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fellowshippers2003-09-05 01:01 pm
beizy.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2003-09-05 01:01 pm
Grieve -- (EW/HW + BB/DM/EW)
Title: Grieve
Pairing: Elijah Wood/Hannah Wood + Billy Boyd/Dominic Monaghan/Elijah Wood
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Hannah faces how things are and remembers how things were.
Disclaimer: Don't know 'em, made this up.
Author's Notes: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
seraphinhunter's birthday. Mentions of underage het sex (I don't specify any ages but it's implied). If the content doesn't severely squick you, do take a look.
*
The arrangement? Oh, sure, she knows about that. If knowing can be the result of straining her ear to the wall separating hotel rooms; closing her eyes and hating the arousal that comes from listening; dealing with the guilt that slides between her fingertips. If knowing comes from watching the eye contact; Dom to Billy to Elijah to Billy to Dom until there's practically a red line connecting three sets of eyeballs. Or, you know. Other balls. So she'll grab her cigarettes and go somewhere and smoke the images out of her head.
Gets to the point where she thinks she's become super-sensitive to it. That maybe they don't fuck as much as she thinks they do. Maybe that isn't the bed squeaking or Dom's guttural groan or Billy high-pitched whimpers that are torn from him when he comes. But one thing's for certain: she doesn't need to speculate about which sounds are Elijah's. 'Cause she's heard those for years, has them memorized, remembers bringing them up in his throat herself.
It wasn't that she had a thing for her brother. It was just the way life happened when they were kids. Elijah had been the loner type back then. He'd sit around making friends out of scripts and practice crying on cue while Hannah was out having a good time. And she'd come home and they'd play games inside the house. Games of tickling, of tag, of truth or dare. Games that eventually mutated to things like "you show me yours and I'll show you mine" and of course they'd never seen other kids things, so it was a curious urge.
Never went too far, of course, in the beginning. They'd reach out and poke and make disgusted faces and turn red and then avert their eyes. But when Elijah was older they skipped all that and he'd make some comment about how she wouldn't be flat chested for long and she'd smirk and take his hand and put it there on her breast and then stick her tongue out and flounce down the hall, skirt flickering.
Or she'd make fun of how much he whacked off to stupid girls on stupid television and why couldn't he go get a girlfriend or grow up or something. And then she'd ask how he did it and he'd ask if she wanted to see and she'd say no, of course not you pervert. But her eyes were already on the lump in his pants and sure, she wanted to see. Because she was curious and didn't trust those boys at school who were all big paws and tiny brains.
So she'd sit on the bed and he'd sit on the floor and he'd unzip his pants and wrap his whole hand around that small, pink thing and tug at it for a while. She'd watch the blood pool in his face and his throat constrict and wouldn't say or do anything. He'd make this one tiny whimper just as he came. Just one noise, never anything else, never like those shows late at night. The combination of that, of his coloring and the hitch in his chest and the noise and the coming was what she liked. Sort of artistic, you know, sort of personal, and hey, it was cool, she guessed. She guessed.
She was out the door of his room so fast that day that he never got to ask her if she did the same when she was alone.
The next time was after a party. Celebrating a role Elijah landed, wow, what a kid, huh? What a fucking kid. A sip from every glass they could con and they managed it well enough to get stupid and giggly. The backyard was only a brief stumble away. The house glowed against the pitch black of the outside and he chased her around the swing set and grabbed her elbow and mashed his mouth into hers.
He tasted like beer and she told him so and he laughed as she pushed him away. He pursued and she encouraged and behind the bushes under a window where the party was outlined in smoky relief she rubbed the front of his pants with fingernails bitten and just shy of clean. Stop, he laughed, and he was breathless and only half behind the utterance. And then he wasn't behind it at all, what with her hand down his jeans that became her mouth against his belly. It didn't take long and it wasn't what she expected but hey, whatever, let me hear that noise again. He returned the favor but she didn't really get anything out of it until she showed him, and then it was warm and whiplash fast and she guessed she made some kind of noise too and, hmm, that's nice.
When they got old enough and had bigger parts it was less playful and more silent. He'd lie on his back and she'd walk up his body, bare feet red on the bottom squishing carpet as they drew along either side of his body. She'd lift her skirt between her fingertips and sit slowly on his lap and his eyes would close. She liked sitting that way, feeling the firm heat of him digging into her panties, the diaphanous material of her skirt pooling over his unzipped jeans. She liked watching. He liked coming. But then, he always was the impatient type.
