28 meme: 6, horny dom
6. Horny Dom.
Nothing ever changes
for telesilla
Dom/Orlando
*
Orlando's shirt flutters open in the breeze, and Dom catches a groan, stillborn in his throat.
Months they've been working together, drinking together, surfing and playing pranks and lying about together, the five of them, the hobbits-and-Orli, sort of like the Beatles, with Sean Astin as their George Martin: quite vital, and committed to the spirit of the thing, but not physically present as much as the other four.
Months of this, and it feels as if they've been friends forever, and will be friends forever, and nothing will ever change between them. And that's a comfort, a fucking blessing, no doubt about that. Only, some things could change, couldn't they? A bit? Sometimes, maybe?
The jokes that Orlando makes about how Dom gets himself about, those could change any time now, for example. After all, it's been ages since Dom's slept with anyone. He left off when he finally twigged that no amount of friction was ever going to rub the burn of Orlando's casual touches off his skin.
Orli clasps his hands and stretches, popping his back. His skin is bronzed olive in the light of sunset, his hair is cropped close and dark, showing off the shape of his skull, his perfect cheekbones. The wind picks up as the light fades, whipping his shirt about freely now. His dark eyes are liquid, gleaming with the last of the sun.
Sometimes when Dom comes home after being around Orlando for a few hours, he can feel the strain, the tight sore twinge in his thighs and his abs, an ache that comes of tensing so much and so often, working so hard to keep his body from responding.
What he'd do for one chance to touch-- he'd fucking worship every inch and quiver. He's fantasized about framing the rib Orlando broke with both hands and kissing there, then moving on to each of Orlando's many injuries, licking every mended miracle of his body.
"Look at those clouds. Another gorgeous day," Orlando says, and drapes an arm across Dom's shoulders.
Dom shudders, and folds his arms around himself, his throat thick and full. "Yeah."
Nothing ever changes
for telesilla
Dom/Orlando
*
Orlando's shirt flutters open in the breeze, and Dom catches a groan, stillborn in his throat.
Months they've been working together, drinking together, surfing and playing pranks and lying about together, the five of them, the hobbits-and-Orli, sort of like the Beatles, with Sean Astin as their George Martin: quite vital, and committed to the spirit of the thing, but not physically present as much as the other four.
Months of this, and it feels as if they've been friends forever, and will be friends forever, and nothing will ever change between them. And that's a comfort, a fucking blessing, no doubt about that. Only, some things could change, couldn't they? A bit? Sometimes, maybe?
The jokes that Orlando makes about how Dom gets himself about, those could change any time now, for example. After all, it's been ages since Dom's slept with anyone. He left off when he finally twigged that no amount of friction was ever going to rub the burn of Orlando's casual touches off his skin.
Orli clasps his hands and stretches, popping his back. His skin is bronzed olive in the light of sunset, his hair is cropped close and dark, showing off the shape of his skull, his perfect cheekbones. The wind picks up as the light fades, whipping his shirt about freely now. His dark eyes are liquid, gleaming with the last of the sun.
Sometimes when Dom comes home after being around Orlando for a few hours, he can feel the strain, the tight sore twinge in his thighs and his abs, an ache that comes of tensing so much and so often, working so hard to keep his body from responding.
What he'd do for one chance to touch-- he'd fucking worship every inch and quiver. He's fantasized about framing the rib Orlando broke with both hands and kissing there, then moving on to each of Orlando's many injuries, licking every mended miracle of his body.
"Look at those clouds. Another gorgeous day," Orlando says, and drapes an arm across Dom's shoulders.
Dom shudders, and folds his arms around himself, his throat thick and full. "Yeah."