||[Aug. 14th, 2003|01:45 am]
“I know what you’re doing”. Ian stood in front of him with two drinks, blocking his view.
“You’re making a list, you’re checking twice, finding out who plays naughty and nice” he continued in a mischievous baritone.
He handed Orlando the second glass of champagne and moved to lean against the wall beside him. They surveyed the welcome party together in silence. The hobbits had already formed a manic clique, seemingly based on age and tickling Elijah. Cate looked positively wolfish as she leaned into Liv, while the men of Rohan milled around, making how’d y’dos. Stuart wandered in, looking lost.
“A lot of talent” commented Orli.
A high pitched scream pierced the room as two hobbits wrestled Elijah to the ground, rolling into the Seans, who were sharing pictures of wives and children.
“How straight do you suppose he is?” asked Orli, waving his champagne at Bean, who looked the picture of a Bond man as he sipped his scotch.
“Three wives and two daughters straight. Why? Do you have a taste for older men?”
Orlando gave Ian his best butter-won’t-melt grin and swept his eyes down the actor’s body. Ian laughed appreciatively.
“My dear boy, be careful, I may take you up on that” His eyes drifted back to the room, where Stuart was trying unsuccessfully to get a drink.
“Do try to behave, my dear” Ian teased, “and leave some for me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think our Ranger needs to be rescued”.
He had caught everything.
His joy when crashing on the Seans and washing down onto the floor. His unfathomably deep eyes, tearing from the wrench of helpless laughter. He was alive and wild and tempting; daring, needing a firm hand and a short leash. Throwing down his bratty challenge for the entire room to see, waiting boneless on the floor for it to be answered. He was a following sea that would swallow Karl whole. He knew that. The threat was as bare as the promise.
And he had caught everything.
Even if it was meant for someone else’s benefit.
None of his moves were working. Not his exuberant surrender to tickling hobbits, not his oh so innocent undulating on the floor, not his lash lowered peeks. He would have brought him a drink, but Ian beat him to the punch. So here he was, on the floor between the Seans, and he hadn’t earned a single glance.
But someone else had, someone of effortless feline grace and jade eyes.
Frustrated he rolled up and over into the hand helping him stand. And into another pair of dark eyes. Eyes that hadn’t missed a single move.
“Hello, I’m Karl”.
His answer tickled hairs on his forearm. Paused. extended. Reaching for a puddle that would drown him.
Would Elijah take his offered hand?
Was there ever any question?
Sweaty fingers wrapped around the hyper-stimulated skin of his wrist;
wrong after the soft breath of his name. Already testing Karl's will.
"Karl. Help me up?"
Twisting without releasing, pulling gracelessly up and forward, and Elijah stumbles against hardness.
The only answer for a boy like Elijah.
Holding his hips, digging fingernails into skin, marking and branding.
And repeating, now that he has Elijah's full attention:
"Hello, I'm Karl"
How had he missed that?
Slim hips wiggling into calloused hands, all arms and legs and eyes. A casual, over the shoulder challenge locking stares with him, lips parted in promise. A promise that spoke of darker places and harder touches and copper cruelties.
He knew that game well enough.
“You’re mine, you know”
Casually taking the dangling clove and inhaling deeply before returning it. Blowing smoke across Lij’s face, clouding the frantic search for the man who had brought him here and would be fucking him home later.
But god, this was what he wanted, what he had wanted since arriving in New Zealand. Hand whispering outside his shirt, calling to his nipples, hardening, arcing for contact and Orli lowered his hand, grinning.
“Not yet” Nodding towards Karl. “That needs to be resolved… Besides, I have a project of my own” leaving Lij panting and over to Sean.
And God, he wanted to be. His body origami of youth and raw lust, Karl stretching him unnatural and deeper than he should. Then pain, flaring as muscles seized and then, just then, before numbness and needles set in, he wanted it.
And then it passed into just a solid fucking, Karl thick and gritty inside, rough and good; but not owned. He pushed back, hard, and felt Karl's tremble. Weakness even as he left his thumbprints on his ass. Counting the squares on the quilt until Karl reaches around and digs his nails into Elijah’s sagging cock.
Just. Not. Enough.
