Eyes of Noon and Midnight

Mon, 06 Mar 2006 20:13:53 GMT

Warning: The following links are to wonderful art that is not remotely work-safe. Unless you somehow lucked into that position as editor-in-chief of Playhobbit.

trilliah is a wonderful artist, and lately, she's been doing some commissions. Bed and Barn Again both arrived in my mailbox last week, and I'm utterly thrilled with them. If you enjoy them too, you may want to check in with the woman who wields the pencil. She may still be doing commissions to raise money for necessary surgery. It's a great cause, and a nice opportunity to give something back to someone who has contributed so much to the fandom.

Frodo and Sam fic

Wed, 07 Dec 2005 18:32:41 GMT

indiehobbitlass has written her first slash story, and it's quality stuff. Adult fans of Sam and Frodo may wish to go forth and perve over Hangover Cure. Humor and explicitness abound. If you do drop by, give indie a shout-out, will you? The more porn she writes, the better off Sam, Frodo, and the rest of us will be.

Tue, 18 Oct 2005 20:30:12 GMT

Title: Boys’ Night In (part five)
Author: mirith
Group: Mostly Billy/Dom, with a touch of Elijah.
Rating: NC-17, baby.
Summary: Who's the top and who's the bottom? With actors, you never know.
Disclaimer: I don’t own them; they own me. This is completely fictional, but there's a crispy five-dollar bill in it for them if they make it happen.
Feedback: The people who write it rule my universe.
Written: October 10-18, 2005. Update: October 21, 2005.
For: snoopydance4me. Happy birthday, dear lamb.

The problem with being an actor, thinks Dom, is that when you pretend to feel something, you start feeling it.

Billy has just asked him to play hard to get, and now that they’re wrapped up in a shared duvet on the balcony floor, Dom is feeling genuinely nervous. He doesn’t remember telling Billy to part his bathrobe and run his fingers over his nipple. He doesn’t remember telling Billy to lick his ear, and he certainly doesn’t remember telling Billy, clad in a grey T-shirt and Elijah’s silk boxers, to climb into his lap, facing him, and rub his hardness in long, smooth strokes against Dom’s responding crotch. But Billy is doing these things and more, and he's doing them on a very public hotel balcony adjacent to a streetlight.

“Jesus, Bill.” Dom cranes his neck around, trying to get a grip on how many people are around. It’s late, so the streets aren’t crowded, but he can still hear the murmurs of conversation wafting up from the sidewalk below.

“Mmm,” says Billy. He swings his legs around Dom’s waist and wraps his arms around Dom’s neck, until Dom is completely enveloped by his clinging lover. Were it not for the heavy breathing, Dom would think Billy was auditioning for the role of a second duvet.

“Bill, please.” Dom drums anxious fingers on Billy’s bare thigh. “Let’s go inside.”

“Lie back, and I will.”

“Inside the room. Not inside me. C’mon.”

“Don’t you trust me, Dommeh?” Billy licks a slow trail from Dom’s collarbone to his ear, then nips at the lobe.

“Yes. No. I don’t know.”

“If it would make it easier on you, I could get out the neckties,” says Billy, his voice low and confidential. “Then, if anyone saw me fucking you” – Dom’s heart inadvertently stutters at this – “they’d know you were my captive.”

This is Billy’s way of saying he could tie Dom up. Billy brought four neckties, all gifts from well-meaning relatives, to New Zealand. To date, Dom has never seen him use them for anything but binding Dom’s naked body to every piece of furniture in the trailer.

“You’re really set on this, aren’t you?”

“Of course I am. I love having you at my mercy.”

“Mmm. Because naturally, you're planning to show some.”

Billy quirks the left side of his mouth in a half-smile, and his eyes glitter with the light from the street lamp. “I love that about you.”

"My logic?"

"Your optimism." And Billy pinches Dom's nipple, hard, and Dom knows then that Elijah is not the only one who is owned.

A car drives down a nearby hill. Light from its headlamps cascades over Billy's handsome features. He smells good, looks good, feels good, but Dom, for once, does not want to be the number-one attraction for miles, and if Billy has his way with him on this balcony, he will be.

“At least come with me to Elijah’s room," he gasps, as Billy molests him further. "It’s...ahhh...empty.”

“You don’t want him to watch me fucking you? But you’re so pretty, flat on your back, sweetheart.” Billy licks his lips. “Especially when you’ve got company.”

Dom’s mouth opens slightly. “Got company” is Billy’s euphemism for “got me sexing you brainless.” He loves, loves, loves Billy’s lilting, soaring, diving voice, and he can feel his eyes glazing over at the thought of Billy on top of him. Belabouring him. In his current state of theatre-turned-life modesty, he can’t even think the word “fuck” right now. Then the sliding door goes white with passing light again, and Dom remembers fear.

He’s still deciding what to do when Billy comes back with the neckties. Dom makes to rise, but Billy pushes him back down.

“Didn’t you want to tie me to a headboard somewhere?” Dom wants to know. “Not that I’m insisting. In fact, let’s do something else. Let’s go see what’s in Elijah’s mini-bar. And drink it.”

“For such a smart lad,” says Billy, “you can be so unobservant.” He kneels next to Dom and begins tying one of the neckties to Dom’s left wrist. Dom feels his pulse beating against the restraint.

“Erm, thanks. How so?”

“We spent hours in that bed, and you still haven’t noticed it has no headboard.”

Oh.

“Bills. What are you going to tie me to?”

Two minutes later, Dom is flat on his back on the duvet. Both of his arms have been lashed to the balcony railings, and the responsible party, if instigating foreplay on a balcony qualifies as "responsible," is sitting on Dom's suggestible mid-section.

“Oh, God,” says Dom, and then he says nothing else, because Billy’s tongue is in the way.

“Make it fast, then,” says Dom, once Billy allows him up for air. He’s so agitated, he forgets to exhale.

“No,” says Billy, languidly trailing his fingers through Dom’s hair. “I think I’ll take it slow.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“I think you’ll be interested to know why I’m not tying your feet,” says Billy. “It’s because I like when your legs lock around my waist.”

“I don’t do that!” sputters Dom, feeling unreasonably mortified. Hours before, he would have been willing to have “for locking around Billy’s waist” tattooed to each of the limbs in question. But once he’s in character, it takes some effort to get out.

“Yes, you do,” says Billy. “You’re just usually so far gone by then that you don’t know what you’re doing. Would you like to know why I’m not gagging you?”

“So I have a fair chance to talk you out of this?”

“No. Because I love those noises you make.” Billy rolls off Dom and comes to rest next to him, his shoulder nestled in his lover’s armpit. Dom can feel Billy’s body pressing against him from torso to feet, reminding him of how well, physically, they match up. Even standing up, everything about them comes to the same level -- their eyes, their mouths, their hips. Grey eyes meet green, brash mouth meets wry, and it's almost impossible for them not to take it further. Really, thinks Dom. It's a wonder we stayed platonic as long as we did.

“Do you want to know how you sound when I’m in you? Really, Dommeh, you say the sweetest things.”

Not waiting for a reply, Billy brings his mouth close to Dom’s ear. His breath goes jagged, then catches. He whimpers. He moans. The noises are so quiet that Dom strains to hear them. His groin floods with heat, and he realizes with dismay that the head of his cock is now straining out of his bathrobe and into the cool night air.

“Got yeh,” says Billy, wickedly. He draws the fabric of the bathrobe to cover Dom, his hand lingering over sensitive skin as he does so. Dom could interpret this as a chivalrous gesture, but it seems more like an excuse for a quick feel. He swallows.

“I’m going to get some supplies,” says Billy. “You wait here.” As if that were even open to question.

“Billy…”

“I’ll only be gone a second. Or perhaps you’d like me to whistle for Elijah to get them? It seems a shame not to wake him. I’m sure he’d love to see you laid out like this.”

“No, no, no,” says Dom, his entire face a hot blush. “Just get them and come back.” The trussing has left him a human sacrifice to Billy's exhibitionist predations, and he's well aware of how vulnerable he is. It's not a position he's accustomed to.

Billy returns a bottle of lube in his teeth and his arms laden with pillows: one for Dom’s head, and two for Dom’s arse. He drops the lube, then guides the pillows into position with deft, knowing hands. The fact that his behind is getting more special attention than his head is not lost on Dom.

“Do I need all that many pillows there?” Dom wants to know. The higher his bits are, the more likely they are to be lit by traffic coming down the hill. And while he's been known to give theem the occasional public airing, he's had little practice at doing so on someone else's terms.

“No,” says Billy. “I could just hook your calves over my shoulders. That would lift your arse plenty. Give me all sorts of access.” Kneeling down next to his lover, Billy gives one of his legs an experimental tug, testing it for heft.

With a start, Dom realizes that the feeling of air caressing the lower part of his balls means that his robe, though still cinched at the waist, has fallen open further down. He looks down, blanches, and presses his thighs together.

“Lovely view, isn’t it? It’s all right, you can look. It’s not as if you can really help it, with your lower half in the air like this. Do you want me to cover you?”

“Yes.” Dom nods as though his neck has come unhinged. As if Billy is slowly unhinging him, piece by piece.

“All right, then.” Billy climbs on top of Dom, lets Dom feel the insistence in his hips.

“I meant with the robe.”

“I meant with me,” says Billy. He licks the hollow at the base of Dom’s neck.

Dom gurgles. It’s very hard to think when Billy is licking him. Blasted nervous system, connecting every point in his body to his cock. And now Billy is urging Dom’s thighs apart with his knee, and against Dom’s better judgement, they spread like butter. Billy kneels between Dom’s legs, then brings his chest down to rest on Dom’s own. The contact makes Dom's heart speed up.

“I’m going to make love to you, Dommeh,” says Billy. “But first, I’m going to play with you. I'm sure you won't mind.” Billy runs his fingers down Dom’s arm from wrist to armpit, reminding him that he’s not in a position to deny Billy anything. Dom’s cock twitches hard against Billy’s stomach.

And then Billy is everywhere.

Billy is the mouth sucking on Dom’s neck, and the teeth that bite down. He is the cheek nuzzling Dom’s chest, and the hand taking possession of one hip. He is the warm breath against Dom’s ticklish stomach. He is the hand stroking Dom’s tensed thigh, then reaching back to cup Dom’s arse. He is the fingernail that runs, feather-light, along Dom’s cleft, stopping before it reaches the sensitive nerve endings of the opening there. And just when Dom thinks that he might get some real attention, something warm and wet and nakedly sexual, Billy becomes the breath in Dom’s ear; the fingers in Dom’s hair; the thumb lightly circling, but not touching, the painfully expectant nipple.

