Remix of Cesare: Direction
Title: Direction
Author: Dee (cupiscent)
Original story: " Glance" by Cesare (almostnever)
Pairing: Orli/Dom
Rating: Adult (themes, language, sex)
Summary: It would be easier if there was someone to tell you what to do, but in the end, you have to decide which way you're facing.
Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred, or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.
Sometimes Orlando feels like every moment of his life is lived under direction, never more strongly than when he's with Viggo. Like art congeals from the air itself around him.
The moonlight lies heavily in thick silver bars across the bare skin of his back, where Viggo's fingers don't touch, tracing the threshold of the luminary. Orlando tries not to shift; it'll be labelled fidgeting, not frustration.
"The truth, now." Viggo's voice is a knot tied in the darkness.
Orlando sighs. "Yeah. Just... jagged. Like he's a burr caught in my socks. Like he snags against me every time I turn 'round."
"Well?"
Orlando curls his hands around the worn wood of the veranda railing. He balances on everything, these days, finding his inner elf. "There are more important things right now." It would be so much easier if he could just turn around, just force that touch into the light.
"You're young." Viggo's amused, and the urge to break his teeth strikes Orlando like an epiphany. He leans forward, takes his balance back to earth, gets his skin out of the moonlight.
*
Astin's like a normal guy and Elijah's like a normal guy with the saturation turned up - eyes, focus, intensity. With Billy, Orlando's never really lost that "mile high and drunk on the cusp of adventure" edge to things, dizzy but somehow comfortable all at once. And Dominic's who he is. What he is. How he is. Like he snags Orlando every time he turns around. Jangling his nerves. Too many complications. Too sharp to look at.
"Look what the hobbit dragged in," he drawls, serrated like a sawblade, and when Orlando's gaze skitters over his face, Dom's eyes are the same colour as one. "Thought you were too pretty for the likes of us."
He makes it cut, like attractiveness is an insult, but Orlando makes himself grin, looking at the corner of the table. Elijah's out of his seat, slinging an elbow over Orlando's shoulder, laughing even as he says, "You came."
It calls for jovial, and Orlando can take direction like a producer's dream. "My round, eh?" He chuckles, risks a glance across the sticky pub table at Dom.
Who says, "Better go with him, Lij. Princess can't carry five pints at once."
Billy's lolling low in his chair, laughing bright-eyed. Orlando gets Elijah in a headlock, says, "Come on, helper monkey."
At the bar, hair even more messed up than usual, Elijah's eyes are as bright, as solid, as piercing as ever. "Hey," is all he says. "Viggo?"
Orlando shrugs. Manages a half-smile. Elijah nods his head like it's in time to the music.
They get a packet of nuts too. When one plinks into Orlando's half-drunk beer, he meets Dom's gaze across the table and his stomach goes Gordion. He feels like a schoolgirl with a crush, no matter how much he tells himself that what he is, is a bloke with a soggy peanut sculling about in the bottom of his glass.
*
Orlando's jumped off enough things to know that the moment you tip just past the point of balance, vertigo takes over. He's let the splinter of it under his skin, and now every time he so much as hears Dom's voice, his mind wipes itself Pavlovianly white with broad strokes of desirous fantasy. The tilt of his head, the easy slip of his smile, the chuckle and squint; it's all instinctive camoflage while he swallows down the burning need to hear Dom roughened, see him splayed, make him gasp.
Is this some bizarre form of courting? Is every snide remark the suggestive promise he hears? Can they just fuck already?
Elijah bounces against the wall next to Orlando, Frodo-eyed and smirking, saying, "Never mind Dom, yeah?"
"Hmm?" Orlando's barely heard him. He dares the ire of the make-up girls by tugging his wig off, unscrewing his face from it's grimace to catch Elijah's eyes moving.
*
He steps out of make-up back in his own skin and almost collides with Dom. The corridor's empty and Orlando's breath is caught in his throat, his shoulderblades knocking back against undressed brick that his t-shirt clings to. "Watch it," Dom snarls, and when their gazes lock, Orlando swears, it's the slide of steel on naked steel, the sparks of swordplay.
