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.

Thu, 26 Aug 2004 19:43:31 GMT

Title: Boys' Night In (part two)
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.
Potential squickage: mild BDSM. Hot men. Wait, there’s nothing squicky about hot men.
Feedback: The people who write it rule my universe.
Written: 8/05/04-8/26/04
My sister in slash: Is snoopydance4me. Thank you for your support, corrections, and inspired perversity. Love you always.

Billy lifts his hips, and Elijah slides the pillow under him. The sight of Billy waiting for sex – his head back, throat exposed, cock and nipples erect – makes it into Elijah’s rapidly expanding list of turn-ons. Blue eyes lock with lusty green, and Elijah reels from the aftershock.

Dom gazes at Billy with admiration. “Pervy Scot. He’d let you fuck him dry – shut up, Bill, you know you would. But maybe we should save that for the advanced class.” He hops off the bed and rummages through Billy’s jeans, but finds nothing.

“I left some by the sink,” he says. “Elijah, don’t touch him while I’m gone. Same goes for you, wanker.” Dom disappears into the bathroom.

“Fuck you,” Billy calls after him, but he makes no move towards Elijah. Instead, he rests his arms on the pillow where his head lies. His palms are facing up, and his wrists are temptingly close together. Elijah recognizes this as an invitation to pin him down, but he obeys Dom’s command.

Dom returns with a clear bottle of white liquid. It takes him half a second to appraise Billy’s position on the bed. “Tease,” he says, with a cockeyed grin.

“Can’t blame a boy for trying,” says Billy, fluttering his eyelashes.

Dom sets the bottle on the bed and turns his attention to Elijah. He studies the younger man’s face, and apparently likes what he sees. “Nice. You didn’t touch him. You wanted to please me, didn’t you?”

Elijah bites his lip and looks away. He’s already come, hard, and he doesn’t want to look desperate. But Dom catches his chin in his hand and forces the other man to look at him.

“Pretty little porn star. Every time you turn your head, you let me know how much you want it.” He captures Elijah’s mouth in a hard, probing kiss, his tongue making demands that Elijah is only too glad to satisfy.

“Let’s get this straight,” continues Dom. “We fucking own you.” He places his fingers on a pair of Yankee lips, then runs his tongue over the crack where the lips separate. “Your mouth? We own it.”

Hands stroke the smooth, boyish chest, pausing to twist dusky flesh. Elijah gasps as the pain vibrates through him, breaks into pieces, then resolves itself into pleasure. Dom smiles. “Go ahead and cry out, baby. We own that too.”

“Dibs on his arse,” comments Billy. His words are mild, but the predatory look is back.

Dom pays Billy no mind. “Your pretty belly?” He runs his hands down to Elijah’s navel, then fingers it. “Ours.”

“Like hell,” says Elijah.

“Fine,” replies Dom, taking his hand away. “Billy, get dressed.”

Elijah hastens to make things better. “No. Nonononono.” He pulls Dom’s hand back to his stomach.

Dom flashes him a wolfish smile. He puts an arm around Elijah’s waist and draws him close, nipping at his earlobe. “Not yours,” he murmurs. The bitten man thinks Dom is talking about his ear, so the hand closing around his balls catches him by surprise. When the hand begins to knead, Elijah yelps.

“Twisted fucker,” he says, but his throbbing cock belies any pretense of displeasure.

“And this…” says Dom, but Elijah is too distracted to hear the end of the sentence, because Dom’s other hand has gotten in on the action. It’s wrapped around his sex and squeezing. The rhythm must be Morse code for “owned.”

“Jesusfuckallright,” Elijah manages, tilting his head back. He knows he won’t get off, in either sense of the verb, this easily.

“All right, what?” Dom bites into the thin skin on the younger man’s throat.

“You know.” Elijah squirms with impatience. Dom is pumping him roughly now. In the absence of lube, his skin catches against the other man’s palm. He grits his teeth and thrusts. Billy watches, too engrossed to talk.

“No, I don’t know. Tell me.”

“Fuck,” gasps Elijah, as Dom tightens his fist. Unwieldy pleasure rises in him like sap through the branch of a tree. He doesn’t know how soon he’s going to come, but he knows it’s inevitable, given Dom’s talent and Billy’s slack-jawed voyeurism. “Whatever. Whatever you want.”

“That’s quite a promise. But it’s not a question of what I want, is it, baby?” Dom switches back to a pumping motion. “It’s a question of what I already have.” Just as Elijah is beginning to hear angels, a hand pulls down on his testicles, forestalling release.

“You bastard!” Submission forgotten, the frustrated youth grabs at the restraining fist, trying to get free. He had wanted the orgasm badly, wanted to shoot off all over Dom’s insistent hand.

Dom lets go of Elijah, then wrestles him to the bed. Elijah pants and snarls and kicks, but the other man easily bests him.

“Slut,” says Dom. He’s addressing the back of Elijah’s head, because Elijah is once again facing down with a man on top of him. Elijah turns his face to the side and gulps down oxygen. “You little, wriggling whore. I ought to tie you up and let every tourist in fifty kilometers have their way with you for a dollar.”

“There’s a dollar in my jeans pocket,” says Billy. His eyes run the length of the prone man’s body.

“Let me up,” says Elijah. “I give, already.” He tells himself that if this is the only way he can get sex out of the two of them, he’ll go with it. It’s not that he prefers it this way. Or would beg for it. Or is going to spend the rest of the month trying to get them to do this again. His thoughts are interrrupted as Dom’s leather-clad cock presses against his backside, forcing his own arousal into the mattress.

“Fine,” says the owner of the appendage. “Elaborate on that.”

The younger man flushes hot. “You…” As Billy watches, Dom grinds his hips.

“You can do anything you want with me.” Oh, Jesus, did I just say that?

Billy traces a line from Elijah’s jaw to his ear, then fingers the whorl there. “And?”

“And … I’ll come when you want me to. And not until.” Elijah has never said anything so submissive and dirty in his life. Surrender makes his blood race, makes his eyes widen and his lungs work harder. Billy sucks in his breath.

“Only ‘when’?” Dominic chides. No longer content with the back of Elijah’s head, he rolls off the vanquished man and on to the bed. He pushes Elijah over on his side and peers at him through disbelieving eyes.

“And ‘where,’” Elijah adds. He’s feeling more confident now, and his voice turns sultry. “If you want me to fuck Billy, I will.”

“What about ‘how’?” Billy wants to know.

“Yes. I’ll do it however you want.” Taking his cue from the Scotsman’s faux-Elijah routine, he smiles shyly at Billy, then looks at Dom through lowered lashes. Absently, he runs a hand over his own chest, making sure that his thumb rubs against a nipple on the way down.

“I’ve created a monster,” mutters Dom, shaking his head at the transformation. “All right then, slick your hands up. You need to get him ready.”

“I am ready,” says Billy. “The mouth on him!”

Pleased that Billy enjoyed his speech, Elijah takes the bottle from the bed. He’s surprised it didn’t fall off while he and Dom were wrestling, but then, the match was a short one. He’s never been able to hold his own in a fight, and he’s not sure he’s going to put any effort into changing that, given this evening’s results.

The bottle comes with a pump mechanism, and he pushes it down. Creamy, white liquid rushes into his palm. It’s satiny, not sticky.

“What’s this?” Elijah asks.

“Proper lube,” Dom says. “None of your American wank.”

“We milked it out of you while you were napping between takes,” says Billy. Dom smacks his friend on the forehead with the back of his hand, but Elijah already knows to discount most of what comes out of Billy’s mouth. Except his pink, pointed tongue.

As directed, Elijah covers his palms and fingers with lube, then kneels between Billy’s parted legs. He turns his head to face Dom.

With a nod, the Englishman grants the silent request for permission. “Go ahead and touch him.” He sits down cross-legged on the bed, next to the two of them.

Elijah looks to Billy for reassurance.

“You heard him,” says Billy. “Touch me.”

Tentatively, Elijah spreads Billy apart. “Is it all right?” he asks.

“Yes,” says Billy. “There just needs to be more of it. Put your fingers in me.”

Not sure how many fingers Billy means, Elijah slips in two.

“Jesus,” says Elijah. His fingers almost cross from the pressure of the other man’s body.

“Tight, isn’t he?” asks Dom. “It’s amazing he stays that way. He lets me fuck him so hard, don’t you, baby?” He leans down and bites Billy on the ear. Billy gives a happy whimper and tosses his head.

Elijah doesn’t doubt that the dynamic between the two men is as Dom describes. He can see marks on Billy’s upper thigh where Dom’s teeth have been, and there’s a purplish blotch on his shoulder. Sometime soon, he wants to see Dom making those marks as he pounds an amorous Billy into the carpet.

Elijah shakes off his erotic daydream. “Can I…can I move?”

“Fuck, yes,” breathes Billy. “Curl your fingers and … yes, like that … aghhh…”

Elijah strokes and teases, trying to replicate the motions that Dom used inside him earlier in the evening. Sweat breaking out on his upper lip, Billy clenches and moans.

Dom shifts to a kneeling position, then pushes Billy’s hair back from his forehead and kisses the exposed skin. “Good, isn’t it, love? Elijah, give him more fingers.”

Elijah presses another finger in and continues the caress. Billy is smooth and slick inside, and the younger man’s cock rises up in veneration.

“Filthy beast,” says Dom, his mouth hot and moist against Elijah’s ear. “You’re thinking about how good it will feel to push yourself inside him. It won’t be long.”

“No, it won’t,” announces Billy. “ElijahAHHahh…” His voice crests and falls in time with the rhythm established by the younger man’s hand. “Get…get on top of me. Now. Want…ummhhh…more…of you…”

Elijah withdraws his hand, then crawls over Billy on his hands and knees. He wouldn’t have thought that lust would have a physical presence, but it does, and it’s radiating from Billy’s eyes in waves of green. Trembling, Elijah strokes himself with wet fingers, thrilled to find them still warm from the other man’s body.

“I need this,” he groans. “Billy, I fucking need this.” He positions his hard, slippery cock against Billy’s entrance, then eyes Dom.

The Englishman leans over and bites Elijah on the side of the neck. “That’s it,” he says. “Do it, baby. I want to watch you fuck my boyfriend.”

When Billy is pretending to be surprised, he raises one eyebrow. When he is genuinely surprised, he raises two, and that is what he is doing now, as though the thought that he is Dom’s boyfriend is a new one. He doesn’t have long to mull this over, however, because Elijah slowly pushes into him.

Elijah is aroused, and every part of his body registers this. His heart pounds against his chest, and his skin tingles as though he’s just stepped out of a hot bath. Drawing on his skills as a veteran smoker, he sucks in a long draft of air. It enters his mouth like incense, pungent and heavy with the scent of the man beneath him, and the oxygen hits his bloodstream like nicotine. The hot, wet silk of Billy’s body confines him, and it’s so tight that Elijah can feel his own pulse throbbing in his cock. He wonders if Billy can feel it too.

“Tell me…tell me when to move,” Elijah manages. All he wants to do is thrust, and his muscles vibrate with the strain of holding himself back. Part of his brain is telling him to use Billy roughly for his own enjoyment, and it scares him.

“Oh, Jesus,” moans Billy. “JesusGod, Elijah, you feel so good…” He wraps his legs around Elijah’s hips and pulls him deeper inside.

“Ride him,” says Dom. He sounds like he’s panting, but Elijah can’t be sure, because all he can see is the person who sheathes him. “You’ve mounted him: now take him.”

“I want to,” gasps Elijah. “Billy…”

The Scot runs his hands down Elijah’s chest, then digs his heels into the younger man’s backside.

“Don’t make me get the spurs out,” he murmurs. “Move.”

Grateful, Elijah pulls halfway out of his lover, then plunges back in. Billy is whiskey, petroleum, liquid suns, a thousand things that shimmer and blaze. He is a flaming Catherine wheel, and Elijah is a willing martyr. He is…

“What the shite are you on about?” Dom asks. Elijah blushes, but keeps thrusting.

“Quiet,” says Billy. “He’s saying how happy…unghhh…he is to fuck me…yeah, sweetheart…tilt your hips…”

Elijah decides to tilt Billy instead, and repositions the cushion under him. Now he’s hitting the upper wall, not very far in, and Billy is keening a melody that must date back to the Paleolithic.

“Ahh…mmm…aghhh…OHH,” cries the horizontal man, and he throws his hands back against the headboard.

“Wants you to hold him down,” translates Dom, raking his fingernails down Elijah’s back. “Kinky bugger. It gets him all worked up.”

“No problem.” Elijah makes a silent pledge to stop biting his nails, then uses one hand to pin the writhing man. Billy’s wrists are tiny: all of his endowments lie elsewhere. Elijah has been holding himself up with his arms, but now he lowers himself on to Billy, sandwiching the other man’s thick, leaking cock between their two bodies. Every time he thrusts, Elijah can feel it rubbing against his stomach, and Billy must be able to feel it too, because his arousal thumps and jerks with the pleasure of it.

“You know what else he likes?” Dom asks, stroking one of Elijah’s hips. “Kissing. Get your tongue in him, princess.”

Elijah has many years of experience in taking direction, and he is skilled at obeying orders when it counts. He runs his tongue over Billy’s upper lip, then enters his mouth and ass simultaneously. Billy moans, and the sound waves reverberate against his lover’s palate. The younger man pulls back and catches Billy’s lower lip between his teeth, then releases it. Billy’s hips rise up to meet Elijah, and the two of them writhe and twist.

“Fuck, Billy…you’re so hot,” gasps Elijah. “When you…unhhh…move like that…yeah…I can’t stop…”

“Then DON’T. I want you…want all of you…” Their mouths meet, and Billy’s tongue simmers in Elijah’s mouth again. When the delicate, flickering tip penetrates the gap between Elijah’s two front teeth, the younger man cries out. The action is absurdly erotic, and pure Billy.

Something warm and wet inches its way into Elijah’s cleft. It takes a moment for him to recognize it as one of Dom’s saliva-slicked fingers. “Two minutes,” purrs Dom.

“Jesus,” whimpers Elijah. “I…ahhh…don’t know…if…I…yeah…likethatGodlikethat…”

“You don’t know if you’ll be able to get off in two minutes?” Indolent fingers circle Elijah’s tender entrance.

“Ohfuckohpleasefuck…” Elijah thrusts into his moaning, arching bedmate. When he draws back, the fingers are still waiting for him.

“He’s having doubts,” Dom announces to the man on bottom. “He’s not sure he’s going to be able to fill your arse with come so soon.”

“Harder,” begs Billy, oblivious to everything but the slick flesh claiming him. “GodJesus, Elijah, fuck me!”

A crystal filament floats and weaves in front of Elijah’s field of vision. Normally, he would interpret it as a protein strand shadow-dancing with his retina, but now he knows that it is his control. The last thread of it. And he watches it float away.

“Billy…Jesus…Billy…” His pelvis snaps forward, and he claims his eager lover with a passion that borders on frenzy. He has never taken anyone this hard, and he’s not sure how Billy will survive it, but it’s as though he’s not only the rider, but the ridden. Lust steers him, and it propels him into the other man’s body with such force that it’s as though all the earth’s gravity is now resident in Billy’s slight form. Struggling, he pulls back, and finds himself impaled on at least three of Dom’s fingers. Dom’s palm anchors itself on his ass.

He is hurting Billy. No, Dom is hurting him. No, Billy is not hurt, and neither is he, because both of them are shouting their ecstasy to the four walls that surround them. Billy bears down on Elijah, as though unwilling to give him up. Elijah wrenches himself away, then penetrates him again.

“Arghaaaaahhh….” Billy has had enough of being held down. He tears free from Elijah’s grip, then works a hand back to Elijah’s crease. Finding Dom already there, he plants his hand on one of Elijah’s buttocks, where it pulls and clenches in time with the thrusts, urging him on.

The encouragement has its effect, and Billy wraps his other arm around the younger man’s shoulders and hangs on. The green eyes had been hazy with lust, but now they sharpen with the clarity of what is to come.

“I’m going to…fuck…you’re making me…”

Oh, Jesus, that accent. Elijah has to taste the man who is making those sounds, and he presses his lips against Billy’s, his tongue seeking entrance. The Scot opens to it as if it were a second cock. He’s shaking now, and Elijah can taste the impending orgasm, copper-sharp against his tongue, as Billy contracts around him. The other man cries out his name, and Elijah hears it – not through his ears, but more intimately, through internal passages leading up from his throat. Billy’s cries flood Elijah’s mouth, just as hot, liquid pleasure floods his belly. Billy tells him to come, Dom’s fingers echo the sentiment, and Elijah screams as untethered pleasure careens through his body like a pinball, sparkling, diving, rewriting physics, touching every surface, hitting every target, lighting him with 10,000 watts from the inside, until there is only Elijah, and the man inside him, and the man he is inside.

To be continued…

Thu, 05 Aug 2004 14:49:20 GMT

Title: Boys' Night In (part one)
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.
Potential squickage: bondage/domination
Feedback: “Please baby, please baby, please baby, baby baby please!” (Spike Lee, “She’s Gotta Have It”)
Written: 6/21/04 – 8/05/04
My sister in slash: Is snoopydance4me. She is also Prime Minister for Docking and Ice Cubes. Thank you so much for the brilliant ideas and corrections and support. Love you, girl.

Feet falling off by noon. Cinematic tears that would not come, though PJ did everything but whip him. Cate’s unshakeable patience as, dry-eyed, he blew the scene yet again. PJ dismissing the crew for the day. Real-life tears, the afternoon’s final testament to Murphy’s Law, falling lavishly as soon as he got to the trailer. Elijah has had a terrible day, and the night is not progressing any better.

“Fuck it. I mean, just fuck it. Fuck it all with a cement dildo.” Elijah is sitting on Billy’s bed in a hotel room, about a hundred miles from the set. They’ve driven here with Dom to try to get in some surfing the next day, their only day off this week. But now the weather reports are saying that the big waves promised for Saturday are bringing a hurricane with them, making surfing a suicide gesture.

So he will be trapped in the hotel with the two of them for almost 24 hours. Not that he doesn’t like them; he does. In fact, there are times when he likes them too much, and this weekend is shaping up to be one of them. Billy’s purring accent gave him three erections in the car today, and the sight of Dom’s pink tongue courting a bubblegum lollipop only exacerbated his increasing frustration. Elijah hasn’t had sex since he arrived in New Zealand, and his nineteen-year-old hormones are constantly on the verge of riot.

