What makes a house a home?
Title: House of Brick
Fandom: LOTR RPS
Rating: PG
Pairing: Softly implied VM/OB
Disclaimer: Like I really know anything, about anybody... I made it up - all of it!!!
Summary: Orlando buys a house of brick and mortar it was a long way from his home.
Notes: For the http://inspiration.just-in-dreams.com song inspiration challenge
Please feedback, I'm needy....
He walked through the house, looking around and touching the boxes and furniture that were scattered about. He knew that by this time tomorrow his mother, sister and girlfriend would have everything placed and arranged. It would look beautiful and fashionable and presentable. It would be a house that he could be proud of.
From the corner of his eye he saw a ragged box that was marked, not with the neat lettering of his mother, but with his own messy scrawl. We wandered toward the box and saw that it was one that had come straight from the storage unit he had packed things into over the past few hectic years. Years that had seen his career take off and soar, rushing him along headfirst in a swirl of amazement and wonder.
He reached a hand out and touched the taped flap of the box. He could tell by the store name printed on the side that this one of the first boxes that he had placed in storage. It had been packed haphazardly, crammed full of memories from another time, another life. This box was from his home in a country far away from his new house, a life far away from this life.
He tore the tape loose, opened the cardboard and peered inside. He took a deep breath and walked in a circle around the room. He could feel the deep pile of the carpet under his bare feet. He could hear the muted hum of the air conditioner and smell the clean scent of the fresh paint that covered the walls.
He moved back in front of the box and looked inside again. His surroundings slipped away, gone was the two-story house with the manicured lawns and landscaped garden. Gone were the huge fireplace and the kitchen that could serve as catering central for any large event. In it’s stead was plank floors that felt smooth and comforting under his feet. In his mind he could smell the clean scent of smoke from a wood stove that would heat the small rooms to the point where, laughing they would threaten to open the windows and turn on the fans even in the dead of winter.
Closing his eyes he thought he caught a whiff of turpentine and oil paint drifting in from the sunroom off of the tiny kitchen. The room where he would sit for hours curled in a chair by the window, watching as art was carefully and lovingly created and sometimes dozing off, only to be awakened by the soft tickle of kisses on his forehead and the caress of a callused but gentle hand against his cheek.
This house was of mortar and brick and would play host to glamorous parties and gatherings. It would make a good background for acquaintances and peers to meet and mingle. He was pretty certain though, that in this house he wouldn’t ever stumble from the warmth of the body nestled in the bed next to him to find friends piled and curled around each other, randomly scattered about his living room; living, breathing, snoring, farting leftovers of a late night poker or drinking session.
This house would make a beautiful background for pictures of him and the woman who would be his wife.
Mortar and brick made this a good house. It would never be drafty or creak with age in the wind. There was an alarm system in this house, and he was sure that there wouldn’t be a time when he arrived with glue in his ears, tired and sore only to find that his friends had sprung the ancient lock on the side door and were concocting a potentially hazardous meal in his kitchen while informing him with maniacal glee that they had invited everyone to dinner, and oh by the way, did he have any more curry.
The huge chrome and marble shower in the master bath would be perfect for sluicing away the sweat and grime at the end of a hard day, and with it’s frosted glass door there was no tattered shower curtain that could be snatched loose from it’s hanger by a grasping hand in a moment of raw, all-consuming passion, drenching the small steamy room in a shower of water and laughter.
As he aged and his family grew this house could be decorated and arranged accordingly. There were rooms in this house that would accommodate growth and careers and futures - in whatever direction they flew. Pictures would be matted and framed and hung with precision, this house wouldn’t have photos and drawings and clippings taped and tacked to the walls and doors - or the ceiling, like the photo of the sunset in Egypt that had hung above their bed.
The king sized, four poster antique brass bed that would be delivered to this house on Tuesday at precisely 3:00 wouldn’t have a lumpy mattress or bits of string and feathers stuck in the cracks of the headboard just for decoration. In the new bed he would never hear a husky voice purr low in his ear as he drifted off to sleep, wrapped in sated bliss, ‘someday baby, I’ll take you there and show you the pyramids’.
