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Here's my fic for the Flashfic-a-thon, dedicated to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
orolin. I hope you enjoy it.
Dom’s Variation on Housesitting
The stinging stabs of pain behind your eyes are accentuated by bright lights that flash-and-fade and you know it’s morning, can see the sunlight from the world outside pushing at your eyelids even before you open them. You groan and roll over, like you do every morning, only every-morning doesn’t include kitty hair that gets up your nose and tickles something fierce. You crack open an eye, but you already know what you’re going to see. Lij’s tangled hair fills your vision, his back warm under your hand, which has the dull, partly numb sensation of pins and needles coursing through it. Pins and needles from being trapped between your two bodies. It’s a good thing I don’t black out when drunk, you think, because waking, semi-naked and rock hard behind an even more naked Elijah Wood….You feel like some fucking Mary-Sue teenage fangirl.
So, okay. You roll gently off Elijah and slide off the edge of the couch, then drape a sheet over his naked form. It settles into the crevasses, leaving eerie blue shadows in the join of his skewed elbow and the shallow of his back. Okay, Dom. Just find your damn boyfriend. But you can’t just leave Elijah now, because he’s shaking like a leaf, missing the warmth of your body. He looks like a fucking infant. Still is, really, and you kneel beside him, and rub his arm with your still-aching hand until your eyes fall upon a pillow that rests by the faded embers of last night’s fire in the soot-stained fireplace. Shit, why’d we let Billy light that thing? You reach for the pillow, your fingers creeping towards it with your other hand still rubbing the cool white sheet that covers Lij, catching and wrinkling the fabric, and the pins and needles have settled to a sporadic tingling. You snag the corner of the pillow with your middle finger and yank it over, teasing it under Elijah’s heavy arm. He rolls onto it, and doesn’t complain when you remove your hand, which has regained proper feeling through the forceful arm-rubbing. You stumble to your feet and watch the angry red lines on your knees fade, trying to pinpoint the exact pattern on the wooden floor that caused them.
Boyfriend, right. You spin around, too fast, and the once sharp lines in Sean Astin’s once neat home swim and collide in your throbbing head. Poor Sean’ll never let another hobbit house-sit again, you think, gently probing the bags that are hanging under your pained eyes, pulling down on the skin above them and making the effort to keep your eyelids up all that much more strenuous. You see Orlando’s porcelain skin lit up by the grace of the small, rectangular kitchen window, the sun casting smeared shadows across his neck and torso. Stepping over bottles and bodies you make your way over cautiously, and settle yourself beside him, hovering over him. Your hand rests on the hollow between his collarbone and his neck. Sticky. The hand drifts up to your mouth, mind of its own, and your finger worms its way between your chafing lips. The smooth tang of vanilla coke reaches your abused tastebuds. Ali’s favourite. Your musings come to an abrupt halt as you lean over, unthinking, to dip your tongue into the shallow depression of skin where your hand once lay.
A shudder runs through Orlando’s body like electricity, transfers to your fingers as they brush across his clenched stomach, raising the hairs on your arms as it passes through to your brain as raw lust. You thrust your tongue in further and Orlando’s hand stretches up to grasp your shoulder, pressing so hard you can feel the nails leave indentations in your warm skin. You work your tongue until the muscles are sore and you can no longer taste the sweetness of the vanilla coke, just your own saliva and the familiar salty muskiness of Orli’s skin. You position your mouth over the pale skin above his collarbone and suck gently, slowly, feeling the blood rushing to the surface of the skin, feeling it rise beneath your tongue. A moan slips out from between Orlando’s clenched teeth, breaking the heavy silence of the room and highlighting every sound you make: the slurping of your tongue on his skin, the rustling of your boxer shorts against the slats of the wooden floor. You study the faintly pink oval your mouth has left on his skin and then sink your teeth into the centre of it, vampiric and subtle, and now Orli is hissing. The white marks left by your teeth quickly fade to read and then purple, marring the skin, branded. You finally raise your head, satisfied with your work, to meet Orlando’s misty, glazed brown eyes. He flashes you a grin, his own perfect white teeth glittering neatly in a row before lunging for your ear. The pain is a hot jolt to your system, and you can still feel the teeth after they’re gone, replaced by Orli’s heated breath wafting over your ear and neck as he pulls you down on top of him.
“Wish I could wake up like this every day,” He mumbles, and you can feel the shape of his smile indented in your neck.
“Hangover and all?
”What hangover?” He pulls back and grins, and it strikes you that he looks like a vampire in this moment, half in shadow. Pale creature of the night, but it only makes you want him more, so that your stomach contorts and aches and your vision blurs for a moment. You lean back onto him and try to bury yourself in his skin, breathe him into you so you can feel him echoing around in your brain. He crushes you to him and runs his face lightly across the top of his hair. He chuckles slightly and you reluctantly lift your head to raise one questioning eyebrow at him. “You’re such a fucking girl.”
”Look who’s talking, elf,” You mumble grumpily.
“Take that back.”
”Make me.”