“You’ll feel better tomorrow,” soothes Billy, all honey and silk. The words reach Elijah’s ears as “Yeh’ll feel betturr tehmorrah.” Elijah instantly wants to hump the carpet, but is distracted by a clattering from the bathroom, as if somebody is knocking over toiletries.

“Sorry,” mumbles Elijah. “I didn’t know you had company.” He rises to leave, ready to spend a couple of hours with his left hand, but Billy pulls him back down. The strong grip sends prickles down the backs of Elijah’s slender, lightly muscled thighs.

Platonic, he reminds himself. The way Billy grabs me: platonic. The places Dom pinches me: platonic.

“Yeh cannae call it coomp’neh,” Billy snorts, his voice rising and falling in Scottish melody. Elijah shudders. Billy’s voice is soft as heather and persuasive as scotch, and when he says “you,” his lips purse tightly around the vowel like he’s kissing it. Elijah struggles to stop fixating on the accent.

“It’s him,” Billy continues. “Cleopatra of Manchester. Have you got your eyeliner together, then, mate?” The last line, louder than the others and directed toward towards the bathroom, comes out as a slurred tangle of dropped consonants and insinuating vowels. “Mate,” issuing from Billy’s mouth, always sounds like a verb.

Dom appears at the bathroom doorway, barefoot. He’s decked out in brown leather trousers and the dark wristbands in the same material. His hair looks as though he has spent the last week under a pile of erstwhile virgins, and he’s brandishing an unopened beer. Elijah shifts in his seat. Dom in brown is sex made chocolate.

“Told you, Boyd: shirt first, then eyeliner,” says the unwitting monarch. “Don’t want to smudge the eyeliner when you put the shirt on. These things take time.”

“They’d take less time,” suggests Billy, “if you’d put down the beer. Or if you could find your shirt.”

“Beer first,” amends Dom, “then shirt.” He sits down on the sprawling king bed and re-tousles Elijah’s already tousled hair.

Elijah looks Dom over. The trousers ride low on his hips, and they’re tight. Honestly, he must have gotten Wardrobe to sew him into them before they left. On the other side of Elijah, Billy is wearing what Elijah knows to be his only pair of clean jeans and a black shirt open halfway down the breastbone. Hardly the attire for a cozy evening in front of the Discovery Channel.

“You were going out,” accuses Elijah. “Both of you. Without me.”

“We were going to call you,” apologizes Billy.

“Right,” says Dom. “But first, I was going to get soused. Bills, pass us an opener, there’s a wank- … I mean, ‘love.’”

Billy rummages around in the nightstand drawer and produces one. He tosses it over Elijah’s lap to a grateful Dom.

“I don’t really feel like clubbing,” says Elijah. He feels a sulk coming on. “I think I’ll just go to bed.” Might as well; he couldn’t have trusted himself in a dark club with the two of them, the way he’s feeling now. Dom’s idea of dancing is to position himself behind Elijah and rub up against him like a dog in heat. Billy inevitably finesses him from the front, and the whole thing degenerates into a gyrating hobbit sandwich. Elijah frowns at Dom, but the recipient of the frown is too busy wrestling with the cap on top of the beer bottle to notice.

“Come with us,” Billy says. “I’ll buy you a drink with a wee parasol.”

“No, it’s OK.” Devouring the last remnants of an already-beseiged fingernail, Elijah watches Dom’s fruitless attempts to defeat the bottle cap.

“Well, we’re not leaving you here to rot,” says Billy. Elijah watches the pink tongue flirt with the vowels, caressing them.

“I said it’s OK. Really. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Or not, he thinks, picturing the headlines. Actor Drowns in Lake of Own Jizz. Exasperating Co-workers Indicted. He’s about to head for the door when Dom gives a shout of triumph. His bottle cap goes sailing through the air, coming to rest between Elijah’s thighs.

Time slows down, congeals. The three of them sit in silence, staring at the silver circle resting an inch from the American’s crotch.

Billy flashes Elijah a pointed smile. He fishes between nervous legs, brushing up against the insides as he does so. His hands are warm, and his fingers flicker against Elijah’s denim-clad skin, leaving fireflies of heat in their wake. Billy teases arousal from the younger man like a washed car teases rain from the sky. As the bottle cap is palmed, Elijah hopes that the other two haven’t noticed the sudden convexity in his jeans.

Billy and Dom exchange glances, and Elijah is aware that they are discussing something on a channel he doesn’t receive. Billy inspects the small disc – shiny, metallic, edged in teeth – then inspects Elijah. He hands the bottle cap back to Dom, but Dom, who is now openly staring at Elijah’s groin, fails to curl his fingers around it. It falls to the carpet.

“You know,” Billy says, “we could stay in. Really.” His voice is suddenly scratchy, as though he’s swallowed something a little larger than his throat.

Elijah stares at Billy, then Dom, then Billy again.

“We could stay in? What is this?” Elijah wants to know. Because if he didn’t know better, he would think Billy was making him an offer. Here. In the company of this leering, English satyr.

“Erhm,” says Billy.

“What?” repeats Elijah. Feeling scrutinized, he crosses his legs, only to find that things have progressed too far for this to be comfortable. He uncrosses them again.

Billy begins. “It’s just that…”

“You’ve been under a lot of stress lately,” Dom puts in. Grey eyes glint behind dirty-blond bangs.

“And you’re always so professional about it.”

“So in control.” Dom takes a swig of his hard-won beer.

“And we just thought it would be nice for you if…”

“You didn’t have to be in control…”

“All the time,” Billy explains.

“And we were going to take you out and ask you about it…”

“But we’ll have more options if we do it here.” Billy exhales. And with that, he puts his hands to Elijah’s chest and pushes him down on the bed. The dark-haired boy gasps with surprise as Billy climbs on top of him. Then he feels Billy’s tongue shimmer and slide against his own, and it’s all so smooth that he doesn’t even remember opening his mouth to let Billy in. Billy tastes like whiskey, and Elijah can almost feel the alcohol sweet-talking his bloodstream. He hears moaning, and realizes it’s not coming from the other two people in the room.

“So,” says Dom, as if something has just been negotiated. “How much do you want?”

Elijah looks at him, uncomprehending. For a moment, he thinks his friends are offering money to fuck him. This makes no sense. He could buy and sell them a hundred times and have cash left over for cigarettes.

“Control,” says Billy. For once, he is the translator, not the translatee. “How much control do you want?”

What Elijah means to say next is “Billy, no.” What they’re proposing is, after all, madness. They have to see each other on set for the next year, and then there will be PR and premieres and press, and they can’t afford to have their working relationship disrupted by some kind of hormone-laden hotel pig pile. But Billy’s knee is insinuating itself between Elijah’s thighs now, and Billy’s tongue is rimming the shell of his ear, and Elijah hears himself groan out the first word, but not the second.

Spurred on by Elijah’s cries, Billy settles himself on what would be the younger man’s lap, were he not laid out like a picnic. He licks his own thumb and forefinger. Through half-lidded eyes, Elijah watches the saliva-slicked hand disappear under his black T-shirt, then sucks in his breath as Billy’s wet digits pleasure one of his nipples. Deft fingers stroke the sensitive flesh, coaxing it to hardness, and Elijah’s hips twitch and sing.

Billy smiles down at him, then glances over his shoulder at Dominic.

“Jesus,” mutters Dom. He chews his bottom lip.

“Put him down,” Billy observes, “for ‘not fucking much.’”

“What are you going to do to me?” breathes the boy, although he doesn’t care what so much as when. As Billy continues to work his nipple, Elijah feels Dom stripping him of one of his shoes, then the other. It’s a sweet gesture, almost parental, until Elijah feels an insistent tugging at his fly. Disappearing shoes are followed by disappearing jeans.

“Black boxers,” comments Billy. “Silk?” He runs a questioning hand over Elijah’s crotch, as the younger man writhes and gasps.

Elijah does not know what he’s saying now, although certain proper nouns catch his ear, “Billy” and “Christ” and “Dom” chief among them. Billy is working his tongue into the hollow above Elijah’s clavicle, and if Billy’s tongue is like this – warm, slippery, talented muscle – then what must Billy’s cock be like? Dom, meanwhile, has shoved Billy’s hand away and, without any invitation, he’s grasping Elijah through the silk. They’ve only just started, and Elijah is horrified to realize how frantic he is to get fucked.

Fucking. Elijah wonders if it will hurt. He’s had girlfriends, but none of them were packing, and Dom and Billy obviously are. Billy interrupts Elijah’s train of thought by rolling off him to fumble with something on the night table. Elijah can’t see what he’s getting, because Dom has taken the opportunity to mount the reclining man, blocking his view. Until Billy gets back, the feel of Dom’s arousal making demands through two layers of cloth erases everything else from Elijah’s addled mind.

“Take off your shirt,” says the truant, and his voice is soft and mild. He’s holding a sweating hotel glass of whiskey with a couple of ice cubes in it. It’s at least a triple shot.

Elijah wriggles under Dom, who has just bitten his neck, hard. The biting doesn’t frighten him, but something about Billy’s quiet manner makes a tendril of apprehension snake down the back of his spine. He shivers between fear and desire.

“Do you see this weight on top of me? How in the hell am I supposed to move my arms? And anyway, shouldn’t we talk about this?”

“No,” replies Billy. “Dom, get his shirt.”

Elijah struggles, but his t-shirt poses no more challenge to Dom than his jeans did. “Why stop there?” the blond demands. Possessive fingers hook the waistband of Elijah’s boxers.

“No,” says Elijah, half-panicked. He pries Dom’s hands off him. “Not yet. I’m not ready for this.”

“I am,” growls Dom, but Billy shoots him a look of warning. The Scotsman leans back against the pillows, his legs apart. “C’mere, Lij,” he says. One of his hands holds the whiskey, while the other invitingly pats the space between his spread limbs. “Lie back against me.”

Elijah regards Dom with a wary eye and keeps one hand on the silken waistband. His mind knows that things are moving too fast, but his body has other ideas. He totters over to Billy on his knees, then nestles his ass against Billy’s crotch. The intervening layers of fabric do nothing to blunt the sensation of Billy’s arousal pressing against him, and he swallows hard.

Dom mounts Elijah again, pinning his legs. He forces the captive’s hands to the pillows and begins to ride him. The sensation of the other man’s cock rubbing against his own
sets Elijah off, and a tremor ripples through his skin.

“Fuck sake,” moans Dom, digging his fingers into offered wrists. “He wants it so much, he’s shaking. God, Bill, no foreplay. If I don’t get inside him now...”

Billy is in no hurry. “Pop then, you randy bastard. More cherry left for me.” Elijah is about to protest this characterization when Billy cups and lifts his chin. “Tilt your head, sweetheart.”

Elijah is feeling stubborn, but the glass of whiskey is against his lips, and he lets his head fall back against Billy’s shoulder so that he can take it in without choking. The Scotsman pours at least two shots down him before letting up.

“Good, yeah?” Billy strokes Elijah’s throat, triggering his swallowing reflex. Elijah has used this technique to get pills down the family cat, and he repents it now. The alcohol burns, and he knows from experience that he hasn’t enough body mass or practice to keep it from dissolving what’s left of his inhibitions. His regret is cut short, however, by the cold sting at the hollow of his throat. Using an ice cube as a paintbrush, Billy has just dabbed whiskey there.

“Dominic,” says Billy, “Fancy a bit? I wouldn’t want you to go without.” He hooks his arms under Elijah’s armpits, holding him taut and ready for the other man.

“Fuck, yeah.” Dom grabs Elijah’s slim waist and straddles him. His leather-bound cock is hot against the younger man’s belly, and Elijah cries out as Dom accepts the proposal. The chill of the whiskey gives way to the fire of Dom’s tongue, and Elijah can do little but lie back between the two men and let Dom strip the whiskey from him; let him suck and bite and take what Billy has offered. Breathing hard, he wonders what Billy will offer next.

Billy takes a sip from the whiskey glass. From the corner of his eye, Elijah can see that he’s retrieved another ice cube and is holding it between his teeth.

“What the…” Elijah starts to ask, but Dom is already kissing Billy, without first dismounting from Elijah. Dom’s preferred technique seems to be to hold Billy’s chin steady in one hand, then go after his tongue as if he means to swallow it. Billy whimpers, Dom grunts, and when they’re done, Dom’s incisors cradle the ice cube. He flashes Elijah a look of conquest, and the younger man’s arousal bucks and thrusts against its silken cage.

A moan and a prayer stumble from Elijah’s lips. Dom’s lips are guiding the ice cube over his body now, starting at the throat and working their way down to the panting chest. Ivory skin prickles with anticipation as Dom strays to the right.

“You’re not … tell me you aren’t,” gasps the boy, but Dom most certainly is. Elijah flinches and cries out as the other man tends to his nipple. Dom torments him with the small cube, then hides it under his tongue. Elijah lets his head loll back against Billy’s shoulder as the sting of the ice is followed by the sweltering pleasure of the Englishman’s mouth. Then the cycle repeats.

“Please,” begs Elijah. He feels Billy stiffening against the small of his back, and he hears his breath catch. Dom smiles at Elijah, then chews. He paints the beleaguered nipple with ice fragments, then coats the surrounding area with more of the melting shards. Starting at the icy perimeter, he teases them off with his tongue, working his way towards the peak of rosy flesh.

Elijah watches as Dom takes a few of the remaining ice chips into his mouth. Dom looks the younger man in the eye, licks his lips, and swallows.

“Pretty little thing,” says Dom. “I might have to get my tongue pierced for you.” Elijah is thinking about what cold metal would feel like against his sensitive skin when Dom’s mouth envelops that skin with warmth and slickness. Elijah moans and twitches, letting Dom suckle at him. His nipple is stiff, pink, and defenseless against Dom’s assault: a willing stand-in for this afternoon’s lollipop.

“We’ve more whiskey,” reminds Billy, when Dom shows no sign of stopping “And more Yankee jailbait, at that.”

Elijah is about to protest that he is not jailbait; he’s nineteen, for Christ’s sake, and his nipples and legs and cock are perfectly legal, so if the two of them want to …

“Unnghh,” Elijah points out, all eloquence a memory. Whispering Scottish bawdry into his ear, Billy has just painted an icy line of single malt from his chest to his navel. The cold loosens Elijah’s hips, and when they buck, the center of his desire presses hard against Dom’s stomach.

Smirking, Dom pins Elijah’s twitching pelvis to the mattress. “Hard, aren’t you? Bills, I owe you that bottle of Jameson. He’s not remotely straight.”

Elijah remembers being straight, but the thought vanishes like sticky alcohol lapped up by a questing tongue. Blue eyes roll back in a pale face as the youngest of the three adds being-held-down-by-two-slightly-larger-men to his list of fetishes. The list continues to grow as Dom tongue-fucks his navel, eating him out. Elijah gasps, his cock shuddering in appreciation.

The teenager is not usually slow to arouse, but this is ridiculous. He feels hopelessly easy, ready to let both men touch him anywhere. He wonders which of his body parts they could lick the longest without bringing him to orgasm. He settles for “fingernails,” because he’s already swallowed most of them.

“Get up,” says Billy, when Dom has licked Elijah clean. He seems to be addressing both of them.

Dom gets off Elijah and sits, facing the two of them, on the bed. Elijah lurches into a kneeling position, his depth perception a little off. Dom’s tongue has not been kind to his basic mental functions.

“Are you going to put whiskey anywhere else?” Elijah asks. His body alternately stings and tingles where the alcohol was, and his cock also thrums with sensation, though it has received no such attention.

Still dressed, Billy scans Elijah from head to knees. His jade eyes linger on Elijah’s cock, which is straining against the black silk. “No,” he decides. At some point in their relationship, Elijah would have been relieved, but now he wants more of Dom’s mouth, more of Billy’s voice, more of everything.

“C’mon,” says Dom. “Put more on him. It’ll lower my inhibitions.”

“You don’t have any,” Billy points out. “I’m not putting any more on him; he wants it too much. Now give me your belt.”

“Billy, what the fuck?” Still on his knees, Elijah backs unsteadily away. “No way. You’re not doing this, man. I’m not letting you whip me.”

Never taking his eyes off Elijah, Dom removes his leather belt and hands it Billy. Billy lifts it, admiring its suppleness and heft.

“Shit, no,” says Elijah. He leaps off the bed and continues to back away. “Christ, Bill. I have to have my shirt off for Cirith Ungol. Peter will fucking kill you.”

Billy’s smile is predatory and patient as he stalks Elijah, belt in hand. Dom follows. Elijah is no match for either of them, physically, and a brief scuffle ends with him face down and panting against the polyester carpet. Dom sits heavily on his legs while Billy, always the man for detail work, secures his arms behind his back.

“If you remember,” says Billy, leaning closer to Elijah’s ear, “you need whip marks for that scene. I’d be doing Makeup a favor.”

“You’re not touching me.” Elijah’s voice is muted by gritted teeth and carpet. The situation is humiliating, not least because he’s rock hard and wants nothing more than for the two of them to take turns using him on the bedroom floor.

“Sweet Jesus,” moans Dom, as Elijah thrashes and kicks. “He’s even prettier when he struggles. Please, Bill, enough wind-up.”

But Billy is ignoring him. He binds the younger man’s wrists together with the leather strap, then cinches it tight. “Relax,” he tells Elijah. “You’re plenty erotic without a beating. Now let us prop you up against the bed while you get your wish.” The two of them wrestle him into a sitting position and push him up against the mattress.

“What wish is that?” Elijah has already had so many tonight that he has no idea what Billy is talking about.

“For us not to touch you,” says Billy. He smiles, and the smile is like Dom’s bottle cap, made of shine and teeth. “Although you’re welcome to watch.” On his knees, he advances towards Dom, who is sprawled on the floor nearby.

“Cheeky bugger,” says Dom, leaning back on his elbows. “What makes you think I’ll let you have a go?” He slides his hands under his ass, lifting his chocolate hips. His cock is trying to fight its way out of its leather prison. He’s flaunting his body in Billy’s direction, but he’s eyeing the barely clad American.

As Billy reaches Dom, his body language changes. His right hand fidgets, as though lost without a cigarette, and he rocks back and forth on his heels.

“Dom,” says Billy. The vowel is flat.

“Fucking hell,” says Dom.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” says Billy. His voice sounds younger, and his accent is straight out of a cornfield in Iowa. He chews a fingernail, all shyness and self-doubt.

“Billy,” begs Dom, “don’t do this to me. Not in front of him.”

