while the drums start up alone and the bass kicks in not soon afterward.
Miranda dances with herself and the music makes her want to cry. She goes home with the stranger who dipped her and will have his face implanted in the medley of people in her dreams from that night on.
Dom grinds to the aggressive music with the gnawing knowing that he, for one of the very first times in his life, is not going to get what he wants. He exerts all the energy he can into the frenetic pace the mass number of people in the throng has set and jumps while thrashing his head to the beat.
Billy isn’t there.
Billy doesn’t want him.
Billy is straight, don’t you understand?
Dom twitches and finds a man who is willing to offer his body up to Dom and allows the man from Manchester to grind against him – almost violently, almost too rough – while electric guitars hold up their high-strung energy. The bodies meld together with a pushing need that Dom is emitting all by his lonesome.
His body feels like too many live wires smashed together. When he closes his eyes tightly to focus on the feeling of his body against another man’s with some girl’s knee slipping in between his thighs from behind, all he can see is Billy laughing – at him, with him, at him, with him – and lips that need to be fucked, and…
Fuck!
Dom grinds harder. Tries to push away the memories by pushing into another body, leather pants of the other man’s against the smooth material of his shirt. And for a second, it works.
And then Billy’s face comes back to haunt him; Billy’s body re-inserts itself into Dom’s mind.
Dom’s heart pulses with the beat, flowing blood rushing too fast to be healthy; to be normal. When he prepares to head home alone, he sees a flash of blonde hair belonging to a man of short stature in the corner having a smoke; the hair is shaggy at best.
It’s not quite Billy, but it’ll do.
And Dom isn’t going home alone now.
end
Pairing: Miranda/Various, Dom/Other, Orlando
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Not mine, never happened.
Summary: Doesn't want/doesn't know/doesn't have.
Notes: For my very own club!fic challenge with much love to
shanalle for helping me pick which one to write, and Jake for beta-reading.Orlando dances alone to a silent beat. His hand uncurls, fingers stretching long and lean with polished nails to top it all off. He strokes to the unheard roll of the drum, to the quiet synthesizer mixing the tracks together. His back arches as he hisses a name into the air, and the hushed song hits the climax just as he does.
Orlando indulges in perfect symmetry.
In the club, the music adds a pounding backbone; a soundtrack to his loneliness that isn’t quite an unwelcome feeling. Orlando isn’t exactly sure of the definition of the emotions that rush through him.
What he does feel is a certainty that he isn’t on the prowl; isn’t on the lookout for fresh meat.
Random hands touch temporarily upon his bare shoulders for the briefest of seconds, teasing Orlando with the prospect of a conquest. But the music cycles and beats twice quickly while Orlando rolls his head around and sways his hip to match, and the moment along with the contact are over like they never even happened.
It’s crowded – the kind of crowded that Orlando likes – and he can’t move without colliding into other bodies. He falls into a sea of humanity and promptly loses his identity to the throbbing underbeat of the music. He exhales and lets his bones relax as the breath rushes out of his body.
He allows himself to go slightly limp at the mercy of a lustful crowd with hands that grab too much, mouths that take too much without asking first, and eyes that ravish entire bodies in short seconds.
Orlando moves to the quiet sway of solitude. He goes home alone once more, wanting nothing more than his own silent soundtrack to dance to.
Miranda sways to the cool, sad notes of the saxophone not knowing what she wants; not knowing where to find it. The jazz is cool to her ears just as the air is upon her skin, evoking tiny goosebumps and surprising her with the drop in the temperature.
But her skin burns.
She burns as she sways alone to the heady rhythm of the small, secluded club. Her memory is seared by the faces that will often haunt her dreams and she will blow thankful kisses to whatever force makes it possible for her to dream them over and over again.
Her hair grazes past her bare shoulders; the shawl she had brought fallen off and lost to the ground too long ago now. It tickles the bare skin, and she closes her eyes, considering all the familiar faces in her mind. All the choices, all the possibilities.
The drawn-out note held just above C from the sax filters through her ears and gives her a pleasant chill down her back. She closes her eyes, bites her lip, and feels her dress rubbing lightly against her skin. They’re simply teasing touches that never amount to anything more. She can feel the buzz of other people around her, even with her eyes closed.
The ambient sounds and the feel of wind brushing past her with the presence of others remind her that she is not alone. For if there is one true fact in the end, it is that Miranda’s problem lies not with loneliness, but in the complexity of choosing one from a sea of dozens.
A stranger takes her into his arms and dips her down as the song ends. With the new silence drowning out her world, she doesn’t leave the dance floor. She continues to sway in the interim while the drums start up alone and the bass kicks in not soon afterward.
Miranda dances with herself and the music makes her want to cry. She goes home with the stranger who dipped her and will have his face implanted in the medley of people in her dreams from that night on.
Dom grinds to the aggressive music with the gnawing knowing that he, for one of the very first times in his life, is not going to get what he wants. He exerts all the energy he can into the frenetic pace the mass number of people in the throng has set and jumps while thrashing his head to the beat.
Billy isn’t there.
Billy doesn’t want him.
Billy is straight, don’t you understand?
Dom twitches and finds a man who is willing to offer his body up to Dom and allows the man from Manchester to grind against him – almost violently, almost too rough – while electric guitars hold up their high-strung energy. The bodies meld together with a pushing need that Dom is emitting all by his lonesome.
His body feels like too many live wires smashed together. When he closes his eyes tightly to focus on the feeling of his body against another man’s with some girl’s knee slipping in between his thighs from behind, all he can see is Billy laughing – at him, with him, at him, with him – and lips that need to be fucked, and…
Fuck!
Dom grinds harder. Tries to push away the memories by pushing into another body, leather pants of the other man’s against the smooth material of his shirt. And for a second, it works.
And then Billy’s face comes back to haunt him; Billy’s body re-inserts itself into Dom’s mind.
Dom’s heart pulses with the beat, flowing blood rushing too fast to be healthy; to be normal. When he prepares to head home alone, he sees a flash of blonde hair belonging to a man of short stature in the corner having a smoke; the hair is shaggy at best.
It’s not quite Billy, but it’ll do.
And Dom isn’t going home alone now.
end
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