This house would stand sturdy against any crisis that might arise; any trouble that came around could be dealt with logically and calmly in this house. There wouldn’t ever be any chips out of the plaster where teapots had been thrown in fits of childish anger and jealousy. There wasn’t a screen door that would slam and bounce against its frame. There was no broken patio table out back to sit upon, waiting for someone to come stand in front of him and with hands placed firmly on his shoulders, make him look up into clear blue eyes and talk through the fight until harsh words and tears gave way to kisses and desperate declarations whispered into skin slick with sweat and want and need.
Mornings in this house wouldn’t be spent touching and tasting and arching into hands and lips and teeth, finally lying spent and drained under the warm air coming in from the window that had to be propped open with a piece of wood, a breeze that gently flowed over them carrying the scent of rich earth and ocean. In this house he would be too occupied with his career, his family, his life; to trace fingers down a tanned chest to flick lightly at the hard pebble of a dark nipple and hear the slight shift and gasp of breath as, yet again, he felt the blood quicken in his own chest and groin.
He opened his eyes and looked at the photo that lay on top in the box. The picture was of a group of friends, arms slung about each other, smiles wide on their faces, they were standing outside of a home made of wood. He reached a hand and touched his finger to the photograph, he could hear the squeals and laughter, could feel the sun on his face, the love in his heart, the warmth of the body pressed close against his left side, laughter creasing that well-worn, beautiful face as the shutter clicked and the moment was captured - never changing, always existing, just waiting for him to find it again, after all of these years.
Slowly he released the breath that he didn’t know he had been holding, feeling a pressure in his chest, and behind his eyes, he closed the flaps of the box.
This house had an attic; he would put the box up there. This house was made of brick and mortar; it would keep the things that were stored inside safe and secure.
We Never Change - Coldplay
I wanna live life, never be cruel,
I wanna live life, be good to you.
I wanna fly, never come down,
And live my life,
And have friends around.
We never change, do we?
We never learn to leave,
So I wanna live in a wooden house,
I wanna live life, always be true,
I wanna live life, and be good to you,
I wanna fly, and never come down,
And I live my life, and have friends around.
We never change do we? no, no,
We never learn to bleed,
So I wanna live in a wooden house,
Making more friends would be easy.
Oh I don’t have a show to say,
Yes, and I sing every single day,
We never change do we?
We never learn to leave.
So, I wanna live life in a wooden house,
Making more friends would be easy,
I wanna live where the sun comes out.
Fandom: LOTR RPS
Rating: PG
Pairing: Softly implied VM/OB
Disclaimer: Like I really know anything, about anybody... I made it up - all of it!!!
Summary: Orlando buys a house of brick and mortar it was a long way from his home.
Notes: For the http://inspiration.just-in-dreams.com song inspiration challenge
Please feedback, I'm needy....
He walked through the house, looking around and touching the boxes and furniture that were scattered about. He knew that by this time tomorrow his mother, sister and girlfriend would have everything placed and arranged. It would look beautiful and fashionable and presentable. It would be a house that he could be proud of.
From the corner of his eye he saw a ragged box that was marked, not with the neat lettering of his mother, but with his own messy scrawl. We wandered toward the box and saw that it was one that had come straight from the storage unit he had packed things into over the past few hectic years. Years that had seen his career take off and soar, rushing him along headfirst in a swirl of amazement and wonder.
He reached a hand out and touched the taped flap of the box. He could tell by the store name printed on the side that this one of the first boxes that he had placed in storage. It had been packed haphazardly, crammed full of memories from another time, another life. This box was from his home in a country far away from his new house, a life far away from this life.
He tore the tape loose, opened the cardboard and peered inside. He took a deep breath and walked in a circle around the room. He could feel the deep pile of the carpet under his bare feet. He could hear the muted hum of the air conditioner and smell the clean scent of the fresh paint that covered the walls.
He moved back in front of the box and looked inside again. His surroundings slipped away, gone was the two-story house with the manicured lawns and landscaped garden. Gone were the huge fireplace and the kitchen that could serve as catering central for any large event. In it’s stead was plank floors that felt smooth and comforting under his feet. In his mind he could smell the clean scent of smoke from a wood stove that would heat the small rooms to the point where, laughing they would threaten to open the windows and turn on the fans even in the dead of winter.
Closing his eyes he thought he caught a whiff of turpentine and oil paint drifting in from the sunroom off of the tiny kitchen. The room where he would sit for hours curled in a chair by the window, watching as art was carefully and lovingly created and sometimes dozing off, only to be awakened by the soft tickle of kisses on his forehead and the caress of a callused but gentle hand against his cheek.