Then Dom's past. Orlando swallows hard, staring at the other wall. Runs his thumb down the smooth path of the mortar between bricks, and thinks that he's had enough of hair-pulling. They aren't twelve anymore.
Dom looks up from the basin in the gents like he's been caught doing something far more inappropriate than washing his hands. It's just a moment, of wide-eyed prey and stalking predator. It's two steps across the room, enough time for Dom to say, "What?" and to turn around before Orlando reaches him.
Reaches him. Crowds him back against the porcelain sink. Bites the corner of his mouth, yanks him an inch the right way by his hair, kisses him properly. Kisses him like he's a sharp edge and Orlando needs more than anything to slice himself open.
That's all he meant to do, Orlando will swear it on a stack of bibles and his mother's life, but his hands are moving of their own volition, Dom's belt undone before he knows it with the buckle clanking against his knuckles as he works on the fly.
He catches a sidelong look at Dom's face - open surprise, wet lips gaping with it - as he slides down, and if Dom isn't hard, it doesn't take long. He's there, he's in this moment, with the tiles cutting cold lines into his knees through his jeans, with the thickness of Dom's cock stretching his mouth and twinging his jaw, with his hands pressing Dom's hips back.
It's the moment Dom's fingers splay, cold and still damp, across his scalp that Orlando realises. His eyes pop open, even as Dom's close, even as he gasps and slumps.
This isn't it. This isn't it at all. He's got it all wrong.
*
He's closed up tight, his eyes shut hard enough to strike sparks in the darkness of his own head, his fingers clenched painfully in the thick band of his mohawk.
He's hard. There's salt musk between his teeth and under his tongue. Dom's gone.
The door creaks open again behind him, and Orlando's eyes fly open to meet bright blue. Wide eyes, watching eyes, and in the mirror Orlando sees Elijah say his name, those lips shaping the sound while he hears nothing over the thunder of his own blood.
Orlando turns around.
***
Author: Dee (cupiscent)
Original story: " Glance" by Cesare (almostnever)
Pairing: Orli/Dom
Rating: Adult (themes, language, sex)
Summary: It would be easier if there was someone to tell you what to do, but in the end, you have to decide which way you're facing.
Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred, or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.
Sometimes Orlando feels like every moment of his life is lived under direction, never more strongly than when he's with Viggo. Like art congeals from the air itself around him.
The moonlight lies heavily in thick silver bars across the bare skin of his back, where Viggo's fingers don't touch, tracing the threshold of the luminary. Orlando tries not to shift; it'll be labelled fidgeting, not frustration.
"The truth, now." Viggo's voice is a knot tied in the darkness.
Orlando sighs. "Yeah. Just... jagged. Like he's a burr caught in my socks. Like he snags against me every time I turn 'round."
"Well?"
Orlando curls his hands around the worn wood of the veranda railing. He balances on everything, these days, finding his inner elf. "There are more important things right now." It would be so much easier if he could just turn around, just force that touch into the light.
"You're young." Viggo's amused, and the urge to break his teeth strikes Orlando like an epiphany. He leans forward, takes his balance back to earth, gets his skin out of the moonlight.
*
Astin's like a normal guy and Elijah's like a normal guy with the saturation turned up - eyes, focus, intensity. With Billy, Orlando's never really lost that "mile high and drunk on the cusp of adventure" edge to things, dizzy but somehow comfortable all at once. And Dominic's who he is. What he is. How he is. Like he snags Orlando every time he turns around. Jangling his nerves. Too many complications. Too sharp to look at.
"Look what the hobbit dragged in," he drawls, serrated like a sawblade, and when Orlando's gaze skitters over his face, Dom's eyes are the same colour as one. "Thought you were too pretty for the likes of us."
He makes it cut, like attractiveness is an insult, but Orlando makes himself grin, looking at the corner of the table. Elijah's out of his seat, slinging an elbow over Orlando's shoulder, laughing even as he says, "You came."
