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beizy.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fellowshippers2003-08-13 09:21 pm
beizy.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2003-08-13 09:21 pm
Start -- (SA/DM + EW)
Title: Start
Author: Beiz
Website: http://geocities.com/beizy20
Pairing: Sean Astin/Dominic Monaghan + Elijah Wood
Rating: R (on the hard side)
Summary: Dominic knows how to storm and conquer.
Disclaimer: Don't know 'em, made this up.
Author's Notes: Wee! Seaninic! The Elijah part...uh...I dunno. Elijah-muse somehow bribed the door-guys and got in. (Quoteth![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mellionel: "Fuck, dude, you're like a pr0n machine." Er, also thanks go to her for the quick beta and title suggestion.)
*
You know it's wrong, and that's a good place to start. It's also a good place to finish. But that's not where it finishes, and that's wrong.
And you know that. And that's a good place to start.
Because it was there from the first hello, and it's sneaky. It has disguises and it slips in the back door and it pretends to wander over in search of a beer or a cup of sugar but it really wants you.
And you know that. And that's a good place to start.
He's got something sharp about him. Something that says Yeah, I know, now hold still and watch me. Sure, you could play it off on the simplest things: the gray-blue eyes, the wide shoulders, the freshly fucked look of his bed-headed hair. And yeah, there's something dangerous about the way he needs attention, sops it up like an over-sexed sponge and then lets you watch it leak out, forming a puddle of You know you want this on the floor. He plots your downfall because he knows he can—because you reek I need shaking up like no other.
And you know that. And that's a good place to start.
Later on you'll think it's funny that his share of rumors involve him and everyone but you. Don't they see the photos? Isn't it funny that you can kiss the guy's cheek and snuggle up to his every embrace and get away with it because you have a ring on your finger and a sugar-spun little girl clinging to your knee?
So he checks the perimeter on a weekly basis; wanna watch a movie or let's go get a drink or come on dance with me, and at first it's funny. At first it's flattering. But it changes, because you say yes a couple times, and even though it's only saying yes to come out with us, it's saying yes.
Yes, Dominic.
He's life contained by a paper-thin crust. He may at any moment explode all over you, force you to give up the mature act, question your deepest beliefs. You wonder how it would turn out if you were pursuing; if you tested that crust with your fingernails, with your force. What exactly is your force anymore? It's been a long time.
He starts to use Elijah to get to you, and that's just wrong.
And you know that. And that's a good place to start.
He touches Elijah in front of you, especially when they dance, especially when they're drunk, because Elijah doesn't care or notice and because he knows you've always had this silly little thing for the kid. But it isn't something you've paid attention to and Dom's a marvelous distraction; and you start to wonder what those leather-clad wrists might feel like, what that hair might do under your fingers, what his tricky little tummy and hips might taste like.
He invades and conquers tiny corners when you're not looking. There is a night at a pub when he comes back from the dance floor, damp and rushed, and sits across your lap. There is the vaguest peek of flesh between his jeans and the bottom of his shirt and your hands brush there, accidentally.
"Wanna come back to Lighe's place? We've got some cool new records."
He's lying.
And you know that. And that's a good place to start.
When Elijah's in the kitchen cracking up some ice for drinks, he's all over your side and your thighs, trying to be playful and failing miserably. He's not drunk and that makes it worse. You try to remember the last time this sort of thing happened to you and can't really recall.
He's all but purring and his face is on your neck and you sigh. The muscles in his arms and back are so inviting, so hard, and it's always been women for you, hasn't it, Seanie, but who cares? Never thought you'd be a hobbit, either, did you? So what's the difference?
It's a hard reality that people often give in without actually deciding to. There is nothing logical about it. There is nothing noble about it. You're gonna do it, and fine. Okay. Adultery. You guess so.
His tongue is quite nice, especially when it's in your mouth. He does this funny teasing thing with it, pulling it back whenever you try and catch it between your lips, and he makes you both laugh. He makes you shake.
When Elijah comes back, he doesn't look surprised; and you don't expect that he would. Well, hello, little Hobbit, and there he is, too, on your other side, petting your hair and playing with your shirt. Mmm, pretty-eyed, lithe-bodied boys, the pair of them, fancy that. Your mind is numb to the newness of the experience, because if you let yourself feel the rush of fright, it'd be over before it started.