Taking it, waiting, staring idly at the condom wrapper next to the bin; and he wanted that too. To be used as a receptacle of fluids: semen, urine, blood. To be so wholly owned that nothing, not sanity, not safety, not consent mattered.
But he wasn't
Karl liked to paint as much as Lij liked being his favorite subject matter. They fit together in that respect. With Karl's large hands serving as the brushes and Lij's creamy skin as the canvas and vivid bruises as the paint. Colors -- purple, blue, black -- decorating the silkiest of mediums. Upon slender limbs, graceful thighs, narrow hips, his torso ever a changing pattern, each mark arranged with an artist's eye. Nothing that costuming couldn't cover, that was always the golden rule, even when Lij demanded that rules were made to be broken. After all, he was always breaking the rules. Breaking them because he knew Karl would punish him for it. He counted on it -- enjoyed it. Just like he enjoyed counting the bruises, enjoyed tracing the bite marks, enjoyed every lingering pain and lasting memory. Elijah was Karl's work in progress. Just as Karl was his.
Orlando likes his toys to fit in neat little boxes. He prefers a particular model, interchangeable and unremarkable. His girls are roses are red blonds, peaches and creams, bitchy and insecure; intimately forgettable. His boys are darkness and trouble, violets are bruised, manipulative and demanding; breaking themselves into him, searing intimately. But he’s never let them touch him. Never let them near that place that makes him Orlando.
Elijah is perfect, born into his archetype. And he feels himself sinking into the role he was always meant to play. Feels himself drowning into the blue violences that are Elijah.
Orlando caught him in his trailer. Caught could not be a better word, Elijah had to think. After all, pressed up against the counter, pinned by those dark eyes, Lij couldn't help but feel anything else, couldn't help but lick his lips, couldn’t help but wish for more.
"Karl's waiting.." His voice sounded throaty with innuendo even to himself, and Elijah wondered if it was possible for the blood decorating his body in purple-blue bruises to decide all at once to settle in his cock – heavy and hungering for remembered pain. Oh, he knew it was possible, especially when he could see the reflection of his own dark desires in the depths of Orli’s eyes. He knew it was possible when the Brit could see mangled violets and blue violences behind the cerulean of his own demanding gaze. Elijah tilted his chin up as he returned the look, with his defiance demanding that he make him beg.
The light above the mirrors sparked in dark eyes making them alight with amber fire, burning with molten copper. Burning, like Elijah wanted to burn. He was caught in their cruel stare as he watched Orli’s tongue lick his lips in reply.
There is a fine line between being the owned and being the owner. It's far too easy to become possessed by your possessions. Far too easy indeed when those possessions seem to exude silent demands from fathomless cerulean eyes -- drowning eyes -- and you know as you bury yourself inside of him, that with each thrust you’re giving as much as you take. Pretty little possession, so willing to writhe and beg beneath you, so willing to hurt and tremble. Just as willing to hurt himself when you aren’t in the mood, and you stroke your fingers down the line of perfectly round cigarette burns that grace the inside of one pale thigh like an obscene string of pearls. Your fingers touching each in worship as you grasp his thigh to shove it higher so you can piston in deeper, harder. Lose yourself all the more. Yes, ownership is tricky.
The bastard had smiled at him. Actually looked up and fucking smiled, impossibly blue eyes wide and innocent, a “oh was that today?” look as if he’d forgotten he’d invited Orli over for breakfast. Then he closed his eyes and moaned as Karl stretched his cheeks wider and thrust again.
He pushed him, spread him, fucked him harder with fingers clenching against those burns in punishment. Lust ate away the innocence in those wide eyes with each bruising, claiming thrust, with each spark of pain. Still that smile remained, taunting in its security that said Lij knew who was the owner and who was the owned -- it had little to do with who was Top and everything to do with who held who’s attention. Karl didn’t relish being manipulated, controlled; with one last thrust he thought perhaps he was hungry for someone with chocolate eyes instead of drowning blue.