Or the other sort when he'd sneak into her room at night and climb up on the foot of her bed. He'd sit there in complete darkness kneeled between her ankles and wait for permission. He'd probably sit there all night waiting if she said nothing, she thought. And then there were his damp hands—hands trying to imitate the motions of someone older, someone experienced—teasing the flesh of her thighs. Touching her like a kid touches a stray dog; wanting to, really wanting to, but so scared the thing'll bite your hand off or run away that you hesitate.
It was a night like that when she first let him fuck her. She'd lost it already to a boyfriend long gone and it hadn't been a big deal. Hadn't even hurt the way she thought. Not that it had felt good, either. It'd been a bunch of grunting and pushing for nothing. But hey, why not let Eli? Couldn't be any worse. So she let him repeat the touches on her that seemed to fascinate him, the touches that were just good enough to make her tingle. In the end it was the forbidden nature of it, not the act itself, which made it worth repeating.
So she poked his shoulder and sat up and told him he could put it in if he wanted. He hesitated and would've left if she hadn't squeezed him through his shorts and licked the inside of his lips with her tongue in a slow circle the way he liked. She stood up on the bed in front of him and there was a giggle on her lips and a determination in her movement as she stripped off the shorts she wore and did a little swivel just in front of his face. He leaned in and kissed the soft rise of hair there between her legs and she let the giggle go because he looked so silly doing that and because it tickled.
Naked she lay back on the bed and let him kiss and lick her skin, leaving the dampness behind which he never liked to leave and always backtracked to wipe off. Leaving her sticky, he used to say, with an embarrassed chuckle and his eyes on her breasts. She liked it, the way he'd squeeze and poke how he wanted to. The way others never let him, he said. He'd only said that once.
And for some reason those moments just before penetration became Elijah's time to talk. Maybe the intimacy overwhelmed him and called for chatter to take it down. Maybe he was just like that. But he'd always tell her something in that space of time. She was the first person that he told about his fantasies of men and of his confusion over how he could like girls and boys. She was the first person he told about his anxiety of never becoming the star he and his whole family hoped he would become. She was the first person he cried to over Daddy.
When he finally pushed inside her she felt a rush of warmth. It was a funny feeling, but not altogether unpleasant, and after several minutes of his bumpy pace she was just beginning to feel something that could be called pleasure. He came with that predictable whimper and she held him on top of her until he found his breath. And sure, she knew it wouldn't last more than a few minutes. It was all right. It had felt nice and he was so sweet. There were moments when she felt very much in love with him, when she was sure he would always be just as he was then.
And still, it was something she knew she shouldn't be doing. That was what made it last long past its expiration date, she guesses. Did it just to keep on breaking the rule.
Towards the end it was only when they'd managed to sneak some pot or beer and gotten silly. Sure. Because those were lonely times, times when the line between sibling affection and sexual petting blurred beer-goggle style; because they had reached the point where they should stop but chose not to. Wasn't like she let it bother her. Wasn't like they ever brought it up. The encounters did happen with less frequency as they got older. And, hey, eventually it stopped altogether. The divorce seemed to do that, but she can't say that for certain and doesn't care to credit it as the final reason.
Just the timing, maybe, she thinks as she sits in her room in Elijah's part of Mom's house and listens to them get progressively drunker.
And then comes Rings. Elijah had come back from New Zealand with a sex life, which was something he'd never had in regularity. So he sure as hell wasn't looking to her for rubs in the bathroom or a quick fuck in the hallway while Mom was taking a nap. And she wasn't either, really, she had a boyfriend—on and off, but whatever—and a life in New York and didn't think about him that way anymore.
And Dom and Billy are like brothers to her, too, now, even if she is pretty sure they're more into each other than her, and she's cool with them. Hey, it's California after all, where do we live, Kansas? But hel-lo shock to the senses when she walked in unannounced one afternoon to find the three of them in a complicated tangle—stunt trainers teach gymnastics to beginners now, kids?—and managed to get away with watching for several minutes before she chickened out.
She stood there long enough, ears ringing, to hear that noise. That single whimper picked out of a brave chorus of moans, groans, and sighs. That single whimper that took her back to visit her memories one by one like beads strung on a delicate chain. She needed it. Needed it and once she got it, relief, because, you know he's still your brother. He'll always be, kid, even when you're older and wiser, even if his face is plastered on every bus stop from here to Manhattan—
Even if it stings like loss and tempts you to grieve.
