Fic: Playing the Game, Dom/Orli, PG-13
Title: Playing the Game
Author: girloftheq
Pairing: Dom/Orlando
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Wet clay and solace.
Playing the Game
Dom opened the door and found Orlando in the corridor with a bag of clay.
“Sculpting,” Orlando said, held the bag tightly in his arms.
“Okay,” Dom replied simply in return, moved aside and let him in.
He retrieved two bottles of frosted beer from the kitchen and returned to the living room to find Orlando on the floor ripping open the packet of clay with a slide of his finger. Watched him look up as he entered, eyes flickering to the beer, longing. Too longing. Something was up.
But he wouldn’t ask. That’s not how they played this game.
Dom sat down across from him, cross legged on the tawny carpet. Four indentations formed a square in-between them where the coffee table had been, now pushed aside into the couch. The block of grey clay in the middle of the square, tattered plastic falling around it.
Orlando stretched out a hand. Glinting rings, watch, bracelet. Adornment. Extended his forefinger and pressed the tip to the middle of the clay nearest Dom. Drew it back and left a finger-width mark from Dom to himself.
Orlando indicated the left side. “That’s yours.”
“Okay,” Dom said again, leaving the silence to fill the gap.
Pocket knife flipping out from a pocket, blade snapping out and Orlando punched it into the clay, hacked and sawed backwards leaving jagged eruptions at the edges. Orlando took the left side, pulled it apart from the right and handed it to Dom.
Dom took it, cold and clammy, sticking to his palms. Began to knead it with his palms and was unsuccessful. Too hard.
Orlando had found that out already. “It needs water,” he said, but before Dom could move he took a beer, hit the top off on the coffee table and was pouring the amber liquid onto his half. Dom watched it seep down the sides onto the plastic.
All part of the game. Nothing is wrong, but nothing is normal.
Orlando poured more on the lump of clay in Dom’s hands and it trickled down over the block and pooled in his palm, dripped through his fingers.
But despite its absurdity, the beer worked, made the hard substance slick and shiny. Dom smoothed a thumb over the wet surface, watched the speckled mud coat it, leave a swipe of imperfection.
He looked up at Orlando, found his eyes watching him, lingering a sorrowful second too long before the eyelids dipped shut, eyelashes swept his cheeks and Orlando’s focus locked on his block of clay instead.
Dom too focused on Orlando’s clay, watched Orlando’s long thin fingers splay out on top of it. Watched them begin to smooth, to mold. This was what Orlando wanted, to create, to bring something forth and negate whatever had been taken away. Dom watched the ashen mud begin to coat Orlando’s fingers, creeping up between them and forming white creases between the tan.
He gently swiped at the clay in his own hands, let it coat his fingers, thick and wet, but then put it down. He couldn’t create in that way and Orlando knew it, but that was okay. He wanted to watch, and Orlando, though he wouldn’t look up again, wanted to be seen, wanted to give. But silently.
Orlando kept caressing, nudging and smoothing the wet substance. Forming it into curves and sinuous angles. Making nothing in particular. Just making.
The clay now crept up to Orlando’s knuckles, filled the tiny wrinkles and dents. Dom could see it clogged under his nails and he wanted, irrationally, to free it.
Orlando kept massaging, shaping with sensuous cups of his hands, gentle presses of his fingers.
And Dom still watched. Sat there quietly watching Orlando’s fingers move for minute upon minute.
When the clay coated Orlando’s palms, covered his rings and inched up his wrist Orlando’s hands stilled. Dom’s eyes flashed upwards to Orlando’s face, still bent forward, eyelashes down and gaze on his hands.
“Orli,” he said softly and, though a whisper, was alarmed at how loud it sounded in the silence they had been in.
Orlando looked up, eyelashes now clumped in dampened sections.
“I don’t…” Orlando started before choking his voice off, looking away, embarrassed.
“You can,” Dom murmured softly, not quite sure if he knew what Orlando was going to say but answering anyway.
Orlando looked back to him, his pupils unnaturally large and dark, reflecting their sparkle of light in the sheen of water at the lip of his eye. Then he nodded, seemingly making his decision. It would be okay, again. He could need.
Dom sat still as Orlando unwound his legs from under him, pushed his sculpted clay sideways as he rocked forward onto hands and knees. Crawled forward, closer, until his lips were touching Dom’s. Dom closed his eyes. Orlando’s lips were warm and soft, as they always were, and they were hesitant at first, just nudging, testing.
But when a soft noise that sounded suspiciously heartbroken emanated from some desperately held closed place in Orlando’s throat Dom pushed back firmly against the other’s mouth. Parted his mouth and beckoned Orlando to him.
And Orlando came to Dom. Lost his hesitancy and found familiarity, opened his mouth against Dom’s and tried to consume.
Orlando pressed harder, still on his hands and knees and with every bit more leverage. Dom reached his arms behind himself, bracing as Orlando moved closer, pushed him further backwards. Unwound his legs and parted them moments before Orlando pressed him down into the carpet.
Orlando’s hands were on the sides of Dom’s face and he could feel the cold wet clay smear across his jaw, spread into his hair with Orlando’s fingers. Mouth on mouth, Orlando’s tongue intruded into Dom, lashed and swam against his. Found comfort in urgency.
And Dom let Orlando find solace, let him touch and feel and control. Let him express what he needed to without ever having to use words that would sound jarring and effeminate. Sliding, massaging, molding, curving, shaping.
When Orlando stilled next, clay streaked cheek and curls resting against Dom’s chest, Dom pretended not to notice the hot rivulets of water that seeped from Orlando’s closed eyes. Let his white-caked fingers trace up and down Orlando’s spine and ignored the soft shudders that occasionally escaped.