Billy is undeterred. “I have … feelings for you,” he murmurs, sounding every bit the inexperienced piece of Yankee ass. He touches Dom lightly on the knee.

“Gah,” says Dom, well on his way to incoherence. He whips his leg out from under Billy’s hand as if he’s been touched by flame, but this position leaves him even more vulnerable, because now his legs are spread apart. Billy moves his hand to the inside of Dom’s thigh, stroking and caressing.

Billy nuzzles the man’s ear. “Don’t you want me, Dommie?” He coaxes one of Dom’s hands into his own, then rubs it against his chest. Dom quivers, and Elijah suspects that he has just made contact with a hardening nipple.

Dom is visibly shaken. “Bills, you don’t have to do this. Really. Let’s play something else.” But Billy remains in character.

“I know I don’t have to. I want to. The way you look at me sometimes, I thought…” Billy guides Dom’s hand into the half-unbuttoned shirt, drags it over the skin there. He bites his lip.

“Do you care about me?” Billy wants to know. Every consonant is intact. Elijah takes a moment from lusting after the two men to admire the authenticity of the Midwestern accent.

“You know I do,” says Dom. Although the Englishman is looking straight at Billy, Elijah has no idea which one of them he’s addressing. Perhaps it’s both.

“Then why can’t you let me make you feel good?” Billy kisses his way down the side of Dom’s neck. “I want you, Dommie. I know I could give you pleasure.” He moves his hand to Dom’s crotch. Shyly, he begins to stroke his friend through the leather.

Dom catches Billy’s wrist, stilling him. “I can’t do this. I can’t let you make me come like this. Not here. Not now.” But his voice is unconvincing, and his hips follow Billy’s hand.

“Then maybe I could make you come some other way,” Billy suggests, intentionally oblivious to the other man’s meaning. He moves Dom’s hand to the back of his jeans. A practiced blush spreads over his face as he looks away from Dom.

“I’ll do anything you want,” Billy murmurs, moving the hand lower.

“What I want is for you not to be such a bloody good actor,” mumbles Dom. He is blushing too, in a distinctly unrehearsed way.

“Is that what you want, Dommie? Is that why you’re so stiff for me?” Billy meets his playmate’s eyes. “I know you, and I know what you’re going to do to me.” He lets this sink in, then delivers the coup de grace.

“When it happens, be gentle. I’ve never been with a man before.”

Dom has been hanging by a thread since this game started, and Elijah watches, transfixed, as that thread snaps. With an inarticulate yell, Dom shoves Billy to the floor. Billy tries to fight him off, but Dom has more muscle mass, and he’s been teased to the brink. A bit of writhing, a bit of kicking, and then Billy is on his back with Dom’s knees wedged in his armpits and Dom’s crotch inches from his mouth. Normally, Billy fights with his arms, but now his small wrists are pinned to the carpet by Dom’s right fist, the fist Dom has put all his weight on. They twist and shudder helplessly against the polyester as Dom unzips himself with his one free hand.

“Fuck,” breathes Elijah. Dom’s complete capitulation to Billy’s faux Elijah routine makes the prototype feel dirty and hot. He wonders how many times Billy has choked down clove-flavored smoke to get Dom to fuck him up against a wall.

Billy’s fantasy-Elijah may never have been with a man, but he is with one now. Dom has freed his erection from its leather confines, and he is rubbing the thick, rosy head against Billy’s lips, trying to push his way in. Billy groans, but keeps his mouth closed. Elijah aches to touch himself, and his tied hands quiver with frustration.

“Fine,” grits Dom. “You want to be my Yankee rent boy? Start by sucking my cock.”

Billy shakes his head, but Elijah can see him throbbing against the denim. None of Billy’s professional acting skills are resident in his groin.

“You’ll suck it,” grits Dom, “Or I’ll strip you naked, tie you up with your own belt, and leave you in the hallway as a tip for room service.”

Billy’s lips part in a gasp, and it’s all the invitation Dom needs. Groaning, he forces himself into the other man’s mouth. Billy closes his eyes in ecstasy as Dom thrusts in and out of his avid mouth.

Elijah can only imagine how Dom feels as that wicked, knowing tongue caresses his nerve endings. They’ve only just started, but Dom seems close to the edge. His breathing is labored, and his eyes are glazed over with lust – lust for Billy, fantasy-Elijah, real Elijah, or some combination of the three. A bead of sweat rolls down his chest and over his hard, muscular stomach. Abruptly, he pulls out of Billy’s mouth. The head of his cock is shining with pre-come and Billy’s spit.

“Have to rest,” he pants.

“Have to come,” coaxes Billy. He moves as if to take Dom back in but the younger man twists his hips, moving just out of Billy’s reach.

Elijah moans and wobbles forward on his knees. Want reels him in, pulls him closer to the two male bodies. He’s never seen an uncut cock up close before, and he’s fascinated. The way that the head protrudes from the folds of skin excites him. It adds an extra level of exposure to Dom’s nakedness, to his maleness.

“Can’t let you have all the fun, Bills.” Dom looks Elijah over, lets his eyes wander from Elijah’s face to his chest to the center of his lusting body. He rises to his feet, then wrestles his cock back into his trousers, buttoning them closed. Elijah is baffled.

Billy studies the American. “Do you think he wants to?” The vowels are soft, insinuating, and purely Glaswegian. Billy’s ready to let Elijah be Elijah now.

“I want to,” says Dom, and that’s all that matters. He stands in front of Elijah, and the younger man’s world narrows down to a square foot of taut leather.

Dom licks one of his fingers, then runs it over Elijah’s lower lip, grazing the delicate skin. Elijah almost leans into it, then decides to play hard to get. He holds still, not giving Dom the satisfaction of a response.

Dom gives him a hard smile. “Aren’t you the little ice princess? Billy, stand him up.” Before Elijah can react, Billy tugs on his arms from behind, forcing him to his feet. Then Billy’s hands are on his hips, steadying and confining him.

Dom licks two fingers, then rolls one of Elijah’s nipples between them. It stiffens under the rough caress, but Elijah doesn’t make a sound.

“I bet you can’t get him to open his mouth,” says Bill. His breath is hot on the back of Elijah’s neck.

“I’ll bet I can get him to open anything,” counters Dom. “Can’t I, your majesty?” He presses his groin against the younger man’s silk-sheathed arousal. Elijah remains motionless as the pleasure rides him.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” purrs Dom. “Christ, Bill, you should see his face. His pupils are so fucking dilated, I can’t remember what color his eyes are. Lijah, baby, spread your legs for me.”

Willfully disobedient, Elijah doesn’t move.

“You’ll spread them,” Dom promises, “or I’ll spread them for you.”

Chin high, Elijah looks directly at Dom, wills Dom to live up to his name. And Dom must understand, because he presses his entire body hard against the captive and pries his legs apart with one knee, then fondles him through the silk. Elijah groans, excited by the contact and by the other man’s force.

“Pretty little slut,” says Dom. “I could jack you off right here.”

“I’m winning this bet,” Billy points out, but Dom is not finished. He licks his finger one more time, then moves his hand toward the small of Elijah’s back. Billy moves backward to give him room.

“Oh, God,” says Elijah, because Dom’s hand is inside his boxers now, and his slick finger is exploring the crease there.

“Bet’s over,” Dom teases. “I can stop.” But Elijah is writhing and pleading, and Dom works his finger downward, and Elijah wishes it were some other, thicker part of Dom’s anatomy, because it’s pushing against the entrance to his body, and now it’s inside him, and his muscles yield to the invasion. Then Dom brushes against a spot that makes the boy’s knees buckle. Constellations teeter behind Elijah’s closed eyes.

“Fuck,” Elijah begs. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” The gravity in this hotel room is strong.

“I don’t think I can hold him up,” reports Billy. Already half-way to the floor, Elijah moans with frustration as Dom withdraws his hand.

“’S all right,” says Dom. “I like him better on his knees anyway. Kneel, baby.”

Elijah collapses to the carpet, willing to do anything now. Again, Dom’s leather crotch fills his vision.

Dom runs his fingers through Elijah’s chestnut hair. “Hot little Yankee. Show us what that soft, pink mouth is for.” He rubs his groin against Elijah’s face, and Elijah leans into it this time, nuzzling and licking the leather.

“Jesus, Bills, look at this. He’s got a kink.” Dom braces the back of Elijah’s head with his hands and half-smothers the younger man with his thrusting pelvis. Billy murmurs his appreciation as Elijah moans, breathing in the scent of the cowhide. It’s dark and masculine, and it assaults his nostrils with sex. Dom fumbles with his belt buckle.

“Let me,” says Elijah, breathing hard.

“And how,” Billy wants to know, “are you going to get his belt off, all trussed up like a Christmas goose?”

Elijah says nothing, just presses his lips to the buckle.

“Fuck me,” says Dom, in a tone of wonderment. Elijah works at the central spoke of the buckle with his nimble tongue, nipping and pulling. He gets it open, then pulls the belt out of the loops with his teeth. Billy softly applauds.

“That alone was worth the price of admission. You’d best lie down, Dommie. You’ll not last two minutes standing up.”

Although normally argumentative, Dom lies down on the bed. Billy makes himself comfortable at Dom’s side, then begins to unbutton him. Elijah rises unsteadily to his feet, then lurches over to the bed. Trembling with want, he kneels between Dom’s thighs.

Somehow, Dom has willed his rampant erection to half-mast, and Elijah realizes the Brit wants him to work for it. He wonders whether he’ll be able to get his mouth around him, bound as he as, without toppling over. Sizing up the situation, Billy grasps the middle of the shaft and offers the head to Elijah. It makes Elijah dizzy to see him taking Dom’s cock in hand as naturally as if it were his own.

“Fuck sake,” groans Dom, who has propped himself up on his elbows just long enough to take in the sight of one man furnishing another with access to so many of his favorite nerve endings. He falls back onto the bed, worrying his lip with his teeth.

The only prick that the supple young man has ever had in his mouth is his own, and mindful of chiropractor’s bills, he’s only done that once or twice. Unsure of how to start on another male, he rubs his cheek against the tender skin on the underside of the shaft. Dom bucks and shifts.

“Be careful with those cheekbones,” he orders. “You could cut butter with them.” But the catch in his voice testifies to pleasure, not pain.

Elijah moves his head closer. The scent of sex is overwhelming. He takes Dom between his lips, then – gently, gingerly – insinuates the tip of his tongue between the glans and the loose skin that surrounds it. The object of his attentions moans, and his hips give a jerky, involuntary twitch.

“Sweet Jesus,” manages Dom. A second later, the tip of Elijah’s tongue is forced out of position as Dom becomes too stiff to accommodate him.

Elijah brings his mouth closer to the point where the straining flesh departs the trousers and breathes on it. He aches to lick Dom’s balls, but these are still encased in the chocolate trousers, and the trussed boy is in no position to remove them. He contents himself with nuzzling them through the leather while Billy adjusts his hand position. His deft fingers move to circle the base of the shaft. Dom is so hard now that no other support is needed.

“You want to suck him, don’t you?” Billy asks. “It’s all right.”

The responding voice is so low and hoarse that Elijah barely recognizes it as Dom’s. “Shit, yes, he wants to want to suck me! He’ll take it down his throat and love it. Won’t you, baby?” The words are uttered playfully, but Dom is twitching with unsated lust, and Elijah can tell that he is long past the point of playful. He shivers and holds back a nod.

Billy places his free hand at the back of Elijah’s neck, but the young man doesn’t need the hint. Just the thought of going down on this uncut leather god is making his own cock leak with desire. He wants this desperately; wants to milk the pleasure from the other man’s body; wants Dom to scream, to pulse, to forget his own name and remember only Elijah’s. He bends down and takes Dom into his mouth, lapping and sucking at the salty head. He wonders if he’s doing it right, and lifts his eyes to Dom’s to check. Dom’s eyes tell him the truth: that he is water, and Dom is a man on fire.

“That’s it,” Dom manages. “Suck it, love. Suck it right, and I’ll let you swallow.” He places his hands on the sides of Elijah’s head, holding it steady. If anyone but Dom or Billy did this to him, Elijah would bite down, but as it is, he’s in heaven.

“Please, yes,” murmurs Elijah, despite himself. Spurred on by Dom’s words and hands, Elijah takes more of Dom in. He swallows almost enough to hit Billy’s hand, then pulls up, letting his tongue vibrate against the notch where the head meets the shaft. At the touch of Elijah’s tongue, all the stiffness drains from Dom’s previously taut muscles and pools in his cock. It was hard before, but now it’s so rigid, it’s jerking.

“Jesus,” moans Dom. “You feel so good, Lij, so fucking good. Give me your tongue, baby. Harder… harder … yeah, FUCK, yeah.” A single bead of fluid leaks from his slit, and Elijah runs it over his tongue. It tastes of lust and sex and the beautiful man thrusting into him, and Elijah moans with the pleasure of it.

“Enjoying it, then?” Billy asks.

Dom whimpers. “You have no idea. His mouth is so tight. God, he’s wet … he’s got me so hard … ungh … so fucking hard…”

“I can see that,” says Billy. “Try not to impregnate his tonsils.”

Billy thinks he’s going to come inside me. Come: Elijah likes the word, and the idea of Dom performing that particular action deep inside his throat has him humping the mattress. Without warning, Dom’s hips take flight, and Elijah finds himself taking in more flesh than he knew he could. He stifles prayers to carnal gods as Dom pushes towards the back of his throat. Elijah shudders once, then swallows, his muscles clenching around the sensitive head.

“Do it, baby,” begs Dom. “Suck it like you need it.”

The impromptu lesson in deep-throating has all three men rigid with want, and the room smells increasingly like sex. Dom is so hard that his cock is running almost parallel to his body, and to compensate, Elijah has to bend over so far over that his head is almost upside down. He feels faint, but the dizziness is pleasant, brought on as much by desire and the wicked scent of Dom’s body as by head position. The recipient of the attention keens and thrusts, and Elijah lets himself be taken.

“Jesus God, yeah. Let me feel that hot mouth.” Dom’s hips shudder and grind.

Billy withdraws his hand from the other man’s shaft and leaves Elijah to it. Elijah is dimly aware of Billy moving up the bed, closer to Dom’s head. Dom’s cries are stifled now, as if Billy’s mouth were in the way.

Seven inches of needy flesh press against Elijah’s tongue, rendering it almost immobile. There’s no longer any room for fancy tongue work: He can do nothing but suck as Dom plunges into him, withdraws, and plunges into him again.

“That’s right,” murmurs Billy. “Let him do you.”

Elijah moans deep in his throat. He closes his eyes and lets Dom fuck him this way, makes his mouth sweet and wet and tight for him. Dom is bucking into him full force, and Elijah knows it won’t be long now. He lets the pleasure build and crest until the other man screams his name. Then Dom shudders and pulses and comes, and Elijah’s throat is flooded with the aftermath of his pleasure.

Elijah drinks his lover down, gently cleans him with his tongue, then topples over on top of him, arms still bound. Dom pushes him over on his side, then takes Elijah’s mouth in a long, hard kiss. It excites Elijah to think of Dom receiving his own taste from another man’s lips, and his cock throbs against the silk.

“He’s good, Bills,” says Dom, once he’s recovered the power of speech. “He’s very good. Why don’t you have a turn with him?” Orgasm makes him generous.

Billy quirks an eyebrow. “Why don’t you get him ready for me?”

“Fine,” says Dom. He goes to the desk in the far corner of the room and retrieves a beer from the six-pack there.

“That’s not what I meant,” says Billy.

“I know,” says Dom. “But it’ll be easier on him if he’s drunk.”

“Do not get him any drunker. You know how he gets.”

“No,” says Elijah, feeling defensive. “How do I get?”

Billy sighs. “You want porn. Then you ask for chocolate. Then you black out.”

“That only happened one time,” the boy protests.

“It happens every time, Elijah. You black out, Dom turns you on your side, I check your breathing, then Mr. Monaghan here wanks himself raw whilst staring at your arse. So if he comes at you with that beer bottle, don’t open your mouth. I want you awake for this.”

“I wouldn’t have to give it to him by mouth,” the blond points out. But he drops the beer, leaving his arms free to toss Elijah, still bound, over his shoulder.

“Hey,” says the abductee, kicking. He knows by now that Dom likes his prey to move.

“You talk too much,” says Dom. “Billy, my shirt’s under the bed. Get it for me.” He deposits Elijah on the floor. If Elijah had the use of his arms, he’d be on fours now, but as it is, his shoulders and one side of his face are in the carpet, and his ass is airborne. He considers protesting, but the sight of the two men staring at him like he is portable sex stops the words in his throat. Dom is ogling his ass, and Billy is clearly burning his image, bound and half-naked and aroused, onto the back of his retinas.

“Fucking perverts,” grumbles Elijah, even as his balls tighten that much closer to his body.

Unfazed, Billy tosses Dom his shirt. It’s black, and says “Princess” in rhinestones. Billy got it for Dom some months back, in celebration of the Cleopatra of Manchester look. The owner has apparently been getting some use out of it, because it smells of Dom’s body – musky and dark. Ellijah is becoming very familiar with that scent, because the shirt has just been wadded up and tied around his mouth as a gag.

“Merciful Jesus, don’t smother him,” says Billy, leaning over to peer into Elijah’s face. “I’m not a necrophiliac.” But Elijah can still breathe. In fact, he’s breathing hard, trying to extract every bit of Dom’s scent from the shirt.

Dom is behind him now. Once again, Elijah feels pressure on the waistband of his boxers. He freezes, then thrashes, dislodging Dom’s hands.

“Don’t play coy with me, your majesty.” Dom seizes him by the hips.

Billy has been watching Elijah for a while now. “He’s not playing.”

“For Christ’s sake, he can weep one tear out of his left eye on command. All right, maybe not today, but last week, it was no problem. How do you know he’s not playing?”

“He’s shy. Doesn’t want you to strip him. Right, sweetheart?”

Elijah nods.

“He just swallowed me whole,” sputters Dom. “My sperm is fertilizing his gallbladder. Why would he pick now to get shy?’

Billy examines his own fingernails. “That thing with his testicles.”

“What thing with his testicles?” wonders Dom. “Has he not washed them this week? Because I can work with that.”

“No, he’s gotten it into his head that one’s a bit bigger than the other. He’s made an appointment with the doctor to get it checked out.”

“You’ve got to be shitting me.”