He learned the trick from an anachronism. An anachronism dressed in fish nets and high-heels with a cigarette tray and a Phillip Marlow attitude. Pretty enough, but beautiful for the icy blue hatred when he’d leaned in. She showed him how to light matches with one hand. First one, then three, and then the whole pack combusting into fireballs bright enough to draw every eye in the pub. And he’d kept doing it, sulfur hardening on his thumb, cracking the skin deeper with each flare. Kept doing it. Because while Lij’s blue fury fixed on her, Karl was watching him.
Flare. Burn. Flicker.
Flare. Burn. Flicker.
Small bursts of burning light reflected in eyes that could have been sapphire glass. Elijah sparked a third match, a fourth, a fifth. Each one burning down to his fingertips where thumb and index finger were already red and singed, nails so short that they'd been spared the flame's wrath.
He cursed softly as a sixth match sizzled its way down against his skin. Made contact. Burned like the bites and welts and bruises that were hidden beneath his clothes. The matches weren’t as sweet a burn, but they served to distract him.
To distract him from Karl. Fucking Karl. Elijah lit another one, and continued to occupy himself, foc using on that burn. Couldn’t think about it. Couldn’t think about him. Couldn’t.
Another. This one burning deeper before it died. Elijah would have blisters on his fingertips. Another, and its flare lit glassy eyes with red light. Red like the anger that had burned his heart and scorched his soul at seeing Karl pressing Orli’s lissome frame up against the pub wall. Red like the desire to suddenly hurt Orlando and even more to hurt Karl. The burn of his anger matching the burn of the marks Karl had put on his body just that morning.
Burning jealousy. But Lij didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to think about him. Wouldn’t think about Karl. So Elijah sat sulking over his clove, distracting himself from the burn with a burn.
Flare. Burn. Flicker.
Ownership is tricky. The rules of possession create restrictions, constraints, an albatross that pulls you down until one day there you are, neck pressed flush with cold tile and Karl’s hand rutting in your ass.
He’d allowed it, played the submissive slut with a flair that amused him, and Karl hadn’t realize the relief he’d brought. Not having to be the one who made the decisions, or the rules, or the punishments. The freedom in letting another take and take and take until he was empty and exhausted, freed from the ever grinding weight that was the ownership of Elijah.
“I know what you’re doing”. Orli wriggled into the crook of Ian’s thigh.
“You’ve already had the first Aragorn, now you’re looking to do an Aragorn twice” he continued, burrowing towards warmth.
“He’s a very talented painter” commented Ian.
A deep thunder rolled towards them; Bean had leaned his head back, laughing at whatever Viggo had said.
“How straight do you suppose he is?” asked Orli, sweeping his eyes across the cup of Viggo’s ass.
“My dear boy, are we going to keep having this conversation?”
Orlando gave Ian his best butter-won’t-melt grin and pressed deeper into Ian’s growing erection.
“I’m still waiting for you to take me up on my last offer” His eyes drifted back to Viggo, now turned away from Sean and staring back at him.
“Do try to behave, Serena” Orli stood; “If you’ll excuse me, I think our Ranger wants to be rescued”.
Orlando plays to win.
There is no other way.
He knows the rules of the game are like the steps of a dance. Orli happens to love dancing. So how could he not accept the invitation and the challenge?
It's Lij's invitation, after all. And even more so, the open challenge in Lij's blue eyes - impossibly wide and demanding. Demanding his dominance. Demanding every subtle cruelty Orlando can inflict on him.
Orlando likes to play rough. Rough touches on Karl's sleek, tanned skin. He has to scratch even harder than he would against Lij's paleness, blood welling to the surface over that perfect chest, bringing wide-eyed surprise from eyes that aren't blue but hazel and feline.
Orlando traces back over those crimson welts, first with his fingers, then with that clever tongue. Pressing his mouth to that chest to lap at the vibrant heat and sharp copper tang. He can hear Karl's labored breathing, like a man who is drowning and can’t tell in which direction the surface is.
And he can give that to him, drowning submission, one hand tangled painfully tight in the black silk of Karl's hair as he pulls him from the couch to the floor. Orli's brown eyes locked on Lij's blues as he drives into Karl, sharp and fierce and relentless until he can feel Karl crumble beneath him -- until Lij’s challenging gaze falls downwards as well.
Orlando knows that he owns them both.
But then again, he always plays to win.