“Billy,” Dom moans. “Oh, fuck, Billy.”

“You make me so hard, Dommeh. Just touching you like this. Would you like to see?”

“Yeah,” says Dom. He notes with relief that his assumed character is crumbling, a casualty of Billy’s talented hands. “Fucking bring it.”

So Billy straddles him, his thighs nestled in Dom’s armpits, his boxer-clad cock so close to Dom’s face that Dom can smell him, earthy and dark. He picks up the scent of another man as well.

What the hell? Oh, right. These aren’t Billy’s boxers.

Grasping the balcony railing, Billy leans forward to run his cock over Dom’s jaw. Dom pursues him with his mouth, but Billy is agile, and it’s some time before Dom manages to lick him through the black silk. Billy gasps and jerks his hips back, out of Dom’s reach.

“Naughty,” says Billy.

“We try,” says Dom.

“If you want to suck it,” breathes Billy, “just say so. Do you want that, sweetheart?”

“Shit, yes.”

“Then tell me.”

“Billy,” says Dom. “Please put your big, drooling cock in my mouth. I want to suck it for you.”

Billy is breathing faster now. “And how badly do you want it?” he asks, rubbing the silk-sheathed tip against Dom’s lips, then drawing it out of reach again.

“So fucking bad. If you sat back down, you’d feel how hard I am for you, Billy. My cock is practically weeping, just because I’m thinking about how you taste. Please, baby, put it in my mouth. I can make it so wet for you.”

“I’ll bet you can,” says Billy, his cock quivering. He inches his hips a little closer to Dom’s face.

“I’ll be sweet for you, so sweet and wet and tight. Please, baby, let me suck it.”

And with that, Billy reaches into the boxers and pulls out his cock and balls. His erection quivers just inches from Dom’s mouth. Dom inhales, lets the secret scent of his lover make his pupils go slack.

“I don’t know,” says Billy, his voice beguiling and low. “Maybe just for a moment. Don’t make me come. I don’t want to come until I’m deep in your beautiful arse.”

Dom makes no promises, just licks his lips until he’s sure they’re glistening. Then parts them. And Billy settles his hips until just the head of his cock is inside Dom’s mouth.

Dom laps. He sucks. He lets his tongue flicker, just the way Billy likes it, on the underside, where purple head meets scarlet shaft.

Billy moans. He drifts a little further into the offered mouth, then catches himself and draws back until only the tip remains inside.

Dom swirls his tongue around the swollen flesh, courting it. Trying to will it a little further in. Gasping, Billy pushes in several inches. Dom feels a rush of triumph.

“I didn’t mean to do that,” says Billy, pulling back again. “You pulled me in. It's that prehensile tongue.”

Fair enough, thinks Dom. Your fucking voice is prehensile. The same for your scent, your taste, your feel. Your darting, impossible mind. Everything about you grabs hold of me and draws me in.

Billy scoots backwards, dragging his hard-on over Dom’s willing body. Dom can feel it painting a trail of his own saliva over his chest, bare where the bathrobe has fallen away. Anointing him. He whimpers and arches his back, wanting more contact.

“It’s time for you to be naked,” says Billy, now straddling Dom’s legs. He tugs at the cord around Dom’s waist, and it comes open in his hands. The street lamp casts a few gentle beams on Dom’s cock, hard and jerking.

“So pretty,” says Billy. “Elijah’s got a kink for you, you know. Do you want me to go and wake him? I’m sure he’d love to see you like this, with the head of your cock all glossy and exposed. He’d probably let you deep-throat him again.”

And Dom uses what’s left of his linguistic ability to explain that that’s not what he wants at all. That all he wants is Billy. Now. Please.

Billy lets the back of his hand come to rest against the underside of Dom’s thumping cock. Dom knows that he’s using the back of his hand, rather than the palm, as a kindness. When he touches Dom with his palm, in the absence of lube, his skin has a tendency to catch. Nice in a bout of SM, but unnecessary in a round of light, frustrating, balcony foreplay.

“He loves the fact that you’re not cut,” Billy muses. “I mean, he loves that about me, too, but he seems especially fascinated with you, the way your skin slides back when you’re aroused. And it would be so…instructive for him to see you this way.” He strokes Dom with the back of his hand, where his skin is soft and smooth and dry.

“Billy, no. Just fuck me. I want you to fuck me.”

“There are so many other things I could do with you right now,” says Billy. “I could lick your balls for a while. Or I could let you lick mine. I think you prefer it that way.”

Dom absolutely prefers it, loves it when Billy sits on his face and allows him to practically choke on his beautiful, fragrant nutsack. But he shakes his head. “You know what I want.”

“You’re not in a position to make any demands,” purrs Billy. “I can do anything I want with you. I could make you watch while I go down on you. I could make it take hours. I could make you plead for it for all the world to see.”

“Billy, I want you up me. Strip and fuck me, for God’s sake.”

And instead of saying, "Great, let's do this," Billy arches a lazy eyebrow and asks, “In what order?”

Dom has one card left, and he plays it. Without warning, he wraps his muscular legs around Billy’s waist and pulls. Caught off balance, Billy jerks forward and lands on top of Dom.

“Erm,” says Billy, breathing hard. His cheek rests in Dom’s chest hair. “I like that.”

“I know.” Dom tightens his thighs.

“I think I might like it more if I were fucking you.”

“It’s very possible.”

So Dom lets Billy up, and Billy pulls off the grey T-shirt.

“I quite like this shirt,” he says, letting it fall to the balcony floor with some reluctance. “It’s the colour of your eyes.”

“You can wank me off into it some time,” promises Dom, and Billy brightens.

Dom watches as Billy slips the boxers down over his slender, white hips, then steps out of them.

“I never get tired of watching you undress.”

“I never get tired of hearing you say that.” Billy reaches down and plucks the lube from its resting spot against the balcony railings. He kneels between Dom’s thighs and looks him over almost reverently. Then he begins to coat his fingers.

“This will be cold,” Billy warns, rubbing a slippery hand over the head of Dom’s cock, but it’s not cold, only cool, like the time Billy rubbed him down with mint oil and left him tingling in his breeches for days. Billy massages Dom from the tip of his cock to the base and back again, slicking him up. Dom whimpers.

“Is it all right?” Billy asks.

“It’s good. Yeah. Mnnghhh. Get it all over me. I want to slide against your belly while you’re doing me.”

Billy’s well-lubed fingers spread the oil over Dom’s balls, then back to his hole sweetfuckingGod, then forward again.

“You’re the only bloke I’d ever let top me,” Dom manages. “Jesus, Bill. It’s so good with you.”

Billy circles Dom’s entrance with a patient finger, makes him wait for it. “That’s nice to know. I mean, at first, I wasn’t sure. Always in the back of my mind that maybe you were just … you know. Obeying my signals. Obliging the waves.”

“Gahhhh. You know it’s not like that.” Unable to stroke Billy’s cheek, given the state of his arms, Dom rubs the small of his back with his bare heel. Like everything about them, it just fits.

“And how do I know?” Billy trails a finger over Dom’s hole, feels it clench, wanting him.

“Billy. Bill. Bills,” says Dom, as if addressing his lover by all three names will ground him, reel him in, make him understand.

“Shhh. It’s all right. You can tell me later.” And Billy dips into Dom, stretches him, parts him with trembling hands.

And now Dom can feel Billy’s cock resting against his entrance, and his body sings with it, because whenever Billy’s topping him, he turns into fucking Molly Bloom, all open and willing and yes I will Yes. He looks at Billy and nods, and Billy mounts and enters him, and Dom moans in rhythm with Billy’s plunging hips.

“Do you want this, Dommeh?”

“Yes … mnghh … want it. Want you.” They’ve just started, and he’s already making every one of the noises Billy promised he’d make.

“Hush, now, or people will think you’re my boyfriend. Are you my boyfriend, Dominic?”

“Fuck, yes. Yours, Billy. Yours to do with as you...ahhh...please...”

"Are you sure now?" Billy murmurs. "I mean, do I have you? Or am I the only one being had?"

"You fucking have me. Have me, Billy."

“Good,” says Billy, thrusting away as Dom's nerves shimmer and spin. “Because I will never. Let. Another. Man. Fuck. You. Is that clear?”

“Very. Oh, God.” Dom’s legs lock around Billy’s waist, pulling him in.

“You can fuck anyone you choose, but I’m not letting anyone else inside you. You’re too precious to me. This” – and here Billy slams a little harder into Dom’s body – “is my prerogative, and mine only.”

“Fucking yes, already, yes.”

And Dom looks into Billy’s eyes, as the cloudy night sky wheels around them, and then they’re together on that channel that only they can hear.

“Guhhh.” Whatever we originally planned for this weekend, all I want now is to know that you're not going to throw me over for him.

“Mmnnghh.” I know. I see that now.

Billy pants quietly. He’s beautiful and he’s sweet, and I’ve seen how you look at each other. If you’re going to cut me off, you need to do it NOW.

“Oh, baby.” Oh, baby.

Because if you’re just leading me on…

“I’m not,” pants Dom. “I’m not leading you on. I fucking love you. Do you understand that? I love you.” Shit, just because I’m...playful doesn’t mean I’m not capable of love.

“I love you too,” says Billy. Then he lets his hips say what his mouth can’t, and Dom responds in kind.

Oh, God, Bills. Fucking marry me with your hips. That’s right, baby. I want you far enough in me that I’ll feel you for days. Far enough that you’ll never really be out of me, not entirely. Jesus, Billy. When you press against my cock like that with your belly, I can feel the heat unfolding at the root of me. Billy, hold on to me. Billy. Billy. Billyyyyyyyyyyy...

----------------------------------

Elijah wakes and fumbles for his boxers. Unable to find them, he stumbles out of bed and towards the dim light that shines from the sliding door, then stops. Dom and Billy are making love on the balcony.

It’s starting to rain, but they don’t seem to notice. Elijah stands in the shadows and watches the drops roll down Billy’s rising, falling back. He hears Dom sob with pleasure, watches him throw his head back against the pillow, watches him writhe and struggle as the orgasm takes him. Then Billy is fucking his partner gently, like in that Tenacious D song, as the light from a passing car sweeps over his back and makes him glow. And Dom is urging him on with his legs, but not, for some reason, his hands – oh, shit, that’s why – and Billy is clutching Dom the way a drowning man clings to a floating mast. Then Billy arcs his back and spasms, and Dom welcomes him, strokes him, gentles him, until Billy collapses on top of him, murmuring words that only Dom can hear. And what’s remarkable is that, although the headlights have moved on, Billy still glows. They both glow, their bodies covered in tiny prisms from the rain.