“Shake your head if I’m wrong, Elijah.” The younger man holds still.

“Are you telling me that he’s so fucking inexperienced that he doesn’t know that it’s normal for the left ball to hang lower than the other?”

“Thought had crossed my mind,” says Billy. “He was home-schooled. It’s not like he’s ever spent time in a locker room.”

Elijah is blushing furiously now, and he’s so distracted that he hardly notices that Dom is pushing up the left leg of his shorts. In fact, he hardly notices anything until Dom’s wet tongue probes the topic of conversation. The gag muffles Elijah’s cries as the pleasure ripples from his balls to his cock to his virgin ass.

“He tastes normal,” pants Dom, after doling out a parting lick. “Elijah, love, let me get your kit off.” Hands are pulling roughly at the boy’s hips, but he’s too disoriented and horny to fight them off.

“Don’t get it off all the way,” suggests Billy.

“Cheeky devil,” Dom replies. “You want his pants only half-way off to keep his legs together, make him tighter for you.”

“Do you have to know me this well?” Billy asks. “It’s unsettling.”

Silk glides over Elijah’s thighs and stops before it reaches his knees. He still feels shy, but his need for sex is strong now. Operating on instinct, he’s able to spread his legs a few inches apart, but the silk prevents him from going any further.

“Fucking hell,” Dom groans, not for the first time. “Billy, I’ve changed my mind. Let me have him. I can’t not do him. Look how willing he is.” Dom is hard again – Elijah can hear it in his voice.

“You can ready him, and that’s all,” says Billy.

“I want to ready him by fucking him,” says Dom, pressing his cock against Elijah’s entrance. The bound man can’t move his arms, he’s got limited control of his legs, and he can’t talk, but he can push back hard enough to let Dom know that he wants to be taken.

Miraculously, Billy seems unshaken by this tableau. He inspects the back of his hand. “How many photographs do I have of you, Dommie?”

Dom stops pushing. “Quite a few.”

“And how compromising are they?”

“Not very.”

“Including the one with the kennel supplies?”

“Toss me the lube,” sighs Dom. Eyes closed, Elijah hears Billy rummaging around in his pockets. Dom catches something in his right hand.

“Cherry,” he mutters. “How appropriate.” Elijah’s eyes are now wide open, but he can’t turn his head far enough to see what what’s happening. He hears Dom opening the small packet with his teeth. While Dom is occupied, Billy kneels by Elijah’s head and unzips his fly. Elijah wishes that Billy were closer, or that his own tongue were longer.

“I’ll make this good for you, princess,” says Dom, and he does. Elijah feels Dom spreading his cheeks apart, two slick fingers caressing his tightness. Elijah opens his mouth to gasp and sucks in some of the knotted shirt.

“You like that, don’t you?” Elijah hears the smirk in Dom’s voice. “I have other things you’ll like.” Elijah feels Dom’s breath hot against him.

And now Elijah is moaning into the shirt, because Dom can’t be doing the things the younger man thinks he is. He can’t be licking wicked circles around the rim of the captive’s opening (oh Jesus) with his supple, questing tongue. He can’t be dipping into Elijah, teasing and tantalizing him and making all of his nerve endings catch fire from the inside. And he can’t possibly be tongue-fucking him into a frenzy in front of Billy, who is now fingering his own leaking cock a few inches from Elijah’s face.

“You’re supposed to get the lube into him,” chides Billy, his voice uncharacteristically husky. “Not eat it out.”

“You could watch me lick his arse all night,” grumbles Dom, “and the only problem we’d have is how to clean the carpet.” But he presses two slippery fingers against Elijah, then pushes them in.

Elijah bucks upon entry. There’s pain at first, then the beginnings of ecstasy, and he thinks back to finger-fucking his girlfriend in the back seat of his mother’s car when he was sixteen. Now it’s his turn to be probed and pleasured, and he whimpers into the gag.

Dom applies more lube, then presses three wet fingers into him. The fingers hook inside him, then beckon, while the other hand strokes Elijah’s sac, half trapped between the slightly parted thighs. A shock of pleasure runs through the dark-haired boy, and he twists and spasms.

“My turn,” says Billy, and the hands that were manipulating Elijah into a state of bliss withdraw. Dom kneels at Elijah’s side while Billy shucks his jeans and shirt. The fabric rustles as it hits the floor. The floor trembles slightly as Billy lands on his knees behind Elijah. His pockets must have contained additional lube, because Elijah can hear the Scotsman slicking himself up. Then a wide, smooth cockhead presses tightly against the sensitive aperture. Elijah moans through the gag.

“Look at you.” Dom strokes his cheek. “Jesus, how long are your eyelashes? And that lily-white arse: so pretty. It’ll be even prettier with Billy up to his balls in it.” Elijah tenses, mindful of the imminent invasion. Billy begins stroking his side with one hand, as though quieting a racehorse.

“Easy, sweetheart. Nobody’s going to hurt you.” Elijah can tell, even without seeing, that Billy is shooting Dom a look, but he forgets about that as the Scotsman begins rubbing the tip of his cock against the opening to his body. Pleasure and fear sweep over him. He wants this, has wanted it for months now, but he doesn’t know how much his body will be able to take. He’s never had anyone touch him internally before today, and Billy’s girth is making him apprehensive.

“All right, all right,” says Dom. “Don’t get your knickers in a knot. I’ll help.” He shambles off. Elijah can hear him pawing around in Billy’s jeans, knocking his keys and wallet to the floor.

“Can you do anything delicately?” Billy wants to know.

“I could do Elijah delicately,” reports Dom, “if I’d already done him rough.” Dom kneels next to Elijah, close to his face, and tears open another packet of lube with his teeth. He wets his palms with it, then reaches for Elijah’s cock.

“There we are, love,” soothes Dom. “Let’s get you ready for Billy.” He circles Elijah’s shaft with his thumb and forefinger. The circle glides from the base of the shaft to the head, tightens there, then glides back down to the base. Elijah pants against the inside of the gag as Dom repeats the cycle, stroking and gentling him.

Billy is pressing against him harder now. There’s a push, a gasp, and a rush of pain and pleasure as the head of Billy’s cock breaches the tight ring of muscle. Elijah shivers, no longer alone in his body.

“It’s all right, sweetheart,” says Billy. “I’ll just rest in you a while. The hard part’s over.”

Dom opens his mouth, and Elijah knows that he’s going to make a crack about Billy’s choice of adjective, but Billy clears his throat, making Dom think better of it. He continues to move slick fingers over Elijah’s swollen sex.

“Relax for me,” says Billy, running his hands over Elijah’s sides. “Mmm, you’re fine. If I’d known you’d be this tight, I might have let Dom take your boxers off all the way.” He sweeps his hands over Elijah’s nipples, wringing a moan from the younger man’s lips.

Dom bends his head to bite and suck a nearby shoulder. “It makes me hot to see you this way, Elijah: tied, gagged, with another man inside you. Jesus, you look even nakeder with your clothes half on.”

Nakeder than what? Elijah wants to know, since Dom has never seen him stripped. At least, not stripped and conscious. He resolves to pursue the matter later, because the only thing he wants to do now is to push back against Billy, sheathing him a little further inside. Billy grasps him by the hips, seemingly trying to keep from sinking any further in.

“Slowly,” he gasps. “There’s no rush.” But Elijah wants more contact. He lurches backward, enjoying the sensation of Dom’s fingers, caught unawares, hurtling over his aroused flesh. The reversal seats Billy firmly inside him.

“Gah,” says Billy.

“Nice, isn’t he?”

“Jesus.” Billy begins rocking back and forth inside Elijah, trying different angles, until Elijah tenses and cries out against the shirt.

“That’s the spot, isn’t it? Lijah, sweetheart, I’m going to make you feel so good.” Billy thrusts into him, touching him exactly where he wants to be touched. He closes his eyes, and again, his eyelids shelter stars.

Dom’s mouth is hot against the side of Elijah’s neck, and he bites down. “I could fucking eat you,” he says. His hand slides over the aching shaft.

“Will you stop marking him?” asks Billy. “I’m the one doing him.” He makes his point with his hips, penetrating Elijah a little harder. Elijah moans as Billy bumps against the small, responsive gland.

“Just trying to get him hot for you,” says Dom. Still stroking, he crouches over to skim his tongue against the shell of Elijah’s ear.

“Good, yeah?” Billy asks Elijah for the second time this night. Good doesn’t begin to cover it, thinks Elijah. He’s heard about prostate sensations, but never experimented with them. Now Billy is doing the experimenting for him, and the pleasure is intense.

“Fuck me,” he begs. The gag muffles the sound, but Billy fucks him anyway. Elijah can hear the other man’s balls slapping against him as they mate. It’s a primitive sound, almost animalistic, and it makes Elijah weak with lust.

Dom’s mouth is close and confidential. “You love this. Love the feel of another man taking pleasure inside you, don’t you? You’re going to come so hard, and when you do, you’ll take him with you.” He rubs his thumb over Elijah’s slit, then continues moving his hand over the engorged flesh.

“Little slut,” continues Dom, as Elijah thrusts against his hand. “I could come just watching you.”

Billy has nothing to add to the comment. He’s bent over now, his chest touching Elijah’s back, and his hips are bucking and thrashing. He wraps his arms around Elijah’s torso, as though he doesn’t want him to get away, and couples with him fiercely.

“I want you to lose it,” Dom says. “Lose every shred of control you ever had. And you will, because neither of us will stop until you do. Another minute of Billy nailing that pretty arse of yours, and you’ll go off in my hand like a bottle rocket.”

Dom’s perverse narrative remains the dirtiest thing Elijah has ever heard – for about ten seconds. That’s when Billy starts moaning. The sound rises and falls in time with Billy’s thrusts, one long tangle of lusty vowels that exist nowhere south of Hadrian’s Wall. Billy is moaning in Scottish, and his raw, unhinged wailing shakes Elijah to the core.

“It’s coming,” says Dom, understanding the panic in Elijah’s eyes. “Let it take you, princess.” He cups Elijah’s testicles in one hand and strokes his hard length with the other.

“OhJesusGodfuckyes,” cries Billy.

“I know.” Dom turns his face towards the Scotsman. “I’m going to watch it happen, but you’re going to feel it.” He returns his gaze to Elijah. “Go ahead, baby. Let me see you come.”

And then Dom gets his wish. Something about being unable to move or talk has made Elijah hyper-aware of his body, and he experiences every phase of his climax in slow motion. He can feel the orgasm licking at his feet, then caressing his calves. It mounts his thighs, then wraps itself around his balls, tight and heavy in Dom’s hand. When it reaches the tip of his cock, Elijah cries out, thrusting wildly, lost in spirals of excruciating pleasure. Wracked with ecstasy, he clenches down on Billy.

“Elijah,” whimpers Billy. “JesusfuckGod, Elijah, yes!” And as Billy loses himself inside Elijah’s willing body, Elijah pumps into Dom’s waiting hand.

When he comes back to himself, Billy is holding him tightly by the waist, his lips soft against Elijah’s back. Then Billy pulls out, and Elijah’s knees sink to the floor.

Dom tongues the stickiness from his middle and ring fingers. “Nice work, Bills. You really nailed the dismount.” Using one hand, he unties Elijah’s makeshift gag and lets it fall to the floor. He cups Elijah’s chin, then offers him a come-slicked index finger. Thankful his parish priest can’t see him now, Elijah licks it clean.

Dom smiles. “Let’s get this belt off you, baby. Believe me, you’ll be needing all four limbs before the night is out.” Once the belt is off, Elijah staggers to his feet, rubbing his wrists. They’re pink and aching, but his interest in them wanes when he sees Dom’s friendly leer.

“Where do you want me?” he asks, knowing that the question will please his companions.

“Up on the bed with you, prettiness. Lie down on your side. You too, Bill. I want you facing Elijah.”

“I’m not going,” Billy announces. “This floor’s been good to me.” But when Elijah lets Dom maneuver him to the bed, Billy follows.

As directed, Elijah lies down. He’s on his side now, facing Billy, with about a foot of space between them. Billy’s also lying on his side, his lips slightly parted, and his short hair in post-coital disarray. Light brown hair dusts his well-defined chest, and his cock lies rosy and waiting in its brown thicket.

“This is about his kink, isn’t it?” asks Billy. “You want me to…”

“Yeah,” says Dom.

Billy edges closer to Elijah and grasps the younger man’s hand. Elijah gasps as Billy guides his hand over the head of his cock, nestled in its sheath of skin.

“You like that we’re uncut, don’t you? It does something for you?”

Flushing, Elijah nods.

“You know how good friction feels … here?” Billy reaches out and strokes Elijah, touching the soft skin where the glans meets the shaft. Surprised, Elijah flinches, then stiffens against Billy’s hand.

“Fuck, yeah.”

“If you weren’t … cut,” continues Billy, “I could put my hand around you and make the skin rub against the head of your cock, right where you want friction most. Do you want to know what that’s like?”

It occurs to Elijah that Billy is leading him on. “How? I can’t…”

Billy presses the head of his cock against Elijah’s, then slides his foreskin over the younger man’s glans and holds it there.

“Like that,” answers Billy. “Now move against me. Now. I won’t be able to do this for very long.”

Elijah thrusts. Billy’s right; the sensation of skin against the head of his cock is fantastic, but it’s the idea that Billy is opening his body to him that has him half-delirious with lust. He moans and thrusts again, savoring the pressure of Billy’s skin and hand. Billy’s eyes go vacant, and he begins to move his lips. At first, Elijah thinks he’s praying, but then he recognizes the multiplication tables. A few more thrusts, however, and the older man’s libido triumphs over his distancing technique. As Billy gets hard, Elijah finds himself ejected from the warmth and tightness of the other man’s sheath.

“I can’t believe I lasted as long as I did,” says Billy. “Is that how you always moan? It sounds so … American. It’s like I’m in bed with James Dean.”

Dom rolls his eyes. “If James Dean were here, he’d be wishing to hell he had just balled Elijah. Now, roll over on your back.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m going to teach Elijah to fuck you, that’s why.”

Elijah has never seen Billy roll over on his back so fast. The thought of being on top of him makes the younger man’s heart pound, but he assumes an air of studied nonchalance. “What’s there to know?” he asks, as though he’s had fifty Scotsmen a day since puberty.

Dom laughs. “Please. This is Billy. If I were to show you everything he likes, we’d never get back to the set.” He throws Elijah a pillow. “Make yourself useful: put this under his arse. You’ll like the angle it gives you, and he won’t mind it any.”

To be continued …

Job interview

Thu, 05 Aug 2004 14:34:29 GMT

Holy God, the people from that job I really want just called me back. I've got an interview on Monday. For the next few days, I'm going to do nothing but plot my strategy for getting this thing, so I'm going to post my half-finished Dombillijah NOW. Will finish writing later.

By the way, there's going to be a benefit concert in Portland, ME in memory of the great, lamented Todd. He was funny as hell, supremely tolerant, a gifted blacksmith, a wonderful father to his child, and the love of his wife's life. He was a carpenter, a drummer, and everybody's best pal, and he died of an asthma attack on June 26th. I know people always think their loved ones were special, but Todd really was. He was sweet, affectionate, and the life of the party, and we will never forget him.

Love,

miri

P.S. If you check out the toddapalooza website, be sure to look at the photo section. Todd's hilarity just rolls off the page.

Hobbit Medicine

Fri, 28 May 2004 16:04:22 GMT

Author: mirith
Pairing: Frodo/Sam
Rating: NC-17.
E-mail: mirith@pobox.com
LJ: http://www.livejournal.com/users/mirith/
Summary: Sam and Frodo heal some old hurts in Valinor.
Disclaimer: Never for money. Always for love.
Feedback: is necessary. The ninth circle of paradise is reserved for people who give feedback. Hobbit virgins optional, but why would you pass them up?
Written: 5/21/04 – 5/28/04, for the amazing Snoopydance4me, who suggested Valinor + sex.

It took fifteen minutes for Sam to get up the courage to knock on the door.

For years, he had thought about making the long trip west to Valinor, and now that he was here, at Frodo’s doorstep, his hands insisted on fidgeting in their pockets. Not that there was any question that he had found the right address: it was a hobbit hole, tidy and simple, and the only one that Sam had seen since he stepped off the boat. Something else was holding him back, something complicated and persistent. And so Sam paced in front of the door, wearing a little track in the dust, wondering what he would say to his long-absent friend.

He might have stayed there for hours, had the wind not changed direction, bringing with it the sound of laughter from Frodo’s open windows. Sam blinked in the late afternoon sun, then smiled ruefully to himself.

“What would your Gaffer say?” he wondered, shaking his head. “You're a fine sight, Samwise Gamgee, slinking outside the door of gentlefolk!” Chastised, he took hold of the door knocker and banged it hard.

He heard the sound of a hobbit careening towards the entrance, hitting some part of his anatomy on a piece of low-lying furniture, taking Eru’s name in vain, then hopping to the door. The door opened, and there was Frodo, grinning broadly. He stood on one leg and held his injured shin behind him.

“Sam? Is that you?” Frodo blanched and tottered on his one good leg, about to fall. Sam caught him by the elbows and steadied him, more tenderly than he needed to.

“Mr. Frodo,” he managed. “It’s been a long time, and no mistake.” He held Frodo close for a few precious seconds, breathing in the scent of his hair. For his part, Frodo clung to his new guest as though he might blow away in the next seaward wind.

Sam wondered if Frodo’s trembling was an artifact of the recent blow to his leg. He was about to look into this issue further when he realized they had an onlooker. Over Frodo’s shoulder, he could see an elf sprawling precariously on a hobbit-sized chair. The elf peered at the new arrival.

“Begging your pardon,” said Sam. He drew a circle in the dirt with his toes. “Didn’t know you were keeping company. Don’t want to be no trouble…”

But Frodo had partly recovered his gait and composure and was dragging Sam into the house by one arm. “Hallasir! Look who’s come! It’s my … it’s Sam!”

The elf rose from his chair, and offered Sam a cool hand. Flustered, Sam reached up to take it.

The elf turned to Frodo. “It’s time for me to leave, little one. Enjoy your visit with your halfling friend.”

“I’m sure I will,” said Frodo. He walked Hallasir to the door. The elf ran one hand over Frodo’s dark curls, then nodded to Sam.

“May your evening be pleasant, Samwise of the Shire.”