Elijah’s shriek was loud even over the noise of the pub, making Sean and Viggo turn their heads to look as the boy launched himself at their booth.
Two pairs of eyes, jade green and blue gray, blinked in surprised unison while Lij – all flailing arms and legs, widened gaze and rumpled kitten locks – scrambled straight over Viggo almost upsetting the table in the process.
Neither had to question his strange behavior when their attention was immediately drawn to the cursing elf dashing in their direction.
When Orlando’s palms cracked against the table, Elijah curled himself behind Viggo.
Sean beguiled a fuming Orlando away from the table with easy grace and green eyes sparkling with curiosity. Glancing back at Viggo with a nod towards Elijah, he slid his arm over Orli’s shoulders and directed them towards the bar.
“What was that…” Elijah was disentangling himself from behind Vig, trying to crawl over him again and escape while the opportunity presented itself.
Viggo’s hands on his hips stopped him, but it was the line of crimson seeping its way through Lij’s shirt that stopped Viggo’s question.
Lij turned and suppressed a grin as he straddled the older man’s lap.
Viggo’s hands were still resting on his hips, his pale gaze fixated on Elijah’s t-shirt. The seeping red a bright contrast to the pale blue.
Sometimes it paid to be an actor Elijah smirked inwardly. His teeth biting into a now trembling bottom lip as he shifted on Viggo’s lap, pressing his hips downward beneath Vig’s hands with an innocent expression.
When Viggo finally glanced back up, it was into a pair of fathomless ocean eyes, shimmering as they welled, and Elijah glancing back at him from beneath peaked lashes.
Viggo swallowed. Telling himself he felt concern not arousal.
Viggo’s fingers tightened against Elijah’s hips when the boy started to slide from his lap again. Those digits catching in the shirt’s hem to lift it up – of course, only to assure he was okay, Viggo told himself.
But Elijah’s hands caught his.
Glancing into those cerulean depths, Viggo could only nod, drawn by the pained insistence of Elijah’s tone.
Two sets of blue eyes flickered towards the bar where Orlando had curled himself around Bean, talking in animated agitation.
“Not here, Vig.”
Viggo nodded again as Elijah took his hand and slid from the booth.
This wasn’t the game he had intended. Squirming, restrained, suspended, naked but more exposed by Orlando’s words; sotto voce, but overheard none the less by the man leaning in the couch.
“I want you to tell me why I own you”
He fought against the words, swinging for purchase where there was none, wiggling a silent demand for either of the two sets of eyes watching him.
“I want you to tell me the reasons that I own you.”
And he shuddered into the voice, cock bobbing.
Only they weren’t watching. Orlando was tracing red welts with his nails into Karl’s chest, and Karl panted wide with surprise at a Dominant Orli. Elijah’s eyes burned dry as he watched Karl drown in his submission and Lij realized he knew one of the reasons Orlando owned him.
Both of them burning so hot and he had thought he had wanted to see what would happen if he sent them on a track hurtling towards each other, hurting each-other. But watching Orlando master Karl so easily, he knew another reason Orlando owned him.
Finally Orlando came back, kneeling him down, and Lij was almost ready to answer. But when he cupped Lij’s chin and asked him again, Lij widened drowning blues. And when Orlando pushed deep into his mouth, gagging him with his cock and Karl’s nasty murk he realized he knew a third reason why he belonged to Orlando.
And maybe this was the game he had wanted to play after all.
"I know what you're doing." Ian's dulcet baritone was a throbbing presence, running straight from Orlando's ears to his cock. His veins constricting with the force of his pounding blood.
Orli glanced up from his glass of chardonnay -- Haut Poitou, La Surprenante -- Ian had great taste in everything, particularly wine and men. It was something Orli admired in him. Orlando wanted that cultured perfection, the graceful surety with which Ian did everything.
"What's that?" He arched a brow, flashing his best boyish grin as he slithered up behind the older man.
Ian's laugh transmitted straight through Orlando's body where he pressed up against the older man's back. "You think you can play with me, my dear boy? I've been at this a far longer time than you." Ian's chuckle became husky as Orli pressed himself hard against the cleft of the older man's ass, fingers sliding over one silk covered hip. Armani. Ian did have such good taste. Orlando thought that it was a wonder that he hadn't ended up in his bed already.
