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fellowshippers2006-09-04 02:22 pm
v-angelique.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2006-09-04 02:22 pm
Fic: Myopic
Title: Myopic
Author: Viktoria Angelique
Pairing: DM/EW
Rating: light NC-17
Disclaimer: This is definitely not true.
Summary:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
the1elf was talking about Domlijah and glasses. I decided to bite. This goes out to four-eyed people everywhere. May we live long and prosper (and have lots of hot sex, too).
Click.
Always that telltale fucking noise, plastic-on-plastic, because really no one ever remembers to take their glasses off before one of these hot-and-dirty make out sessions in the trailer or the back corner of the pub where the payphones are or (Dom's favourite) on the bonnet of Elijah's car.
Dom claims that he made Elijah dirtier, here in New Zealand.
Elijah claims that he's always been dirty. Dom just lets out his inner sex fiend.
Billy really, really doesn't want to know.
"Son of a bitch!"
Elijah always gets a bit mouthy when Dom's lips are around his penis, nose just barely tickled by the curly, coarse little hairs. He looks down, and sees Dom's eyes framed only halfway by black, the bottom of the lenses exposed, and a cheeky little smirk no matter how far his jaw is being stretched, and he just loses it. He never could hold on long, with Dom there on his knees, the picture of not-quite-perfect debauchery. Elijah grew up in Hollywood. He never did care much for perfection.
Dom is imperfectly beautiful.
"Damnit."
"What?"
"Fucking smudged again. How does this happen?"
Glasses have a way of getting smudged. It's hard to figure out how, exactly. Sometimes it's a bit of sweat, or the lens is bumped by a thumb when Dom grabs Elijah's face with a bit too much enthusiasm, diving into his lap while he's reading script changes because it's five am and that doesn't mean that Dom isn't already fucking begging for it. Sometimes it's impossible to tell what happened, but there's still a little blurry spot in the middle of the visual field that's a bit annoying yet not quite annoying enough to look for a bottle of Windex to wipe it off with. Besides, it's a reminder.
"Oh, fuck. Not again…"
They're starting to get used to the drive to the optometrist on Sundays, the only one that's open and it's a fuck of a hike from this side of Wellington, but that's the only time they have off and there's nothing for it. The girl there knows them both by name, and adjusts the tinny little screws with the nimblest fingers, prompting Dom to make rather crude jokes once they're out of earshot and Elijah to slap him half-heartedly on the shoulder.
This time, it's the fault of a Sunday morning fuck over the kitchen table, and really, Dom's not apologetic. Because Elijah was sitting there, reading the paper, eating his chocolatey breakfast cereal and drinking his coffee with a cigarette dangling from his lips, and he was just so damned fuckable that even a priest wouldn't be able to resist him. This is Dom's favourite look on Elijah, all the more so for the rarity with which he sees it.
Elijah's hair, all stuck up in wild little tufts.
Elijah's lips, pursed casually around the fag in his mouth.
Elijah's hands, small and almost dainty with the nails bitten down to the quick, flipping the pages of the paper.
Elijah's chest, bare and pale and skinny, contributing to the odd look of half-innocence, half smug experience.
Elijah's waist, visible from the way his chair is pushed back slightly from the table, with the fine trail of hair disappearing under the waistband of Dom's own blue checked pyjama pants.
And Elijah's God-damned motherfucking gorgeous eyes, framed by thick black ovals of plastic.
Dom growls, and pounces like a big cat, and Elijah finds himself shoved forwards on the table, his elbows holding him up as milk splashes in his face and Dom braces himself with one knee on the chair.
The table ends up rocking so much that they're afraid of breaking it, and instead Dom shoves Elijah to his knees and fists a hand in his morning-ruffled hair, pushing him onto Dom's cock and groaning when Elijah's eyes go wide behind the milk-splattered lenses and his mouth opens up in harmony with them.
The streaks on Elijah's glasses look like come, and Dom can't resist, tugging Elijah back by the hair at the last minute and holding his own cock so that he sprays directly onto the lenses, painting Elijah's glasses and his cheeks with pale liquid.
Afterwards, Dom shoves Elijah face-first to the floor and sucks on two fingers before shoving them inside. Elijah comes so hard he blacks out partially, and he doesn't even care that the glasses got pushed against the floor again, and are now bent badly enough to warrant another visit to their friendly neighbourhood optometrist.
Click.
The best times, though, are when they're fully clothed, a little tired, a little horny, both wearing the glasses because eyes are too blurred with sleep to bother with contacts. Elijah's crotch rasps against Dom's in denim-on-denim perfection, and Dom's body is soft and pliable while Elijah's jaw is scratchy with evening stubble. Their glasses click awkwardly together, and on cold days even fog up a bit so that they can't see each other when they pull away, but Dom doesn't care. It's the best part of his day.
Author: Viktoria Angelique
Pairing: DM/EW
Rating: light NC-17
Disclaimer: This is definitely not true.