“Garo adiual vaer,” Sam mumbled in farewell. As much as he appreciated elves, he didn’t like to see a stranger touching Frodo in a familiar way. In fact, he had never much liked the sight of anyone touching Frodo, familiarly or not, and this emotion could not have showed on his face more plainly if it had been painted there. He comforted himself with the fact that Frodo remembered him often enough in speech that his new acquaintances were familiar with Sam’s full given name.

The elf’s eyes glinted. He inclined his head towards Sam, then towards the master of the house, and was gone.

Once the door had closed behind the elf, Frodo wrapped his remaining visitor in both arms, then buried his face in his neck and wept. “Oh, Sam, Sam,” he cried. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

“And you can’t see me now, neither,” said Sam, kissing the top of Frodo’s head. “Not if you take on so. There, now.”

He was seized by the old, long-suppressed impulse to kiss Frodo’s tears away, but settled for rubbing his friend’s back in what he hoped was a comradely fashion. “No use getting myself thrown out my first day here,” he reasoned. Questions about the elf’s role in Frodo’s life ran through his mind, but he quickly drove them out.

When he felt Frodo had cried long enough, he held him at an arm’s length and dabbed at him with a handkerchief. “All right, Mr. Frodo. I see your kettle on the stove. Let me fix you a hot cup of tea. My Gaffer always said that nothing could settle a body like heat and drink, and tea is both.”

“I’ve been a terrible host,” said Frodo, smiling through his few remaining tears. “Let me make the tea, Sam.” He bustled off to the stove to put the kettle on.

“If you aren’t a marvel!” replied Sam, as he watched his friend retreat. Sam admired his easy grace. Even after all these years, Frodo was slim-hipped and sable-haired, and he drew longing from Sam like a sponge draws water from a bucket. Sam shifted his hips, trying to keep the longing in check.

“To think,” Sam continued, “that you learned to boil water!” He looked forward to the tea: its high temperature always explained away flushed cheeks.

Frodo gave a pleased giggle. “I’ve done more than that,” he said. “There are blackberry biscuits on the table. Take some.”

Sam ambled over to the kitchen table and found a blue and white bowl. It was covered in grey elven cloth and looked encouragingly lumpy. Sam removed the cloth and found the promised biscuits inside. He popped one into his mouth.

“Frodo!”

Frodo turned from the stove, his eyebrows battling one another in anxiety. “What is it?”

“These are ...” Sam stopped talking to chew. He waved his hands emphatically.

“What?” Frodo rushed over to the table.

“Good,” said Sam. “Very good. There’s a word for it, I reckon, but choke me if I know what it is.”

“I /will/ choke you, too,” said Frodo, looking relieved, “for making me worry. Now, then, Master Samwise. The water’s almost ready. What would you like in your tea? Wait, I know.” Frodo shaded his eyes with his hand and thought. “No honey. No lemon. Just a dollop of cream, about the size of a radish. That should do you.”

“Do me?” Sam asked himself. He dearly wished that Frodo would do him, and forget about the tea. Still, he responded with a decorous “That’s it,” even adding, “You’re a gentlehobbit to remember.”

After the tea had steeped, they sat at the table and drank. Frodo reached for the honey, then fell back, grimacing and clutching at his left shoulder. Sam fussed over Frodo’s injury.

“It’s the wound,” said Sam, quietly. “It’s been grieving you all this time, with nary a soul to tend to it.”

“Just about,” Frodo admitted. “But we needn’t talk about it now. I’m just so surprised to see you here. Sam, have you come for good?”

“I reckon I have, at that,” said Sam. He studied Frodo’s face, trying to read in it what their lives would be like now that he was here.

“Of course,” said Frodo, returning Sam’s inquisitive gaze. “Nobody ever goes back. But I never thought you’d come.” He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again.

“Rosie,” thought Sam. “He’s thinking about Rosie.”

“It sounds like you’ve learned more Sindarin,” said Frodo, changing the subject. “I couldn’t believe how fluent you sounded when we were seeing Hallasir off.”

“There’s the name of that elf again,” thought Sam. He thanked his master, for Frodo had remained “master” to him, though it was not the only way in which he thought of his friend. He reached for another biscuit.

“Guess I’ve done a bit of studying while you were gone,” Sam remarked, chewing thoughtfully.

“Whatever made you think of it?” asked Frodo. “I always imagined you gardening. Bringing things to life, the way you do.”

“Oh, I still keep my hands in the earth, you might say.” Sam blushed. “Don’t reckon as how it’s me that brings things to life. I just give them a little pat of welcoming when they arrive. But I’ve read a fair bit now, Mr. Frodo. It seemed a shame, you leaving me all those elf books, and nobody to pay them any mind.”

Sam shifted uneasily in his chair, wondering if he had said too much. The fact was that he had been desperately lonely for Frodo, and had been determined to immerse himself in everything that had been his master’s, especially the books. Reading them brought to mind times when Frodo had read to him by the fire, the two of them wrapped up in blankets to keep away the chill. Sam sometimes thought that the books still smelled of Frodo – his hands, his skin.

“And you,” said Sam, looking to break the silence. “How long have you been cooking? Last I knew, you could scorch anything. Tea, even. Now you put Poppy Bolger to shame, you do.”

Frodo beamed. “I’ve been cooking since … well, since I didn’t have anyone to do it for me, I suppose. At first, it was a disaster. I’d try to remember how you made coney stew, or pancakes, and I’d end up with pancakes that were clumpy like stew, or stew that was firm like pancakes.”

Sam smiled fondly and reached into the biscuit bowl.

“I suppose I’ve gotten better,” teased Frodo. “Seeing as how that’s your third biscuit. But there are some things that I’ve never gotten the hang of. That pie crust you used to make, for example. However did you do it? Mine comes out like lead.”

“I’ll show you some time, Mr. Frodo. Don't worry, you’ll pick it up that quick.”

There was another silence. Frodo put his head in his hands for a moment, then raised his eyes to look at his guest.

“Oh, Sam. I don’t know how I can make small talk at a time like this. The fact is, I just missed you so much.”

“I missed you too,” said Sam. “Something fierce.” Frodo helped himself to a biscuit, and the two of them chewed quietly.

“Looks like you’ve had some company, though,” Sam continued, trying to keep his tone light. “What with that elf.”

“That elf?” Frodo mulled this over, then started up with a gasp of recognition. “Samwise Gamgee! Are you jealous?”

“Don’t know as I ought to say, sir; I really don’t. It’s just that he looked so comfortable…” Under the table, Sam’s feet rubbed together in a little nervous dance. As usual, he was unable to keep anything a secret from Frodo.

“You /are/ jealous.” Frodo’s eyes, wide to begin with, widened even more. “Sam, are you asking if I’ve been with Hallasir?”

“Now, Mr. Frodo, that’s not what I said.” Sam began picking at the tablecloth. He knew that all of his limbs were fidgeting under Frodo’s sapphire gaze, but he couldn’t stop them.

“I know, but it’s what you meant.”

Sam didn’t offer a rebuttal.

Frodo sighed. “Yes,” he said.

“Yes?” asked Sam.

“Yes, we were … together.”

“Oh.” In a flash, Sam remembered the time he had fallen out of Farmer Maggot’s tallest apple tree and landed on a pile of stones below. This hurt worse.

“It was years ago. I had just come here, and I was in terrible shape. He healed me, as best he could.”

“And sex is part of elvish medicine, is it?” Inwardly, Sam flinched. It hurt him to speak to Frodo that way, but the words had just popped out, converting his pain to insolence.

“Yes,” said Frodo, gently. “It is.” He maneuvered their two chairs so that they were facing each other, and he took Sam’s hand in his own maimed one. “I had no idea you’d be this upset.”

Sam fixed his gaze on his tea cup, now empty but for a few leaves in the bottom. Outside, a bird was singing, but he didn’t recognize the song. “Damned elven bird,” thought Sam.

“Sam, I don’t know why you’re being this way. I needed some contact, and he gave it to me. There was so much that hurt – the Morgul wound, the memories of the Ring, you leaving me…”

Sam’s mouth fell open. “Me leaving you? I never left you!” He struggled to master his voice. “Begging your pardon, but I’m not the one who hopped on a ship sailing west.”

Frodo looked as though Sam had struck him.

“You /did/ leave me!” he cried. “You left me for Rosie!” Frodo sprang from his chair as if to pace about the kitchen, but Sam caught him by the elbows again, just as he had at the door. Frodo’s lip was trembling, and Sam wasn't sure his own was any firmer, but he forged ahead.

“For starters, Mr. Frodo, I don’t see how you can say I left you for Rosie. You and I were never a couple to begin with.” Something about that statement didn’t ring true, but he let it stand. “Second, you told me to marry Rosie. You started in on how you wanted little Samlets running about and why wouldn’t I get married. And finally, I gave in and did it. I would have done anything for you, and you know it.” Sam forgot to breathe as every emotion he’d had since Frodo left hit him like a wave.

Frodo’s face turned white as bone. As soon as Sam felt his friend’s knees giving way, he slung him over his back, as he had done on the road to Orodruin, and carried him to the sofa.

And now they lay hip to hip, belly to belly, as Frodo sobbed into Sam’s hair. “Why did I do it?” asked Frodo, once he could speak. “I never thought you'd take me up on it. Oh Sam, I wanted you so much.”

“You did?” Sam swallowed hard, putting the pieces together.

“Of course I did,” said Frodo. “Sam, don’t hate me. When we got back from Mordor, I wanted you so badly. I remember so many times when I wanted to ask you to take me to bed and make me whole again. You don’t think me wicked for thinking that, do you?”

“No,” said Sam, holding Frodo tightly. "Not for thinking it," he silently amended, "but for not asking. Not that I've done better." For a moment, he rocked the two of them back and forth.

“Sweet Sam. I should have known you’d forgive me anything. So, yes, I had feelings for you, but I was terrified of how you’d respond. I couldn’t bear losing your friendship. Although sometimes, I’d even imagine that … that you’d say yes.”

“Yes,” said Sam, but his face was buried against Frodo’s neck, and Frodo appeared not to hear him.

“And then it was almost worse,” Frodo continued. “I know I'm mad, but I'd think of us together. And then I’d get frightened, because although I wanted … that …, I was afraid of being … pierced again. I was afraid it would be like the stabbing, and that I wouldn’t be able to stand it, even though I wanted it so much. And the idea of not being able to please you …” Frodo's voice trailed off.

"So in the end, I pushed you towards Rosie, maybe to test how you felt. You know. About me.”

Unable to speak, Sam pulled Frodo on top of him and kissed his neck. He stroked Frodo’s shoulders, feeling them rise and fall under his hand.

Frodo struggled to get up, but was helpless against the other hobbit’s greater strength. “Sam, dear, don’t tease,” he managed. “I know you mean it innocently, just in friendship, but you don’t know what it does to me.”

“Aye,” said Sam, marveling at his own ability to sound so calm. “I mean it in friendship.” He licked a slow line from the apple of Frodo’s throat to his ear.

“Sam, please,” moaned Frodo. He pushed at his couchmate, seeking leverage. “It’s cruel.”

“That it is." Sam paused. "I’ve come all the way here to give myself to you, and you insist on staying dressed. With your leave, Mr. Frodo, it’s no way to treat a guest.”

Frodo scrambled into a sitting position atop Sam and peered into his friend’s eyes. He must have liked what he saw, because a slow, bewildered grin began to spread over his face.

“Samwise Gamgee! Are you …” Frodo fumbled for the words. “Are you making love to me?”

“I’m trying to, sir.” Sam reached up to caress the tip of Frodo’s pointed ear.

“But I thought … Sam, how long have you…”

“Don’t know that either of us wins any prize in communication,” said Sam. “Me nor you. I’ve loved you since I first heard of love. Since before then, most likely.”

“I’ve been so foolish.” Frodo covered his face with his hands, but Sam uncovered it.

“If this is what a fool is,” he said, “Then I must be powerful fond of fools.” He pressed himself tightly against Frodo, trying to comfort him, as was his wont, with his arms and body.

“Now then,” Sam continued, when they had held each other a while, “I don’t mean to be forward, but it seems to me that you mentioned something about me taking you to bed.” It was bold, but Sam had lost so much through lack of boldness, and he was determined to make up for lost time.

Tentatively, Frodo ran a finger over Sam’s lips, getting used to the skin there. “Sam, you don’t have to. You just got here; I’m sure you want to lie down…”

“With your consent, Mr. Frodo, I do want to lie down. And I’d like a spot of company while I do it.” Uncertainty hit him then, and he ran his hands down Frodo’s shirt buttons. “That is, sir, if you’ll have me.”

“Oh, Sam, I will have you,” replied Frodo. He bent to kiss Sam’s forehead, then stroked his face. “But where can we go? This couch is small, but the bed is even smaller.”

Sam was glad to hear some corroboration of his hope that the elf did not spend his nights in Frodo’s chambers, but he kept that to himself. “I’ve always wanted to love you in a garden,” he admitted.

Frodo licked his lips. Sam couldn’t tell if the gesture was nervous, lusty, or both.

“As it happens,” Frodo replied, “I have a garden. A nice garden out back with very high walls.”

“You have a garden?” asked Sam, shaking his head with wonder. “I leave you alone for a few years, and quick as a ladybird, you’re cooking and gardening. There’s not much use for old Sam around here.”

“I could think of many uses for old Sam,” said Frodo, shyly, “if he would be pleased to go to the garden with me.” He offered Sam his hand, and led him out into the sunshine.

Sam gasped when he saw what Frodo had done. The garden was luminous, with banks of greenery, a small pool for water plants, and an ocean of flowers. Golden hues predominated – honey-colored roses; buttery daisies; amber lilies. Sam knelt to examine a cluster of small posies by his feet.

“Elanor, the sun-star,” he said. “We saw them together in Lothlórien.”

“I know,” said Frodo, looking at his feet. “They’re the color of your hair.” He touched his hand to his cheek in embarrassment.

“I’m getting more white hairs by the day, Mr. Frodo. Soon I’ll be toting a staff and wearing a pointy hat.” It was dawning on Sam that /every/ plant in the garden was roughly the color of his own hair.

“You will not,” said Frodo, reaching out to stroke Sam’s wayward locks. “Your silver hairs are beautiful, and I won’t have you hide them. I will plant moon-star for them, and lunaria, and silver sword…”

Here Sam pulled Frodo briefly into his arms for a kiss. Frodo’s lips were sweet from the biscuits, and Sam shuddered as they gave way to his own. It perplexed him that something as soft as his master’s mouth could shake him so hard.

“I should know that I can’t out-love you with words,” Sam said, his voice low. “But if you lie down with me on that moss over there, I reckon I can show you some romance.”

“Then show me,” said Frodo. Moving slowly, as in a fever dream, he offered Sam his wrists.

“All right, then,” said Sam. Sam grabbed Frodo and hoisted him, squealing, onto his back. He tottered toward his goal, occasionally pausing to pretend he was losing his grip, then deposited Frodo tenderly on the bank of moss. Frodo pulled Sam down beside him, and they came to rest facing each other in a loose embrace.

“Before we start,” said Sam, “I only want to do what pleases you.”

“I know,” said Frodo.

Sam sighed. “I wish I had known, back then, about your being afraid and such. You know, of … piercing. We could have done other things together, you know. I could have loved you with my hands, with my mouth. I would have loved you with my elbows, if you wanted. I just didn't think …”

“I see that now,” said Frodo, “and I wish I had seen it then. Don’t worry: if I get scared, I’ll ask you to do something else. But I don’t see how you could frighten me, the way we are now.”

Encouraged, Sam took Frodo’s face in his hands and kissed him. This time, Frodo’s lips parted to offer Sam entrance, and Sam accepted, caressing the inside of his beloved’s mouth with his tongue. Frodo gave a groan of pleasure, then set about exploring Sam in the same way. Sam could already feel himself stiffening against Frodo’s clad thigh.

“Too hot,” gasped Sam. He moved to unbutton his weskit, but Frodo stayed his hand.

“You are /my/ mathom,” said Frodo, “and I will open you.” As soon as they had both gotten to their knees, Frodo began to make good on his promise. He stripped Sam of his weskit and unfastened his braces.

Frodo paused to admire his handiwork. It was a tactical mistake, for Sam pounced upon him. Although Frodo wriggled, he could not unseat his rider, and the stronger hobbit soon divested him of weskit, braces, and shirt. Sam lost patience removing the latter, stopped working on the buttons, and pulled it over Frodo’s eyes in a makeshift blindfold.

“Sam, I can’t see,” Frodo pointed out, bested and breathing hard.

“But I can,” said Sam. Understanding, Frodo lay still and Sam study him.

“Mother of Eru,” whispered Sam, “and all his aunts beside.” He had often seen Frodo naked, but he had never seen Frodo lying back in all his seductive glory, ready to take a lover. Words of awe and desire began burbling from Sam, and he stroked a path from Frodo’s throat to his belly, thrilling to the way the sweet skin felt under his hand.

“Samwise Gamgee, only you would say such things,” groaned Frodo. “I’ve been gutted like a hake and I haven’t all my fingers and…”

“Then only I’d be right,” soothed Sam. “Hush now and let your Sam look at you.” The scar on Frodo’s shoulder was jagged and ugly, but that was the scar and the Wraith who made it, not Frodo. In Sam’s eyes, it threw Frodo’s luminous skin and radiant curls into sharp relief, making him shine all the more brightly because of it.

“So white where the sun hasn’t touched you,” Sam breathed. “You’re a water lily, and a tower of Gondor besides.” Frodo squirmed, then gasped as Sam caught and pinned his wrists to the ground.

“Although,” Sam reflected, “not all of you is pale. Here’s a pink bit.” Sam bent his head down to breathe on one of Frodo’s nipples, then moved back to examine the results: a harder nipple and a writhing Frodo. Sam was beginning to think that the latter would be a responsive bedmate.

“Sam, please,” Frodo begged. Still pinned, he raised his hips in the direction of Sam’s body, then cried out when he brushed against it.

“Never you mind, sweet master. Sam has more than breath for you.” The younger hobbit bent his head back to Frodo’s nipple and licked it, being sure to rub his own clad erection against Frodo’s in the process. He was pleased to lift his gaze in time to see Frodo throw his head back and bite his own arm. Entranced, Sam suckled at him, nipped at him, grazed him with his teeth.

“You taste sweet here, Mr. Frodo,” remarked Sam, still holding down a wriggling hobbit. “But I’ve not tasted everywhere.” When Frodo parted his thighs and moaned, Sam took the hint and licked a path down to where Frodo’s breeches began.