Wed, 12 Oct 2005 17:19:45 GMT

Title: Boys’ Night In (part four)
Author: mirith
Group: Dom/Billy/Elijah
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Elijah has lost control. Has Billy lost Dom?
Disclaimer: I don’t own them; they own me. This is completely fictional, but there's a crispy five-dollar bill in it for them if they make it happen.
Warning: Reading is bad for your eyes.
Feedback: The people who write it rule my universe.
Written: 10/12/05
For: snoopydance4me, with apologies. You are so important to me. I promise your birthday story will have sex.

Even in the dark, Billy knows upon waking that Dom is missing. The sleeping form huddled next to him in the hotel bed is Elijah’s. Billy doesn’t have to even touch him to know he’s not Dom. He just knows, before his pupils have a chance to dilate enough to look at him or his lungs have a chance to inhale his scent. And the roots of his knowing are in the fact that, three months ago, his best friend had handed him an unsolicited handkerchief.

They were sitting on Billy’s couch, watching some cheesy flick about evil dolls on a rampage, when Dom had pulled a crumpled tissue out of his right jeans pocket and handed it to him.

“What’s this for?” Billy asked, already pegging it as some sort of masturbation reference. Leave it to Dom to find psychotic puppets erotic.

“Cold,” Dom said, not taking his eyes off the screen.

Billy was cold, probably from staying still so long, but he didn’t see how the tissue was going to provide much warmth. A blanket, sure; a tissue, no. The only part of him that was warm, in fact, was where Dom’s denim-clad thigh was pressed up against his. He was about to explain some part of this when the kickback from his sneeze propelled his head against the back of the couch. Until then, he hadn’t known he was sick.

“How do you do that?” Billy asked, once the fit had passed. He dabbed gingerly at his nose.

“What?” asked Dom.

“Know what people want. What they … need.”

“People? I don’t know what people want. I just know you.” Dom fished around in the bowl of crisps in Bill’s lap and brought out a handful. He crammed them into his mouth and began crunching with gusto.

“All right, but how do you know? How do you know things about me that I don’t know?”

“Waves,” said Dom, in between crunches. “You give off waves, like.”

“I give off waves. Like the ocean.”

“No. More like the radio. But with color.”

Billy smacked his own forehead with the heel of his palm. “It makes soooooo much sense now. That’s why half the shoot keeps asking me, ‘Could you stand over there, Bill? Your waves are blocking my shot.’”

Dom licked the salt from his fingers, and Billy did not perve on the slender digits disappearing into the warm, wet mouth. Really, he didn’t. Because at that time, he and Dom were just mates, best mates, in the friendly sense of the word. Not, say, in the sense of the word as it’s used in the nature documentaries on BBC Four.

“Most people aren’t wired to sense the sound waves from dog whistles either,” Dom pointed out. “Doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”

“And you are,” said Billy, making an effort to understand. “You’re sort of a two-legged dog.”

“Please,” said Dom. “My ex-girlfriend would say ‘three.’” Eyes still fixed to the television screen, Dom reached again for the bowl of crisps, but Billy yanked it out of reach. Dom’s refusal to give a proper explanation for what had happened was beginning to get on his nerves.

“Dom, I lied. This thing with waves makes no sense at all.”

“It does to me,” said Dom. “Give.”

Billy braced himself in expectation of a scuffle. Dom was stronger than he, and his fight style, a masterful blend of tickling, nipple tweaks, and power yoga, tended to trump his Billy’s defense skills, which devolved into whooping, flailing, and inadvertent kicking whenever Dom’s hands were in his armpits. Usually, a moment’s combat would have left Billy panting and crispless, but this time, Dom was content to lay his hand palm-up in Billy’s lap, his eyes still focused on the oh-so-fascinating telly. And because they were friends, nothing more, Billy didn’t raise his hips to meet Dom’s hand as it nestled against his crotch. He didn’t even twitch.

“Fine, then. Tell me what I’m giving off right now.”

Billy relaxed his arms and legs and leaned back into the couch, imitating Dom’s sprawling posture. He gazed at the screen with bovine absorption. This was not to make a point about Dom’s zombified nonchalance, because it didn’t bother him that Dom was paying much more attention to the television than to him. Not at all. No, it was just to prevent Dom from looking directly into his eyes, in case that facilitated the transmission of the waves. Which didn’t even exist, because Billy would know if they did.

“Right,” said Dom, finally looking him over. “I do this for you, and I can go back to watching a knife-wielding doll in a corset.”

“It’s a bodice.”

“Since when are you an expert on women’s undergarments?”

“Never you mind, and, yes, yes, you can.”

“And you will give me back my crisps.”

“You got them out of my cupboard, daft git, but yes.”

“You’re on.” Billy shifted in his seat, his skin fairly prickling as Dom’s gaze traversed the side of his face.

“Quit wriggling,” said Dom.

“Then hurry.”

“It can’t be hurried. It’s like love in that Supremes song. You… your back hurts.”

“That’s a given. This couch is crap, ergo my back hurts. Your back probably hurts too.”

“And you wouldn’t mind putting away a shot of whiskey. With ice.”

“That’s like telling me I wouldn’t mind breathing air. With oxygen. Tell me something that isn’t obvious.”

“And you…oh. Jesus. Oh.” Dom looked away, coughed, and looked back. His right hand fidgeted for a moment, then came to rest high up on Billy’s thigh.

And Billy looked into Dom’s grey eyes and suddenly the things Dom was not saying were rolling out of them in waves.

Billy, you want me on top of you.

You want our bodies to tangle until they’re as jumbled and incestuous as our shucked clothing, lying in a pile on your bedroom floor. You want to moan and whimper and sob while our hipbones shake hands. You want to rake those once-tidy fingernails through the sweat that slicks my rising, falling back. You want me to map the interior of your sweet, desperate arse until you scream with the pleasure of it. You want to dissolve in an apocalypse of burning flesh, demanding teeth, relentless cock. You want to roll in my scent, wear my saliva, drink my cum. You want me to have you until there’s nothing left of you to have, and then you want to have me.

The unsaid things were like the sneeze, something Billy should have known first but didn’t, an explosion of discomfort and release that lifted and shook him before he had any inkling it was coming. He felt light, so light that Dom was able to yank him off the couch with just a flick of the wrist, and then they were upstairs, before Billy could even open his mouth to tell Dom that he was full of shite. And there, Billy got everything he wanted. Whether he had known he wanted it or not.

----------------------------------

Billy worries that Dom has left him. That he has gotten sick of the evening’s three-way, sick of games, sick of tickle fights, sick of Billy.

Then he finds Dominic nestled in a duvet on the balcony of their hotel room, and when he asks him what he is doing there, he says, “Waiting for you. Pining, actually.”

And Billy says, “You could at least play hard to get.”

Fic recommendations

Sun, 21 Nov 2004 12:24:25 GMT

These are a few of my favorite things. All are NC-17, just like life.

My sassy, talented beta snoopydance4me has posted part 4 of Cracker Jack Dreams, starring businessman!Dom and prostitute!Elijah. It's tender and sweet with the blazing aural sex for which she is justly famous. Extremely flammable; contents under pressure; possible explosion hazard. I fall a little harder in love with her characters on every reading.

tripping_sin's got some Monaboyd called crazymessofsomething. I knew this thing was clever, but I didn't realize how clever at first, because I wasn't up on Dom and Billy's past roles. Be aware that the first half of the fic contains emotional/physical abuse. The second half is all about the love, baby.

I really enjoyed Floor Show by firiel16. Sexy, hilarious DM/EW based on Billy and Elijah's January 2004 field trip to a strip club.

After the Cirith-Ungol-style orcish gang rape that was my country's presidential election, I was very much in the mood for hurt/comfort, and notabluemaia's The Ice Storm came through for me. Her Sam and Frodo are warm and soft in a world that is neither, and their desire for each other shines from the page.

Also, if you haven't checked it out already, visit the hobbit_art community. Owner wyna_hiros can draw, and her collaborators are amazing.

In life news, I have a new job, and it's good. Haven't written any fic since snoopydance4me's birthday, but hope to pull something together by Christmas. We'll see.

Pictures of Sean Astin from book signing

Thu, 21 Oct 2004 17:25:24 GMT

Behind the cut are pictures of Sean that I took at the book-signing last Saturday. Please don't reuse without permission. Thanks.

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Sean was signing copies of "There and Back Again: An Actor's Tale" at the Boston Museum of Science on October 16th. The signing was slated for 10:00, so I got there at about 8:30. I would have liked someone to go with me, but let's face it: most of my friends have not embraced geekery as a lifestyle to the extent that I have. Even Mr. Miri, who had to drag me kicking and screaming to the first LOTR movie, preferred to stay home.

The event had been billed on the website and in the member newsletter as not requiring tickets, but lo and behold, tickets were required. (Of course, the member newsletter and exhibit brochure both indicated that a book signing would be held on Friday, but that wasn't true either.) If you approached the museum on foot, you headed in the door leading from the street and were given free tickets, up until the point when the tickets ran out. However, many people, myself included, approached the museum from the parking lot, because Science Park is one of the least pedestrian-friendly portions of Boston, and that's saying something. Anyway, if you came in through the parking lot entrance, nobody gave you a ticket. You had to notice that somebody else had a ticket, ask them where they got it, and go track down the person who had given it to them. So it was chaos. Fortunately, I am very used to chaos, and my spirits were high.

While in line, I met M, a funny, down-to-earth woman accompanied by two 13-year-old girls dressed in garb. (I'm not going to write M's name out, because she may not wish to be featured on a site for which the primary purpose is the showcasing of hobbit porn. Hard to imagine, but true.) Anyway, M had stayed up all night making her daughter an incredible outfit based on Rosie's dress in Fellowship. She didn't have any pattern to go by, so they watched the DVD together, and M2, her daughter, hit pause when the dress hove into view. Anyway, many hours later: voila, dress. Accompanying M and M2 was M2's best friend. She was wearing the elven cloak that had been part of M2's Legolas outfit last Halloween. Anyway, over the course of the three hours in line, the emotional state of the two girls veered from excitement ("I love Sean!") to cynicism ("You know, Sean's really pompous.") and back again ("Mom, will you call him Seanie-Wonnie for me? C'mon, it'll be great!"). They were all cheerful and bright and very good at watching my stuff every time I wandered away to find a bathroom. I enjoyed hanging with them.