*
Pairing: Elijah Wood/Hannah Wood + Billy Boyd/Dominic Monaghan/Elijah Wood
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Hannah faces how things are and remembers how things were.
Disclaimer: Don't know 'em, made this up.
Author's Notes: Written for
seraphinhunter's birthday. Mentions of underage het sex (I don't specify any ages but it's implied). If the content doesn't severely squick you, do take a look.The arrangement? Oh, sure, she knows about that. If knowing can be the result of straining her ear to the wall separating hotel rooms; closing her eyes and hating the arousal that comes from listening; dealing with the guilt that slides between her fingertips. If knowing comes from watching the eye contact; Dom to Billy to Elijah to Billy to Dom until there's practically a red line connecting three sets of eyeballs. Or, you know. Other balls. So she'll grab her cigarettes and go somewhere and smoke the images out of her head.
Gets to the point where she thinks she's become super-sensitive to it. That maybe they don't fuck as much as she thinks they do. Maybe that isn't the bed squeaking or Dom's guttural groan or Billy high-pitched whimpers that are torn from him when he comes. But one thing's for certain: she doesn't need to speculate about which sounds are Elijah's. 'Cause she's heard those for years, has them memorized, remembers bringing them up in his throat herself.
It wasn't that she had a thing for her brother. It was just the way life happened when they were kids. Elijah had been the loner type back then. He'd sit around making friends out of scripts and practice crying on cue while Hannah was out having a good time. And she'd come home and they'd play games inside the house. Games of tickling, of tag, of truth or dare. Games that eventually mutated to things like "you show me yours and I'll show you mine" and of course they'd never seen other kids things, so it was a curious urge.
Never went too far, of course, in the beginning. They'd reach out and poke and make disgusted faces and turn red and then avert their eyes. But when Elijah was older they skipped all that and he'd make some comment about how she wouldn't be flat chested for long and she'd smirk and take his hand and put it there on her breast and then stick her tongue out and flounce down the hall, skirt flickering.
Or she'd make fun of how much he whacked off to stupid girls on stupid television and why couldn't he go get a girlfriend or grow up or something. And then she'd ask how he did it and he'd ask if she wanted to see and she'd say no, of course not you pervert. But her eyes were already on the lump in his pants and sure, she wanted to see. Because she was curious and didn't trust those boys at school who were all big paws and tiny brains.
So she'd sit on the bed and he'd sit on the floor and he'd unzip his pants and wrap his whole hand around that small, pink thing and tug at it for a while. She'd watch the blood pool in his face and his throat constrict and wouldn't say or do anything. He'd make this one tiny whimper just as he came. Just one noise, never anything else, never like those shows late at night. The combination of that, of his coloring and the hitch in his chest and the noise and the coming was what she liked. Sort of artistic, you know, sort of personal, and hey, it was cool, she guessed. She guessed.
She was out the door of his room so fast that day that he never got to ask her if she did the same when she was alone.
The next time was after a party. Celebrating a role Elijah landed, wow, what a kid, huh? What a fucking kid. A sip from every glass they could con and they managed it well enough to get stupid and giggly. The backyard was only a brief stumble away. The house glowed against the pitch black of the outside and he chased her around the swing set and grabbed her elbow and mashed his mouth into hers.
He tasted like beer and she told him so and he laughed as she pushed him away. He pursued and she encouraged and behind the bushes under a window where the party was outlined in smoky relief she rubbed the front of his pants with fingernails bitten and just shy of clean. Stop, he laughed, and he was breathless and only half behind the utterance. And then he wasn't behind it at all, what with her hand down his jeans that became her mouth against his belly. It didn't take long and it wasn't what she expected but hey, whatever, let me hear that noise again. He returned the favor but she didn't really get anything out of it until she showed him, and then it was warm and whiplash fast and she guessed she made some kind of noise too and, hmm, that's nice.
When they got old enough and had bigger parts it was less playful and more silent. He'd lie on his back and she'd walk up his body, bare feet red on the bottom squishing carpet as they drew along either side of his body. She'd lift her skirt between her fingertips and sit slowly on his lap and his eyes would close. She liked sitting that way, feeling the firm heat of him digging into her panties, the diaphanous material of her skirt pooling over his unzipped jeans. She liked watching. He liked coming. But then, he always was the impatient type.