So you let them slide down, you let them undress you, let them touch their pink mouths to each inch of exposed skin, and in that touching there are the brushstrokes of reminders of their personality—a cheeky smile, Elijah's insane little giggle. Elijah sucks on your fingers the way he sucks on his clove cigarettes. Dom holds your desperate erection the way he holds his sword in Weapons. That's fine; that's good.
And you sink into the misty cushion, let yourself become tainted with the sprays of red and white—and there just may be some purple and blue in there—and then, oh God, not together, oh, yes, absolutely. They're licking and sucking together, coordinating attack patterns and winning territory boldly. Like two cats they are, lanky and slow to decide, lapping and stripping you of control with each measured swipe of their bristly tongues.
Their heads—chocolate brown next to sandy brown—bob gently in your lap, and you're lost, completely fucking lost, can't remember the last time you let yourself just swim in sensation that way, just beyond the reach of sanity. It's like floating above a bed of upward-facing pins; it's like dying.
You're cold when it's over, because you've been sweating the whole time and the air-conditioning is pumping fiercely. It freezes the perspiration on your skin. And you're not surprised when Elijah excuses himself, because Elijah knows he's just tagged along. Elijah knows Dom's sights have been set on this hostile takeover for weeks.
And you shouldn't be kissing Dom, because that was the end of that, wasn't it, you gave in and there it is, and it'll always been a nice, hot secret to keep. But things just keep on requiring a cloak of secrecy, because you keep on kissing Dom, and he's rocking into your lap and making squeaky noises that are foreign to you because you've never touched a boy before.
You let him put your hands where he wants them; he shows you what to do, laughing, grinning, loving the way you can't get it right, loving the way male parts that you've carried since birth are now a mystery because they're coming from the other way. But it's not hard. It's easy; and once you have him where you can work him, his body gives in to pleasure in the most gorgeous of ways.
You don't talk about it later, at least not under the light of day. It's shrouded—not real—but he won't let it go at that. He rushes you in the oddest places; the trailer between takes, the basement of your house when you go down there to look for something for Ali, in the car on the way back from sightseeing (and you have to pull over, because the sight of his head just between your belly and the steering wheel would be a shame to miss).
There was a definitive beginning to it; but there is no clear end. It may go on forever or it may taper out into nothing. But you never questioned the why or how, and if that makes you a bad person, then you're ready to accept that. He's an experience; one that you shouldn't miss, but also one that you shouldn't require.
And you know that. And that's a good place to start.
*
Author: Beiz
Website: http://geocities.com/beizy20
Pairing: Sean Astin/Dominic Monaghan + Elijah Wood
Rating: R (on the hard side)
Summary: Dominic knows how to storm and conquer.
Disclaimer: Don't know 'em, made this up.
Author's Notes: Wee! Seaninic! The Elijah part...uh...I dunno. Elijah-muse somehow bribed the door-guys and got in. (Quoteth
mellionel: "Fuck, dude, you're like a pr0n machine." Er, also thanks go to her for the quick beta and title suggestion.)You know it's wrong, and that's a good place to start. It's also a good place to finish. But that's not where it finishes, and that's wrong.
And you know that. And that's a good place to start.
Because it was there from the first hello, and it's sneaky. It has disguises and it slips in the back door and it pretends to wander over in search of a beer or a cup of sugar but it really wants you.
And you know that. And that's a good place to start.
He's got something sharp about him. Something that says Yeah, I know, now hold still and watch me. Sure, you could play it off on the simplest things: the gray-blue eyes, the wide shoulders, the freshly fucked look of his bed-headed hair. And yeah, there's something dangerous about the way he needs attention, sops it up like an over-sexed sponge and then lets you watch it leak out, forming a puddle of You know you want this on the floor. He plots your downfall because he knows he can—because you reek I need shaking up like no other.
And you know that. And that's a good place to start.
Later on you'll think it's funny that his share of rumors involve him and everyone but you. Don't they see the photos? Isn't it funny that you can kiss the guy's cheek and snuggle up to his every embrace and get away with it because you have a ring on your finger and a sugar-spun little girl clinging to your knee?
So he checks the perimeter on a weekly basis; wanna watch a movie or let's go get a drink or come on dance with me, and at first it's funny. At first it's flattering. But it changes, because you say yes a couple times, and even though it's only saying yes to come out with us, it's saying yes.
Yes, Dominic.
He's life contained by a paper-thin crust. He may at any moment explode all over you, force you to give up the mature act, question your deepest beliefs. You wonder how it would turn out if you were pursuing; if you tested that crust with your fingernails, with your force. What exactly is your force anymore? It's been a long time.