At 10:20, we got the impression that Sean had arrived at the place where he was going to be signing (a huge, open room directly in front of us and much further away than we would have liked). Either that, or Halle Berry had just shown up, because about a hundred camera flashes went off, and the people in the big room started screaming. So the girls in garb started screaming too, if only for a moment. It was like Beatlemania. Anyway, the people in the big room eventually calmed down, and some time, the line began to inch forward.

Eventually, we got to the front of it. There had been some question as to whether M and her garbed companions would be allowed to pass the checkpoint that led to the signing, because they had only two tickets for the three of them, and these were the wrong color. (I had tried to encourage the girls to go pick up purple tickets while there still were some, but they didn't want to leave the line until M came back from buying books, and by then, the purple tickets that gave one first priority in the line were gone.) When all was said and done, though, it seemed unlikely that the museum staff would brave the public relations debacle that would have been the inevitable result of turning away two adorable, patient kids in hobbit outfits. Anyway, staff let the kids and Mom go up to the book-signing table, where they got their books signed. The girls also got handshakes, which pretty much propelled them over the edge. The last time I saw the one who had said that Sean was pompous, she was having an uncontrollable crying fit over having touched him. Her friend was crying too. It was really sweet.

Anyway, Sean was really pleasant. I told him he was great in the movie (duh: how many billions of times does he hear that every day) and I gave him a little present. It was a copy of a writing pin that I had had for a long time, and which I had given to snoopydance4me after we became friends. I later bought myself another pin just like it, and I thought it would be funny for her and Sean and me to all have the same pin. It says "Write Hard, Die Free," and it has a little skull and crossbones over a crossed pen and pencil. You can see it here.

He studied it, and I told him that if he didn't want it, he could give it to Dom and Billy and tell them to finish their script. He said that the pin was a thing of beauty, and that he had talked with Dom recently. They had done an interview together via the miracle of conference calling. He said that Dom was in Hawaii, doing "Lost," and I said, "I know, I forgot to watch it on Wednesday." (Snoop informs me that I missed him getting his shirt ripped off by a boar. Argh!) At this point, Sean counseled me to get Tivo. Anyway, he signed four books for me and one little set of battle figurines depicting Sam, Frodo, and a surly orc with a whip. I would have brought more stuff to sign, but the word was that he would only do books and one item per person, and it was questionable as to whether he was going to sign more than one book.

As for the loot, one book went to Snoop (happy birthday!), one book went to me, the teenie-weenie battle figureenies are a Christmas present for my youngest sister, and I'm planning to auction the other two books off for the Toddapalooza fund. There's going to be an art show in memory of Todd in late November, so I might auction them off there. Or I might auction them off on the Internet, through an intermediary. I'm not sure yet.

All in all, it was a kick. Although I really only have eyes for Mr. Miri and Elijah, Sean looked very presentable in his dark shirt and dark hair (when did he get that done?) and several of my friends thought he looked hot in the photos. I was very surprised by the color of his eyes -- they were lighter and greener than I would have imagined. Though hazel, they seemed to glint aqua in the light. Of course, you can't tell that in the photos, because the red-eye tool that came with my software is not able to put that mix of colors in. Also, I want to say that the whole time I saw him interacting with people, he was unfailingly gracious and kind. When some people who hadn't gotten tickets shouted "Hi Sean" in unison from the overlooking balcony, he looked up at them and waved. It was a lot of fun going down to see him, and I hope he got some enjoyment (or at least some royalties) out of it as well.

The Mathom

Thu, 21 Oct 2004 16:45:45 GMT

Title: The Mathom
Author: mirith
Pairing: Frodo/Sam
Rating: NC-17
Summary: It’s Sam’s birthday, and Frodo has a present for him.
Disclaimer: Tolkein’s estate is paid in money for the use of these characters. I am paid only in squees.
Feedback: is so very, very important to me.
Written: 10/19-10/21
The birthday girl: Is snoopydance4me. She is my dear friend and beta, and this is for her on her birthday. And because it her birthday, she didn’t have to beta. Any mistakes are mine.

“To Samwise,” said Tom Cotton. “May his days be long.” A serving lass, one of the Green Dragon’s finest, stopped to refill the tankards, and everyone drank heartily.

“To Samwise,” continued Tom’s brother Jolly, raising his glass towards the maid’s retreating skirts. “May his nights be longer!”

“Oh, there, now,” protested Sam, coloring, but his voice was lost among the cheers of the inebriated young tradesfolk and servants who had come to celebrate his 22nd birthday. He took a swig of ale and let his gaze wander away from the table. Most of the company’s attention was focused on the broad hips disappearing into the kitchen, but Sam’s mind was elsewhere.

Falco Chubb shot Sam a sly glance. “Someone you’re waiting on?” he said in a stage whisper. “You’ve had one eye on the door all night.”

“Not true,” said Jolly, waggling his eyebrows. “Sometimes he’s had two. Who’s the lucky lass, Samwise?”

Before the host of the party could formulate a reply, the door swept open. Sam’s view was partly obstructed by the crowd, but he could make out tawny blonde curls above a gaudy, brocaded weskit, then waves of brown hair above a pointed chin.

Meriadoc Brandybuck, as I sow and weed. And the other is Peregrin Took. Sam bolted from his seat to see if anyone were with them, but they were alone. He gave them a polite nod, more because they were Frodo’s cousins than because they were gentlefolk. According to local custom, class distinctions were not given as much weight within the Dragon’s walls as they were without. This circumstance had arisen from necessity, for it had become clear to all that after a pint or two, most patrons of the establishment did not know whether they were cart horses or kings.

Sam slumped back onto the bench where he had been sitting. He was surprised when the two gentlehobbits approached him.

“Happy birthday, Sam!” said Pippin, wedging himself between Samwise and Faldo. Pippin had a genius for making space where there had been no space to begin with, and it stood him in good stead at the local tavern. Merry squeezed in on the other side of Sam, and the latter found himself the filling of a cousin pie.

“Thankee, Master Peregrin,” Sam said. “Evening, Master Meriadoc. Here for a spot of ale?”

“In good time,” said Merry. “Frodo sent us to look for you. There was some talk of a mathom.”

“He must not have seen!” said Sam, perplexed. “I planted three blackberry bushes outside his window while he was in Buckland today, and two young apple trees besides. Begging your pardon, but I’m not one to forget Mr. Frodo on my birthday.” Or ever, he silently added, though, given Frodo’s absence from the night’s festivities, it didn’t look as though the arrangement was reciprocal.

In truth, Sam looked forward to his birthday as a time when he could do extra things for his master without causing anyone – and in particular, the recipient of the all the attention – to raise an eyebrow. His feelings for Frodo were not meant to be public. Although in recent weeks, Sam had begun to fret that Frodo already knew.

“Oh, he saw,” commented Pippin. “He loved them.”

Sam looked from one cousin to the other, then began to worry his bottom lip with his teeth. If Frodo had sent Merry and Pippin out to collect mathoms of their own, he was in a tight spot. He didn’t know them well, and he hadn’t anything for them.

“He wants to give you a mathom,” said Merry, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

“Something for me? On my birthday?” It was unheard of, but then, the Bagginses were an unusual clan. Frodo paid little attention to what was expected of him. It was one of the things that made him … a marvel, thought the gardener. He tried to banish the thought from his head, and only succeeding in conjuring up visions of Frodo’s cornflower eyes, his poppy mouth, and the lithe body for which the world of horticulture afforded no obvious match.

“Right,” said Pippin. “It’s at Bag End.” He tossed his head towards the door, as if expecting Sam to go through it.

“That’s very fine of him,” managed Sam, “and no mistake. I’ll be there in the morning.”

“He’d like you to come now,” said Merry. Pippin tried to squeak something out, but his kinsman clapped a hand over his mouth.

Sam stared at Merry. He wasn’t sure how late it was, and any sundial that could have told him had stopped functioning some time ago.

“Right now,” reiterated Merry. “And don’t worry about the Gaffer. Frodo already talked with him, and your family’s not expecting you.”

“Then I’d best be going,” said Sam, rising to his feet. “If Mr. Frodo needs me...”

“Oh, he does,” said Pippin. He looked as if he planned to say more, but Merry shot him a look that would curdle cream, and he contented himself with taking a healthy draught from Sam’s tankard. By the time Pippin put the ale down, Sam had said his good-byes and was halfway to the door.

When he knocked at the entrance to Bag End a short while later, there was no response. Sam groaned at his own gullibility.

“The idea,” he muttered. “Making me come here in the middle of the night to disturb Mr. Frodo’s sleep.” He had heard that Frodo’s cousins were full of mischief, and this proved it. He was heading in the direction of 3 Bagshot Row when he noticed a candle shining in one of Mr. Frodo’s windows.

That’s no good, thought Sam. He’ll burn the place down if he’s not careful. His master was usually conscientious about such things, but lately, he had seemed distracted. Just the other day, Sam had brought him a cup of tea, and though Sam had greeted Frodo on entering the room, the older hobbit had nearly toppled out of his chair.

Sam returned to Frodo’s door. There were smears of what appeared to be jam on the brass doorknob, no doubt a testament to Pippin’s recent departure. Sam got out his handkerchief to wipe it down, and was taken aback when the door swung open a few inches under his gentle pressure. It hadn’t been locked; it hadn’t even been fully closed. Sam debated with himself as to whether he should go in and risk waking his employer. He was generally protective of Frodo’s rest, but at the moment, he was more concerned that he not be broiled in his bed. Taking a deep breath, he slipped inside.

What Sam saw next struck him as very strange. In addition to the candle in the window, there was another candle resting on a tea saucer on the floor. Then another, and another, in a line that led into the smial. Sam tried to come up with alternative explanations, but it was no good: the lights had been deliberately set to form a trail. One that led to Frodo’s bedchamber.

With hope and fear at the reins, Sam’s heart gathered speed. He snuffed out the window candle, then set about extinguishing the candles on the floor. He left the last taper burning and picked it up, saucer and all. He held it aloft with an unsteady hand, and its light flickered against Frodo’s door.

A voice from within called out something that sounded like Sam’s name. That was encouragement enough, and Sam let himself in.