It calls for jovial, and Orlando can take direction like a producer's dream. "My round, eh?" He chuckles, risks a glance across the sticky pub table at Dom.
Who says, "Better go with him, Lij. Princess can't carry five pints at once."
Billy's lolling low in his chair, laughing bright-eyed. Orlando gets Elijah in a headlock, says, "Come on, helper monkey."
At the bar, hair even more messed up than usual, Elijah's eyes are as bright, as solid, as piercing as ever. "Hey," is all he says. "Viggo?"
Orlando shrugs. Manages a half-smile. Elijah nods his head like it's in time to the music.
They get a packet of nuts too. When one plinks into Orlando's half-drunk beer, he meets Dom's gaze across the table and his stomach goes Gordion. He feels like a schoolgirl with a crush, no matter how much he tells himself that what he is, is a bloke with a soggy peanut sculling about in the bottom of his glass.
*
Orlando's jumped off enough things to know that the moment you tip just past the point of balance, vertigo takes over. He's let the splinter of it under his skin, and now every time he so much as hears Dom's voice, his mind wipes itself Pavlovianly white with broad strokes of desirous fantasy. The tilt of his head, the easy slip of his smile, the chuckle and squint; it's all instinctive camoflage while he swallows down the burning need to hear Dom roughened, see him splayed, make him gasp.
Is this some bizarre form of courting? Is every snide remark the suggestive promise he hears? Can they just fuck already?
Elijah bounces against the wall next to Orlando, Frodo-eyed and smirking, saying, "Never mind Dom, yeah?"
"Hmm?" Orlando's barely heard him. He dares the ire of the make-up girls by tugging his wig off, unscrewing his face from it's grimace to catch Elijah's eyes moving.
*
He steps out of make-up back in his own skin and almost collides with Dom. The corridor's empty and Orlando's breath is caught in his throat, his shoulderblades knocking back against undressed brick that his t-shirt clings to. "Watch it," Dom snarls, and when their gazes lock, Orlando swears, it's the slide of steel on naked steel, the sparks of swordplay.
Then Dom's past. Orlando swallows hard, staring at the other wall. Runs his thumb down the smooth path of the mortar between bricks, and thinks that he's had enough of hair-pulling. They aren't twelve anymore.
Dom looks up from the basin in the gents like he's been caught doing something far more inappropriate than washing his hands. It's just a moment, of wide-eyed prey and stalking predator. It's two steps across the room, enough time for Dom to say, "What?" and to turn around before Orlando reaches him.
Reaches him. Crowds him back against the porcelain sink. Bites the corner of his mouth, yanks him an inch the right way by his hair, kisses him properly. Kisses him like he's a sharp edge and Orlando needs more than anything to slice himself open.
That's all he meant to do, Orlando will swear it on a stack of bibles and his mother's life, but his hands are moving of their own volition, Dom's belt undone before he knows it with the buckle clanking against his knuckles as he works on the fly.
He catches a sidelong look at Dom's face - open surprise, wet lips gaping with it - as he slides down, and if Dom isn't hard, it doesn't take long. He's there, he's in this moment, with the tiles cutting cold lines into his knees through his jeans, with the thickness of Dom's cock stretching his mouth and twinging his jaw, with his hands pressing Dom's hips back.
It's the moment Dom's fingers splay, cold and still damp, across his scalp that Orlando realises. His eyes pop open, even as Dom's close, even as he gasps and slumps.
This isn't it. This isn't it at all. He's got it all wrong.
*
He's closed up tight, his eyes shut hard enough to strike sparks in the darkness of his own head, his fingers clenched painfully in the thick band of his mohawk.
He's hard. There's salt musk between his teeth and under his tongue. Dom's gone.
The door creaks open again behind him, and Orlando's eyes fly open to meet bright blue. Wide eyes, watching eyes, and in the mirror Orlando sees Elijah say his name, those lips shaping the sound while he hears nothing over the thunder of his own blood.
Orlando turns around.
***