“What’s this?” Sam asked. “A barrier.” He lay his cheek on the bulge in Frodo’s trousers, then nuzzled it through the velvet. “Hmm. None shall pass. It’s a defeat, Mr. Frodo, and there’s no two ways around it.”

“You are /not/ defeated,” gasped Frodo, temporarily lucid. “Confound it, Sam, strip me!”

Happy to oblige, Sam got to work on Frodo’s trouser buttons. He was intentionally clumsy, his fingers constantly veering off the buttons and on to Frodo’s arousal, which was still bound by the velvet. Finally, buttons were undone, the breeches removed, and Frodo revealed.

“Beautiful,” breathed Sam. He could think of no other word in Westron that fit, though there were many in Sindarin. He removed the shirt from Frodo’s willow-the-wisp eyes.

“Now you can see how splendid you are,” Sam said. “And you can watch the things I do to you, if you like.”

As Frodo moaned and surrendered himself into Sam’s care, Sam couldn’t help but notice that his pupils were eclipsing his irises at a furious rate. His lithe body was a picture of readiness – his lips parted, his breathing fast, his cock red and ripe with heat. With an amorousness that bordered on reverence, Sam parted Frodo’s thighs and knelt between them.

“I thought we could start with this,” said Sam, placing a kiss at the end of his lover’s hardness. He looked up at Frodo’s face for assurance that his touch was welcome. Frodo focused his eyes long enough to shoot Sam a look of pure need.

“He wants me,” thought Sam. There was something giddy in the thought, yet something fierce and possessive too. Holding back a growl, Sam planted a hand on Frodo’s thigh, then took his lover into his mouth.

Although Sam had never been with another lad, he had often mulled over exactly how he would serve Frodo, bedwise, if ever the Queen of the Valar stepped down from her mount and gave him the opportunity. Most of his ideas on love-making had their roots in gardening. For much of his life, he had done his best to give what was needed to the green life that twitched to break forth from the soil, and he saw parallels to this in romance. Seeds needed warmth and wetness; Frodo would need these too. Intent on supplying these requirements, Sam moved up and down on his beloved’s shaft, offering him the heat and moisture of his tongue.

“Sam,” Frodo moaned. It was the first coherent thing he’d said since asking Sam to strip him. He bucked his hips, entering Sam more deeply, and now it was the gardener who was moaning, rock-hard at the thought of Frodo using him this way. He relaxed his throat, doing his best to accommodate the flesh that filled him.

Frodo trembled and whimpered. Reluctant to put an early end to his lover’s pleasure, Sam drew up and slowed his pace. He began lapping gently at the underside of the head of Frodo’s cock. Sam was sensitive there, and he hoped Frodo would be too.

Frodo must have enjoyed the new sensation, for he clamped his thighs around Sam’s shoulders, urging him on. But Sam was determined to continue teasing. With a feather-light touch, he drew his tongue up over the head of his lover’s sex. As he reached the slit, he pressed into it, gratified when it yielded up a drop of clear fluid. He rolled it around on his tongue, savoring the taste of Frodo’s desire.

Frodo was pleading now. He implored Sam to do it harder, to do it faster, to do anything he wanted, as long as it would bring release. Relenting, Sam took in as much of his beloved as possible, sliding his tongue down the underside of the shaft as he went. Then he reversed the gesture, sweeping his mouth from the base of Frodo’s arousal to the tip, tonguing fervently all the while.

“Your hands,” Frodo begged, as his body twitched and fluttered.

Hoping he understood, Sam placed his hands at the base of Frodo’s cock. Continuing to shower his sweetheart with the devotions of his mouth, he began stroking and gentling Frodo with his hands as well. He moved one of his hands to cup his lover’s sac, and found it hard and tight against Frodo’s body.

“So good,” breathed Frodo, and Sam could hear the beginning of his climax in his voice. It soon began elsewhere as well, and Frodo started thrusting into Sam’s mouth as though his hips were beyond his control. Sam lapped him, sucked him, loved him, until, with a strangled cry, Frodo spent himself long and hard against the back of Sam’s throat.

Afterwards, Frodo wrapped himself around Sam in a dreamy snuggle.

“That was heaven,” said Frodo.

“That it was,” said Sam. He stroked a curl back from Frodo’s cheek, where it had become plastered during their exertions. “To tell you the truth, Mr. Frodo, the way you started driving into me at the end – it stirred me something terrible.” He pulled Frodo’s hand to his crotch, so that Frodo could feel for himself.

“I couldn’t help it,” said Frodo, almost apologetically. “I really couldn’t.” He moved his hand over Sam’s hardness.

“That,” said Sam, “is why it stirred me.” Holding back a groan, he bit his lover gently on the neck.

They held each other for a few minutes, getting used to this new development in their friendship. Frodo was the first to break the silence.

“Sam, would you do something for me?”

“Not only something,” said Sam, “but anything.” He looked at Frodo expectantly.

“Would you … would you lie with me?”

Sam cocked his head. He was unfamiliar with the idiom, but had hopes as to what it might mean.

Frodo worried his lip with his teeth. “I mean, would you bed me? I need to feel you inside me. Please, Sam. I want us to be together. I don’t know what I’ll do if you don’t.”

Sam had never heard a request that he more desperately wanted to fulfill, but he balked at the idea of causing Frodo pain.

“What about the piercing, as you say? Although you’re probably used to it by now.” Sam blushed at this last reflection.

“What do you mean?” Frodo wanted to know.

“I mean, that elf, he’s a big feller. The height of him, anyhow.” Sam squirmed at his own candor.

“You’re still thinking of Hallasir,” said Frodo, surprised. “I told you, that part of our relationship was over a long time ago. And anyway, we never did that.”

“You didn’t?”

“No. We did other things, but he never took me that way.”

Sam considered this. “Because you were scared, like,” he said slowly, looking to Frodo for confirmation.

“Yes,” confessed Frodo. “And because he…”

Somewhere by the pool, a cricket was chirping. Sam decided to wait for his lover to finish before going off to deck the elf.

“Because he wasn’t you,” Frodo said.

Sam’s desire for revenge gave way to elation. The gratitude within him was so powerful that he wouldn’t have been surprised if it had come shooting out of his furry toes. He drew Frodo closer.

“Of course I’ll touch you that way, if you’ll let me. I never wanted anything half so bad, and that’s the truth. But I’m afraid I didn’t bring no … supplies. You know, to make it easier on you.”

Frodo arched an eyebrow. “And here I thought you, of all hobbits, were always prepared for anything.”

“Usually am, sir. But I never figured we’d be doing this ever, let alone an hour after I got here.”

“Samwise Gamgee!” Frodo laughed. “I do believe you’re saying I’m loose. I may be, at that, since you’re the only one who still has most of his clothing on. Let me help with that, Sam, and then we’ll look for supplies, as you call them.”

Sam held still and let Frodo strip him of his shirt. The afternoon sun felt good on his chest, but not as good as Frodo’s wandering fingers. Next, Frodo struggled with the buttons on Sam’s breeches. The realization that his master’s eagerness was causing him to fumble like a love-hungry tween warmed Sam’s insides like brandy.

At last, Sam lay bare. Something in the unveiling seemed to erase any thoughts of finding something to ease their love-making from Frodo’s mind. In fact, Frodo seemed to have forgotten everything except throwing his arms around his erstwhile employee, rubbing his body against him, and moaning.

Sam struggled to maintain a clear head. “Now, then, Mr. Frodo. You said something about supplies.” He gasped as Frodo parted his thighs with one knee.

So intent was Frodo on reducing Sam to a mass of pliant carnality that it took the gardener several minutes to bring his master back to task. Eventually, Frodo pointed to a plant by Sam’s elbow.

“The leaves,” he said.

Interpreting Frodo’s comment as best he could, Sam picked a few thick, pointed leaves – so thick that they almost seemed like stalks. Inside was a clear gel. Sam raised his eyes to Frodo, questioning.

“The elves call it /saesalosse/,” said Frodo.

“Pleasure blossom,” Sam translated. He shook his curly head at the kinkiness of elves. He was soon distracted, however, by an unexpected feeling on the back of his left hand. Some of the gel had fallen there, and he looked down at it with amazement. “It’s warm!”

“Yes,” said Frodo. “It warms on contact with the elven body. And, as it happens, the hobbit body.”

“Then it must warm for you,” said Sam, “being that you’re both, like.” He had often thought that Frodo was too small to be all elf and too luminous and slender to be pure hobbit.

“It does,” said Frodo. “Would you put some …” He whispered into Sam’s ear.

“Begging your pardon,” said Sam, coloring, “but did you say ‘on’ you or ‘in’ you?”

“I said ‘in,’” said Frodo, smiling, “but I’ll take what I can get.” He lay back, put his hands behind his head, and waited.

Sam was not inclined to keep Frodo waiting long. He kissed Frodo, then retrieved more gel from the plant and coated two of his fingers with it. It quickly took on his body temperature. Then he paused a moment to look at his lover, who had drawn up his knees in readiness.

“Are you sure?” Sam asked.

Frodo nodded. “Sam, let me be with you.” He took hold of Sam’s hand and guided the coated fingers to the entrance to his body.

Swallowing hard, Sam pressed one of his fingers into Frodo’s tight warmth, then lay his head on Frodo’s chest. Frodo’s heart was like a hummingbird, wings beating fast.

Frodo clenched around Sam at first, then relaxed. “More,” he said.

Sam eased a second finger in. “Is it all right?” he asked.

“It’s good,” said Frodo, breathing hard. “Open me.”

Sam experimented with spreading his fingers apart. Sweat began to break out on Frodo’s forehead. Sam kissed it away.

“I’m ready,” Frodo managed, and with his legs splayed open in a wanton pose, he looked it. Sam moved to slick himself up with the plant juice, but Frodo intercepted him. “Let me,” he said.

Sam watched as Frodo stroked him, covering him in the warm balm. There was something insanely erotic about the sight of Frodo readying him for love-making, and the sweet tugging of Frodo’s hands threatened to loosen something in Sam, make him overflow. Finding it difficult to wait, he straddled his companion, then gently pushed him backward into the moss.

Frodo understood. “Yes,” he said, and his eyes were ball lightning, blue and inexorable.

Sam guided himself to Frodo’s opening, then pressed against it, not yet entering. Frodo wrapped his legs around Sam’s waist and lifted his hips.

“Come, Sam,” he begged.

“Don’t want to hurt you,” panted Sam. He could feel Frodo pushing up against his cock, trying to take him in. He wanted to let Frodo make the decisions here, since it was his body that stood to suffer, despite Sam’s gentle intentions. Frodo seemed to know what Sam was waiting for, because a litany of carnality began to pour out of him.

“Samwise, give me your body – want you to take me – need to give you pleasure, need it now …”

With a moan, Sam sank into his lover, burying himself in Frodo’s tightness. Frodo cried out, and a spasm rippled through him. Afraid he had been too rough, Sam stilled. “All right, love?”

Frodo caught his lip between his teeth. “Stay in me,” he gasped. Sam could tell that the connection had been difficult, and it worried him.

“I’ll do anything you want,” Sam promised. “Anything.” He pushed the hair out of Frodo’s eyes. He had been holding himself up with his arms, but now he lowered himself to catch Frodo’s lips in a kiss. As Frodo opened to him, allowing himself to be probed and taken by Sam’s insistent mouth, Sam nearly wept with desire.

Despite the kissing, however, Frodo was not relaxed, and Sam didn’t dare to press into him any further. It occurred to him that if he changed position, he should be able to lie over Frodo, still inside him, while stroking his lover’s cock. He tried this, and found the experiment a success.

As soon as Sam wrapped his sticky-smooth fingers around Frodo’s shaft, he felt the reluctance in Frodo’s muscles dissolve into welcome. Frodo arched himself up into Sam’s fist, and the rocking of Frodo’s hips brought Sam a stab of pleasure. It must have been enjoyable for Frodo, too, for he breathed, “Move, Sam,” and continued to rock against him.

To be inside Frodo and unable to thrust had been a sweet torture. Now Sam began to slide in and out of his love. The underside of his cock rubbed against soft, confining flesh, and Sam doubted he would last long, especially when Frodo was making those tantalizing noises. Sam was in the process of changing his angle in hopes of reducing sensation when Frodo cried out.

Sam froze. “What’s wrong, love?”

Frodo’s eyes were frantic with lust. “Like that. Please, Sam. Again.”

It wasn’t long before Sam had found the angle again. He judged that he had hit it when Frodo began moaning rhythmically, his beautiful face contorted in desire. Sam began to feel that he could not slow down, no matter what Frodo asked of him, and Frodo must have read his mind, because he began begging Sam to do it, to take him, to fill him, to use him for his own pleasure, and Sam was following Frodo’s directives like a hobbit possessed when Frodo’s ecstasy ripped though them both. First it took Frodo, made him shudder and shout and spurt against Sam’s belly, and then it took Sam, who quivered and shook and pumped his seed into the slight body beneath him.

Afterwards, they lay on the moss, holding each other and panting.

“Wonderful,” said Frodo. “I love you, Sam.”

“And I love you, master.” Sam kissed his cheek.

“You needn’t call me that” laughed Frodo, “considering what you’ve just done to me. It’s not like I own you.”

“Aye,” said Sam, “but you do. You do.”

They snuggled some more, then Sam broke the silence.

“You know how you said I was to be ‘solid and whole’?”

“What?”

“‘Solid and whole,’” Sam repeated. “You told me that just before you left for Valinor, when I was fair torn.”

“Yes,” said Frodo, slowly. “I remember now.”

“And then you got on that boat, and I thought the pain would kill me dead. No, let me finish. It hurt so bad, it was like a knife wound that had cut out the heart of me, and would not mend.”

“I know something of that,” said Frodo, holding Sam near.

“But now I know you were right, Mr. Frodo.” Sam kissed Frodo softly on the mouth, as though sealing a promise. “I was meant to be solid and whole, and so were you. And I think we can be, now.”

“Oh, Sam. You are … you are the other half of my soul and body, now and always." Frodo wiped a tear away with the back of his hand. Tears would be rare in the days to come.

The two hobbits kissed again. Then Frodo wrapped all four of his limbs around Sam and brought his mouth close to Sam’s ear. “Promise me,” he whispered, “you’ll live with me until your housing is ready.”

“What?” asked Sam, but Frodo’s eyes were shining with love and humor.

“You’ll do no such thing,” he said. “My home is yours, as is my heart. You will be with me, near me, and in me as often you like.”

“Thank the Valar for that,” said Sam, and he carried his dreamy, sated lover back into the house.

Gay marriage in Massachusetts

Tue, 18 May 2004 02:08:11 GMT

What a difference a month or two makes. Congratulations to all the gay couples who got legally married in my home state today. I went to Boston City Hall to observe the procedings, and was pleased at the thought that some part of my country is headed in the right direction.

gay marriage ban

Thu, 11 Mar 2004 20:54:07 GMT

Today the Massachusetts legislature is voting on whether or not to amend the state constitution to ban gay marriage. I just got back from 2 1/2 hours of shouting and sign-waving, and wanted to make note of some of the signs I saw.

On our side:

No discrimination in the Constitution.
It will be a beautiful day when you can marry the person you love.
Every girl dreams of her wedding day, not her civil union day.

Registered at Pottery Barn.
*Civil* marriage is a *civil* right.
The Constitution: defend it, don't amend it.
Same-sex marriage: traditional in Ancient Rome and Native American cultures (Pre-Columbian). Restore our right to marriage!
For gay marriage: Belgium, Sweden, Canada, Holland. Against gay marriage: Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan. Which side are you on?
Gay people pay taxes, raise families, go to church, and are heroes too.
God loves love.
Jesus hates poor signage.
Don't use Jesus as an excuse for inequality.
Support all families.
Marriage is sacred to us too.
Does DHS (the Department of Human Services) know that you took your kids out of school for this? They will!
Love is not a sin.
Let my parents get married.
I love my husband. Let everybody have one!

One guy was holding a sign with an arrow (pointing to himself) reading, "Small, skinny faggot. What are you afraid of?" The self-denigration was wince-worthy, but I see his point.

One adorable gay man, walking along with his two friends, was holding up a sign saying, "Marry me." A woman walking by shouted, "Honey, I'd marry you in a minute!" (OK, that was me, but I was joking.)

OK, now for the wit and witticism of the other side:

Homosexuals are possessed by demons. (Me, to this guy: "Bigots are possessed by demons.")
God Abhors You. (Note that the initial letter of each word spells out "Gay." Ooh, sophisticated Fundamentalist word play.)

As I was walking through the Boston Common, I couldn't help but hear some deranged, right-wing fruitcake hollering into a megaphone about how God and history had ordained persecution for gays. Then he started getting all pumped up about how appropriate it was that we were standing on Boston Common, because the founding fathers, blah, blah, blah. And I thought to myself, yes, it is appropriate, because up until the late 1700s, Puritanical nutballs like yourself used to hang people here. In fact, I know that at least one man was hanged for having sex with another man, because the records from the case were used in a local history class until fairly recently, when parents militated to have them pulled. Anyway, after seeing megaphone-man, I felt somewhat comforted that we've made some progress in the past 200+ years. At least the hanging tree has been cut down.

Unfortunately, I believe that this amendment will pass. I believe the legislature will kowtow to the Fundamentalists, as usual. However, this decision will be toppled in my lifetime: I'm sure of it. Every poll I see suggests that older Americans are, by and large, the people who want to stop equal rights from becoming a reality. Younger people are not that interested in upholding this particular type of injustice. It will wither and fall, like the hanging tree, and I will live to see it.

Let Sam and Frodo marry, dammit.

Taking Care of Pippin

Thu, 04 Mar 2004 20:38:21 GMT

Author: mirith
Pairing: Merry/Pippin; Frodo/Sam.
Rating: NC-17.
E-mail: mirith@pobox.com
LJ: http://www.livejournal.com/users/mirith/
Summary: Pippin is concerned for Frodo's well-being. Merry is concerned for Pippin's – and his own.
Disclaimer: I don’t own anyone, hobbits included. Even in the Bush era, the Thirteenth Amendment stands. Not making any money off LOTR; just spending it.
Feedback: Please, please, please? Oh, I forgot: please.
Written: 3/4/04 - 4/26/04

“Merry, wake up!”