The light temporarily dazzled him. There were candles everywhere, the handiwork of more bees than Sam knew existed. When his vision cleared, he was able to make out Frodo, lying in bed and covered by a thin quilt. He was sweetly luminous against the pillows. Sam set his candle down on the nearest piece of furniture, an oaken wardrobe, for in his state of shock, it was either that or drop it.

“Mr. Frodo,” he gasped. “Not wanting to be any trouble, sir, but Master Peregrine…he said you…” It was difficult to concentrate on his errand, because Frodo’s shoulders were uncovered. In fact, the shape of the quilt suggested that underneath, the rest of Frodo was as deliciously bare as his shoulders. Trying not to let his eyes wander from the delicate face, he let the sentence fade. He couldn’t finish it without sounding presumptuous.

“Wanted you?” asked Frodo, softly.

“Yes. No.” Sam began again. “Not me, as you might say; just my presence. For a bit. Or more. Or however long you like.” His tongue was dragging him around in circles, so he bit down on it, trying to show it who was in charge.

“It’s all right,” said Frodo. Amusement turned his voice to silver, but something else darkened it. It made his voice catch in his throat, then break forth in a rumble, throaty and intense. “Would you like to sit down?”

“Aye, if it’d be no bother.” Sam was feeling dizzy, and a chair would have been welcome. He looked around the room, but didn’t see one. He looked back to the bed. Although Frodo was small in size, he seemed to be taking up a lot of it.

“Where would you like me to sit?” he continued. Whatever had been affecting Frodo’s voice was now affecting his. “I could take the floor, if you want to sit up where you are.”

“I can’t sit up, Sam. Not at the moment.” Frodo glanced towards his right arm, flung out in a direct line towards the bedpost. His left arm was in a similar position.

Sam’s eyes widened in shock. Somebody had lashed Frodo to the bedposts with a quantity of dark blue ribbon.

“Did your cousins do this?” asked Sam. The rascality of Frodo’s relations astonished him. “Never you mind, Mr. Frodo, I’ll have you loose in a minute.” He made for the ribbon closest to him, but the look in Frodo’s eyes stopped him. “Sir?”

“Merry did it. Pippin mostly bounced around, whooping. I…I asked them to.”

Sam pondered this. “The mathom,” he said, choosing his words as if they were to last him through the next spring. “Is it…”

“Me. Yes. If you’d like. You don’t have to. That’s what the ribbons are for. This way, nothing happens unless you wish it. If you’d like to go home…”

Sam swallowed hard. “I’d like to stay.” He reached out a tentative hand and stroked one of his master’s shoulders. Frodo closed his eyes and vibrated. Sam could not decide whether he was shivering or purring.

Sam was grateful for the contact, but it inflamed his desire for more. “If you don’t mind, sir, might I kiss you?” he asked. His heart tossed like a newly landed fish, and he tried to start over. “I mean to say…”

“Please,” said Frodo, tilting his head back in anticipation. Sam bent over the bed, but the position of nightstand precluded him from getting close enough to reach Frodo’s mouth.

“You might have more luck,” observed Frodo, “if you were to…you know…get on top of me.”

Hardly believing what he was hearing, Sam climbed the recumbent form. Once on top, he held himself up with his arms and peered into Frodo’s eyes.

“I’m not hurting you, am I? Tell me if I am.” Sam was usually comfortable with his own hobbit sturdiness, but he couldn’t help but think that, at the moment, it might more practical to share Frodo’s slender, elven build.

“It feels good to have your weight on me. Please, Sam. More.”

Sam lowered himself, moaning once his master was trapped beneath him. He had dreamed of this many times. It seemed likely that he was dreaming now, and that he would wake up, sticky and alone, to the sounds of Marigold cooking breakfast. But Frodo’s warm breath against his face seemed so real. Reminded of what he had come for, he slipped his hand under his beloved’s head, raised it from the bed, and kissed him.

Had Sam compared Frodo’s red mouth to a poppy earlier in the evening? The comparison seemed more apt now, for it was said that the juice of the poppy had the power to delight, to enrapture. The news from Bree was that it was dangerous to try it, for once a hobbit had tasted the juice, he would close his lips against all other food and drink. Frodo’s lips were petal-soft, and when he parted them slightly, inviting Sam in, the gardener felt as though he were under an enchantment. Whatever they were doing, he never wanted to stop. It could no longer be called kissing, because a kiss was something that one might bestow upon one’s maiden aunt. The bold seduction of one tongue against another was something else – a rite of claiming, erotic and fierce.

“Mmmm,” groaned Frodo, low in his throat. Sam gently lowered the heavy head on to the pillow to let his master have air. “It’s so good. Sam, please have me.”

Sam pushed Frodo’s dark curls back from his eyes, unsure of what he wanted. “I have you, Mr. Frodo. You’re safe. Sam’s got you.” He tucked his hands under Frodo’s shoulders and pressed him close.

“I want you to have more of me,” said Frodo, managing to spread his legs apart. Apparently, they weren’t bound. The only thing that had been holding them in place was Sam.

Oh? Oh! Sam stared at his master in amazement. He hoped that he was interpreting Frodo’s wishes correctly. “Begging your pardon…” he began.

“You don’t need to beg, Sam.” Frodo smiled, as though finding Sam’s air of deference incongruous, given their current situation. “You can have anything you want. Even if it’s just to go out in the kitchen and have a cup of tea. Though it would be sporting of you to let me up, first.”

“Don’t care about food nor drink right now, except what’s directly in front of me.” The truth came out of him in a rush, and he couldn’t stop it. “I want you, Mr. Frodo. I want to love you.”

Sam marvelled at his own audacity. Throughout the Shire, the idea of a Gamgee propositioning a Baggins would have been considered shocking. But here, in this small bedchamber, with Frodo underneath him, Sam could not resist.

Frodo gave a little gasp, arching his body like a cat that has exchanged a field of snow for a blazing hearth. “I want that too, Sam. You’ve no idea how much.”

Sam rolled off Frodo and ran a wondering hand over his lightly veiled form. The thin counterpane was inadequate to disguise Frodo’s arousal.

“I may have some idea,” Sam teased, eyeing Frodo’s crotch. “Not that my own condition is any different. It looks as though you’ve already discovered that.” Frodo blushed, aware that he’d been caught staring at the bulge straining against Sam’s woolen trousers. As if in sympathy, Sam’s own blood rushed through his body, though not to his face.

Sam leaned over to press his lips against his love’s ear. “It’s not fitting,” he said, “for a gardener to be clad in wool and linen when the master of the house has nowt but a coverlet. It’s time things were set to rights, wouldn’t you say?”

“It’s past time,” moaned Frodo, his hips arcing up off the bed.

“I can’t dress you, you know,” murmured Sam, pulling back to stroke his own chin. “Not with your arms tied to the bedposts. It’s a puzzlement, Mr. Frodo.” He pretended to consider the problem of achieving equity.

“It’s no such thing,” said Frodo. “Samwise Gamgee, if you don’t take your clothes off this instant, I’ll undress you with my toes.”

“Might enjoy that, love,” Sam remarked, but he sat up, let his feet dangle off the bed, and began to undo his shirt buttons. When he was finished, he turned his head to glance at his sole observer. Noticing that he had Frodo’s complete attention, he let the shirt fall off one shoulder. Frodo let out a strangled cry and began to bounce his heels with impatience.

“Please, Sam. Not so slow.”

Taking pity on his master, Sam pulled the shirt off the rest of the way, then held it in his lap. “I suppose you’ll be wanting the breeches off as well.”

“Yes,” said Frodo. “Everything. I want you naked and on top of me, as fast as you can manage.”

“Well, I can’t undress in front of you,” mused Sam. “Folk would talk.” He was only half-joking. The thought of getting undressed under that steady, blue gaze had brought on a sudden fit of shyness.

Frodo tensed his muscles, trying to get closer to Sam. “Then cover my eyes with something. I don’t mind. Please, Sam. You can arrange me however you like.”

Sam considered this, then covered Frodo’s eyes and nose with several layers of his own white shirt. “Is this all right?”

“It’s fine,” said Frodo. “Sweet Eru, it’s more than fine. You were gardening in this shirt, weren’t you? Putting in those lovely plants for me. I can smell them. And the grass. And the sunshine. And you.”

Greatly stirred, Sam rose to his feet and fumbled with the buttons on his trousers. When he saw Frodo waiting for him, bound and hard, he wondered why he hadn’t shucked his clothes and taken him the minute he walked in the door. He let his breeches drop to the floor, then stepped out of his linens.

Samwise pulled back the quilt, exposing the curves and planes of Frodo’s pale body as far down as his waist. “Beautiful,” he murmured. “Sweet, beautiful master.” Though the weather was warm, Frodo trembled.

“It’s only me, love,” said the seated hobbit. “Only Sam.” He lay down on his side, nestling his body against Frodo’s. Acutely aware that his hardness was pressed against his master’s hip, he traced Frodo’s lips with trembling fingers, and gasped when the lips parted to take the fingers in. Sam moaned. It felt as though Frodo were licking and sucking a portion of Sam that was much more sensitive than his hand.

“Let me touch you,” Sam pleaded.

Frodo nodded, so Sam moved his warm, wet hand down Frodo’s throat. He touched the apple there. It was part and parcel of Frodo’s maleness, and it excited him, but then, Frodo excited him a thousand times a day just puttering around the smial. He moved down to Frodo’s chest, stroking and caressing. Frodo was breathing hard now, and it gave Sam pleasure to think that his master was enjoying his attentions. Emboldened, he ran a thumb over Frodo’s nipple, then prepared to continue downward, as though touching his love there had been pure happenstance. But Frodo cried out and pressed against Sam’s hand, and suddenly, Sam was in no hurry.

“Frodo, is it…is it good?”

Sam had never addressed his love without an honorific before, but somehow, he felt that it might please his master to hear it that way. He was relieved when Frodo smiled, his nipple hardening against Sam’s touch.

“Yes,” gasped the writhing form on the bed. “Everything you do feels good to me, Sam. Touch me wherever you like.”

Sam stroked the tender flesh for a while, then let his hand continue its progression down to the flat planes of Frodo’s upper stomach. He hesitated for a moment, resting his fingers in the soft curls that began at Frodo’s belly. The curls disappeared under the quilt, and Sam thought of the trail of candles, leading him on through the darkness.

Frodo called his name, and the yearning in his voice was unmistakable. In a fit of unsurpassed daring, Sam reached under the quilt and touched his master.