”Shu’up. G’sleep,” comes a muffled Scottish voice from behind the counter, and Billy’s naked foot kicks roughly at Orlando’s head. He slaps it playfully, but you whine, so he puts his hand back on your back, rubbing in lazy circles until you finally let your eyelids drop. You fall asleep, hot and heavy in his arms.
orolin. I hope you enjoy it.Dom’s Variation on Housesitting
The stinging stabs of pain behind your eyes are accentuated by bright lights that flash-and-fade and you know it’s morning, can see the sunlight from the world outside pushing at your eyelids even before you open them. You groan and roll over, like you do every morning, only every-morning doesn’t include kitty hair that gets up your nose and tickles something fierce. You crack open an eye, but you already know what you’re going to see. Lij’s tangled hair fills your vision, his back warm under your hand, which has the dull, partly numb sensation of pins and needles coursing through it. Pins and needles from being trapped between your two bodies. It’s a good thing I don’t black out when drunk, you think, because waking, semi-naked and rock hard behind an even more naked Elijah Wood….You feel like some fucking Mary-Sue teenage fangirl.
So, okay. You roll gently off Elijah and slide off the edge of the couch, then drape a sheet over his naked form. It settles into the crevasses, leaving eerie blue shadows in the join of his skewed elbow and the shallow of his back. Okay, Dom. Just find your damn boyfriend. But you can’t just leave Elijah now, because he’s shaking like a leaf, missing the warmth of your body. He looks like a fucking infant. Still is, really, and you kneel beside him, and rub his arm with your still-aching hand until your eyes fall upon a pillow that rests by the faded embers of last night’s fire in the soot-stained fireplace. Shit, why’d we let Billy light that thing? You reach for the pillow, your fingers creeping towards it with your other hand still rubbing the cool white sheet that covers Lij, catching and wrinkling the fabric, and the pins and needles have settled to a sporadic tingling. You snag the corner of the pillow with your middle finger and yank it over, teasing it under Elijah’s heavy arm. He rolls onto it, and doesn’t complain when you remove your hand, which has regained proper feeling through the forceful arm-rubbing. You stumble to your feet and watch the angry red lines on your knees fade, trying to pinpoint the exact pattern on the wooden floor that caused them.
Boyfriend, right. You spin around, too fast, and the once sharp lines in Sean Astin’s once neat home swim and collide in your throbbing head. Poor Sean’ll never let another hobbit house-sit again, you think, gently probing the bags that are hanging under your pained eyes, pulling down on the skin above them and making the effort to keep your eyelids up all that much more strenuous. You see Orlando’s porcelain skin lit up by the grace of the small, rectangular kitchen window, the sun casting smeared shadows across his neck and torso. Stepping over bottles and bodies you make your way over cautiously, and settle yourself beside him, hovering over him. Your hand rests on the hollow between his collarbone and his neck. Sticky. The hand drifts up to your mouth, mind of its own, and your finger worms its way between your chafing lips. The smooth tang of vanilla coke reaches your abused tastebuds. Ali’s favourite. Your musings come to an abrupt halt as you lean over, unthinking, to dip your tongue into the shallow depression of skin where your hand once lay.
A shudder runs through Orlando’s body like electricity, transfers to your fingers as they brush across his clenched stomach, raising the hairs on your arms as it passes through to your brain as raw lust. You thrust your tongue in further and Orlando’s hand stretches up to grasp your shoulder, pressing so hard you can feel the nails leave indentations in your warm skin. You work your tongue until the muscles are sore and you can no longer taste the sweetness of the vanilla coke, just your own saliva and the familiar salty muskiness of Orli’s skin. You position your mouth over the pale skin above his collarbone and suck gently, slowly, feeling the blood rushing to the surface of the skin, feeling it rise beneath your tongue. A moan slips out from between Orlando’s clenched teeth, breaking the heavy silence of the room and highlighting every sound you make: the slurping of your tongue on his skin, the rustling of your boxer shorts against the slats of the wooden floor. You study the faintly pink oval your mouth has left on his skin and then sink your teeth into the centre of it, vampiric and subtle, and now Orli is hissing. The white marks left by your teeth quickly fade to read and then purple, marring the skin, branded. You finally raise your head, satisfied with your work, to meet Orlando’s misty, glazed brown eyes. He flashes you a grin, his own perfect white teeth glittering neatly in a row before lunging for your ear. The pain is a hot jolt to your system, and you can still feel the teeth after they’re gone, replaced by Orli’s heated breath wafting over your ear and neck as he pulls you down on top of him.
“Wish I could wake up like this every day,” He mumbles, and you can feel the shape of his smile indented in your neck.
“Hangover and all?
”What hangover?” He pulls back and grins, and it strikes you that he looks like a vampire in this moment, half in shadow. Pale creature of the night, but it only makes you want him more, so that your stomach contorts and aches and your vision blurs for a moment. You lean back onto him and try to bury yourself in his skin, breathe him into you so you can feel him echoing around in your brain. He crushes you to him and runs his face lightly across the top of his hair. He chuckles slightly and you reluctantly lift your head to raise one questioning eyebrow at him. “You’re such a fucking girl.”
”Look who’s talking, elf,” You mumble grumpily.
“Take that back.”
”Make me.”
”Shu’up. G’sleep,” comes a muffled Scottish voice from behind the counter, and Billy’s naked foot kicks roughly at Orlando’s head. He slaps it playfully, but you whine, so he puts his hand back on your back, rubbing in lazy circles until you finally let your eyelids drop. You fall asleep, hot and heavy in his arms.