Summary:
the1elf was talking about Domlijah and glasses. I decided to bite. This goes out to four-eyed people everywhere. May we live long and prosper (and have lots of hot sex, too).Click.
Always that telltale fucking noise, plastic-on-plastic, because really no one ever remembers to take their glasses off before one of these hot-and-dirty make out sessions in the trailer or the back corner of the pub where the payphones are or (Dom's favourite) on the bonnet of Elijah's car.
Dom claims that he made Elijah dirtier, here in New Zealand.
Elijah claims that he's always been dirty. Dom just lets out his inner sex fiend.
Billy really, really doesn't want to know.
"Son of a bitch!"
Elijah always gets a bit mouthy when Dom's lips are around his penis, nose just barely tickled by the curly, coarse little hairs. He looks down, and sees Dom's eyes framed only halfway by black, the bottom of the lenses exposed, and a cheeky little smirk no matter how far his jaw is being stretched, and he just loses it. He never could hold on long, with Dom there on his knees, the picture of not-quite-perfect debauchery. Elijah grew up in Hollywood. He never did care much for perfection.
Dom is imperfectly beautiful.
"Damnit."
"What?"
"Fucking smudged again. How does this happen?"
Glasses have a way of getting smudged. It's hard to figure out how, exactly. Sometimes it's a bit of sweat, or the lens is bumped by a thumb when Dom grabs Elijah's face with a bit too much enthusiasm, diving into his lap while he's reading script changes because it's five am and that doesn't mean that Dom isn't already fucking begging for it. Sometimes it's impossible to tell what happened, but there's still a little blurry spot in the middle of the visual field that's a bit annoying yet not quite annoying enough to look for a bottle of Windex to wipe it off with. Besides, it's a reminder.
"Oh, fuck. Not again…"
They're starting to get used to the drive to the optometrist on Sundays, the only one that's open and it's a fuck of a hike from this side of Wellington, but that's the only time they have off and there's nothing for it. The girl there knows them both by name, and adjusts the tinny little screws with the nimblest fingers, prompting Dom to make rather crude jokes once they're out of earshot and Elijah to slap him half-heartedly on the shoulder.
This time, it's the fault of a Sunday morning fuck over the kitchen table, and really, Dom's not apologetic. Because Elijah was sitting there, reading the paper, eating his chocolatey breakfast cereal and drinking his coffee with a cigarette dangling from his lips, and he was just so damned fuckable that even a priest wouldn't be able to resist him. This is Dom's favourite look on Elijah, all the more so for the rarity with which he sees it.
Elijah's hair, all stuck up in wild little tufts.
Elijah's lips, pursed casually around the fag in his mouth.
Elijah's hands, small and almost dainty with the nails bitten down to the quick, flipping the pages of the paper.
Elijah's chest, bare and pale and skinny, contributing to the odd look of half-innocence, half smug experience.
Elijah's waist, visible from the way his chair is pushed back slightly from the table, with the fine trail of hair disappearing under the waistband of Dom's own blue checked pyjama pants.
And Elijah's God-damned motherfucking gorgeous eyes, framed by thick black ovals of plastic.
Dom growls, and pounces like a big cat, and Elijah finds himself shoved forwards on the table, his elbows holding him up as milk splashes in his face and Dom braces himself with one knee on the chair.
The table ends up rocking so much that they're afraid of breaking it, and instead Dom shoves Elijah to his knees and fists a hand in his morning-ruffled hair, pushing him onto Dom's cock and groaning when Elijah's eyes go wide behind the milk-splattered lenses and his mouth opens up in harmony with them.
The streaks on Elijah's glasses look like come, and Dom can't resist, tugging Elijah back by the hair at the last minute and holding his own cock so that he sprays directly onto the lenses, painting Elijah's glasses and his cheeks with pale liquid.
Afterwards, Dom shoves Elijah face-first to the floor and sucks on two fingers before shoving them inside. Elijah comes so hard he blacks out partially, and he doesn't even care that the glasses got pushed against the floor again, and are now bent badly enough to warrant another visit to their friendly neighbourhood optometrist.
Click.
The best times, though, are when they're fully clothed, a little tired, a little horny, both wearing the glasses because eyes are too blurred with sleep to bother with contacts. Elijah's crotch rasps against Dom's in denim-on-denim perfection, and Dom's body is soft and pliable while Elijah's jaw is scratchy with evening stubble. Their glasses click awkwardly together, and on cold days even fog up a bit so that they can't see each other when they pull away, but Dom doesn't care. It's the best part of his day.
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I also love the dryness of your writing style. It's all so matter of fact, which IMHO makes it especially hot.
Cheers ;D
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I'm glad you like this style. Dryness is just me, in general, so I'm glad it works in the fictional carry-over. You're very welcome and thank you for feedback-ing!
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Did anyone see "Everything is Illuminated"? Lij even looks cute-ish in those huge specs!
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