“Ohhh,” said Frodo, and his cock leapt and jerked against Sam’s hand. Sam thought of the time he had played with a half-tame deer that one of his cousins had raised from a fawn. He had touched one of the antlers, expecting hardness, and it was there, but covered with something unimaginably soft and sweet. Frodo was like that: strength sheathed in velvet.

Sam pulled the shirt from Frodo’s eyes and tossed it onto the floor. Then he rested his head against a pale shoulder and continued stroking. “I love you,” he murmured. “You know that, don’t you? It would cut me to the heart if you didn’t.”

“I’ve always known you loved me,” said Frodo. He pressed his lips to Sam’s hair. “Just as I always knew I loved you back. It just took me a while to find out what that meant.”

“And what does it mean?” asked Sam, stilling his hand.

“It means this,” said Frodo, and Sam remembered to breathe again. “It means that I want to be with you. This way, if you’ll let me, but all the other ways besides. I want us to eat seven meals a day together, and eight when there’s pie. I want to help you plant in spring, weed in summer, harvest in autumn, and when winter comes, I want us to make plans for the spring. I want my heart to beat in your chest the way yours does in mine. I want every leaf of your garden to say ‘Frodo’ to you, just as every page of my library says ‘Sam’ to me. I want to love you and know you, Samwise; know you better than I know myself.”

“You already do,” Sam said. “I wanted those things too, I just never reckoned on saying them. Master…” He lifted his eyes to Frodo’s and recognized his own tenderness and desire mirrored there.

“You don’t have to ask,” said Frodo.

Sam reached down and pulled back the coverlet, exposing the rest of his beloved’s body. As he crawled over Frodo, he felt, perhaps for the first time in his life, completely naked. Frodo seemed to feel it too, for the look on his face was equal parts vulnerability and exhilaration. Sam looked into blue depths and saw again that he was loved.

“Before I make love to you…” Sam stopped, unsure of how to proceed.

The idea of being made love to must have been agreeable to Frodo, because Sam felt his master’s erection surge against his own.

“Yes?” Frodo asked. His face was flushed, and his breathing was shallow.

“I don’t want to bring you any harm. If I could just nip out to the kitchen for a moment, I’m sure I could find summat to ease the pangs for you. Cooking oil, maybe.”

Frodo smiled. “I’m ready, Samwise. When you enter me, you’ll see.”

“You’re ready? Did Merry…put something in you?” Sam felt a stab of jealousy.

“No,” said Frodo. “I prepared myself with rose oil, then covered myself up with the quilt. Merry only tied my arms afterwards.”

“And other than that, he didn’t lay a hand on you?” Sam did not see how anyone could see Frodo – bound and naked, but for a thin layer of fabric – and not make love to him.

“He wanted to,” Frodo admitted. “Pippin talked him out of it.”

Sam imagined that Pippin’s style of “talking,” under such circumstances, would involve anything from cajoling to hair-pulling to threats involving kitchen implements. Pippin, who was sweet on Merry, would brook no rival, even one as cherished as his dear cousin Frodo.

“You prepared yourself for me,” murmured Sam in a tone of wonderment. “You were that certain, like, that we would come to this?”

“I was certain that if we did, I wanted to be ready for you. I need you, Samwise.”

“Then you’ll have me,” said Sam. “You’ve always had me, Mr. Frodo, and no mistake.”

Sam knelt between Frodo’s parted thighs. He had seen his master naked before – arising from the bath, say, or swimming, as only Bucklanders were wont to do, down at Bywater Pool. These furtive glimpses had formed the basis of Sam’s stickiest dreams. Sam had never expected to see his love as he saw him now: limbs spread apart, his body offered. Desire had turned Frodo’s eyes to coal and his cock to granite, his hips to ocean and his mouth to fire. Sam looked at him and knew, more than ever, what it was to want.

“May I touch you?” asked Sam. “Here, where I’m going to…enter you. I wouldn’t want the breaching to be rough.”

“Yes,” said Frodo. “Please, Sam.”

Sam stroked the entrance to Frodo’s body. Frodo moaned and shifted. Sam pressed one finger into him and held it there, letting his master get used to it. It wasn’t long before Frodo was begging for more fingers. Sam obliged. Once he had three fingers inside his slippery beloved, Frodo cried out. The look on his face was passion, not pain.

“It’s good,” breathed Frodo. “When your fingers bump against the upper wall, something there craves more. I crave more. Now, Sam. Will you take me now?”

“Yes, love.” Breathing hard, Sam stroked his own swollen cock with the shining oil he had found inside Frodo. He knelt over his love and let his hard length come to rest against the place that would shelter it. He wrapped one hand around his shaft to steady it, then, taking a deep breath, he pushed the head of his cock inside.

“Master,” cried Sam, hoping the tone of his voice could explain what his words could not. He had known Frodo first as his employer, then as his friend, then as the person he most loved in the world. Now he knew him also as the source of all pleasure, an avatar of tightness and heat.

“Sam, I love you. I can’t wait any more. Press into me. Not just the head, but everything."

Sam obeyed, and Frodo cried out, his eyes wide. “Like that,” he said, wrapping his legs around Sam’s sturdy back. “Do it again.”

Sam began to slide in and out of Frodo’s unresisting body. He looked down at where the two of them were joined, and the sight of Frodo accommodating his thick arousal took his breath away. He remembered what his master had said about the upper wall, and he angled his strokes to touch him there.

Frodo was panting now. “You’re so stiff,” he managed. “It makes me hot to think the stiffness is for me. And the way you’re touching me…you’ve got me so excited. I can’t last.”

“You don’t have to last, sweetheart. Lie back. I’ll take care of you.” Sam used one hand to hold himself up, then wrapped the other hand, which was still slippery with oil, around Frodo’s shaft.

Frodo’s eyes rolled back in his head. His body was misted in a fine sheen of sweat, and his heart was beating so hard that Sam swore he could hear it.

“Is it all right, love? Tell me what to do. Help me please you…”

“Harder,” gasped Frodo. “Do it harder. I’m close, Samwise, so close…”

Sam abandoned himself to his master’s request. His cock and hand moved in unison, and he could feel Frodo clenching around his hardness in time with his fist clenching around Frodo’s cock.

“Yessss,” keened Frodo. “Please, yes. Put it in me, Sam. I need to feel you…”

The sound of Frodo begging to be taken was too much for Sam. He could feel a tightness forming at the base of his balls, then a warmth that became a fire. As he screamed his lover’s name, the world tipped like a pitcher, pouring the contents of his own body into the vessel beneath him. Sam’s liquid offering fuelled his master’s climax like burning oil fuels a wick, and Frodo spilled hard and fast against both their stomachs as Sam and pleasure claimed him.

Afterwards, when Sam had untied the ribbons that had bound his mathom, they lay in each other’s arms, murmuring their love.

After a while, Sam’s eyes opened wide. “Birch,” he said.

Frodo laughed. “What?”

“I’d been trying to think of what kind of plant you were, all slender and white and strong, and I have it. You’re a birch. Silver birch. You know, the way it shines when the moon strikes it just right.”

“Am I shining, Sam?”

“You fair glow, Mr. Frodo. It’s something to see.”

“Then you must be moonlight,” said Frodo, tangling his fingers in Sam’s hair. “Will you plant a birch for me on your next birthday?”

“Aye. And you can tell me what sort of tree I am, and I’ll plant it alongsides.”

“Then maybe you ought to come and live with me, Sam. That way, I’ll have plenty of time to discover what kind of tree you are.”

Sam grinned with astonishment and joy. “That I will, Mr. Frodo,” he said, holding his lover tightly. “That I will.”

retirement

Wed, 15 Sep 2004 00:35:42 GMT

I'm taking an LJ vacation which may or may not be permanent. I won't delete this journal before 1/12/04, so if there's anything you want, please feel free to save it to your hard drive now. Thanks. You've been wonderful. I can't believe what a fantastic community -- or should I say "fellowship"? -- this is.

Boys' Night In, a Dombillijah series

Chapter one, chapter two, chapter three

Hobbit Slash

The Mathom, Hobbit Medicine, Taking Care of Pippin

Drabble

Location, Location, Location

Tue, 14 Sep 2004 14:51:16 GMT

Title: Boys’ Night In (part three)
Author: mirith
Group: Dom/Billy/Elijah
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Elijah needs to lose control.
Disclaimer: I don’t own them; they own me. This is completely fictional, but there's a crispy five-dollar bill in it for them if they make it happen.
Warnings: BDSM. Some breath play, which is always dangerous, so don’t do it. Hot men, who are also dangerous, but should be done anyway.
Feedback: The people who write it rule my universe.
Written: 8/30/04-9/13/04
My sister in slash: Is honey lamb sweetie pie lil’ ever-lovin’ jellybean, aka snoopydance4me. Thank you for your support, corrections, and inspired perversity. Love you always.

The world returns to Elijah in stages. First there is scent: earthy, male, heavy with desire. Next comes feel: the warm body sheltering him, the gentle lips against his throat, the fingers—too slim to be Billy’s—caressing his thigh.

“Up you get, princess,” says a voice straight out of Manchester. “Let’s make you tidy.” Footsteps retreat across the carpet. A shower turns on.

Groggily, Elijah lifts his head from the crook of Billy’s shoulder. He presses his mouth to Billy’s neck, then pulls out. He rolls off the recumbent form and on to the bed, where he fixes the ceiling with a grateful stare.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

“It was good, wasn’t it?” Billy strokes the younger man’s cheek. “Was it really your first time?”

“With a Scot? Yeah.”

“Daft Yankee.” Billy ruffles his hair. “With a man.”

“Yeah.” Elijah turns his head and licks Billy’s hand. “First time. But not my last.” He has seen Dom ask Billy questions without speaking, and now he searches for the channel that will allow him to do that, because there’s something he wants to know.

“You learn fast,” says Billy, evading the question.

A wet facecloth lands on Elijah’s shoulder with a resounding splat. “Hey. Cuddle-bugs. Rise and shine.” Dom is standing in the doorway to the bathroom.

“Why do we have to bathe him?” Billy wants to know. He nestles his face in Elijah’s armpit and inhales. Elijah can feel Billy’s lips curve in a smile. “I’ve just put all that effort into getting him to smell just right. Come here, smell him.”

“I can smell him from here, thank you. It’s like a screaming army of well-lubed Picts has had him. Now do you want to see him wet or not?”