That was how they played this game.
But it was never just a game.
Author: girloftheq
Pairing: Dom/Orlando
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Wet clay and solace.
Playing the Game
Dom opened the door and found Orlando in the corridor with a bag of clay.
“Sculpting,” Orlando said, held the bag tightly in his arms.
“Okay,” Dom replied simply in return, moved aside and let him in.
He retrieved two bottles of frosted beer from the kitchen and returned to the living room to find Orlando on the floor ripping open the packet of clay with a slide of his finger. Watched him look up as he entered, eyes flickering to the beer, longing. Too longing. Something was up.
But he wouldn’t ask. That’s not how they played this game.
Dom sat down across from him, cross legged on the tawny carpet. Four indentations formed a square in-between them where the coffee table had been, now pushed aside into the couch. The block of grey clay in the middle of the square, tattered plastic falling around it.
Orlando stretched out a hand. Glinting rings, watch, bracelet. Adornment. Extended his forefinger and pressed the tip to the middle of the clay nearest Dom. Drew it back and left a finger-width mark from Dom to himself.
Orlando indicated the left side. “That’s yours.”
“Okay,” Dom said again, leaving the silence to fill the gap.
Pocket knife flipping out from a pocket, blade snapping out and Orlando punched it into the clay, hacked and sawed backwards leaving jagged eruptions at the edges. Orlando took the left side, pulled it apart from the right and handed it to Dom.
Dom took it, cold and clammy, sticking to his palms. Began to knead it with his palms and was unsuccessful. Too hard.
Orlando had found that out already. “It needs water,” he said, but before Dom could move he took a beer, hit the top off on the coffee table and was pouring the amber liquid onto his half. Dom watched it seep down the sides onto the plastic.
All part of the game. Nothing is wrong, but nothing is normal.
Orlando poured more on the lump of clay in Dom’s hands and it trickled down over the block and pooled in his palm, dripped through his fingers.
But despite its absurdity, the beer worked, made the hard substance slick and shiny. Dom smoothed a thumb over the wet surface, watched the speckled mud coat it, leave a swipe of imperfection.
He looked up at Orlando, found his eyes watching him, lingering a sorrowful second too long before the eyelids dipped shut, eyelashes swept his cheeks and Orlando’s focus locked on his block of clay instead.
Dom too focused on Orlando’s clay, watched Orlando’s long thin fingers splay out on top of it. Watched them begin to smooth, to mold. This was what Orlando wanted, to create, to bring something forth and negate whatever had been taken away. Dom watched the ashen mud begin to coat Orlando’s fingers, creeping up between them and forming white creases between the tan.
He gently swiped at the clay in his own hands, let it coat his fingers, thick and wet, but then put it down. He couldn’t create in that way and Orlando knew it, but that was okay. He wanted to watch, and Orlando, though he wouldn’t look up again, wanted to be seen, wanted to give. But silently.
Orlando kept caressing, nudging and smoothing the wet substance. Forming it into curves and sinuous angles. Making nothing in particular. Just making.
The clay now crept up to Orlando’s knuckles, filled the tiny wrinkles and dents. Dom could see it clogged under his nails and he wanted, irrationally, to free it.
Orlando kept massaging, shaping with sensuous cups of his hands, gentle presses of his fingers.
And Dom still watched. Sat there quietly watching Orlando’s fingers move for minute upon minute.
When the clay coated Orlando’s palms, covered his rings and inched up his wrist Orlando’s hands stilled. Dom’s eyes flashed upwards to Orlando’s face, still bent forward, eyelashes down and gaze on his hands.
“Orli,” he said softly and, though a whisper, was alarmed at how loud it sounded in the silence they had been in.
Orlando looked up, eyelashes now clumped in dampened sections.
“I don’t…” Orlando started before choking his voice off, looking away, embarrassed.
“You can,” Dom murmured softly, not quite sure if he knew what Orlando was going to say but answering anyway.
Orlando looked back to him, his pupils unnaturally large and dark, reflecting their sparkle of light in the sheen of water at the lip of his eye. Then he nodded, seemingly making his decision. It would be okay, again. He could need.
Dom sat still as Orlando unwound his legs from under him, pushed his sculpted clay sideways as he rocked forward onto hands and knees. Crawled forward, closer, until his lips were touching Dom’s. Dom closed his eyes. Orlando’s lips were warm and soft, as they always were, and they were hesitant at first, just nudging, testing.
But when a soft noise that sounded suspiciously heartbroken emanated from some desperately held closed place in Orlando’s throat Dom pushed back firmly against the other’s mouth. Parted his mouth and beckoned Orlando to him.
And Orlando came to Dom. Lost his hesitancy and found familiarity, opened his mouth against Dom’s and tried to consume.
Orlando pressed harder, still on his hands and knees and with every bit more leverage. Dom reached his arms behind himself, bracing as Orlando moved closer, pushed him further backwards. Unwound his legs and parted them moments before Orlando pressed him down into the carpet.
Orlando’s hands were on the sides of Dom’s face and he could feel the cold wet clay smear across his jaw, spread into his hair with Orlando’s fingers. Mouth on mouth, Orlando’s tongue intruded into Dom, lashed and swam against his. Found comfort in urgency.
And Dom let Orlando find solace, let him touch and feel and control. Let him express what he needed to without ever having to use words that would sound jarring and effeminate. Sliding, massaging, molding, curving, shaping.
When Orlando stilled next, clay streaked cheek and curls resting against Dom’s chest, Dom pretended not to notice the hot rivulets of water that seeped from Orlando’s closed eyes. Let his white-caked fingers trace up and down Orlando’s spine and ignored the soft shudders that occasionally escaped.
That was how they played this game.
But it was never just a game.