Opening one eye, Merry struggled to comply. The room was cloaked in darkness, and next to him on the bed, on the side nearest the wall, lay Pippin. Although he was not so much lying, Merry soon realized, as wriggling, supplemented by vigorous clutching. Merry had been having a dream about his impulsive cousin, and while the begging and writhing were very much in keeping with that dream, the younger hobbit's panic was not.

“Ouch, Pip, not so hard,” Merry complained, wiping the sleep from his eyes with the arm that Pippin had left free. “What’s wrong?” As soon as he asked, he knew that the eerie, keening sound coming through the wall was at the heart of the trouble. The noise seemed familiar, but wrapped in a haze of sleep, Merry couldn’t place it.

“It’s Frodo,” blurted Pippin, gripping Merry all the harder. “He’s hurt. Come on, we have to get up!”

Merry opened the other eye, then adrenaline propelled him upright. “Got to help Frodo” flashed through his head. Have to find him first. Where is he? And for that matter, Merry thought, squinting into the shadows, where am I? Sunflowers in a vase, a dwarven grate by the fireplace: right, Bag End, the guest room. Yes. So Frodo is in the next room. His room. That’s it. With … with Sam.

Suddenly, Merry understood why Frodo was moaning.

Merry's cheeks burned, as did his arm. He generally liked it when Pippin touched him, but the grasping fingertips had left indentations in his nightshirt, and Merry was sure these were mirrored in the flesh beneath. He eased Pippin's knuckles open.

“It’s nothing,” he muttered. “Go back to sleep. He’s fine.” Better than fine, he thought sourly, letting himself drop back onto the bed. He was anxious to head back to his dreams, where he could do things to his limber, green-eyed cousin that he couldn’t do awake. Merry felt heat speeding to the center of his body as his blood made a diversion southward. He bit his arm to keep quiet.

He had just closed his eyes again when he felt an elbow in his stomach. “Ow!” he protested, eyes snapping open. Pippin was trying to scramble over Merry’s prone body to get to the door, and was thumping against his victim’s erection in the process.

Now it was Merry’s turn to panic. He had to prevent Pippin from noticing just how depraved his older cousin really was. Merry's instincts often led him in the wrong direction, and now they told him to unseat his passenger by bucking his hips. It was not, he realized in retrospect, the course of action most likely to divert attention from his groin. Fortunately, Pippin was oblivious, but he would not be toppled. This led to a panting, quivering stalemate: Pippin on top, his slender wrists caught in Merry’s hands; Merry squirming beneath.

Merry had almost been lulled into releasing his cousin, when Pippin became a trapped animal, all flailing limbs and panic. “Let me go!”

“Listen, sweetheart,” Merry pleaded. It was something he called Pip when nobody else was around. “Just calm down…”

But Pippin was determined. "Not until you help Frodo!" he cried. The two cousins struggled silently.

As they tried to catch their breath, a high, clear laugh broke the stillness. One room away, the subject of their conversation was giggling. Then (how thin the walls were!) gasping. Then moaning again, long and low, in a way that suggested he did not want help from anyone but Sam.

Merry looked up at Pip, who was holding still, his head cocked in the direction of the sounds. Now that the two of them were no longer thrashing, Merry was acutely aware that his cousin was straddling him, his wrists clenched in Merry’s hands. It was summer, and Pip was in his warm-weather sleeping costume: bare skin. He was naked and breathing hard, sheathed in moonlight from the nearby window. Merry shifted uncomfortably, then let go of Pippin’s wrists. Too late, he forced himself to think of day-old oatmeal. Lobelia Sackville-Baggins with a bad haircut. Hangovers. Anything but Pippin’s rose and alabaster body pressing …

Pippin's gaze moved down the length of Merry's body, stopping at the center. “Merry!" he panted. "You’re …"

Hard. Merry was not sure how he was able to blush, given the current location of what felt like most of his blood, but he could feel the heat rising to his cheeks and ears. “Of course I am,” he snapped, rushing to cover himself with a corner of the sheet. “You’re all over me, you great lump. Lie down, and we’ll go back to sleep.” Or you can go back to sleep, he thought, wretchedly, and I can lie here and go mad with wanting you, you merciless sprite. If only Pip weren't so handsome, with his newly angular body and his muscles of only a summer or two.

But Pippin was not lying down. His wide eyes fixed on Merry’s, he reached down and touched his older cousin. There. Deliberately. Through the linen of his nightshirt. Merry opened his mouth to let out a squeal of indignation, but the sound that came out was a ragged acknowledgement of the way Pippin was making him feel. The way Pippin constantly made him feel, these days.

“So that’s what that sound means,” Pippin murmured. Even in the dim light, Merry could see awe and recognition wash over his face. “That’s what Sam and Frodo are doing. Merry, why didn’t you tell me? They’re f…mmph!” His last word was interrupted as Merry, mortified, clapped a hand over his mouth, shushing him. As if to bolster Pippin's argument, a stifled scream of pleasure wafted over from next door.

With Pippin silenced, Merry felt a sense of control, but it was short-lived. Despite his recent embarrassment, he felt himself stiffening again, and realized with a rush that it was due to Pippin’s hot breath against his trembling hand. Guilt rose in him like a spring flood, and he took his hand away.

“Sweet Eru’s cat,” Merry whispered, his brow furrowing. “Yes, that’s what they’re doing. Glory, Pip, when you touch yourself – I mean, you do, you must, everyone does – don’t you make noise?”

“Yes.” Pippin began picking at the sheet. “But not that noise.”

“Well, what then?” Merry knew his own shyness was manifesting itself as exasperation, but he couldn’t help it.

“I say your name, Merry.” The world careened sideways as hope and fear flared in Merry’s chest. He knew that his jaw was dropping loose on its hinges, but he could no longer remember how to draw it back up. His gaze dropped lower too, and in the back of his mind, he wondered how long Pippin had been ... this aroused. His heart pounding, Merry drew his eyes back to Pippin's face.

Pippin looked away, balled his hands up in the sheet, then lifted his eyes to his captive's face. “I say your name,” he repeated, his gaze steadier than his voice. “And I keep saying it."

Merry was trying to think of another way to interpret what his cousin had said, when Pippin reiterated: “Over and over. Until I’m done.”

Something in Merry caught fire. He wanted nothing more at that moment for Pippin to knock him down and take him, and by the look of things, Pippin was well on his way. With giddy excitement, Merry realized that Pippin was leaning down to kiss him, and what's more, he was pinning Merry to the bed, his arousal digging into Merry’s thigh as did so. “Please, yes,” thought the one being pinned, and another moan escaped his lips.

The affirmation was all-purpose: there were so many things that deserved Merry's assent that he wasn't sure what to agree to first. Pippin’s clever, wet tongue courting his own. The sharpness of Pippin’s hips – inexplicable, really, given his frequent enjoyment of Third or even Fourth Breakfast – grinding against him. The scent of him, all woods and musk and want and amorous hobbit. Pippin's desire and roughness and insistence. Merry had longed for these things, and now that they were enveloping him, his mind and body pulsed with carnal gratitude.

Wait. No.

Merry cradled Pip’s face in both hands and raised it. Pippin was flushed, his lips already swollen with kissing. “Poppet, no,” Merry managed.

“Why?” Pippin’s voice was soft with hurt. “Don’t you want me?” He slumped off of Merry and onto the bed, where he curled up, still facing his cousin, into a disconsolate bundle.

“That's not the point,” said Merry, fidgeting with the sheet. “It’s just that … you’re … ” The only one I've ever wanted. The exasperating love of my brief life. “You’re so young,” Merry amended. It was odd that he could still feel the heat coming off his bedmate’s body now that he was a foot away. Apologetic, Merry reached out to stroke the slighter hobbit’s face.

“I’m old enough," Pippin pointed out, “to rub myself raw over the thought of you. Merry. Please. Don’t make me beg for this.”

In some corner of his mind, Merry knew that Pippin already was begging for it, and his own sense of responsibility was shuddering under the strain. He swallowed hard. “Sweetheart, you’re my cousin. You’re eight years younger than me. I'm supposed to take care of you. It wasn’t five years ago that you were still running around with dirty knees and a bucket of tadpoles.”

Pippin cuffed him in the arm, hard. “Merriadoc Brandybuck, do you see a bucket of tadpoles anywhere near here?”

“I’m not going to argue with you about this,” sighed Merry. “And I’m not going to take advantage of you, either.” Advantage. Pip writhing under him in the moonlight, his body wracked with need. It did seem like an advantageous scenario, and Merry tried desperately to push it out of his mind. "We can't do this. Maybe when you’re a little older, if you still want to…” Not that you will, thought Merry, scrunching his eyes shut. You’ll have a lass on each arm and one on each leg besides. You only want me now because you’re brimming with hormones and haven’t discovered girls yet. Whereas I want …

“‘We can’t do this,’” Pippin repeated. His jade eyes flashed with frustration, and Merry realized that Pippin was only echoing him, not agreeing. “That's what I thought too: that we couldn’t, because we're both lads. But I'm not as naive as you think I am. Just because I don't shriek like a banshee doesn't mean I haven't been with the lasses behind Odovacar's barn a time or two."

"So you /do/ like girls." Merry tried to be glad for his cousin, destined for a life of comfortable normality, but only succeeded in wanting to disembowl himself with the fireplace implements.

"Shut up," said Pippin. "I thought of you every time. I even thought of ways for two lads to, you know, please each other. I just didn't think that males ever would, or did, so I kept silent and let you be. But now I see – I hear – that lads do give each other that sort of ... comfort. And that means that I could touch you, Merry, the way I want to. I could /love/ you the way I want to.” He stroked Merry’s cheek with a shaking hand. “But you have to let me.”

Merry wanted to draw Pippin close to him and kiss him again, but something the shape and color of fear rose in his throat. He stared at Pippin, caught his breath, and the moment passed.

Pippin tossed his head slowly as if emerging from a dream. “I see. You don’t want … this.” He indicated his body with a distracted wave. “You see me as a twelve-year-old Shireling covered in frog-spawn and mud.”

“Pip,” Merry ventured. He had seen pain in his younger cousin's face, and it was making it difficult to think. “Please, now. You don’t understand. Let's talk about this ...”

“I do understand, and there's no point in discussing it. I’m going to sleep.” And with that, Pippin rolled over to face the wall, taking most of the sheet with him.

Merry reached out to rub Pippin’s back, but the would-be slumberer was having none of it. “Sleep,” he said. “We’ll talk in the morning.” And within five minutes, he had taken his own advice, his gentle snores serving as a counterpoint to the rhythmic cries of their host.

*******

Dawn light filtered in through the window, and Merry woke, one of his arms wrapped around Pippin’s waist. “Did we?” he wondered.

To Merry’s regret, an insistent ache between his legs told him that they had not. In fact, he remembered Pippin utterly bewitching him, then rolling over in a huff, probably never to let Merry touch him again. Except during sleep, perhaps. Because Merry was touching him now. Not only was Merry’s arm pressed against his midriff, but Merry’s wakeful cock was pressed against his backside, with only a single layer of nightshirt in between.

“I have to get out of this bed,” Merry thought. Pippin’s skin felt heavenly and dangerous, like a dive from the cliffs along the Brandywine. Merry was not sure that just holding his bedmate would bring him to climax, but he wasn’t sure that it wouldn’t, either. And the last thing Merry needed was for Pip to be wet and sticky and crosser than ever. Groaning with misery and desire, Merry eased himself out from between the sheets and onto the floor. Pippin grunted in protest as he left, but was otherwise still.

The only place with any privacy at Bag End was the privy, and Merry was anxious to get there. If he could spend a few minutes by himself, meditating on the charms of certain chestnut-haired hobbit, maybe he could find the release denied to him these past few days. Once he had a clear head, he could try to make things up to Pippin. With these objectives in mind, he walked out of the bedroom and almost into Frodo.

“Couldn’t sleep?” asked Frodo. “Me neither. Come to the kitchen and I’ll make us some tea.”

Defeated, Merry consented to be led to the other end of the smial, where Frodo began to bustle around with the teacups. “I’ll have to stroke myself off into one of them when he’s not looking,” Merry thought, grimly. He slumped down at the kitchen table and helped himself to a handful of shelled walnuts.

Frodo put the water on to boil and returned to sit next to his cousin. “What’s wrong?” he asked, eyeing Merry. "You look like death and vinegar."

“Pippin. Last night. He wanted to sleep with me.”

“He did sleep with you,” remarked Frodo.

“No, I mean the other sort of sleeping. The sort with your eyes open. That sort.” Merry tried to rein in his brain, which was currently exploring whether Pippin might not close his eyes for that sort of sleeping too.

Frodo was quiet for a moment, his mouth agape. “What did you do?”

“I brushed him off.”

Frodo laughed. “Right. Of course. Best to save yourself for the wedding night.” Merry rewarded him with a kick in the ankle.

“Shut it. I turned him down. I really did.”

Frodo was staring at Merry as though grass were sprouting out of his ears. “Sweet Eru, you’re serious. Merry, why? Half of Middle Earth has seen the way you look at him.”

“He’s young,” said Merry. Now he wished grass were growing out of his ears. At least then the space between them would be serving some purpose. Lately it hadn't seemed fit even to hold sod.

“Yes, and so are you. You won’t come of age for another seven years yet. Don’t pretend you’re Gandalf’s maiden aunt.”

Merry frowned. “He’s also my cousin.”

“And who do you know who isn’t your cousin? Besides the wizard and that dwarf friend of Bilbo’s who used to come around.” It was true: Shire kinship bonds were numerous and complex. “I mean, come on. It’s not as if he’s your brother.” Frodo grimaced at the thought.

“Or my servant,” said Merry.

Frodo shot Merry a dark look.

“I’m sorry,” Merry sighed. “I think I’m jealous. Sam loves you. He’d die for you. Anyone can see that. But Pippin … I don’t think he’s old enough to know his own mind. He’s just … he's at that age where there’s something that he wants, and I’m around, so he thinks it’s me.”

Frodo’s eyes were serious. “It is you.”

“No, it’s not. It’s just that we spent the night next door to the two of you, and it … it put ideas in his head.”

Frodo dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. “His head was full of ideas when he got here. I saw his nightshirt on the floor when I popped my head in to say ‘goodnight.’ Why do you suppose he wears it around the hole half the night, then takes it off to sleep with you?”

Merry hunched his shoulders. “I give off a lot of heat.”

Frodo snorted. “I’ll bet.” On the stove, the kettle began to whistle.

“You great pervert,” retorted his cousin. “I’m not the one who spent the night yowling like a tomcat in spring. ‘Sam, dear, touch me there.’ ‘Sam, dear, put your mouth on me.’ ‘Sam, dear, put on that orc costume, and we'll ...’” The kettle shrieked, then stilled, as though someone had picked it up.

“Perhaps after breakfast, Mr. Merry,” said a dry voice behind him. Merry almost fell out of his chair. “This one here is only half Brandybuck, and he just about wore me out. Old Sam needs time to recover.”

“If you take his meaning,” said Frodo, smiling at the compliment.

Blushing, Merry pulled back from the table enough to allow Sam to pour the hot water into his teacup. Next, Sam tended to Frodo, supplying him with water and a kiss on the top of his curly head. As Sam turned to bring the kettle back to the stove, Frodo gave his beloved an affectionate swat on the behind. Merry felt his heart catch. In the smial, at least, they made no effort to keep their hands off each other, and it was a luxury Merry longed for.

“We’ve been discussing Pippin’s nightshirt,” announced Frodo. “It doesn’t seem to be getting much use.”

Merry poked at his tea with a spoon. “Leave it. It’s summer. He doesn’t wear it in the summer.”

“He doesn’t wear it,” Frodo replied, “when he’s sleeping with you. With me, he wears it.”

Merry was so busy glaring that he let go of the spoon. It dropped into the cup with a resounding splash. “When, exactly, does he sleep with you?”

“Calm down. He slept with me three weeks ago when Sam went to visit his sister. There was a thunderstorm, and Pippin refused to sleep alone. And he definitely wore a nightshirt.”

“Aye,” Sam put in, “and if he’d known what a rascal you are, he’d 'a worn two.”

Frodo ignored this last remark. “Merry, Pippin loves you. He follows you around as if you were pie on legs. You’re all he ever talks about.”

“It’s true,” said Sam, “Make no mistake. He sets his eyes on you and they light up like dry pine in a bonfire.”

“Do you think so?” asked Merry. He rubbed his forehead with his hands. “Because I don’t want to be wrong about this. I mean, I know he was interested last night, but I'm not sure how long his interest will last. I don’t want to scare him, and I don't want to hurt him.” Pippin was so precious, so impetuous and sweet.

Frodo shook his head. “You already have.”

Merry could have bitten himself for not thinking of that sooner. Pip had tried to start something with him, and he had been too stupid to respond in kind. Now Pip was all alone in the guest room, probably thinking that Merry’s absence was another rejection. “I’ve got to talk to him,” he said, starting up from the table.

Frodo cast his lover a meaningful look. “Sam, I think we ought to get some air. We could go down to the blackberry patch. Say, for a couple of hours.”

“Yes, sir.” Sam began emptying a bowl of pears into his pockets for the journey, then looked to their guest. “Begging your pardon, Mr. Merry, but you’ll be all right without us?”

“Yes, thank you, Sam,” said Merry. “And you, Frodo.”

“Hush,” said Frodo, tugging Sam toward the door. “Just take your time, be nice to him, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Sam turned to roll his eyes at Frodo's kinsman. “That won't narrow your options none, Mr. Merry. There's nowt this one won't do. I've checked.” He indicated his master with a toss of his blond head.

“Keep looking,” said Frodo, giving Sam’s ear a slow lick.

Merry groaned and covered his eyes. “Out, both of you. Now. Before you put me off completely.” Then the two of them left, and Merry steeled himself for the long walk to the guestroom, as two cups of tea lay forgotten on the table.

*******

Merry rattled the door to the guest room, but it held fast. Must be the summer heat, he thought. It tended to swell the wood, make it sticky and intractable. Not unlike certain portions of his anatomy, these past few days with Pippin. He shook his head to clear away the image, then tried the door once more.

“Go away,” said Pip.

It occurred to Merry that the problem with the door might have less to do with the summer heat than with the cast-iron dead bolt on the other side. “Pip, let me in.”

“No.”

“C’mon, now.” He tried to sound affable. “You said we could talk in the morning.”

“I changed my mind.”

“I can get you some apples from the pantry.” It was a crude tactic, holding Pip hostage to food, but one that had worked in the past.

“Don’t want any.”

“Pip!”