Billy rises from the bed, then extends a hand to the American. “Come on,” he says. “Let me show you how nice the bath is. The tub is huge.” He pulls Elijah up, places a hand on his back, and squires him to the bathroom. Elijah considers bringing the washcloth, but decides he’d rather use his hands. Or someone else’s.

Dom is now leaning back against the counter, his legs spread. “You,” says Billy, frowning at him. “When are you taking those trousers off?”

“When I have a reason to,” says Dom, his grin the definition of cheeky. He puts his hands in his back pockets and lets his hips roll forward.

Billy sizes up the situation, or perhaps just Dom, and quirks an eyebrow in Elijah’s direction. A week ago, Elijah would merely have returned the gesture, but now he kneels in front of the half-clad man and nuzzles his leather crotch. Dom pulls Elijah closer and grinds against him, moaning.

A few moments pass. “Now,” revises the Englishman. “I’m taking them off now.”

Eager to please, Elijah puts his hand to Dom’s buttons, but the older man swats him away.

“God, no. Don’t make them any tighter on me than you already have. They’ll explode.” He begins to wrestle with the buttons himself.

In terms of “boxers or briefs,” Dom has chosen “C, none of the above,” and Elijah deems it an excellent choice. He hasn’t had time to study Dom’s equipment in detail this evening, because it’s been either in his trousers or down somebody’s throat. But now the last of Dom’s clothing falls to the floor, and Elijah’s mouth goes dry.

“Bottle blond,” Billy remarks, fondly.

“Hush.” Dom swats him on the arm. “I’ll make him lick your armpits out; don’t think that I won’t.”

“Wanker. You love it.” Billy herds Elijah into the rear end of the shower, away from the spray. “And do something about that tongue. I know where’s it been.”

“Right,” snorts Dom. “I’m here with a chain-smoker and a man who eats haggis, and I’m the one who has to do something about his tongue?”

“Yes, you are. Put down my toothbrush. There’s mouthwash on the counter.”

“You just want to get him alone in the shower,” grumbles Dom. He gargles anyway.

Billy climbs into the shower after Elijah and closes the curtain behind him. Water runs down his body in rivulets, caressing his hair, his strong shoulders, his chest. Elijah follows a single drop with his eyes, watching as it shimmers down Billy’s resting cock. Wherever it passes, the skin glistens. When it reaches the tip, Elijah falls to his knees and catches it in his mouth. Billy tastes salty and sweet.

There’s a gasp, then strong hands haul him up by his armpits. “Easy, sweetheart. Not all of us are ready to go after five minutes. Have mercy.”

“Feel free to call for reinforcements,” gurgles Dom.

“You can come in when you’re hygienic.” Billy gives Elijah a smile and a bottle of liquid soap. “Here, keep yourself occupied.”

Elijah slicks his palms with soap, then sets the bottle down on the side of the tub. He slides his arms under Billy’s, then reaches back to soap Billy’s drenched shoulders. They feel hard and smooth against his fingers.

“Is it…,” he begins.

Billy sighs with contentment and sinks a little deeper into the massage. “Yeah. Do it harder.”

Elijah kneads and rubs. The pressure he’s exerting knocks the other man off balance, and he ends up with an armful of wet, naked Billy. And now Elijah is wet too, and whimpering.

“Do NOT let him fuck you again,” instructs a voice from the other side of the shower curtain. “Jesus, I’ve never seen such perverts. I’m putting my trousers away, and when I come back, I want a turn.”

Unfazed, Billy leans back against the shower wall. “Stand in front of me,” he says. Quick to obey, Elijah stands sideways under the showerhead. His skin tingles on the side that is catching the bulk of the spray.

“What do you want to do with me?” asks Billy. “Bearing in mind that I’m not letting you fuck me just now.”

“You could do me,” says Elijah, but he sees the head shake coming before it arrives.

“I have done. Something else.”

His eyes locked on Billy, Elijah picks up the bottle of soap and pumps a generous dollop of the creamy liquid onto his hands. The other man edges closer to him. As he brushes up against Elijah’s body, spray rains down upon him, wetting him from chest to feet. Then he leans back against the shower wall, out of reach of the spray.

“Where are you going?” Elijah asks. In answer, Billy grabs hold of Elijah’s wrist, then places the soapy palm directly on his own dripping chest. The gesture is simultaneously submissive and dominant. Elijah doesn’t know whether to be more thrilled that Billy is offering renewed access to his body, or that he’s directing the action, showing Elijah how and where he wants to be touched.

“Fucking hell,” says the dark-haired man, inadvertently imitating his partner’s speech patterns. As soon as he feels Billy’s heart beating against his hand, he drops the bottle.

“Fast, yeah?”

Elijah nods. Billy’s skin, soft, wet, and lightly furred, is interfering with his ability to speak.

“Put it down to seeing you naked. Let’s see if we can make it faster.”

Slowly, Billy drags Elijah’s hand over his body. Elijah gasps as his slender fingers are made to circle a nipple, and the rosy flesh hardens against his touch.

“That’s it,” murmurs Billy. “Mmm, where will I put you next?” He guides the hand over his rib cage, spreading the soap around. The hand moves where Billy wants it to – his belly, his armpits, his muscular thighs. Everywhere, thinks Elijah, but…

The lure of the sweet, slippery skin is too strong. Elijah pulls out of the other man’s grasp, then uses the successfully extricated hand to hold Billy’s pelvis against the wall. He wraps the other arm around Billy’s neck and grinds his hips against him. Although Billy is not getting any direct spray, water has been reflecting off Elijah’s body and onto him. Elijah licks it from his shoulders, his collarbones, the hollow of his throat.

Licking gives way to sucking. “Fuck, yeah,” moans Billy, and his voice is sin and butterscotch. “Oh fuck, fuck…” Their bodies press against each other, and their mouths meet, separate, and meet again.

Elijah makes stuttering groans in the back of his throat. He pulls back to catch some spray on his tongue, then lets it drizzle from his mouth to Billy’s. The Scot breaks away from the kiss and slides down the length of Elijah’s body, transferring his lather and wetness to the younger man’s chest, belly, legs. Then he slides back up, stopping to nuzzle Elijah’s cock. The younger man closes his eyes and tilts his head back. His lips part in a silent acknowledgement of readiness, and the water trickling down his face spills lewdly into his mouth.

“Now there’s a pretty picture,” states a familiar voice. “Nasssty hobbitses.” Elijah opens his eyes to find that Dom has drawn back the shower curtain in order to get a better view. The younger man looks down, trying to avoid the gaze, but only succeeds in getting an eyeful of his own gleaming hips pressed against Billy’s; his own dark, sopping curls tangling with his partner’s light brown hair.

“Just keeping him warm for you,” says Billy, his fingertip tracing Elijah’s spine.

“You’ve certainly kept him wet,” says Dom. “Back up against the far side of the tub, and take him with you. I’m getting in.”

Billy backs up, as requested, and guides Elijah into position, facing him. Elijah goes willingly, eager for more contact with the other man’s skin. Not waiting for a sign, he pins his lover’s wrists against the wall, then traps him there with his body. Billy moans and shifts. He needs more room to accommodate his growing arousal, and he struggles to get it. Elijah is enjoying the thrashing when he feels a hand stroking his hip from behind.

“I’ve never seen anyone who needs cock more,” says a voice next to Elijah’s ear. “Let’s finish with the washing up. This is going to be a beautiful evening.”

Elijah loses his grip and stumbles backward, partly out of surprise, and partly because, when Dom’s vocal cords are near, the rest of him can’t be far behind. He is rewarded by the feel of sturdy arms closing around his waist.

Dom presses his hardness against the younger man’s cleft. “Is there something you want?”

“Oh, Jesus…” There are many things that Elijah wants, but for now, Dom is soaping him, and Billy is helping. Elijah’s eyes stop focusing, and he gives himself up to it: the teeth at the nape of his neck; the mouth blowing the bubbles from his upper thigh; the slippery, probing fingers exploring him from every direction.

“Unghhh,” manages Elijah, as Dom’s slender fingers penetrate him. Thicker fingers caress the head of Elijah’s cock. “Yeah, good…touch me…ohhhh…”

“You sound like a man who wants to be fucked,” muses Dom, trailing the fingers of his free hand over Elijah’s chest. “Is that what you need? A good, hard working-over?”

“Oh, God, yes…”

“I can’t hear you. The water’s too loud.”

“Yes, please, yes…”

“Complete sentences, Elijah, or I’ll have no idea what you want.”

“Fuck me, Dommie; I need you to fuck me…”

“I can’t fuck just anybody. I have a boyfriend, you know. You’d have to ask him.”

Elijah is very much aware of Dom’s boyfriend, because he’s currently dragging his short, neat fingernails over Elijah’s testicles. “Billy…fuck’s sake…don’t let him keep me on edge…”

“Why not?” Billy wants to know. He moves his hand further back, looking for the spot that will make Elijah gasp. He finds it.

“Because…guhhh…Jesus, Bill…my fucking balls are indigo…”

“I’m looking right at them. They’re a healthy pink.”

“Then…” Elijah wracks his brains. “Because…I’ll…I’ll give it up however he wants it. No, however you want it. Any way you ask me to. You know I will.” He only half-knows what he’s saying, and he’s already leaking pre-come.

“Tempting offer,” Dom remarks.

“I don’t know,” comments Billy. “He’s very tight. I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself pushing in.”

“Billy…” Elijah’s pleading is curtailed when Dom drags him backward, under the spray, and the air in his mouth is replaced by water. He sputters, dimly aware that the soap is streaming off him. Billy follows him. Their lips meet, and Elijah no longer needs his own air supply, because Dom’s boyfriend is breathing into him. Wet hands navigate his hips. After a few moments, Billy hauls him back out of the hot spray.

“Right,” he says, unexpectedly businesslike. “Dominic, put the stopper down, and boost the temperature. I wouldn’t want him to catch a chill.”

“Are you sure? You know how pretty he is when his nipples are hard.” Elijah is confident the argument is just for show, because Dom obeys before he even finishes making it.

Billy arranges himself in a sitting position against the far end of the tub, then leans back, legs apart. Elijah recognizes Billy’s gaze as an order, and he eases himself into position, letting his back and ass come to rest against warm, drenched skin.

Dom crawls over Elijah. His arousal is dragging over Elijah’s body, but his eyes are on Billy. “Can I have him?” he asks.

Elijah’s head flops back against Billy’s shoulder, and he feels the Scot nod against his cheek. “On one condition.”