This house was of mortar and brick and would play host to glamorous parties and gatherings. It would make a good background for acquaintances and peers to meet and mingle. He was pretty certain though, that in this house he wouldn’t ever stumble from the warmth of the body nestled in the bed next to him to find friends piled and curled around each other, randomly scattered about his living room; living, breathing, snoring, farting leftovers of a late night poker or drinking session.
This house would make a beautiful background for pictures of him and the woman who would be his wife.
Mortar and brick made this a good house. It would never be drafty or creak with age in the wind. There was an alarm system in this house, and he was sure that there wouldn’t be a time when he arrived with glue in his ears, tired and sore only to find that his friends had sprung the ancient lock on the side door and were concocting a potentially hazardous meal in his kitchen while informing him with maniacal glee that they had invited everyone to dinner, and oh by the way, did he have any more curry.
The huge chrome and marble shower in the master bath would be perfect for sluicing away the sweat and grime at the end of a hard day, and with it’s frosted glass door there was no tattered shower curtain that could be snatched loose from it’s hanger by a grasping hand in a moment of raw, all-consuming passion, drenching the small steamy room in a shower of water and laughter.
As he aged and his family grew this house could be decorated and arranged accordingly. There were rooms in this house that would accommodate growth and careers and futures - in whatever direction they flew. Pictures would be matted and framed and hung with precision, this house wouldn’t have photos and drawings and clippings taped and tacked to the walls and doors - or the ceiling, like the photo of the sunset in Egypt that had hung above their bed.
The king sized, four poster antique brass bed that would be delivered to this house on Tuesday at precisely 3:00 wouldn’t have a lumpy mattress or bits of string and feathers stuck in the cracks of the headboard just for decoration. In the new bed he would never hear a husky voice purr low in his ear as he drifted off to sleep, wrapped in sated bliss, ‘someday baby, I’ll take you there and show you the pyramids’.
This house would stand sturdy against any crisis that might arise; any trouble that came around could be dealt with logically and calmly in this house. There wouldn’t ever be any chips out of the plaster where teapots had been thrown in fits of childish anger and jealousy. There wasn’t a screen door that would slam and bounce against its frame. There was no broken patio table out back to sit upon, waiting for someone to come stand in front of him and with hands placed firmly on his shoulders, make him look up into clear blue eyes and talk through the fight until harsh words and tears gave way to kisses and desperate declarations whispered into skin slick with sweat and want and need.
Mornings in this house wouldn’t be spent touching and tasting and arching into hands and lips and teeth, finally lying spent and drained under the warm air coming in from the window that had to be propped open with a piece of wood, a breeze that gently flowed over them carrying the scent of rich earth and ocean. In this house he would be too occupied with his career, his family, his life; to trace fingers down a tanned chest to flick lightly at the hard pebble of a dark nipple and hear the slight shift and gasp of breath as, yet again, he felt the blood quicken in his own chest and groin.
He opened his eyes and looked at the photo that lay on top in the box. The picture was of a group of friends, arms slung about each other, smiles wide on their faces, they were standing outside of a home made of wood. He reached a hand and touched his finger to the photograph, he could hear the squeals and laughter, could feel the sun on his face, the love in his heart, the warmth of the body pressed close against his left side, laughter creasing that well-worn, beautiful face as the shutter clicked and the moment was captured - never changing, always existing, just waiting for him to find it again, after all of these years.
Slowly he released the breath that he didn’t know he had been holding, feeling a pressure in his chest, and behind his eyes, he closed the flaps of the box.
This house had an attic; he would put the box up there. This house was made of brick and mortar; it would keep the things that were stored inside safe and secure.
We Never Change - Coldplay
I wanna live life, never be cruel,
I wanna live life, be good to you.
I wanna fly, never come down,
And live my life,
And have friends around.
We never change, do we?
We never learn to leave,
So I wanna live in a wooden house,
I wanna live life, always be true,
I wanna live life, and be good to you,
I wanna fly, and never come down,
And I live my life, and have friends around.
We never change do we? no, no,
We never learn to bleed,
So I wanna live in a wooden house,
Making more friends would be easy.
Oh I don’t have a show to say,
Yes, and I sing every single day,
We never change do we?
We never learn to leave.
So, I wanna live life in a wooden house,
Making more friends would be easy,
I wanna live where the sun comes out.