Or the other sort when he'd sneak into her room at night and climb up on the foot of her bed. He'd sit there in complete darkness kneeled between her ankles and wait for permission. He'd probably sit there all night waiting if she said nothing, she thought. And then there were his damp hands—hands trying to imitate the motions of someone older, someone experienced—teasing the flesh of her thighs. Touching her like a kid touches a stray dog; wanting to, really wanting to, but so scared the thing'll bite your hand off or run away that you hesitate.
It was a night like that when she first let him fuck her. She'd lost it already to a boyfriend long gone and it hadn't been a big deal. Hadn't even hurt the way she thought. Not that it had felt good, either. It'd been a bunch of grunting and pushing for nothing. But hey, why not let Eli? Couldn't be any worse. So she let him repeat the touches on her that seemed to fascinate him, the touches that were just good enough to make her tingle. In the end it was the forbidden nature of it, not the act itself, which made it worth repeating.
So she poked his shoulder and sat up and told him he could put it in if he wanted. He hesitated and would've left if she hadn't squeezed him through his shorts and licked the inside of his lips with her tongue in a slow circle the way he liked. She stood up on the bed in front of him and there was a giggle on her lips and a determination in her movement as she stripped off the shorts she wore and did a little swivel just in front of his face. He leaned in and kissed the soft rise of hair there between her legs and she let the giggle go because he looked so silly doing that and because it tickled.
Naked she lay back on the bed and let him kiss and lick her skin, leaving the dampness behind which he never liked to leave and always backtracked to wipe off. Leaving her sticky, he used to say, with an embarrassed chuckle and his eyes on her breasts. She liked it, the way he'd squeeze and poke how he wanted to. The way others never let him, he said. He'd only said that once.
And for some reason those moments just before penetration became Elijah's time to talk. Maybe the intimacy overwhelmed him and called for chatter to take it down. Maybe he was just like that. But he'd always tell her something in that space of time. She was the first person that he told about his fantasies of men and of his confusion over how he could like girls and boys. She was the first person he told about his anxiety of never becoming the star he and his whole family hoped he would become. She was the first person he cried to over Daddy.
When he finally pushed inside her she felt a rush of warmth. It was a funny feeling, but not altogether unpleasant, and after several minutes of his bumpy pace she was just beginning to feel something that could be called pleasure. He came with that predictable whimper and she held him on top of her until he found his breath. And sure, she knew it wouldn't last more than a few minutes. It was all right. It had felt nice and he was so sweet. There were moments when she felt very much in love with him, when she was sure he would always be just as he was then.
And still, it was something she knew she shouldn't be doing. That was what made it last long past its expiration date, she guesses. Did it just to keep on breaking the rule.
Towards the end it was only when they'd managed to sneak some pot or beer and gotten silly. Sure. Because those were lonely times, times when the line between sibling affection and sexual petting blurred beer-goggle style; because they had reached the point where they should stop but chose not to. Wasn't like she let it bother her. Wasn't like they ever brought it up. The encounters did happen with less frequency as they got older. And, hey, eventually it stopped altogether. The divorce seemed to do that, but she can't say that for certain and doesn't care to credit it as the final reason.
Just the timing, maybe, she thinks as she sits in her room in Elijah's part of Mom's house and listens to them get progressively drunker.
And then comes Rings. Elijah had come back from New Zealand with a sex life, which was something he'd never had in regularity. So he sure as hell wasn't looking to her for rubs in the bathroom or a quick fuck in the hallway while Mom was taking a nap. And she wasn't either, really, she had a boyfriend—on and off, but whatever—and a life in New York and didn't think about him that way anymore.
And Dom and Billy are like brothers to her, too, now, even if she is pretty sure they're more into each other than her, and she's cool with them. Hey, it's California after all, where do we live, Kansas? But hel-lo shock to the senses when she walked in unannounced one afternoon to find the three of them in a complicated tangle—stunt trainers teach gymnastics to beginners now, kids?—and managed to get away with watching for several minutes before she chickened out.
She stood there long enough, ears ringing, to hear that noise. That single whimper picked out of a brave chorus of moans, groans, and sighs. That single whimper that took her back to visit her memories one by one like beads strung on a delicate chain. She needed it. Needed it and once she got it, relief, because, you know he's still your brother. He'll always be, kid, even when you're older and wiser, even if his face is plastered on every bus stop from here to Manhattan—
Even if it stings like loss and tempts you to grieve.
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♥
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Then I did. And I love it.
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I loved this!
ooh
Anyway, well done!!!!
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Re: ooh
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