“What?”

“You can fuck him as hard as you like, but you can’t touch him with your hands.”

While Elijah wriggles, the blond considers this. “I can’t…you know…toss him off?”

“No. I can touch him, but neither of us touches him…here.” He gestures toward Elijah’s shuddering length.

Elijah bucks his hips, hoping to rub against the gesturing hand, but Billy is too fast for him. Optimistic, even in defeat, he inches hopeful fingers closer to the center of his body.

“You either,” says Billy. He catches the younger man’s wayward wrists and places them firmly on his own strong thighs.

Stifling a whimper of protest, Elijah grips Billy’s legs. He wants desperately to be stroked, but he knows he has no say in this. Spring will follow winter; the diminished moon will swell; Elijah’s weeping arousal will go untouched.

Now his legs are being pulled forward, and his ass is sliding along the bottom of the tub. “Scoot down,” complains Dom. “I can’t get at your arse if you’re sitting on it.”

“Fucker,” retorts Elijah. “I’m not sure I can cope with all this romance.” He ends up with his back against the floor of the steadily filling tub, and his head lolling against Billy’s upper thigh.

“Beautiful,” murmurs Dom. At first, Elijah thinks he’s returning the sarcasm, but his eyes are serious. For a moment, Elijah sees himself reflected in the other man’s pupils as a blur of pale skin and disorderly limbs. The centerpiece of the image is his own rigid maleness, enlarged by its proximity to Dom’s hungry gaze. It looks as though half his body is cock. That’s also how it feels, and Elijah almost announces that fact out loud.

“So beautiful,” continues Dom. He looks at Elijah from top to bottom, his eyes lingering on the places that want him most. “You’re a fucking seraph.” He picks up one of Elijah’s legs and positions it over his shoulder, then does the same with the other, calmly laying him out for his own pleasure. Elijah shivers. He couldn’t feel more exposed if he were being sold, naked, at a televised auction.

“Easy, sweetheart,” says Billy, and the prone man wonders why he sounds so soothing, like a nurse whose syringe is out of sight.

Wait. Oh. Dom is pressing his erection against Elijah’s hole, and all the lube is in the adjacent bedroom. It might as well be on Neptune, because Dom shows no signs of getting up to find it. Panicking, Elijah makes scrabbling motions against Billy’s legs with his fingertips.

“Don’t take him just yet,” says Billy. “You’re frightening him.”

“Like hell,” says Elijah, but he’s gripping Billy so tightly now that there are white half-moons under his nails. Steaming water licks his sides.

“Lijah. Relax, now. You knew this was coming. Advanced class, remember?”

“I’m relaxing,” lies Elijah. “For Christ’s sake.” His toes wiggle nervously atop Dom’s back.

“I don’t know what he’s afraid of,” Dom protests. “He’s already got an arse full of Scottish spunk. I’ll probably slide right in.”

“Look, I’ll make this easier,” says Billy. “Dommeh, get your cock in his mouth. That way, any spit that you take away ends up in him.”

“Soft-hearted git,” grumbles Dom. “Next time, I fuck him my way.” But he shimmies out from under Elijah’s legs and leans over him, kneeling. With his cock inches from Elijah’s face, he braces his arms against the wall. The flushed head peeks out from its sheath of skin.

“Oh, Jesus, Dom,” moans Elijah, his fear melting into desire. His fetish for uncut men takes control, and his hips lift and sink as though there is already someone inside him.

Dom guides his cock over the younger man’s upper lip, decorating it with the shiny evidence of his lust. Elijah looks up at him through coal-black lashes and, with deliberate submission, runs his taste buds over the impromptu lipstick. He leaves his lips parted when he’s done.

“Want some more?” asks Dom. “Little slut – of course you do. Why am I even asking?” He presses himself into Elijah’s waiting mouth. “Wrap your tongue around it, baby. We can both see you want to taste it.”

Elijah flicks his tongue against Dom’s foreskin, groaning with pleasure as it retracts further. Then he sets to work on the exposed head. The salty liquid he lapped from his own lips has left him drunk, drunker than he was on Billy’s whiskey, and being penetrated by silky flesh only exacerbates his intoxication.

“Yeah…fuck, yeah,” purrs the Englishman. He stretches and shifts, and Elijah’s mouth turns to honey. “Kiss it. Lick it. Give it some affection. It’ll return the favor as soon as I get it in you.”

Just when Elijah thinks it’s going to return the favor now, Billy puts a restraining hand on Dom’s hip. “That’s enough,” he says. “You’re plenty wet with his saliva, and you’re going to be wetter with something else in a minute if you don’t stop rogering his throat.”

“That’s a chance I’m willing to take,” mutters Dom, but he withdraws his glistening sex. “Fuck sake,” he marvels, looking down. “Even his spit is pretty.”

“It is,” agrees Billy. “You should wear it to the premiere. Now get behind him. He’s ready.”

Elijah doesn’t dispute anything Billy’s saying, just waits for Dom to get into position, then lifts his legs on to the other man’s powerful shoulders. Dom’s spit-shined hardness presses against his entrance, and he sucks in his breath.

“Steady on, now,” Billy comments, running a protective hand over the younger man’s chest. “Breathe.”

“Tell me you want it,” says Dom. “If you don’t want it, I’m not doing you, no matter what Bills says.”

“I…I want it,” manages Elijah. “Even if you’re not going to use your fingers. Just fucking do me.”

Then Dom pushes into him, and Elijah, impaled on the other man’s desire, breathes very fast indeed. Cloven, he thinks, as his body splits in two. Like a hoof, or a cigarette.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Oh fuck…fuck…fuck…” He’s not sure whether it’s a concession to pain or a plea to continue.

Dom looks from his lover to his boyfriend and back again. The portion of his body that is inside Elijah twitches with lust, but the skin between his eyebrows tightens in concern. The one being taken voices a decision.

“What?” Dom asks, amid the roar of the faucet.

“Harder,” begs the riven man, wrapping his ankles around Dom’s neck. “Fuck me harder.” Startled, Dom glances somewhere above Elijah’s head. Billy must be nodding assent, because Dom pulls halfway out of the offered crevice, then plunges back in.

Liquid heat. It’s in and around the trembling man. Water laps at his nipples, his waist, the rift between his cheeks, his swollen cock. Dom thrusts in and out of him, his hips rising and falling like waves. At first, penetration burns, but it’s exquisite, like the smolder of whisky transferred from a lover’s mouth to his own.

“Oh, Jesus, princess…”

Fiery sword, thinks Elijah. East of Eden, there is an angel with a fiery sword…and its name…its name is…

“Dominic…oh, God…Dominic…” Elijah has never called the object of his lust by his full given name before; that’s something he has left to Billy. But Dom is thrusting hard and shallow, at an angle that would stagger Pythagoras, and Elijah’s world is contracting toward a pulsing core of pleasure that one syllable can’t express. He throws back his head and yowls.

“Lijah,” groans Dom. “Lijah…you feel so fucking good around me…so hot and tight and sweet…You make me want to…”

“Enjoying yourself?” asks Billy, mildly. His cock is about an inch from Elijah’s face. Moaning, the younger man turns his head to lick it. Billy whimpers and runs his fingers over submerged nipples. The water is climbing Elijah’s jawline now, and it ripples every time he moves his mouth.

“Unnnhhh,” Elijah says, his tongue still busy. Half of his head is pressed against Billy, so his stereoscopic vision is shot. With the eye facing Dom, he glances down the length of his own taut, shared body. His cock jerks every time Dom enters him, and his balls are tight against his crotch. He watches Dom’s cock disappear inside him, and shudders as it connects with his needy flesh.

“You fucking gorgeous piece of arse,” Dom moans. “Jesus, God, Bills, look at him. Not one hand on his prick, and he’s ready to shoot.”

“If he doesn’t drown first. Elijah, sweetheart, get your head up.”

“Ahhhhh, Jesus, please…fuck me, Dominic…” If Elijah could hear Billy, he would obey. Instead, he hears his own heart beating against his heaving chest, its thudding percussion the accompaniment to his frenzied vocals. For a while now, he has been clenching down on his lover every time he moves to withdraw. He wants to be good for Dom, wants to lavish him with tightness and heat, wants the shock waves inside him to set off the explosion that’s building in them both.

And now he closes his eyes, because he knows it’s coming. In testament to his building excitement, the dark hair on his arms stands up, and it sways like kelp in the currents created by Dom’s thrashing. He wants nothing to interrupt the sensations, not even his breathing, so he cuts the power to his lungs, like a fisherman stilling a motor. The fluid within him rises, like the fluid without. And now the waters close over his head, and he is sea urchin and sea horse, sailor and siren, liquid and light. He is tsunami, and it’s good, so good, so very fucking good. He crests and swells, and Dominic surfs the curves of his heaving body until foam envelops them both.

Icon me

Tue, 14 Sep 2004 14:34:54 GMT

My icons (avatars, whatever) blow. I know it. You know it. Could somebody please, please send me some nice ones with hot guys? You know the sort of thing I like: Dom, Elijah, Billy, either solo or in any combination. If I use them, I'll give you credit, because I understand how to do that now. Thank you so much.

Labor Day Recommendation

Sun, 05 Sep 2004 14:18:51 GMT

There's labor, and then there's love. This week's sexy amalgamation of the two is snoopydance4me's Cracker Jack Dreams. It's NC-17 AU Domlijah with top-notch characterization, heartfelt angst, and sex that will light your screen on fire. This is the opening segment of a much larger work, and believe me, you want to get in on the ground floor. Snoopydance4me is a treasure, and it is a pleasure to have her as a friend.

Recommendation

Tue, 31 Aug 2004 14:11:57 GMT

You know how, at the beginning of "Baby Got Back," there is some girl saying, "Oh. My. God"? That is me encountering tripping_sin's Trainers on a Strange for the first time. NC-17 Dombilleh cleverness, sweetness, and especially hotness. A must-read.

Recommendation

Fri, 27 Aug 2004 15:06:48 GMT

OK, princess, put down that cucumber and run to hyacinth_sky747's place so that you can beg entrance to her library. Then check out Just Smut, an NC-17 Dombilleh rife with humor, tenderness, and sizzling pillow talk. You will not believe the mouth on this girl. On second thought, bring the cucumber.

P.S. My arms are way screwed up from repetitive strain injury right now, so part three of "Boys' Night In" may take a while. Stop thinking that: it's from typing.