“Not hungry,” said Pippin, sounding snuffly. “Go away.”

Merry slumped against the door with a weary thump, then slid down to the floor, his head buzzing with thoughts of the night before. His intentions had been good, hadn’t they? He hadn’t meant to hurt anybody; he had meant to protect Pip from … well, himself. Merry's own demanding body.

But honestly, Merry knew he had also wanted to protect himself from Pip. If Pip had given himself to Merry, and it had turned out to be some fleeting pre-tween fancy, Merry didn’t think he could stand it. And so he hadn’t accepted what was offered, even though it was what he wanted most. Merry cursed himself for a coward.

Inside, tentative footsteps began to pad across the floor. After a few hesitations, they reached the other side of the door, waiting.

“Pip-love, please.” Merry was still hunched on the floor. “I’m sorry. Come out.”

The door opened to reveal Pip, tear-streaked and wary. He had wrapped what had been the top sheet of the bed around his waist, and he held on to it with one hand. His mouth set in a line, he offered the other hand to Merry. Merry used the hand to pull himself up, grateful for that much welcome.

Now they were standing inches apart, close enough to... Not now, thought Merry. “May I come in?” he asked.

“If you want.” Pippin headed toward the foot of the bed, then perched on the very edge. His hands fluttered in his lap like two small sparrows as Merry sat down beside him, but he didn’t turn to look at his cousin.

“I’m sorry about what happened,” Merry began.

“Which part?” spat Pippin.

Merry was taken aback by the force of the response. “What do you mean?”

Green eyes fixed Merry in a viper’s stare. “Which part? When I put my tongue in your mouth? When I pinned you to the bed? When I told you how I feel about you? Which part of our evening inconvenienced you the most?”

“None of those things!”

“Then why did you stop me?”

“Because I’m an idiot! Because you scare the hell out of me!”

Pippin let out a bitter chuckle. “Yes, here I am, doom in a bedsheet. What did you think I was going to do, choke you with my spit?”

“I thought you were going make me love you. I already love you – stop snorting, you know I do – but I thought that if we went any further, you would own me, soul and ... and mouth ... and fingertips, and I would never be able to survive without you again. That I would be half a person without you.”

Merry dropped his head, then raised it and touched his hand to Pippin’s cheek. “But it’s already like that. I am half a person without you. You have me, and there’s nothing I can do. Except try to win you back and hope that eventually, things will be different. That you’ll ... love me again.” Merry saw his own beseeching face reflected in Pippin's pupils.

“You might have to wait a while,” said Pippin, arms folded. He directed his gaze toward the window.

Merry touched his hand to his cousin's back. “I know.”

“You might have to make some concessions to me.” Pippin's eyes were still dark, but his mouth no longer seemed so unforgiving.

“I intend to. Name them.”

“You might have to kiss me. Slowly.”

Merry pressed his lips to Pippin’s. They were soft. Was all of his skin that soft? Pippin opened his mouth to Merry, and for some time, Merry explored it, gently, thoroughly, with his tongue. Despite Pippin's sternness, his mouth was warm and inviting, and Merry felt his nerve endings prickling from the contact.

“Do you love me yet?” he asked.

“Haven't decided. Take off your nightshirt.”

“Pippin!”

Pippin ran a finger over the point of Merry’s ear. “Do you want to win me back?”

“More than anything."

“Then you have to do what I say. Besides, weren’t you worried about corrupting me? If I’m the one who’s making the decisions, you don’t have to worry.”

Merry muttered skeptically, but began to unbutton his shirt. By the time he had reached the fourth button, Pippin was already tugging it over his head.

Pippin tossed the nightshirt to the floor. “Now do me," he said.

“What?” Merry felt a blush coming on.

“Undress me. Take my sheet off.”

“Oh,” said Merry. Pippin went to stand in the center of the room, and Merry followed. When Merry hesitated, Pippin grabbed his hands and placed them firmly on the sheet. Merry untucked one end of the sheet from Pippin’s waist and began slowly circling him, unwinding the fabric until it came away in his grasp.

Although Merry had seen Pippin undress many times before, this new unveiling shook him. Pippin’s body was ivory and mauve, like a snow bank pierced by crocuses. All the parts made sense together – the sharpness of the nose and chin repeated in the sharpness of the hipbones; the darkness of Pippin's hair set off by the paleness of his skin. Dazzled, Merry reached out to his cousin, but Pippin stepped back.

“Ah-ah-ah,” chided the younger hobbit, waving a disapproving finger. “See how innocent I am. You wouldn’t want to enslave me to your wicked desires.”

“Wouldn’t I, though,” breathed Merry. He made another dive for Pippin, but the contrary sylph easily evaded him, coming to light by the window. Good thing the curtains were drawn, thought Merry, or everybody would want a go.

“Lie down on the bed,” ordered Pippin. Merry took a step closer to him.

“If you come any closer,” said Pippin, “I’m getting dressed. Now lie down on the bed. On your side. Facing the wall.”

"Is this something you did with the lasses?" stammered Merry.

"No. This is something I invented for you."

Merry sputtered, then complied. The remaining sheet felt cool against his bare skin. Behind him, he heard Pippin rustling through his knapsack. The minutes ambled by.

“What are you doing?” Merry asked, unevenly.

“Deciding what to do with a very impatient hobbit.”

Merry felt himself stiffening at the idea. Still, he wanted Pip in bed with him. Immediately. “Is it going to take a long time?”

“It’s going to take longer if you keep asking questions.”

All thoughts of continuing the conversation fled Merry’s mind. He listened to his heart beat out its iambic rhythm against his ribcage: two syllables at a time, like Pippin's name. Then he heard Pippin’s feet moving quietly across the floor. They stopped about a foot from the bed. As usual, Merry was so aware of the direction of Pippin’s breathing that he could tell when Pippin’s head made a slow sweep from the top of the bed to the foot. Merry’s captor had him naked and horizontal, and now he was looking him over. Aroused and on edge, Merry held his breath, waiting for whatever Pip would do to him next.

The bed creaked as Pippin lay down behind Merry. Based on the way the bed was curving, Merry was sure that they would be nestled together like a chestnut and its shell if it weren’t for the fact that Pip was intentionally keeping about half an inch of space between them. He considered scooting backward to close the distance, but decided to let Pip continue to take his time.

It was a good decision. Pippin wrapped an arm around Merry’s waist, caressing him. Merry felt hot breath against the back of his neck, then the tightening of a forearm pulling him backwards. Merry gasped as he felt Pippin’s hardness against his backside.

“Fair’s fair,” murmured Pip. “You were pressed against me all night.”

“You felt that?” asked Merry, abashed.

Pippin laughed. “It was either you or one of Bilbo’s dwarven pokers.”

“If you don’t like it, don’t sleep nude,” protested Merry. “You’ve been driving me to distraction.”

“Of course, that’s all in the past,” said Pippin, reaching up to skim his fingers over one of Merry’s nipples.

“No, it’s not. You’re driving me to distraction /now/. Sweetheart, please…”

“Courtesy works wonders,” said Pip. He let go of Merry for a moment. Merry heard Pippin fumbling with something on the floor – a flask? – and then Pippin was behind him again. There was a smell of something heavy and fragrant – almonds, maybe.

“Merry, do you trust me?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want me?”

Merry’s hips began to twitch. “Yes, love, I want you.”

“Then let me do this for you.” Merry was nervous. True to his word, Pippin had proven more experienced than the older hobbit had thought. It was entirely possible that Merry was about to be fucked into the wall, and while he wanted that to happen with Pippin eventually, he wasn't sure he was ready for it at the moment. He was debating that point when Pippin reached around to encircle the his cousin’s shaft with one slippery hand.

Merry felt that his heart would burst, and that his cock would not be far behind. Pippin’s hand was slick and tight, and it was stroking him as if it had been crafted for the purpose. His back a perfect arch, Merry moaned his lover’s name.

“You like this,” purred Pippin. “Do you ever think about me touching you, Merry?”

“Oh yes,” Merry admitted, thrusting into Pip’s hand. His hips seemed to have a will of their own. Sometimes they lurched forward, guiding him into Pippin’s insistent fist, and sometimes they reeled backwards, where Pippin’s cock lay waiting. Pip was enticing him from both sides, and Merry felt that he would not last long.

Pippin had been pumping furiously, but now he slackened the pace. “Tell me what I do in these thoughts of yours,” he coaxed. He began caressing the head of Merry's cock in a way that was both a pleasure and a torment for the one being caressed.

“Tease of a Took!” gasped Merry. "Why do you want to know?"

“Teasing is when I’m not going to give you what you want. /This/ is foreplay. Tell me.”

“Gah,” Merry whimpered.

The head of Merry’s cock was now protruding from the looser folds of skin, and Pippin ran his thumb carelessly over the slit. Merry was slippery there, not only from the almond oil, but also from the few drops of pearly desire that had leaked from him under Pippin's care. The younger hobbit withdrew his hand, and it disappeared from Merry’s view. Maddeningly, Merry thought he could hear his cousin licking his thumb.

Merry surrendered. “I think about you,” he said. “You're so beautiful it hurts, and you reach between my legs, and it’s all I can do not to melt where you’re touching me.” Pippin placed his hand on Merry’s shaft, waiting.

Merry swallowed hard. “Your skin on me … it's so good, and I want you everywhere … Now you're grasping my shaft in your hand, then moving your hand up and down … yes, unnh, like that, but harder.” Pippin’s whole body was pressed tightly against him from behind, and the things Pippin was doing with his hand were intimate and sweet.

“Like this?” asked Pippin.

“Yes,” panted Merry. “And when your hand comes up, the side of your index finger makes contact with the underside of … ahh … the head, where I’m really … oh, please … sensitive.” Merry let out a strangled cry.

“Is that so?” Pippin began grinding his hips against Merry's backside, continuing to stroke as he did so.

“But mostly I’m just excited because it’s you doing it … mmmhh … I love you so much … The sight of you makes me rigid … The feel of you … ahhh … unhinges me …”

“When do you get to feel me?” laughed Pippin. “Other than now, I mean?”

“Not as often … as I’d like … yes, like that … When you rode in front of me … on the pony … on the way over here … and I had to hang on to you … I thought I’d come … all over your back …”

“Then,” said Pippin, gently, “why don’t you come for me now?”

“Gah,” said Merry. “You've … convinced me … ” And now the sexual energy Pippin had been cultivating in his lover began to seek an escape route from Merry's taut and trembling body. He could feel the energy working its way inexorably up him – first curling his toes, then making his calves shake; working his thighs, clenching his buttocks; until Merry was nothing but its conduit, and there was only Merry, the energy, and Pippin's sweet hand, which took him and claimed him and owned him, until Merry shuddered and rocked and sobbed Pippin's name.

When Merry came back to himself, Pippin was holding him close and kissing the back of his neck. Merry rolled over to face his cousin, then took him in his arms. “That was wonderful. The way you touch me …” An aftershock shook him, and he gasped.

“It was my pleasure,” said Pippin. He traced Merry’s pointed ear with one finger and smiled.

“Speaking of which,” said Merry. He maneuvered Pippin onto his back and rolled on top of him, catching Pippin’s legs between his own.

“You’re not going to seduce me, are you? I’m telling you, I’m extremely young. Not to mention chaste.” Pippin bounced his hips for emphasis.

“I’m not going to … bed you now, if that’s what you mean.”

Pippin glared. “Why not?” Merry felt a pillow make a rough landing between his shoulder blades.

Merry sighed. “That’s something I’d like us to do when we have hours and hours to ourselves, not when Frodo and Sam are liable to turn up in the middle of it, looking to join in. But there are other things I could do, if you don’t mind lying still for a bit.”

Merry raised himself up on all fours above his cousin and waited for the answer. Pippin’s lips were parted, and his thighs moved to follow suit. His eyes were huge and dark.

“Do them,” said Pippin. He looked wanton and ready. Merry had never seen anything more breathtaking in his life.

They began with kissing. Pippin was already panting, and Merry’s tongue encountered no resistance. When Pippin’s tongue began to flirt with his, Merry was surprised to discover that long-estranged parts of his own body were having conversations with each other. He had known that it would be distracting to be inside his cousin, even if only mouths were involved, but having Pippin reciprocate was enough to send shivers up the back of his thighs.

Suddenly, Pippin tilted his head back, his eyes half-lidded with lust. The gesture drew attention to his white throat, and his lover pressed his mouth to it in a hard, needy kiss. Pippin’s resulting groan vibrated against Merry’s lips.

“I thought you didn’t make that noise,” teased Merry.

“It’s … good,” Pippin stammered. “Help me make it again.” He closed his eyes and turned his head, offering one side of his neck. Feeling possessive, Merry bit him there, hard enough to leave a mark. Pippin cried out, his cries turning to murmurs as Merry soothed the area with his tongue.

Merry regretted that there wasn’t more time. It was difficult to be this close to his cousin and not press into him. Everything about the younger hobbit stirred Merry: the tremble of his thighs brushing up against the insides of Merry’s legs; the throb of his pulse quickening against Merry’s lips; the flutter of his eyes closing whenever he expected Merry to do something especially forward to him. Merry hoped to become much more forward with his cousin, and soon, but he felt it best to go slowly this first time. Even, he thought wryly, if Pippin hadn’t.

Merry moved further up the bed. Now his mouth was against Pippin’s ear, and he caught it gently with his teeth. Pippin writhed and shuddered as Merry insinuated his tongue along the inside of the shell. Pippin groaned in supplication.

Merry brushed a wayward curl from the slighter hobbit's cheek. “Yes, love?”

“Your mouth,” Pippin breathed, arching his back.

“Where would you like it?” Merry ran his tongue along Pip’s collarbone.

“Lower,” Pip gasped.

“How much lower?” Merry wanted to know. He began licking his way down Pippin’s body. He paused to breathe on a nipple, then took it into his mouth. It hardened instantly against his tongue.

Pippin squirmed. “Lower than that!”

“Glad to obey,” said Merry. He moved downward. The lower he went, the more he caught the scent of his lover, seductive and dark. It made restraint difficult. Still, he was willing to draw things out if it would increase Pippin’s pleasure later. He flicked Pippin’s navel with his tongue, then rested his cheek in Pip’s belly fur.

Merry studied Pippin’s cock. It was much like his own, but longer and thinner. Pippin was flushed rose and completely stiff – stiff, Merry realized, with wanting him.

“Now,” moaned Pippin. “Or I’ll grab you by the ears and put you there myself.”

Merry bent his mouth to Pippin, taking him in. Merry’s teasing had had an effect: the head tasted salty. Merry lavished his tongue upon it, looking for the places that would please Pip most. Merry felt Pippin’s hands twining in his hair, heard his cries, felt him thrusting into his mouth. Pippin's passions were fully wakened, and the scent coming off him was delicious and indecent. One could put that musk on almost anything, the older hobbit decided, and he, Merry, would want to thrust into it.

The licking and sucking continued as Merry reached his hand down to cup Pippin’s balls. They were tight and seed-heavy. Merry stroked them, then moved his other hand up and down Pippin’s shaft, his mouth still working at the head.

Pippin began bucking his hips. “Merry,” he pleaded. “Merry, Merry, Merry …” Merry felt Pippin grab his shoulders, then plunge into him again and again, coupling with his open mouth.

“It’s taking me,” gasped Pippin. “The pleasure’s taking me …” He cried out and pressed his body up to meet his cousin’s. Merry’s throat was flooded with seed as Pippin poured into him, writhing and moaning.

“So good,” murmured Merry, collapsing into the younger hobbit’s arms. “I’m ready for second breakfast.”

“You’re not getting seconds! You’ve sucked me dry.” Pippin shivered and snuggled in closer.

“Mmm,” said Merry. “I suppose so. Those were some noises you made, Pip-love. But then, your great-grandmother was a Baggins.”

“Merry,” Pip whispered, “I love you.”

“Did you ever stop?” asked Merry. He pressed a kiss along Pip’s jaw.

“No,” Pippin admitted. “Never.”

They held each other for a few moments, then Merry slapped his forehead. "You must be starved. Get up with me, and I'll make you some pancakes."

Pippin smiled. "Still taking care of me?"

"As much as you'll let me."

"Pancakes later," said Pippin. "I want you to hold me some more."

And Merry did.

Location, Location, Location

Tue, 02 Mar 2004 19:31:33 GMT

Author: mirith
E-mail: mirith@pobox.com
Pairing: Dominic Monaghan/Elijah Wood. Domlijah.
Rating: R
Summary: Elijah is interested in real estate. My first drabble!
Disclaimer: I don’t own anyone, hobbits included. Even in the Bush era, the Thirteenth Amendment still stands. Not making any money off this fetish, but spending a fair bit.
Feedback: Please? I’ll give you my lunch money. Or a hickey. Or something.
Post date: 3/2/04

LOCATION, LOCATION, LOCATION

“Dom, where do you want you live after all this is over?”

The words hardly register. “Please, baby, let’s talk about that later.”

“New Zealand? You loved surfing.”

“I loved other forms of exercise more,” Dominic manages, hoarse.

“Maybe England? You miss your family terribly.”

“Not at the moment, I don’t. Please, sweetheart…” He lays a finger on Elijah’s gasping lips.

“C’mon, tell me,” plead the lips.

"Jesus God, Lij! Here, OK? I want to live here.”

“Here? In Los Angeles?” Elijah frowns.

“Here, inside you," Dominic corrects, and Elijah is all invitation as Dominic thrusts home.

In Praise of Not Knowing What You're Doing

Tue, 02 Mar 2004 18:53:15 GMT

In the liner notes to "Hey Ho Let's Go," the manager of the Ramones, Danny Fields, tells this story:

"In L.A. everyone got laid like rabbits. Same in London. We played there for the first time on July 4, 1976, while in America they were celebrating the Bicentennial. Outside the Roundhouse during sound check, these cool-looking guys were hanging around. They said they were a band calling themselves The Clash, but that they were still just rehearsing and didn't feel they were virtuosic [sic] enough to play in public.

'Are you kidding?' said Johnny. 'I hope you're coming tonight. We're lousy. We can't play. If you wait until you can play, you'll be too old to get up there. We stink, really. But it's great.'"

This is my first day of using LJ, and I have no idea what I'm doing. I'm mostly setting up this site as a place to set down some of the LOTR RPS (Real-Person Slash) that floods my head on a near-continual basis. I don't know much about LJ, or slash, or general brazenness -- but if I wait until I do, I'll be too old to get up there. So here goes: be gentle.