Orli propped his chin against Ian's shoulder, dark eyes watching the movement of the older man's throat as he tipped back his own glass. Ian really shouldn't fault him, Orli decided as he wriggled just a little closer to flick his tongue against that column of skin, right now Orlando could think of lot's of other things for the man to swallow.
The corner of Ian's lips crinkled into a smile when Orli's hand slid in front of him, cupping against Ian's groin to knead his growing erection. Ian caught that hand by the wrist with a strength belying his age, and chuckled again.
"All right, then, my boy." After all, he was rarely one to turn down so obvious a challenge. "Let's play."
The boy was delightful, really. A portrait of youth, all brass ballsy and mischief. Really though, he was quite irresistible. But Ian had no intention playing Orlando's game. He leaned back into his chair, swirling his wine in his glass, hand blown Riedel crystal, thank-you very much, and watched the glint of admiration at the trappings age and repute had brought him. He stroked the elegant stem of the goblet with almost thoughtless grace, imagining molten glass being forced into hardened form by harsh breath and red-hot tooling.
"I'd like to see your playthings", spoken softly, but not a request.
Orlando could play the game like a pro. A savant with boyish good looks and grown up sex appeal. He played fast and furious, hedging bets, taking chances. Sometimes it ended in a draw, more often than not though it fell in his favor.
Orlando played the game masterfully.
Played everyone masterfully.
With aching demands, stinging guidance, flashing dark eyes that dared anyone's defiance -- Orli was a star long before he was an actor. And his audience always got what they wanted, what he wanted to give them.
Karl wanted to possess, particularly wanted to possess Lij, but found himself possessed by Orlando's domination. Elijah wanted to top from the bottom, but Orli knocked his pedestal out from beneath him, putting Lij exactly where he belonged -- on his knees.
That's where Elijah was -- on his knees, in front of Karl, with Orli's dark eyes piercing him as his mouth slid wetly down Karl's cock. Orlando's hand slid up along the rope, feeling the tension in the restraint and Karl's own trembling transmitted through it.
Orli's voice was hot and demanding against Karl's ear; perfect white teeth catching his lobe. Sharp in their gentle distracting scrape. And Karl did breathe. Like a man sucking in water. Deep and shuddering, drowning in his submission as a forth finger slid inside of him. He lost himself to the rhythmic slide of those expressive fingers, in and out, stretching and claiming. Then Orli's thumb curled inwards, burrowed to join the rest. His whole hand filling Karl until the only pulse in his entire body he could find was right there beneath Orlando's fingertips.
Karl's head tipped backwards. The scream falling from his lips curled into a moan as that hand continued its relentless demanding motions.
Wide eyes, casting all directions, finding two pairs, violent and earthy, rapt and unblinking.
Ian had watched, drinking in Karl and Lij's beautiful abasement.
Then he had taken off his watch laying it carefully on the table.
"undress" he had suggested to Orlando, and Orlando had.
"breathe, Orli breathe"
softer now, tantalizingly sweet and he relaxed slightly, into firm lips sealing his mouth, a hard clamped nose. He tasted wine as he struggled to breathe through Ian's mouth. Slipping, feeling the older man gently stroke his cock, unable to separate himself from this incubus, Iancubus he thought hysterically.
short and quiet like the air flowing through Ian and into Orli's lungs. Ian's second hand breath, already filtered for most of his oxygen, leaving him light headed and dizzy as hand stroked him harder and faster.
Dimly he wondered which blackness would take him first: orgasm or suffocation?
For all his demanding nature, Orlando was malleable. Soft, warm, little more than overheated putty in Ian's hands once he got him worked up. The older man took another breath, poured it into the wine-flavored mouth, and smiled. A flick of wrist, a gasp swallowed back, a shudder down the long lean line of olive-skinned back -- Orlando's world dissolved beneath touches that surpassed expertise and bordered on art.