He starts to use Elijah to get to you, and that's just wrong.
And you know that. And that's a good place to start.
He touches Elijah in front of you, especially when they dance, especially when they're drunk, because Elijah doesn't care or notice and because he knows you've always had this silly little thing for the kid. But it isn't something you've paid attention to and Dom's a marvelous distraction; and you start to wonder what those leather-clad wrists might feel like, what that hair might do under your fingers, what his tricky little tummy and hips might taste like.
He invades and conquers tiny corners when you're not looking. There is a night at a pub when he comes back from the dance floor, damp and rushed, and sits across your lap. There is the vaguest peek of flesh between his jeans and the bottom of his shirt and your hands brush there, accidentally.
"Wanna come back to Lighe's place? We've got some cool new records."
He's lying.
And you know that. And that's a good place to start.
When Elijah's in the kitchen cracking up some ice for drinks, he's all over your side and your thighs, trying to be playful and failing miserably. He's not drunk and that makes it worse. You try to remember the last time this sort of thing happened to you and can't really recall.
He's all but purring and his face is on your neck and you sigh. The muscles in his arms and back are so inviting, so hard, and it's always been women for you, hasn't it, Seanie, but who cares? Never thought you'd be a hobbit, either, did you? So what's the difference?
It's a hard reality that people often give in without actually deciding to. There is nothing logical about it. There is nothing noble about it. You're gonna do it, and fine. Okay. Adultery. You guess so.
His tongue is quite nice, especially when it's in your mouth. He does this funny teasing thing with it, pulling it back whenever you try and catch it between your lips, and he makes you both laugh. He makes you shake.
When Elijah comes back, he doesn't look surprised; and you don't expect that he would. Well, hello, little Hobbit, and there he is, too, on your other side, petting your hair and playing with your shirt. Mmm, pretty-eyed, lithe-bodied boys, the pair of them, fancy that. Your mind is numb to the newness of the experience, because if you let yourself feel the rush of fright, it'd be over before it started.
So you let them slide down, you let them undress you, let them touch their pink mouths to each inch of exposed skin, and in that touching there are the brushstrokes of reminders of their personality—a cheeky smile, Elijah's insane little giggle. Elijah sucks on your fingers the way he sucks on his clove cigarettes. Dom holds your desperate erection the way he holds his sword in Weapons. That's fine; that's good.
And you sink into the misty cushion, let yourself become tainted with the sprays of red and white—and there just may be some purple and blue in there—and then, oh God, not together, oh, yes, absolutely. They're licking and sucking together, coordinating attack patterns and winning territory boldly. Like two cats they are, lanky and slow to decide, lapping and stripping you of control with each measured swipe of their bristly tongues.
Their heads—chocolate brown next to sandy brown—bob gently in your lap, and you're lost, completely fucking lost, can't remember the last time you let yourself just swim in sensation that way, just beyond the reach of sanity. It's like floating above a bed of upward-facing pins; it's like dying.
You're cold when it's over, because you've been sweating the whole time and the air-conditioning is pumping fiercely. It freezes the perspiration on your skin. And you're not surprised when Elijah excuses himself, because Elijah knows he's just tagged along. Elijah knows Dom's sights have been set on this hostile takeover for weeks.
And you shouldn't be kissing Dom, because that was the end of that, wasn't it, you gave in and there it is, and it'll always been a nice, hot secret to keep. But things just keep on requiring a cloak of secrecy, because you keep on kissing Dom, and he's rocking into your lap and making squeaky noises that are foreign to you because you've never touched a boy before.
You let him put your hands where he wants them; he shows you what to do, laughing, grinning, loving the way you can't get it right, loving the way male parts that you've carried since birth are now a mystery because they're coming from the other way. But it's not hard. It's easy; and once you have him where you can work him, his body gives in to pleasure in the most gorgeous of ways.
You don't talk about it later, at least not under the light of day. It's shrouded—not real—but he won't let it go at that. He rushes you in the oddest places; the trailer between takes, the basement of your house when you go down there to look for something for Ali, in the car on the way back from sightseeing (and you have to pull over, because the sight of his head just between your belly and the steering wheel would be a shame to miss).
There was a definitive beginning to it; but there is no clear end. It may go on forever or it may taper out into nothing. But you never questioned the why or how, and if that makes you a bad person, then you're ready to accept that. He's an experience; one that you shouldn't miss, but also one that you shouldn't require.
And you know that. And that's a good place to start.