Orli's scream might have sounded somewhat like Karl's, had he been permitted to release it. But a firm hand clamped over nose and mouth left the young Brit incapable of much more than choked, sobbing whimpers that robbed him of the little oxygen he had. Everything else was awash in those desperate rasping sounds and his own rapid heartbeat. Everything else was a mere pulse beneath those thundering beats of noise. Everything else faded in the wake of blackness and bliss.
They watched. Elijah curled over Karl's supine form on the floor. Two pairs of eyes, one violent and blue the other hazel and languid, both unblinking as they admired Orlando's crumbling at Ian's hands.
Lij's tongue flicked out along one red burn circling Karl's wrist. Tongue laving over the rope's imprint while watching. Fixated. Fixated on Ian.
Orlando shuddered and Ian held his hand out, beckoned without voice. Blue gaze meeting blue gaze.
Then Elijah crawled across the room, all grace and hunger. Pink tongue cleaning Orli's come from Ian's hand with the content fixation of a housecat lapping cream.
"You will call me Serena or Mistress"
Six eyes nodded mutely at the figure of Sir Ian McKellan towering over them in platform thigh boots and cinched corset. Every inch covered in tight leather from high tipped collar to spike tipped heels. Not exactly feminine, but beautiful and terrible.
"Answer me when I speak to you" perhaps too sharp, but they were young and had much to learn.
"Yes Mistress" mumbled, even Orlando, and Ian tasted victory in his crumbled voice. Karl too, malleable under the promise of Elijah.
It was Lij who was the wild card. A child's passions and tempers raised in an adult world for far too long. He would play, testing Ian, measuring the possibilities and Ian knew, one slip and Lij would bite back, claws out.
"You will obey me without question"
"Yes Mistress" but a flicker from the drowning depths of blue. Yes, an example would have to be made.
"Now undress" amusing really, how eager they were. As if their release was minutes and not hours or even days away. Orlando, hotly proud, poised elegantly available, Karl struggling with his socks, and Lij, languidly pealing off his jeans.
"Elijah Stop" half undressed, hands froze, he straightened in surprise.
"Orlando, adjust the lights to illuminate our reluctant kitten" All bulbs in the room were fixed on Lij, drowning out other sights.
"Elijah we are not here for your amusement, you are here for mine"
Spoken from impenetrable blackness of soft commands and muted moans.
Elijah likes games, and Elijah plays in ways that are his own; exuberantly child-like and more manipulative than Orli could ever hope to be, demanding his due.
Karl had fallen into Lij’s hands just as swiftly and surely as his own hands had helped the little minx off the floor that first night. And every night since, Elijah has played him with caresses and coy glances. Karl is Elijah’s accidental acquisition with hard hands and hungry eyes and an addiction for Lij’s creamy skin and daring defiances.
However, Orli has to be played much more carefully. Elijah had wanted the Fellowship’s elf from the first moment he had seen him. So Elijah meets Orlando with wide-eyed intensity, forcing his hand with challenges and submissions. Taunting Orli with copper-tainted confessions, baiting him with blue violences and violet bruises, until Orlando not only claimed him but Karl as well.
Elijah had played them both without either of them realizing they had lost the upper hand. Which was how Elijah wanted it. Because Lij liked games almost as much as he liked getting what he wanted.
But this was Ian – beautiful, terrible Ian – and Lij knew he had to tread carefully.
Elijah’s pink tongue darted against his lips, exposing a flash of white teeth as he smirked against the lights’ blinding glare. Scratching a hand through already rumpled hair, he stretched with almost obscenely feline grace. Elijah likes games; though with Ian, he suspects gaining Serena’s amusement might be far more than that.
He liked this.
Alone and slightly high from cleaning solution fumes. Polishing counter clockwise.
Wax on, wax off
but he had stiffled the giggle. Somehow defiance was less important now, less important than the task that only he had been asked to perform. He didn't see it as a punishment.
smirking as he nanced from the house. Karl had shifted uneasily, knowing he had missed something, but not what.
Rubbing the leather straps against his cheek, inhaling thier whispers of sweats and bloods, then back to polishing. Knowing only an apprentice was allowed to handle a master's tools.
TO BE CONTINUED
This is NOT the order they were written in. Cruel, I owe you burns...
Warnings: KINK, BDSM choppy, - these were not written as a coherent piece, so it can be confusing.